Last Bus to Everland, page 9
Mam swallows. She’s working out how to tell me yes, without making it sound like my future doesn’t matter as much as my brother’s. I realize with surprise that I’m not mad about that. I want to help. And besides, I’m used to it by now.
‘Well . . . if you want to, Brody.’ She lets out a long breath. ‘Just the weekends, though. And only a few hours, OK? You’ve got exams, too, mind.’
‘Aye, I know.’
Jake throws his hands up. ‘You’re seriously telling me it’s all right for him to get a job and not me? He needs the study time more than I do!’
‘Oh, cheers,’ I mutter.
‘It’s true, though, Brody,’ Keira says. ‘Your spelling’s even worse than mine.’
I glower at her. ‘A few hours is no gonnae make any difference,’ I tell Mam. ‘I’ll try the supermarkets. They’re always looking for folk.’
She looks relieved. Relieved, and also sad. ‘Thank you, darling.’ She puts her hands on my ears and kisses the top of my head, holding her face against my hair for a long moment. When she stands back up, her eyes are shiny. ‘That’ll be a big help. Won’t it, Rob?’
Over on the TV, the umbrella stand has sold for a hundred and twenty quid. Its owners are disappointed. Mam shouts Dad’s name again. After a pause, he glances over his shoulder.
‘Uh, aye. Good lad, Brody.’
He spins around and flicks on to the next channel. Out of nowhere, this blast of anger hits me, the kind I haven’t felt since we had to move when I was eleven. It’s so bad that I have to get up and go into the kitchen, just to get away from him. Mam’s trying to talk to us about something, and all he can do is sit there and watch Antiques Roadshow. Pathetic.
Mam hisses something at him while I’m filling the kettle. There’s a long sigh, then Dad calls out again: ‘Thanks, son. Really.’
I don’t want a thank you. And I don’t expect him to stroll out of the flat and get a job in five minutes, either. I know this is a real problem; I know there’s no magical fix. I just want him to try. Not to settle for this half-life filled with hours and hours of other people’s adventures. Just to try.
My birthday turns out a lot better than I expected. Mam buys a chocolate cake from Asda, and she and Dad get me a book about the world’s best drummers as a present. Jake gives me a Joy Division T-shirt, which is actually pretty cool, and Keira buys me a huge multipack of lollies, only two of which she eats herself. (It’s an improvement on last year’s present: a Broadway Hits CD from the pound shop that’s lived in her bedroom ever since.)
My best gift comes from Megan, who makes me an amazing pop-up card: it’s got drawings of all our favourite Drag Race queens all over the front, and when I open it, a cardboard RuPaul springs up and confetti falls out. The janitor is in a crappy Monday mood and forces us to pick every last bit up off the corridor floor, making us both late for English, but it’s worth it. All in all, it’s a good day. Not exactly the kind of radge sixteenth birthday party you see in American films. Just, nice.
By the time I get to Calton Hill three days later, I’ve forgotten all about it. But as soon as I reach the monument, Nico and the others burst into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. Zahra is holding an enormous cake with burning blue candles on the top, and Kasia looks surprisingly enthusiastic as she waves sparklers around.
‘There he is!’ Nico pulls me into a hug and kisses my cheek. ‘Happy birthday, mister.’
I can’t believe he remembered – I only mentioned it in passing. ‘You didnae have to do all this,’ I stammer.
‘Of course we did. This is your Everland birthday! You get two now, like the Queen.’ Nico ruffles my hair. ‘Come on – everyone’ll be waiting.’
Beyond the door, the moon is so low and full that it casts pale grey shadows over the grass. When we cross the bridge, we find ourselves in a sort of clearing, lit by old-fashioned lanterns hanging from the branches of trees. Esther and the band are there, and Miyumi and Dani and a few of their friends. They start singing ‘Happy Birthday’ again, this time in a mix of languages and keys. It’s mortifying – I have to shove on the dragon mask I made at the weekend to hide my scarlet cheeks – but pretty nice, too.
Zahra holds the cake up towards me. ‘Make a wish!’
I lean in to blow out the candles, but I don’t wish for anything. Right now, I can’t think of anything else I could want.
Nobody’s got a knife, so we have to dig into the cake with our hands. Someone appears with tea and lemonade, and Dani finds an assortment of jam jars from a nearby cottage for us to use as cups. Nico moans that we don’t have any champagne, but nobody knows where to find some. Being in Everland is a bit like being tipsy, anyway – drinking on top of that might not be the best idea.
Once we’ve finished, I play a set with the band. Esther tells me to choose the first song, so I pick ‘Born to Hand Jive’ from Grease. Keira’s theatre group are doing it next term – she’s been playing the soundtrack non-stop to get ready for auditions, and it’s got a great drum part. The others stick around to watch us play, and afterwards, we end up wandering to the market, talking to the vendors and sampling tiny sugared biscuits and sweet honey cakes.
As far as birthdays go, it’s pretty perfect.
Still, a tiny part of me wishes I had Nico to myself. Just for a wee while.
As soon as I think that, everyone suddenly disperses: Dani decides to find some of his friends, Kasia heads to the library, Zahra and Miyumi to the gardens. Nico and I end up walking through a stretch of wild woodland, scrambling over thick briar and tangles of strange orange and purple plants. It takes us a while: Nico’s dressed as a phoenix, a red-and-gold headpiece and trailing veil of flame-coloured feathers, and his costume keeps getting snagged on the branches.
‘Thanks so much for tonight,’ I tell him again. ‘The cake and everything . . . you really didnae have to.’
‘We wanted to, Brody.’ He lifts up his trail of feathers and clambers over the knotted roots of an oak tree. ‘How was your actual birthday, anyway?’
‘Uh, it was all right.’ I hold back a low-hanging branch to help him past. ‘My parents are a bit tight for money right now, so, like, nothing major. It was fine, though.’
I don’t know why I told him that. It’s not like I wasn’t happy with what they got me. My birthdays are always quiet – I don’t like the fuss – and other than a drum kit and a phone that doesn’t look like an antique, there’s not much I’d really want anyway. I just wanted to talk to him about it, I guess.
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyebrows raised. I can tell that Nico’s family don’t have these issues. It’s in the way he dresses, the type of phone he has, the way he spends money. Things he’s never even thought about.
‘Well, I’m glad it was OK,’ he says hesitantly. He looks like he’s searching for something else to say, move us away from the money topic. He taps the dragon mask, now balanced on the top of my head. ‘You know, you should think about going to art school. Seriously. Try for costume design; I bet you’d get in.’
‘Hardly. I just copied it off the internet; it took me about twelve goes to get it right. Besides, I cannae sew.’
He fakes a gasp. ‘Brody, you can’t go on Drag Race if you don’t know how to sew.’
‘I’ve got no intention of going on Drag Race, dummy. Or to art school.’
‘I mean it, though. You could do it, if you wanted to. Or music school! Become a drummer.’
‘Maybe.’ I have thought about going to college, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for more education: I like playing the drums, not writing essays about them. Besides, I can’t imagine my parents would be over the moon at the idea – not exactly the best job prospects. Dreams are for people like Jake and Nico. I need something more realistic.
‘Well, think about it.’ He turns around and grabs my arm. ‘Oh my God – look!’
Bobbing on the river at the end of the forest, its mast peeking out above the tops of the trees, is a ship. Nico breaks into a run, dodging through the remaining trees; I jog after him, then stop in my tracks when the boat comes into view.
I once went on a school trip to the QE2, that massive boat the Royal Family used to take on their holidays. It was all right, but this . . . this is a proper Peter Pan situation. A real, actual pirate ship. There’s a wooden steering wheel on the upper deck, lines of sturdy canons on either side, complicated ropes and sails hanging from each of the three masts – even a Jolly Roger and a plank for wayward sailors to walk. It’s obviously seen some drama, too: there are two huge holes near the stern, as if cannonballs have ripped right through it, and there’s a dark stain on one of the sails that looks like it could be dried old blood.
‘This is unbelievable!’ Nico scrambles up the ladder, landing on the deck with a bump. ‘Do you think it’s legit?’
I clamber up after him, almost falling into another hole where a cannonball seems to have bitten into the deck. It definitely looks like the real deal: all that’s missing is Captain Hook, Smee and a ticking crocodile.
Nico begins scaling the central mast towards the crow’s nest. My heart in my mouth – I’m not good with heights – I follow him up the ladder and on to the narrow platform. He leans against the wooden barrier and lets out a low whistle.
‘Man, I wish my phone worked in here so I could take a photo of all this. Can you imagine the likes on Instagram?’
I grip the mast, trying to ignore the wobbling feeling in my legs, and focus on the view. It is beautiful. From up here, you can see the length of the river winding through the valley; a silvery mist hanging over the forest; the full moon tucked into a nook between the mountains.
‘How long do you think it goes on for?’ I ask.
‘Dunno. Maybe Everland is like space. Just stretching on and on and on forever.’
I feel dizzy with the scope of it all, or maybe just with the fact we’re thirty-odd feet above the deck. I wonder how the ship got in here – there’s no way you could squeeze something this big through one of the doors. Maybe there really are pirates somewhere in here, just like in Neverland. Anything seems possible on this side of the green door.
‘We should fix this thing up.’ Nico stretches the Jolly Roger out; the fabric has frayed so badly, it’s eaten into part of the skull. ‘We could sail it out – find out what’s at the other end of the ocean. Maybe there’s a whole other world out there.’
I lean against the mast. ‘It’s so far, though. What if the door closed before we go back? Or what if we got lost?’
‘We’d just stay in here, then, wouldn’t we?’ A gust of wind whips around us, making the tattered flag ripple. ‘We could be pirates!’
‘No school,’ I say. ‘No having to worry about jobs or money.’
‘We’d never grow up,’ Nico says. ‘We’d never die.’
The tiniest hint of an idea sparks: I could stay in here. I could stay in here like Esther did. I wouldn’t need to worry about what I’m going to do with my life – this would be my life.
But then the tug begins, that feeling that tells me it’s time to head back, and the idea is snuffed out. Nico lets out a long breath. It’s time to go. He feels it too.
‘Maybe one day,’ he says with a smile. ‘Come on. Better get back to reality.’
December’s usually my favourite month. Not because of Christmas itself. I just like the way the city looks: all frosty nights and shimmering lights. I like all the cheesy music and the look of that German-style market up in town, even if it is too busy and way too overpriced to actually buy anything. I like the idea of the year coming to an end, too. Always the chance that the next one will be better.
Can’t imagine that’ll be the case this year. Right now, everything is a bit crap. I apply for a bunch of part-time jobs – a few more supermarkets, some cafes and restaurants, and this amazing record shop called Rusty Records (on the off-chance they can afford more than one employee) – but nobody gets back to me. Jake spends the run-up to his Cambridge interview stressing about his presentation, then comes back stressing that he messed it up. Mam’s tired and snappy, and Dad’s pretend-to-be-oblivious-to-everything-that’s-going-on act is starting to get really old. Even Tink’s grumpier than usual, and Megan’s not herself, either. She’s weirdly quiet, and there are bags under her eyes that not even multiple layers of her beloved Touche Éclat can cover up.
‘Are you all right, Meg?’
We’re sitting at our usual table in the canteen, surrounded by chattering fourth-year girls: apparently Rhona Lewis loudly broke up with Toby Harris in the middle of Biology this morning. Megan loves gossip, but she doesn’t even seem to be listening.
‘I’m fine.’ She pushes her barely touched portion of lasagne away. ‘Do you want the rest of this? I can’t eat it.’
‘You’ve hardly eaten anything, though.’
She shrugs.
‘Go on, then,’ I say. ‘If you’re sure.’
I slide it on to my plate beside my tuna mayo baguette. I’m starving: Keira finished the last of the bread this morning, there was nothing else for breakfast, and after our talk I didn’t want to ask Mam for money to get something on my way to school. ‘Is your dad away again?’ I ask.
Megan leans back, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. ‘Yeah. Moscow this time.’
Sometimes, when I’ve had to wait what feels like five hours for Keira to get out of the bathroom or for Jake to get off the computer, I get jealous of Megan having her house to herself so much. But it seems a bit lonely, too, especially as Harry’s out a lot. I can’t imagine eating all those meals alone. Having nobody to say goodnight to.
‘Can I come over tonight, then?’ I realize, with a pinch of guilt, that it’s been a few weeks since we hung out at hers. In fact, not since the night she did my make-up.
Megan’s eyes brighten. ‘Yeah, definitely. There are like, six new shows you need to catch up on.’ She leans towards me, her voice picking up into its normal tone. ‘You still haven’t told me when I’m gonna meet Nico, by the way.’
‘Soon,’ I say. ‘Probably.’
‘When’s soon? This week? This month? You’ve been seeing him for ages now!’ She leans towards me, her long hair almost sliding into the lasagne. ‘Have you slept with him yet?’
The fourth-year girls are still at the other end of the table. I take a sideways glance at them, but they’re lost in their conversation and don’t look up.
‘I told you, it’s not happening,’ I say. Quietly. Begrudgingly. Because it’s not like I haven’t thought about that. Honestly, I think about it every few minutes. That’s maybe a bit wrong. He’s my mate, and he has a sort-of boyfriend – I probably shouldn’t be picturing him naked quite so much. I can’t help it, though.
‘Why not? You waiting till you’re married or something?’
I scowl at her. ‘Gonnae keep your voice down?’
Nobody’s listening, but my pulse starts thumping in my throat all the same. Coming out isn’t always a trauma at my school, but it can be. Nobody batted an eyelid when Piotr Lisowski did it, but Thomas McInally got beaten up after somebody found out he had a boyfriend in East Kilbride. People hardly even mention that Louisa Walsh in S6 is gay, but when she started going out with Millie Yung, everyone said Millie was faking being bi for attention. (People still say that, and they’ve been together two years.) It depends on who you are. How much people like you. If that’s not very much, it’s just another weapon in their arsenal.
I know I wouldn’t get a good reaction. Leanne and Michelle have taken the piss out of me for the stupidest stuff: getting 2/20 in English; getting 18/20 in English; laughing too loud; talking too quietly; wearing the same T-shirt to PE three weeks in a row. They might have guessed that I’m gay – judging by some of the jokes they’ve made, they definitely suspect it – but my actual coming out would be like an early Christmas present for them. It’d be like being transported into that crappy educational video about homophobia from the 1990s they showed us in Social Ed: broken noses and spray-painted lockers, hallways full of people pointing and laughing in slow motion. Only worse, because now we have the internet, too.
‘OK, OK – sorry.’ Megan rolls her eyes, like I’m overreacting.
I feel a stab of irritation. She just doesn’t get it. Megan’s pretty and popular and confident; she gets cute boys, good grades and invitations to all the best parties. She doesn’t know what it’s like to feel like you don’t fit in.
That’s one of the things I like most about hanging out at Everland: my friends there do. I stab my fork into the soggy lasagne, sinking back into silence. Everland is only a couple of days away, but at times like this, the distance is almost unbearable.
* * *
‘What do you think – hummingbirds or toucans?’
It’s Thursday, and I’m at one of the Everland markets with Zahra, searching for presents. Her family are Muslim and don’t really celebrate Christmas, but she’s looking for some little gifts to take to her cousins down in England. Nico was supposed to come with us, too, but when we got through the green door, he said he had to talk to Dani about something. I felt this weird tension between them: Dani was all fidgety and nervous when he met us at the bridge, and Nico’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Brody?’ Zahra holds up two pairs of earrings and shoogles them in front of my face. ‘Help, I can’t decide.’
‘Toucans,’ I say. ‘Got more personality.’
‘You’re right. Two toucans, please.’
She rifles in the pocket of her Russian ice-skating jacket (tonight, she’s cosplaying Victor Nikiforov from Yuri on Ice) for some coins to give to the seller. This market isn’t like the ones I’ve been to with Nico. It’s large but calm, full of artisans quietly working on crafts behind stalls packed high with all sorts of trinkets: Russian matryoshkas and Japanese beckoning-cats; snow globes and teapots; necklaces and bracelets made from blue and green sea glass, all strung like algae over pieces of driftwood. I’m guessing some people come here for more time to work on their craft, but others seem to have set up shop years ago. One guy has a newspaper called O Globo tossed to the side of his bench, as if set aside to read later. It looks brand new, but the date on the front page says 1986.
