The Gifted, the Talented and Me, page 9
‘Are you saying I should be gay?’
‘NO! We can’t both do it.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know. You’ve just got to stop being so aloof from everything.’
‘How did you know I was being aloof? I didn’t think anyone had noticed.’
‘Maybe aloof’s the wrong word. It’s not like you act superior. What you’re doing is behaving as if you think you’re inferior.’
‘That’s not coming from me! Everyone looks down on me like I’m some kind of weirdo loser. And I’m not! At least, I never was before.’
‘If you behave as if you hate everyone, everyone’s going to hate you.’
‘You’re saying everyone actually hates me?’
‘I’m saying you have to find a way to join in.’
‘With what?’
‘Something. Anything. That’s what you’ve got to figure out.’
Though I was totally baffled by his sexuality gambit, I could see he had a point about this. If I stayed as I was, I’d never get used to that school, and the school would never accept me.
There was, as yet, no plan of action, but the notion that I had a choice – that I could alter my own behaviour to improve my situation – was a new and hopeful one. Mum had already told me the exact same thing, repeatedly, but that didn’t count. This time it actually sank in.
I had no idea what specifically to change, but somewhere deep inside me I felt the beginnings of an inkling that something might come up. I knew I couldn’t transform myself overnight, but I also felt that just looking at the world with eyes that were seeking an opportunity for change, rather than approaching each school day with defeatist dread, was in itself a step forward. I had stood up to Felipe, after all. That, perhaps, could be my turning point.
The Sam I used to be, in Stevenage, was no use in this new world. The only way to find a place for myself here was to somehow build a new me. If I carried on as I was, Felipe and his kind would crush me. I had no choice but to reinvent myself and fight back.
Spotting another drinks can a few steps ahead of us on the pavement, I accelerated to give it a kick, but Ethan sped up too, barging me with his shoulder. At the last second I pushed him off the pavement and got to the can first.
‘Cheat,’ he said, smiling, as we turned the corner on to our road.
‘So how are you going to break it to Mum?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘That you’re straight.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ethan. ‘She’s going to be heartbroken. I’m not sure I can tell her.’
‘You’ll have to at some point.’
‘It’s too awkward.’
‘What about girlfriends?’
‘Gay men have tons of girlfriends.’
‘Not that kind of girlfriend.’
‘She’ll figure it out eventually. Listen, you have to promise you won’t say anything. To anyone. If you do I’ll cut your nuts off, and you won’t get a chance to be gay or straight. You’ll be a eunuch.’
‘Maybe that’s what I am already,’ I said. ‘I don’t think a girl has ever looked at me with any interest ever. Not once. In fifteen years.’
‘Well, that’s why you have to do something with yourself. You can’t just sit and wait for life to happen to you. You have to go out and grab it.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Life, that is. Not girls. You can’t just grab girls.’
‘I know. I know. I’m not Donald Trump.’
‘And if those thespy arseholes come after you again, you tell me. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Don’t let anyone push you around. Ever. Except me.’
I gave him a shove, took out my key and opened the front door.
Mum immediately appeared in the hall, wearing an apron, holding a jar of lurid purple gloop – at first glance, either home-made jam or radioactive waste. Both possibilities were equally out of character. This was clearly something to do with her blog.
‘Hello, darlings,’ she chirruped. ‘Did you all have a stimulating day?’
A moment of brotherly genius
It turned out Mum was not, after all, writing a blog about do-it-yourself nuclear reprocessing. The stuff in the jar was, apparently, jam, and was supposedly edible.
A complicated explanation of something to do with jam and the link between creativity and seasonal eating filled the kitchen like hippy white noise as we gathered for the evening meal. Dad’s only question, as he shoved piles of empty Waitrose blackberry punnets into the recycling, was to ask if the home-made jam, which took her all afternoon to make, was cheaper than jam you could buy ready-made.
‘That’s completely missing the point,’ replied Mum.
‘There’s a point?’ asked Ethan.
Mum let out a my-family-don’t-appreciate-me sigh.
While Ethan and Dad exchanged a guilty glance, Freya, who was finely attuned to Mum’s moods, said, ‘I think it looks lovely.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ said Mum, kissing her on the forehead.
‘Is it paint?’ asked Freya, smiling guilelessly.
‘Er … no, dear. It’s jam. As I’ve been explaining for the last ten minutes.’
‘Jam? You’re supposed to eat it?’
Mum took three deep breaths.
‘What are we going to do with all that jam?’ continued Freya. ‘That’s enough for about five years!’
‘Let’s all sit down and have dinner, shall we?’ said Mum. ‘How was school today?’
We took our places as Mum served up an alarmingly courgette-heavy vegetable slop. The glory days of the junk-food Love Bomb era were definitively over. As if to make this doubly clear, Mum had even made brown rice.
‘Freya?’ said Mum.
‘Yes?’ she replied, gazing dismally at her heavily loaded plate.
‘How was school?’
‘Good.’
‘Did anything happen?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me one thing.’
Freya looked up from her food, sighed and said, ‘Well, we did the planets and I made Saturn out of some untwisted coat hangers and mush and cut up paper plates and Miss Watson said it was exceptional and at lunchtime Jonah pushed Zac off a wall and he had to go away in an ambulance so Jonah was sent to the headmistress and after he came back he just sat and wouldn’t speak then he got some scissors and scratched something into his desk so Miss Watson sent him out into the corridor and when he was out there he spat on the window so he got sent to the headmistress again then at home time we waited ages and ages for Sam because Ethan had band practice and he didn’t come and Ethan used all the words I’m not allowed to say including the one beginning with F which is about how a man and a woman make babies then he sent me to find him and when I did he was being bullied by a really big guy and they were about to have a fight but I went in and saved him and then Ethan said he didn’t have to go to band practice after all and we walked home.’
Mum and Dad stared aghast at Freya, who was now lifting two grains of rice warily towards her mouth.
‘Is this true?’ said Mum, turning her attention to Ethan and me.
‘No!’ I said.
‘Are you being bullied?’ asked Dad.
‘No! Of course not!’
‘If you are, we have to tell the school. We have to do something about it,’ said Mum.
‘I’m fine! He’s a friend from my class and we were messing about. Freya’s got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘No I haven’t! I saw the whole thing,’ said Freya. ‘And on the way home they talked about girls and Ethan told Sam a secret about something to do with LTBQ which I think is a secret code.’
One of the strange things about Freya is that even though she never gives the impression of listening, it sometimes turns out that she is. Even when apparently totally absorbed in her own fantasy world, she occasionally turns round and reveals that she knows exactly what’s been going on.
Ethan and I shot a glance at one another. We had to stop Freya talking, immediately.
‘I heard him say that to crack the code you have to cut the B in half,’ she continued, ‘which is a big clue, but I haven’t figured out how …’
‘I think you should tell them,’ interrupted Ethan, jabbing a fork in my direction.
‘Tell them what?’ I said, through clenched teeth. Was he selling me down the river to preserve his own secret?
‘Sam’s … er … what he’s done is … without telling anyone, he’s … joined a drama group,’ said Ethan. ‘He’s being all embarrassed about it, for some reason, so he never even told me, which is why I got confused over who was supposed to be walking Freya home. He and this guy were doing an improvisation, trying to see how convincing they could be, and everyone fell for it and thought it was a real fight. It was brilliant. Freya went nuts.’
Genius! My brother, when he wasn’t being an epic pain in the rear end, was a genius.
‘Yeah,’ I added. ‘It’s true. The auditions for the school play are next week, and there’s a group that are doing some workshops beforehand. You know. As preparation.’
‘But half the school was right there in a big circle shouting at them to fight!’ said Freya. ‘It was real!’
‘That was the whole point,’ I said firmly. ‘She’s confused.’
Freya’s wily little seven-year-old eyes peered at me, and her mouth clenched into a resentful pout. She had an annoying habit of becoming suddenly and uncharacteristically rigid about matters of fact versus fiction at the most inconvenient moments. I returned her look with a keep-it-zipped stare, which she seemed to understand.
‘You’ve joined a drama group?’ said Mum, using the tone of voice a normal parent might reserve for the moment you inform them you’ve won a Nobel Prize.
‘Yeah,’ I said, with a pseudo-shy shrug.
‘After school? With friends?’
‘It’s just a bit of improvising.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful. That is fantastic news. I’m so pleased.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ said Dad. ‘Nobody’s picking on you?’
‘It was acting!’ said Mum. ‘Weren’t you listening? He’s taking part in things! He’s joined a drama club!’
‘I heard. I was just checking.’
‘Listen,’ said Mum, turning back to me. ‘You know my friend Francine? From the school fundraising committee? She was here the other day.’
‘Francine? Which one’s that? Is she the one with … er … long hair?’ I said, grasping at any topic of conversation that wasn’t bullying.
‘Yes. Huge brown eyes. Expensive jewellery. Beautiful deep voice.’
‘Er …’
‘Anyway, she’s a professional actress and she says her daughter is really talented, and she’s in your year. Have you come across a girl called Jennifer?’
My undercarriage gave an immediate involuntary twitch, like a phone announcing a notification.
‘That’s her mum? Jennifer’s in my class.’
‘So you’re already friends?’
‘Well … kind of. In a way.’
‘Because if you’re hoping to get into the school play, she’s someone you should talk to. Francine was telling me how Jennifer’s one of the best actors in the school. I was about to say we could invite them over so you could get to know her better, but if you’re friends already …’
‘No! Yes! I mean, I don’t know her that well. Hardly at all, really, so that would be good.’
‘Only if you feel like it.’
‘Well … you know … why not? Might as well. Can’t do any harm. Can it? So … might as well. Just … you know … whenever … no big deal.’
‘OK. I’ll text Francine.’
Just the idea of Jennifer’s visit set my pulse throbbing. Was this the worst or the best idea I had ever heard?
I wasn’t sure.
Did I want that gorgeous, intimidating, wonderful, vain girl in my house? Did I want to have to talk to her?
Of course I did! Of course I didn’t! Of course I did! Etc.
Whether I wanted it or not (Of course I did! Of course I didn’t!), events were now in train. Jennifer, at some point in the near future, would appear in my house. Where I lived.
Jennifer!
In my house.
Actually genuinely visiting, in person.
Physically entering the rooms inhabited by my family.
From the moment Mum confirmed the visit, this prospect filled my every waking hour with a mixture of nervous dread and underpant-stirring overexcitement. This might sound like a perfectly normal state of mind for a boy of my age – and I suppose it was – but anticipating Jennifer’s arrival in my home made it infinitely worse.
The sulky angel and her confiscated phone
While I struggled to find anyone I liked at school, despite being stuck there five days a week, Mum had somehow bedded herself into the school mum network straight away, and from the first week seemed to know and love everyone even vaguely connected to the North London Academy for the Gifted and Talented.
These new friends constantly appeared in our house, roosting noisily around our kitchen table clutching mugs of coffee. There was Gabriella, an ‘internet entrepreneur’ who imported fair-trade ponchos from a women’s collective in rural Mexico. There was Adrienne, a ‘homemaker’ who was considering retraining as a shaman, though whether or not this had anything to do with her son being universally known as a drug dealer was unclear. There was Lala (yes, really), an insanely beautiful part-time yoga teacher, who had a voice like golden syrup, seemed to wear Lycra in all weathers and made my dad so nervous he couldn’t speak. And there was Francine, the actress, Jennifer’s mother.
Francine was very actory. When she spoke, whatever she was saying, she made it sound like a profound and terrible confession. If you asked her how she was, she’d answer, ‘I’m fine, but I got stuck in terrible traffic on Finchley Road,’ using the heavy, tragic intonation of someone announcing that their son was missing in action at Dunkirk. She only ever wore mauve and black, and was always so shrouded in complex drapes of fabric that when she reached for her coffee you never knew where a limb might appear.
When I arrived home from school to find Francine at the kitchen table opposite Mum, my heart immediately began to palpitate with Jennifer-fear. Was she also in the house? Was this The Visit? I couldn’t relax until I knew. When I did know, I still wouldn’t be able to relax, especially if she was here, but I had to have the information as quickly as possible, so as to arrange my tension levels to an appropriate setting. A bit like if you found yourself in a room with someone holding a hand grenade. You’d want to know if the pin was in or out.
‘Sam, darling,’ intoned Francine. ‘How are you?’
She made her question sound as if she wasn’t merely asking if I’d had a good day but wanted an insight into every detail of my inner well-being. Her tone of voice also seemed to imply that my answer was something on which her very future depended.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Can I have a biscuit?’
‘Oh, take, take,’ said Francine, holding out a plateful of The Posh Biscuits Mum Bought For Guests. ‘You’ll be doing me a favour.’
Mum flicked me her don’t-eat-them-all eyes.
‘Now, your mother tells me you’ve joined a drama group. That’s wonderful news. You have an everyman quality that I feel could take you a long way.’
‘Well, it’s only a …’
‘Jennifer tells me nothing. Nothing,’ said Francine, turning back to face Mum. ‘She’s in a terribly conflictual phase. Of course, it’s what you expect at this age, but the moods! Honestly! Quelle horreur!’
‘Is she here?’ I asked, as casually as I could manage. I followed the question up with a short cough, in the hope this might add to the impression of haughty indifference, though I think it may have had the opposite effect.
‘Physically, yes, mentally, no,’ said Francine, waving a hand in the direction of the living room. ‘She’s off in cyberspace, as usual, doing God knows what with God knows who. Honestly, this phone thing is just appalling, isn’t it? The obsession!’
‘Oh, it drives me mad,’ said Mum. ‘It’s a constant battle.’
On and on they droned, through the endlessly repeated everything-was-so-much-better-in-ye-olden-days-before-the-internet-came-along-and-ruined-all-our-lives-by-making-everything-easier conversation which seems to hold some kind of infinite fascination for people over the age of forty, while my mind drifted off into a frantic internal debate:
Me: Go and talk to Jennifer!
Me: I will. In a minute.
Me: No – now.
Me: In a second. When I’m ready.
Me: What are you waiting for?
Me: I’m not ready.
Me: You’d rather sit in the kitchen with your mum than talk to the girl you’ve been fantasising about for weeks on end? What’s wrong with you?
Me: I’m just not ready yet.
Me: What are you afraid of?
Me: Nothing.
Me: You are! You’re afraid!
Me: OK! I’m afraid!
Me: Of what?
Me: Everything! Humiliation! Rejection! Failure! And every female on the planet older than thirteen!
Me: Well, don’t be! Man up!
It was at this point that I realised I had absentmindedly eaten almost all the biscuits. I only noticed this was happening when I saw my hand reaching for the last one.
I swiftly moved the almost-empty plate out of Mum’s eyeline.
Clearly, it was time to step up and take action. A dual-pronged plan began to take shape. At a stroke, by offering this final biscuit to Jennifer, I could dispose of all incriminating snack-consumption evidence and give myself a conversational opening. One of the hardest things with Jennifer was knowing what to say to her, and ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ was a slam dunk.
I stood up.
I lifted the plate containing the solitary biscuit.
Tamping down all fear and self-doubt, I set off in search of Jennifer, and soon found her curled up on the sofa in a shaft of early evening sunlight, swiping at her phone.
