Boy Trouble (15 page)

“Yes. But don’t do it again.”

I smile back at him, relieved. That wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. I spent all last night worrying about what he’d say to me. I didn’t sleep a wink.

“Seth, what’s taking you so long?” Polly calls.

He sighs. “Do you mind? She doesn’t get many visitors.”

I wonder what he means, visitors? “Sure,” I say. I guess I’m about to find out.

I step into the hall. It’s amazing. The whole left-hand side is covered in ornate gold frames of different shapes and sizes. Inside the frames are all kinds of things – a glittering paper collage of a rainbow, black and white photographs, tiny watercolour landscapes, an oil painting of a shiny red apple – all set against the wine red wall. It looks incredible, like something out of an interiors magazine.

“Welcome to Polly’s Gallery,” Seth says, waving his hand at the frames.

I study this amazing black and white photograph of a baby. It really draws you in. The baby’s eyes are dark, almost black, and staring into them I can see my own eyes reflected, or maybe it’s just a trick of the light.

“She took that when I was ten months old,” Seth says softly. “When we were still living in London.”

“You lived in London?”

“Until I was one. I don’t remember it.”

I look at the photo again and smile. “You were a cute baby. And it’s a brilliant photo. I can’t believe your mum took it.”

Seth shrugs. “She was a photographer, sorry,
is
a photographer. But she hasn’t worked for a while.”

“Seth,” his mum calls from the room at the end of the hall.

“Coming, Pol.” He rolls his eyes again. “She’s so impatient. And there’s something else you should know. She’s sick.”

“You told me. A virus.”

“Oh, I should—”

“Seth!” It seems his mum is getting even more impatient.

He leads me into a room at the back of the flat. It’s white and there’s a houseplant in every corner. They tower towards the ceiling, their lush green leaves waxy and exotic.

On the right-hand wall there’s a tiled fireplace with a mirror hanging over it. The grate is crammed with lit white candles and Billy’s snoozing in his basket just in front of it. He raises his head, looking at me for a second before going back to sleep.

“I took Billy for a long run on the beach earlier,” Seth says. “He’s exhausted.”

I laugh. “I won’t take it personally.”

Then I notice a woman lying on a battered leather sofa, surrounded by an army of pillows and cushions.

My eyes take in her pale, thin face – the only colour two flushed spots on her cheeks, round and symmetrical like doll’s blusher – her unusual navy-blue eyes, the jaunty red pirate scarf on her head, her warm welcoming smile. She’s wearing old, paint-splattered jeans and a fluffy white fleece which swamps her small frame. Her bare blue-veined feet are lit up by the pillar-box red of her toenails.

“Hi,” she says, beckoning me over. “I’m Polly, Seth’s mum. And you are…?”

“This is Amy,” Seth cuts in. “A friend from school.”

“Sit down.” Polly swings her feet on to the floor and pats the sofa to her right. I sit down gingerly, feeling a bit awkward. She looks so tiny and breakable. I know I’m staring at her but I can’t help it. She holds my gaze steadily and there’s steel in her eyes. She reminds me suddenly of Clover, small yet strong.

“Have you offered your guest a drink, Seth?” she says, still looking at me.

“No,” he says. “Give me a chance.”

“What would you like?” she asks me.

“Nothing, thanks. I’m fine.”

“I’d love a tea if you’re offering.” Polly smiles up at Seth, who is standing just behind her, his hands holding the back of the sofa.

He gives a laugh. “More? You’ll drown in the stuff one of these days.”

She leans her head back and rubs it against his hands. Her scarf shifts a little and I see downy blonde tufts where her hair should be, like the feathers of a newborn chick or a dandelion clock. I look away quickly.

“He’s a good lad,” Polly says as soon as Seth’s out of the room. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.” She pulls the scarf back over her forehead, covering her fluff. “God, I miss my hair. What a palaver!” She looks at me. “I presume Seth told you about the chemo?”

I shake my head. “Not exactly. He said you had a virus.”

“Oh.” She blows out her breath in a whoosh. “It was a bit more than that I’m afraid. I had breast cancer. But luckily they caught it in time and I was given the all clear a few weeks ago. It’s been a difficult time for both of us. He doesn’t like talking about it.” She folds her hands in her lap and plays with a chunky silver ring, twisting it round and round her finger. “Sorry, you don’t need to know all this. Ignore me.”

“No, it’s fine. My granny died of breast cancer.” Then I realize what I’ve just said. “But she was much, much older than you,” I add quickly. “She was fifty-five.”

“I’m thirty-one, if I make it to fifty-five I’ll be a happy woman.” She gives me a lovely smile, so warm it’s like being bathed in sunlight. “You must miss her.” She reaches out and takes my hand. It’s cool but not cold and she has a surprisingly firm grip. She squeezes it gently and then lets go just as Seth walks in the door carrying a small wooden tray.

He puts it on the coffee table and kneels down beside it, pouring Polly a cup of fragrant tea from the flowery teapot. As well as the mug and the teapot, there’s a blue bowl on the tray with chocolates in it and a small glass tumbler with a single white sweet pea.

“Yum, peppermint,” Polly says as Seth hands her the mug and she sniffs it. She cups her hands round it. “My favourite. So what are the pair of you up to today? Anything exciting?”

For some reason I think of Seth’s lips pressing against mine. I blush furiously and look away, pretending to study one of the ferns.

“Nothing special,” Seth says. “I was thinking of going to the National Gallery. They have a Rothko on loan from Chicago for a few months. Might be worth seeing. Do you want to tag along, Amy?”

I say, “Cool. I like Rothko.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s one on your Bebo page, isn’t there?”

I nod and smile. I haven’t been to the gallery on my own before. I used to go with Dad but he’s too busy these days. It would be an adventure and as it’s kind of educational, Mum would hardly mind.

“That sounds lovely,” Polly says. “Wish I had the energy to go with you. Will you bring me back a postcard? Something cheery. A Georgia O’Keeffe flower.”

“Amy likes her too,” Seth says.

My heart skips a little; he remembers.

“She has good taste,” Polly says, smiling at me.

Seth says, “See you later, Pol.” Then he walks behind the sofa, bends down and kisses the top of her head. It’s so sweet, so natural, it almost brings tears to my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I kissed Mum.

*   *   *

“I’m sorry about your mum,” I say as we walk towards the train station.

“She’s OK now,” he says, but there’s a snappy edge to his voice, defiant. “She’s better.”

I’ve said the wrong thing. I should learn to keep my mouth shut. “I know. She told me. I was just … I just wanted to say something. About your mum … you know … and the cancer. Sorry…” I tail off lamely. I’ve made a right mess of that.

He doesn’t say anything so to fill the silence I say, “It must have been hard on you. That’s all.”

“You know the worst thing?” he says after a long pause. “Seeing her so tired all the time, so sick. She’s usually so hyper. That was pretty scary, thinking she might not make it. There’s only the two of us. Dad left when I was a baby.” He stops walking and looks at me, his eyes dark and intense. “Amy, this is just between us, OK? All of it.”

“Of course. You can trust me.” Hug me, I tell him with my eyes. Hold me, kiss me. But he just nods and continues walking.

The Rothko is amazing. A lot of his paintings are kind of depressing, brooding black and blood-red boxes floating on top of each other; flat stone-coloured expanses like arctic landscapes.

But the Rothko painting from Chicago isn’t at all depressing. It’s positively sunny.
Saffron
it’s called, a big burst of tangerine orange with a slash of gold through it, so bright you’d swear there was a light behind it, shining through the centre.

Seth sits on the wooden bench in front of the painting, staring at it, running his eyes over different parts of its surface, as if he’s trying to memorize it. He’s lost in the painting, breathing in the oil paint, lapping up the colours, connecting with it. He really is quite something. He is a bit strange, different, but in a nice way. He shifts over on the bench, rests his shoulder against mine and holds my hand. My heart skips.

“How does it make you feel?” he asks in a low voice. “The painting, I mean.”

“Happy,” I say. “Alive.” He just squeezes my hand and nods, his lips pressed together. Like his mum, he has a firm grip. His eyes are glistening and I worry he’s upset, but he gives me a small reassuring smile. I squeeze back.

I
want to tell someone about Seth, about the amazing day we had at the art gallery. About Polly. About holding his hand. About kissing him on the lips.

It all happened very quickly; we were just outside my house, Mum or Dave could have been staring out the window. But I swear I could feel a spark when our lips touched. I’m too shy to tell Clover, she has so much experience with boys, it might sound childish. And she’d be sure to ask embarrassing questions about the kissing part. I want to tell Mills, she’d understand and she’d be so psyched for me, but I can’t.

I miss Mills. Really, really miss her. It’s like someone’s cut off my right arm. I miss chatting to her on the phone; sometimes I pick up my mobile to text or ring her and then I remember. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. She’s made that quite clear. Worst of all, the end of term party is at Sophie’s house in Foxrock. In three weeks. The whole year is invited, it’s traditional, so she’ll have to let me in. I’m not looking forward to it. But Seth wants to go, so I’m going too.

Until then, I’m supposed to be studying for my end of term exams. They start the week after next and finish the day before the party. But, of course, there are distractions. Like Seth. And Clover.

“Mum,” I say, “I’m going to Gramps’s house to study. It’s way too noisy here. I have to do my geography revision.”

Mum looks up from feeding Alex. “Oh, OK. What time will you— Oh, Alex!”

She wipes chewed carrot off her cheek. It leaves a slimy line on her skin, like an orange snail’s trail. She scowls at him. “Bad Alex.”

He just giggles and kicks his feet, delighted with himself.

“Six,” I say, getting out of the kitchen before I’m asked to do anything. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Right, Beanie.” Clover strides into Gramps’s spare room. He’s such a sweetie: he’s set up a study desk for me with an old anglepoise lamp on it and one of those office chairs that whooshes up and down when you press a lever. It’s cool fun. I’ve been playing with it while I’m supposed to be learning about volcanoes and plate tectonics.

“What?” I scowl at her. “I’m supposed to be studying.”

She ignores me and plonks her laptop on top of my open geography textbook. She points at the screen. “Look!”

I read the Bebo site out loud. “‘I’d like to announce that I’m coming out. Yes, it’s true. I’m a lesbian. I’m sure you’ve already guessed.’” I look up at Clover. “Do you know this girl?” I read her name. “Alanna?”

“No. She emailed the agony aunt page. And she’s not a lesbian either! She has a boyfriend. But some genius used her password and changed her Bebo site behind her back. This is only a copy. She’s taken her page down. She says the lesbian thing was there for two whole days before she saw it. The whole school’s talking about it. Luckily her boyfriend seems a decent guy; he’s sticking by her.”

“How did they get the password?” I ask nervously. Mills has my password. The very same thing could happen to me!

“She reckons it was one of her friends. But they all deny it. They sound a bit like those girls in the shoe shop from what I can make out. True-blooded D4s. Poor girl doesn’t know who to trust.”

“That’s terrible.” I instantly forget all about my geography revision. “What are you going to tell her?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a difficult one. If she doesn’t know who did it…” Clover shrugs.

“So she has no Bebo page up at the moment?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“But everyone’s probably checking for her page every day. They’ll be wondering what happened, wondering why she doesn’t deny it. She should post, pronto, say it was all a sick joke.”

“Alanna thinks that would only make everything worse. And she doesn’t want to offend any kids who
are
gay.”

“Fair point. But she has to fight back, Clover. She can’t just let them get away with it.”

Clover smiles. “You sound like me, Beanie. But this one has me stumped. Any ideas?”

“Yes, actually I do. You could help her create a brand-new Bebo page. The ultimate Bebo page. That might distract people and get them talking about something else.”

“I like it, Beans. Inspired. We could find her some famous friends.”