The Bex Factor (2 page)

‘Because he’s your father,’ says Mum, slurring her words like she does sometimes when she’s losing it. ‘Because, in spite of what you might think, everything
that’s happened
isn
’
t
just down to Melvin.’

‘I never want to see that lowlife again.’

Even the torrential rain can’t drown the sound of her crying. ‘Look . . . please. Just do it for me and Emily. We need you here.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I . . .’

I can almost hear the click in her head as she goes from ‘pathetic and needy’ to ‘raging bull’ in less than a nanosecond. ‘Yeah, that’s right, I forgot. All
you care about is that bloody guitar. You’re just like him, aren’t you, Matthew? A selfish, two-faced idiot.’

‘No I’m not. I’ve got . . . other plans, that’s all.’

‘Oh come off it,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not like you’ve got hundreds of friends or anything.’

What’s that? You don’t want to hear my tragic life story? Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t feel like talking about it right now. I take a deep breath and try to be more
understanding, but something tells me that unless God descends from the clouds and beams me up, my rubbish life is just about to get even rubbisher. ‘OK, Mum. If that’s what you really
want, I —’

A new voice comes at me from out of the deluge. ‘You’re not supposed to stand under trees in a thunderstorm.’

‘Eh?’

‘I said, you’re not supposed to stand under trees in a thunderstorm – it’s dangerous.’

And I’m trying to work out why a drowned poodle should be such a stickler for health and safety when I realise who she is. ‘Hang on a minute, Mum; I’ve just got to
—’

‘Don’t you
dare
hang up on —’

It’s that girl from the choir; the one who’s started sitting opposite me at lunchtime; the one with the serial-killer smile.

‘I like your phone,’ she says, shuffling her feet on the soggy grass. ‘It’s
well
nice.’

Our wispy breath almost mingles mid-air. ‘Cheers.’

‘Sorry, were you talking to someone?’ she says, peeling her wet blouse away from her stomach and giving it a shake.

‘Not any more,’ I say, slipping my phone into my jacket pocket.

‘I really liked that song you did at the school concert. Your guitar playing was . . . awesome.’

I scan her dappled face for sarcasm. It looks clean, but would you want to risk it with a St Thomas’s girl? ‘Yeah . . . whatever.’

‘It’s true. I even filmed some of it on my phone.’

‘Oh I get it. You’re going to put it online with a funny commentary, like they did to that Chickenboy kid.’

‘Of course not,’ she says, shaking her head so hard that she sprinkles me with rainwater. ‘I just really liked it, that’s all. Have you . . . have you been playing
long?’

‘’Bout five years.’

‘And you wrote that song yourself, yeah?’

I nod. ‘Death Blows (Life Sucks)’ is a Matthew Layton original. I’m really proud of it.

‘But you play other stuff as well, right?’

‘I do a few covers, if that’s what you mean.’

Her face erupts into a non serial-killer smile. ‘Who are you into then?’

‘What is this, twenty questions?’

‘No, no, I’m just interested, that’s all.’

Me and Curtis spent hours making lists of our favourite bands. They changed every time, but a few names always made it to the final cut: ‘Hendrix, Bowie . . . Nirvana, The Beatles. And
right now I’m really into dubstep.’

‘What about Rihanna?’ she says, without even the flicker of a smile.

‘Yeah . . . right.’ But it’s all wrong, isn’t it? I don’t do girls, and I don’t do conversation. The last thing I need is a Year Nine groupie. And God’s
obviously not going to show up, so I might as well go home. ‘I’d better be off,’ I say, turning reluctantly towards the main road.

‘No, wait!’ she says, waving her arm at me like an old lady who’s missed the bus.

‘What is it?’

She closes her eyes and clenches her fists. ‘Maybe you’re not . . . I mean . . . maybe you’re not up for it. But do you want to hang out at mine until the rain
stops?’

It’s perfect – like fate or something. Mum’s always telling me I should make an effort to find some new friends. And a friend who’s a girl means double brownie points,
because I know she thinks the stuff with Dad has given me a ‘warped view of relationships’. I just have to put up with whatsherface for an hour and as soon as Dad’s safely on the
train, I can ditch her and still be home in time to make tea.

‘OK then.’

Her head practically does a three-sixty degree flip. ‘
What
did you say?’

‘I said, OK then.’

‘That’s what I thought you said.’

Bex

Can you believe that? I thought he’d be like,
Get out of my face and never come back
, but ten minutes later we’re dodging umbrellas on the walk home. And you
know what? I’m starting to believe it could actually happen.

Maybe Mum was right. Maybe you
can
have anything you want, if you want it badly enough. Mind you, my sister Nat was so desperate for Jez from Burger King that she didn’t just have N
J tattooed on her butt, she even had his baby – the silly mare. But so far so good, because three steps behind me, is the boy who
could change my life forever.

Shezza says talking’s the easy part.
All you have to do is get them to mouth off about themselves – guys love that.
But every time I try to ask him about school or his mates,
he looks at me like I’d just murdered his whole family and put the photos on Facebook.

Time to change the subject. ‘Did your mum and dad enjoy the school concert?’

He reaches for a strand of his hair and slips it into the corner of his mouth. ‘Eh?’

‘I was just saying. I bet your mum and dad enjoyed the concert.’

‘What makes you think they were even there?’

‘I just thought . . .’

‘Well,
don
’
t
.’

He studies his feet, like an angry chiropodist. I
so
had him down as a two parent kind of a kid – look at his shiny shoes.

‘Well, if they
were
there, I bet they were dead proud of you.’ I should probably give it a rest – the talking thing – but you don’t know how much I want
this. ‘Yeah, I mean, my dad even thought the choir were good!’

‘Is that right?’

I’m going to kill Shezza. If this is the easy part, what am I supposed to do when I get him up to my bedroom? ‘I could send you that video of your guitar solo if you like.’

I can almost see my brilliant new life disappearing into a black hole of silence. It feels like a whole geography lesson before he looks up from the pavement and flashes me a smile. ‘OK
then.’

‘What did you say?’

He takes out his shiny mobile. ‘I said, OK then. Go for it.’

I can’t believe it when he gives me his number – just like that. And even though he’s still gazing into his phone as we cut across the station car park, I’m making
progress at last. At least that’s what it feels like until we come to the subway.

‘We’re not going down there are we?’ he says, looking up from his mobile for the first time in twenty minutes.

As usual, half the lights aren’t working, and the crackly one at the far end seems to wink at you like a dirty old man.

‘What’s the matter?’

His face looks paler than a high-school vampire’s. ‘I thought this was the way to the Dogshit Estate.’

He peers into the subway for, like, a double geography lesson, checking out the graffiti (
Dogshit Crew kill Parkside scum
) and the stink of stale wee. ‘Couldn’t we go another
way?’

‘It’s where I live, OK?’

‘Oh . . . right,’ he says, flipping off his mobile and burying it in the bottom of his rucksack.

‘You got a problem with that?’

‘No, no I was just . . .’

‘Not scared, are you?’

‘Of course not.’ He shivers.

‘We need to get a move on,’ I say, stepping impatiently into the rancid gloom. ‘Are you coming or not?’

He checks his watch, thinks for a moment and then nods grimly.

This time he sticks to me like glue, flinching every time anyone walks past with a dog that’s bigger than a Chihuahua and swapping his Mr Silent act for a
nervous-new-kid-on-his-first-day-at-school routine: ‘Is it true the police won’t come here without body armour?’ ‘Have you ever been mugged?’

‘It’s all right,’ I say, so sick of his stupid questions that I can’t resist winding him up. ‘We’re nearly there. It’s left at the brothel then straight
on past the crack den.’

‘Yeah . . . very funny.’

But it’s my turn to get jittery when we arrive home and find Dad’s van parked outside. I was praying we could beat them to it, but my heart sinks even further when I realise that
Matthew is reading their stupid slogan:
Want To Get Plastered? Call Rod McCrory and Son
.

I try not to sound desperate as I fumble for my key. ‘Right, this is it.’

‘What did you say your name was again?’

‘I didn’t. You never asked. But it’s Bex.’

‘No, your surname,’ he says, studying the side of Dad’s van.

‘McCrory, Bex McCrory.’

‘Maybe I should just go home.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say, taking his arm and dragging him through the obstacle course of roof tiles and cement bags that lead to the front door. ‘You’re soaked
through.’

‘Look, are you
sure
this is all right?’

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

A wailing baby duets with a police siren. I push open the front door and bundle him into the lounge. ‘Let’s go upstairs, yeah? There’s something I need to ask you.’

But it’s too late. Sprawled across the sofa wearing only a pair of DJ headphones and some boxer shorts is the person who could ruin everything.

‘Oh crap,’ whispers Matthew, looking round for an escape route. ‘What’s
he
doing here?’

‘He’s my brother,’ I say, kicking closed the front door so he can’t do a runner.

‘Kyle McCrory is your brother?’

‘I just said so, didn’t I?’

Kyle is kind of a St Thomas’s Community College legend. Even though he left school, like, two years ago, they still make up dumb stories about him; still call him by that pathetic
nickname.

‘
Special Needs
is your . . .
brother
?’

Gobsmacked doesn’t come close. ‘Why are you whispering? If you’ve got something to say to him, why don’t you say it to his face?’

He takes another step backwards. ‘No, no, you’re all right. I was surprised to see him, that’s all.’

‘You don’t say.’

Kyle never did half the stuff they said he did. All right, the thing on the roof was kind of true, and all that fuss about Catchpole’s war graves trip, but most of the time he only got the
blame because he was a Dogshit Kid.

‘Oi, Geez,’ says Kyle, looking up from
Countdown
and shouting over his headphones. ‘What do you think you’re doing with my sister?’

If Matthew reverses any further he’ll be stuck to the wall like that fairground ride. ‘I’m not doing
anything
with her.’

‘Well, you’d better get on with it, Geez,’ says the comedian in residence. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?’

My brother wets himself laughing. Matthew just wets himself. I have to get him up to my bedroom before he’s too stressed out for anything. ‘Shut up, Kyle, it’s not funny. And
put some clothes on, yeah? You look
well
disgusting.’

‘Dad’s still in the shower,’ he grunts.

And I’m like,
Nooooo!
Because I
so
should have seen it coming. Every day, when they get home from work, it’s the same old routine: they chuck their overalls in the
washing machine, Dad goes up for the first shower, and when he comes down again he’s always wearing . . . he’s always wearing . . . WE HAVE
GOT
TO GET OUT OF HERE.

‘Come on, Matthew. Why don’t we . . .?’

Too late. An out-of-tune elephant is bellowing, ‘
There
’
s no business like show-business
’. Two seconds later, Dad’s standing at the bottom of the stairs
wearing Mum’s pink fluffy bathrobe. And I wish I was dead.

‘Hello, beautiful.’

‘Hello, Dad.’