I look over my shoulder. Apart from a couple of goth kids sitting at the very top of the steps, there’s no one around. I take my wallet from my pocket and slide out the photograph of Dad.
It’s a full-length shot of him standing next to a red Ford Fiesta. He must have just finished washing it because it’s really shiny and there’s a bucket of soapy water at his feet. I wish it was at a different angle because then I might be able to read the number plate, but the photo was taken side-on, with Dad leaning up against the passenger window. He has his arms folded across his chest and is grinning proudly at the camera. He has good teeth – white and straight. I must take after him because Mam’s got horrible teeth, all crooked and yellow from a lifetime of fags. He’s tall with sandy brown hair, just like mine. It’s too far away to really see whether I’ve got his eyes or nose or anything else. On the back there’s a date written in Mam’s scratchy handwriting. Seven months before Amber and I were born.
One New Year, tipsy on cheap white wine, Auntie Kerry let it slip that Dad was a carpenter. I like the idea of that, of him working with his hands and making beautiful things from scratch. Kerry also let it slip that she reckons he might have gone down south to live by the sea, but no one seems to know this for sure. Any time I ask questions, people clam up or get angry and the subject is always closed before it even gets started.
Behind me, the two kids are getting up. I shove the photo back into my wallet as they pass.
10
It’s Friday morning. English again. As I walk up the aisle I try not to look at Alicia. I’m almost at my seat when I make the mistake of glancing down at her. And there she is, smiling away again, totally oblivious to what it’s doing to my head, messing with it.
Miss Jennings dims the lights. We’re watching a film version of Twelfth Night, the play we’re studying this term. At first I try my hardest to concentrate on the film, but after a few minutes I find myself drifting and my eyes staring at the back of Alicia’s head. She usually wears her hair down but today it’s up and I can see her neck. I imagine kissing it. The thought makes me feel hot all over. I try to wipe it from my brain, like it never existed. I take a deep breath and try to keep my eyes on the screen.
Outside it’s raining and the classroom is warm. I lay the back of my hand against the window. The condensation feels good – cool and wet. When I take my hand away, it leaves a print behind. Next to it I draw a circle with my index finger. Miss Jennings looks up from her marking. I pull my damp hand into my lap and wipe it on my trousers.
A second later Alicia twists sideways in her seat and adds eyes and a smiley face to my circle. Before I can stop myself I’m leaning forward, and adding sticky-out ears and a tuft of hair. And I can just tell, by the way the muscles in her neck contract, that Alicia is smiling.
‘Ahem?’
I look up. Miss Jennings is staring right at us, her eyebrows raised. Alicia lets out a tiny giggle. I fight my lips from curling into a smile and know I have to pull myself together.
For the rest of the lesson I force myself to look at the screen and nowhere else.
By the time the bell rings, my and Alicia’s smiley face has begun to run and slide down the window, the eyes all droopy, the smile now a frown. As I pack away my things, I can sense her watching me. Distracted, I drop my pen. I bend down to pick it up, but Alicia is faster.
‘Here,’ she says, pressing it into my hand.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, jamming the pen into my bag.
I wait for her to move off, but she doesn’t. Instead she perches on the edge of my desk, swinging her legs and continuing to watch me.
‘Leo?’ she says.
‘Yeah?’ I reply, zipping up my bag and not meeting her eyes.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’
I swallow hard.
‘What kind of favour?’ I ask slowly.
‘It’s just a tiny one, I promise,’ she says, biting her lower lip. ‘It’s just that I’ve entered this singing competition online and the winner gets the chance to meet a team of top record execs, but I need way more votes if I’m going to make it through to the final. So, I was just wondering whether you’d vote for me? I’ve been pestering everyone else on Facebook and Twitter, but I couldn’t find you.’
My skin prickles as I picture Alicia searching for me online.
‘I think it’s really cool by the way,’ she adds.
I frown.
‘That you’re not on Facebook, I mean,’ she continues. ‘I wish I wasn’t on there a lot of the time. It can do your head in sometimes, you know?’
I don’t answer her.
‘You, er, sing then?’ I ask instead.
‘Oh, yeah,’ she says, looking at her feet, shy suddenly. ‘I write my own stuff too, and post videos online, you know, on YouTube and stuff.’
‘Oh, right, cool,’ I murmur.
‘So you’ll vote for me then?’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Give me your hand.’
Before I can say or do anything, she’s grabbing my hand and turning it over in hers. Her skin is soft and her nails are short and neat, and painted with clear polish. I let my hand go limp and hope she doesn’t clock my own bitten-down nails. She scrawls on the back of my hand with a biro, the nib of the pen dragging at my skin. When she’s done, she pauses. I have to fight the urge to yank my hand away. She looks up.
‘Freckly hands,’ she says.
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve always wanted freckles,’ she continues. ‘My gran reckons they’re kisses from the sun. Cute huh?’
I shrug.
Alicia taps the back of my hand with the pen.
‘Well, that’s the website. I’m listed as Alicia B.’
‘Alicia B,’ I repeat.
‘To vote for me, you just have to click on my name and watch my video. I’m about halfway down I think.’
‘OK.’
‘Amazeballs. Thank you, Leo, I really appreciate this.’
It’s only then she lets go of my hand.
After school, instead of going straight home, I head to the computer lab. Apart from one other kid and the teacher on duty, it’s empty.
I take a set of headphones from the stack at the front and sit down at one of the monitors in the back row. I type the web address printed on my hand into the URL bar. I scroll down until I find Alicia B and click on her name.
Alicia’s face flashes up on the screen. She’s sitting on the end of a bed cross-legged, a guitar on her lap and her face frozen in a smile. I press play.
‘Hi! I’m Alicia B,’ she says directly to the camera. ‘This is a song I wrote called “Deep Down with Love”. I really hope you like it and if you do, that you’ll vote for me! Thanks!’
She begins to sing. And she’s amazing, better than anyone on The X Factor or Britain’s Got Talent. I watch the video a couple more times, even though I’m only allowed to vote once. I’m about to go when I remember her talking about posting stuff on YouTube, so I type in Alicia B and up come loads and loads more videos. Some are of her singing songs by people like Adele or Leona Lewis. But it’s her own music I like the best, all these songs with really sad lyrics about love going wrong. At the end of each one she always waits a few beats before breaking into a big smile to remind you it’s all pretend.
Because I’m pretty sure Alicia Baker is the sort of girl who breaks hearts, not the other way round.
When I get home, Spike is in the kitchen reading the newspaper and eating toast.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
He has his feet up on the table. One of his socks has a hole in the toe.
‘Hello to you too,’ he says cheerily.
‘Where’s Mam?’
‘She’s got a shift down at the launderette then she’s having her nails done with your auntie Kerry. They’re having a girly night.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why you’re here,’ I say.
‘I offered to pick Tia up from school and make y
ou kids some dinner.’
‘Right.’
I open the bread bin; it’s empty. I glance over at Spike’s plate. There must be five slices on there at least.
‘’Ere, have some of this,’ Spike says quickly, noticing my frown. ‘It’ll keep you going.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Don’t be daft. I can’t eat all this anyway. What’s yours is mine, our kid.’
‘I’m not “your kid”,’ I say under my breath.
I go into the living room and turn on the telly. It’s one of those programmes about people looking for houses abroad. I can feel Spike watching me. I look over my shoulder. He’s got up from the kitchen table and is leaning against the doorframe, balancing the plate of toast on his palm.
‘Bloody lovely,’ he says, nodding towards the screen. ‘Ever been to Spain, Leo?’
‘No,’ I mutter.
‘Fantastic place,’ he says. ‘Although I always say you can’t beat Thailand. Bloody beautiful country. The nicest people too. God, the times I had in Thailand, kiddo,’ he says, letting out a low whistle. ‘People are always telling me I should write a book about my travels, you know.’
‘Then why don’t you?’ I mutter.
I don’t usually stick around to listen to Spike but when I do, this is how he talks. Like he’s had all these grand adventures; Britain’s answer to Indiana Jones, only he never goes into any detail, he’s always really vague about it, as if he’s making it up as he goes along.
The other day he left his wallet on the coffee table and I had a quick nose through it. His driving licence says his name is Kevin. So much for Spike. The address on it is somewhere in Manchester. Apart from that there was a bit of cash, some receipts and a folded-up strip of photos of him and Mam taken in one of those passport photo booths. In the first shot they were grinning at the camera, in the second doing bunny ears behind one another’s heads, in the third and fourth, they were snogging. Rank.
Spike comes to sit next to me.
‘Slice?’ he offers. ‘Go on.’
The toast drips with butter. It smells amazing. In spite of myself I take a slice, but only cos I’m starving. I rip it in half and stuff the smaller piece into my mouth, swallowing it down whole. It scrapes the back of my throat.
Spike takes a bite and munches for a few seconds, his lips smacking against one another.
‘Actually, Leo, I’m glad your Mam’s out tonight. I think we got off on the wrong foot maybe. This might be a good chance for us to have a proper chat, you know, man to man.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I say, swallowing my other bit of toast in one go and standing up.
‘’Ere, Leo, wait, will ya?’
I turn. Spike is looking up at me. With his floppy hair and droopy eyes, he reminds me a bit of the spaniel Kerry had for a bit, until it weed in her underwear drawer and she took it to the RSPCA.
‘I’m really keen on your mam, you know that don’t you, kiddo?’ he says.
I just shrug. The idea of anyone being into my disaster zone of a mother seems pretty unlikely to me.
‘She’s a special lady, Leo, and I know it’s early days and that, but if things work out, and I hope they do, I’m going to do right by you and your sisters. I’m not like the others, I’m not going to bugger off the minute things get a bit rough.’
‘Whatever,’ I say, looking out the window. ‘I’m fifteen. In a few years, I’ll be out of here anyway.’
‘Of course, mate. I’m just saying, that’s all. I know it must be hard for you and Amber, not having a dad around and that.’
I spin round. ‘Keep my dad out of this. You don’t know anything about him.’
‘Now steady on, kiddo, I might know more than you think,’ Spike says, holding up his hands.
‘You know bugger all,’ I spit, heading for the door.
‘Leo,’ Spike calls. ‘Oh, come back, mate! Leo!’
I slam the front door behind me.
As I stomp across the garden I hear one of the upstairs windows open and Tia’s thin little voice calling my name. I ignore it and keep walking.
I know exactly where I’m going.
I’m heading for the old Cloverdale baths.
It’s still light when I arrive so I lie on my back on the bottom of the empty pool with my hoodie propped under my head as a pillow. Above me, the fading sunlight shines through the glass roof and warms my face. Already I feel a bit calmer. I spread my fingers out. The tiles beneath me feel cool and sort of damp, which is weird because there hasn’t been any water in here for a couple of years now. It still smells of chlorine though. I like breathing it in, taking big gulps and letting it fill up my lungs and nostrils.
When they announced they were going to close down the Cloverdale swimming baths a few years ago, everyone made a big fuss and signed a petition, but it did no good; the council went ahead and closed them anyway. They’re building a new leisure centre about a mile away apparently, with a gym and café and Zumba classes. It won’t be the same though.
I used to swim here when I was a kid. On sunny days like today, you’d get blinded doing the backstroke. But I liked it best when it was raining. I used to love how it got really dark and the water would thunder on the roof and you could imagine you were swimming down the Amazon in the middle of some tropical storm.
Gav used to bring me and Amber here on a Saturday morning while Mam stayed in bed and slept off her hangover. Gav was Mam’s boyfriend at the time. He taught us to swim in the shallow end – backstroke and front crawl. Amber never liked it much. She didn’t like getting her hair wet and would cough and splutter every time she got water in her mouth. But I loved it. Gav used to say I was a natural, a proper water baby.
I liked Gav. He was one of the better ones. Of course he was too soft and let Mam get on at him all the time, until one day he must have finally had enough because he left the house in the morning and never came back.
Even though I haven’t been in the water for five years now, I miss the way swimming made me feel – calm and in control. I miss the muffled sound of voices when my head was underneath the water. Sometimes I think life would be about a thousand times easier if I could do everything under water, with no one bothering me, everyone’s words distorted and far away, and me just under the surface, fast and untouchable.
As I lie there, Spike’s words keep echoing around my head: ‘I might know more than you think.’ Part of me wishes I’d stayed and asked him what he meant. But then Spike would only have Mam’s story and who knows what crap she’s been telling him.
No, the only person who can really tell me the truth is long gone.
11
At lunch time on Monday, the canteen is packed, the majority prepared to put up with the stench of boiled cabbage and burnt parsnips in exchange for warmth. Essie, Felix and I look over at Leo who is wolfing down a plate of chips.
‘I wonder where he goes?’ I ponder, watching as he deposits his empty tray and heads for the door.
‘To howl at the moon?’ Essie suggests.
‘Ha bloody ha.’
‘Why do you care anyway?’ she asks.
Through the glass, I watch as Leo strides across the playground. He doesn’t wear a coat and I can see his breath in the air.
‘He must be freezing,’ I murmur, frowning and craning my neck as he disappears round the corner. The weather turned over the weekend. According to the newspaper it’s set to be the coldest September on record since the 1940s.
‘Who are you, his mother?’ Essie says.
Essie is in a horrible mood because she’s just found out her mum is going skiing for Christmas, leaving Essie and her younger brother to spend the holidays with their dad and his wife again.
‘I was just speculating,’ I mutter, poking at my food with my fork.
‘Did I tell you he’s in my maths class?’ Felix asks.
‘Are you serious?’ I say.
I can’t help but be surprised that Leo is in the advanced class too. Immediat
ely I feel ashamed for judging him so quickly. I mentally add ‘good at maths’ to the irritatingly sparse list of facts I know about him, made all the more irritating because I haven’t quite worked out why I’m so interested in the first place.
‘What’s he like in it?’ I ask.
‘No wielding of weapons so far,’ Felix says. ‘In fact, he hardly says a word. He can obviously do the work though.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner,’ I say.
‘What is it with you and this kid?’ Essie asks. ‘You’re like fascinated with him.’
‘No I’m not. I just find him interesting, that’s all. Don’t you?’
‘Moderately,’ Essie says with a yawn.
‘You’re just annoyed he didn’t jump at the chance to eat lunch with us that time,’ I say.
‘No, I’m not, although based on that alone, the boy clearly has no taste.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘You don’t fancy him do you?’
‘Just because I find someone interesting does not mean I fancy them.’
‘It’s OK if you do. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think bad boys were your type. Poor Zachary,’ she says, sighing, ‘ousted by the new boy.’
‘I do not fancy Leo Denton,’ I say, probably a little too loudly because the girls sitting at the next table peer over their shoulders at us with rare interest.
‘I don’t fancy him,’ I repeat, in a low hiss.
‘OK, OK,’ Essie says, holding up her hands in mock-surrender. ‘I believe you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Although thousands wouldn’t …’ she adds, smiling wickedly.
I don’t see Leo again until after school. As Mum drives home past the bus stop, I spot him slumped against the shelter, his hands shoved in his pockets, kaleidoscope eyes staring out into space. It’s so weird, because the feeling I get when I look at him is totally different to how I feel when I see Zachary around school. I don’t have butterflies or feel like I’m about to vomit. I’m still capable of speech. I don’t turn the colour of a tomato. And yet I definitely feel something. I just haven’t worked out what the thing is yet, and it’s driving me mad.