The Worst of Me

  He held my hand as he led me upstairs. Then at the top of the stairs he turned around to laugh. ‘I have no idea where I’m going.’

  I laughed too. ‘There, on the end. I’m just going to use the bathroom.’

  I brushed my teeth without toothpaste, so he wouldn’t know I’d done it, in case it seemed unfair, or trying too hard. My mum’s and Paul’s splayed toothbrushes were in the cup next to the sink. They looked vile and I wished I could hide them from Jonah. I brushed my hair, making it frizzier, then patted it down with just-wet hands. In the mirror, my reflection was pale, almost green, taking on some of the colour of the walls. And I looked scared.

  Now. What was my plan?

  When I went into my bedroom, Jonah was sitting on the bed, reading a magazine. I saw the room the way he might have seen it: hideous flowery bedspread, old-fashioned art posters, stills of old film actresses I liked, too many beaten-up shoes. My life looked rubbish. Jonah looked up at me through his thick hair. I didn’t want to assume he still liked me.

  He held out his hand and I sat down next to him. It was strange to feel so unsure of myself in my own bedroom. Gently, he lifted my hair away from my neck and kissed me. The kissing felt amazing, but my brain kept getting in the way, nagging until I lost the moment. I needed to be sure about things. Quite honestly, I’d have liked to sit and plan everything beforehand, establishing that he really liked me and didn’t find parts of me physically hideous. I’d felt okay-looking walking with him outside earlier, but being here, so close and alone, changed everything.

  Now I was messy and big and there was too much fleshy skin all over my body. When he touched me, I couldn’t let myself feel, I was too busy trying to suck myself in and move myself out of the way. I started saying silly, mundane things, and Jonah just said, ‘Shhh’ and kept on kissing me, pushing me with his chest and shoulders into a flatter position. I lay back and let go and tried to relax. Sometimes I opened my eyes to peep at him, and the sight of his closed eyes was almost frightening, as if I were seeing something I shouldn’t, and might get caught.

  When his hand moved up from my thigh, I broke away. I’d wanted to do something tonight, to grow up and move on and make a statement. But now the time had arrived I couldn’t do it.

  ‘I have to talk to you,’ I said.

  ‘Shh, don’t need to talk,’ Jonah said.

  ‘No, I do,’ I said. ‘I’m not all that good at this.’

  ‘You’re doing okay,’ he said, through a smile, kissing the side of my neck.

  ‘I mean, I’m . . . I haven’t gone all the way.’

  Now Jonah pulled back and looked at me. ‘We’re not going to do that,’ he said, his face very serious, his voice very gentle. ‘This is not how we’re going to do that. I just want to hold you.’

  ‘But I do want —’

  ‘I just want to kiss you.’

  I kissed him quickly, wanting him to feel that I trusted him. ‘Am I okay?’ I said, not sure why I’d said it.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, understanding.

  Chapter 8

  It was time Sam had an opinion. I called him and asked him to meet me. I didn’t even think of talking to my girl friends. There was too much to explain to them, and I couldn’t tell if they wanted to hear it. They had to be talking about me. Ian must have said more to Isobel, and Isobel must have been talking to the rest of our friends. The deeper in I got with Jonah, the further away I felt from everyone else.

  It was a Sunday morning. I walked past St Cecilia’s church to meet Sam and saw people going inside. I had a weird urge to join them. I wondered if it could be another place to get away and become invisible, like the cinema had been, the day I met Jonah. The thing is, it wouldn’t have been my first time.

  My mum found out my dad had a child with another woman when I was about nine. She went mental at first, but that was when she thought she was kicking him out. Then she found out he was already leaving her. She went quiet. It was horrible. I used to walk home from school with a friend who lived a few doors down the road from me. We’d talk all the way back, but as we got closer I started to feel sick and trembly, knowing I had to go into a house that felt completely empty, but wasn’t. Mum was there, pretending not to cry, making me eggs for tea every night, not talking about my dad. At night I prayed. I asked God to make it all turn out to be a mistake. When that didn’t come off, I asked God to let my dad find a reason to come home. Then I asked God to make my mum go back to being the way she was. None of this happened but I didn’t stop praying for it.

  One sunny day my friend was off sick, but my mum didn’t know about it, and I walked home on my own. It wasn’t a very long way, I wasn’t scared. As I was going past St Cecilia’s I saw that the door was open, and I looked inside. It was empty. I looked around for a vicar, but there was nobody there. I was just a little kid, I’d never been the only person anywhere before. It was cool and smelled of wood and it was so lovely. I was sure I’d get told off if someone found me, but for a moment I stood just inside the door, and whispered to the statue of Jesus, asking the things I used to pray for at night. I still didn’t get them, but, I dunno, I suppose I felt that someone was listening, and it was nice.

  So when Jonah’s friends talked about what idiots people who believed in God were, when Steve said they had some kind of mental imbalance or personality defect, or a need to think they were better than anyone, I got nervous. Sometimes I still prayed, I still liked whispering my problems aloud and asking to be helped and feeling hopeful while I asked. I worried that something in my face would give me away. They’d think I was an idiot or a hypocrite or both. I didn’t even feel religious, I didn’t believe in the Bible or any of the things that told people they were sinful or anything like that, but I think I thought there was someone listening.

  I noticed that Sam’s hair had grown. He was looking a bit wild. We might have looked like brother and sister if my hair was darker. My ‘real’ brother, Nathan, my dad’s other kid, didn’t look anything like me.

  ‘How come I’m seeing ten times as much of you since you got a boyfriend?’ Sam said. ‘Shouldn’t it be the opposite?’

  ‘Oh, don’t get sick of me yet,’ I said. ‘I need you!’

  ‘You haven’t needed me since you gave up the band. And even then you only needed me because I always had spare reeds and you always split yours.’

  Sam and I had met through the school band: we both played clarinet, and he was better than me, even though he was a year younger. I gave up when I started seeing Ian all the time, there just didn’t seem to be enough time to go to every practice and to waste a weekend a month playing charity performances in old people’s homes, when I wanted to see my cute boyfriend. I loved it, but I had to leave. Maybe the trouble with me was I’d always made too many sacrifices to try to please boys.

  We walked through the park and sat still on swings in the small corner playground. It was always deserted because it was tiny and falling to pieces, plus there was a fancy new one just a few streets away. The only people who used this one were teenagers, and there were often chip trays and alcopops bottles lying around it.

  ‘Just tell me . . . what do you think about that thing with Jonah?’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘You know, the arguments, if he’s on the wrong side.’

  ‘How can I tell that when I barely know him? You must have an idea, Cass.’

  ‘I just want to know what you think.’

  Sam looked away and blew his cheeks out. ‘It’s not great,’ he said. He pushed himself back on his swing.

  ‘Really,’ I said. I blew my own cheeks out.

  ‘Well, you must know that – why ask? There’s definitely a feeling you get from some of their posts that the brown people are what’s wrong with the world.’

  ‘But it’s not so much Jonah, is it?’ I said. ‘It’s more the others?’

  ‘Well yeah, maybe. And you could look at it like this: they were new kids on the block, maybe they wante
d to make a splash,’ Sam said.

  ‘But . . . you of all people, don’t you think more people should know about what goes on in the world, and what they do in other countries?’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Like, Muslims?’

  ‘Why me of all people?’ Sam said.

  ‘Well . . . because you’re gay and if you lived in an Islamic country that would be illegal and . . .’

  ‘Okay, Cassidy, look, maybe we do have to talk about this.’

  ‘That’s what I want!’

  ‘I’m a bit bothered that you came to me looking for a positive answer because you think I’d be more likely to think the same thing.’

  ‘But that’s not what I meant!’ I started twisting my swing around until the chain started to knot. ‘I mean, did you read some of the web pages they linked to? The treatment of gay people and women in those countries? I just thought you’d be angry about the things they believe as well.’ I let go and the swing spun jerkily round, starting to spin in the other direction, then hiccupping to a stop.

  Sam waited till I was facing him again. ‘You have to stop saying “they”, first of all,’ he said. ‘The things you’re talking about are cultural.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ I said, impatiently, as if he was splitting hairs, but I just didn’t know what he meant.

  ‘I mean, it’s not the religion that sets these rules, it’s some of the people who live in a certain place,’ Sam said.

  ‘Countries, cultures, whatever, it’s the same. That is what Islamic countries are like.’

  ‘Okay, let me explain. That’s wrong in about three ways,’ Sam said. ‘First of all, different Islamic countries have different views. Malaysia isn’t anything like Sudan, or Saudi, or Pakistan or Indonesia – all Islamic countries. Second, not everyone in those countries agrees with all of the laws in those countries. There are Muslim women protesting in Saudi because they want to drive, there are gay rights in Lebanon. Those people are all Muslims. And third, tons of Muslims live in countries where they’re not the majority and they live with the values of the countries they’re in. Like here.’

  ‘I just don’t think that’s true, Sam. They don’t act like everyone else, they separate themselves, and I think they are judging us.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Who are my friends, Cass? I’ve got Muslim friends. Abdul, Tareef, Rashad – Rash was in the band with us, you like him! Just ordinary geeky kids in my class who are members of the science club like me, and like Doctor Who like me.’

  ‘Okay, but their parents —’

  ‘Their parents have made kids who aren’t homophobic, so maybe you shouldn’t second-guess them. How many white kids at school do you think have a problem with me being gay?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Most.’

  ‘It’s not most . . .’

  ‘Actually, a lot of the time it feels like all of them. White kids and black kids. Schoolkids hate gays.’

  ‘But that’s not the law. The law says you can’t do that. Whereas in Islamic countries . . .’

  Sam smiled. ‘How long have we had our law?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look it up. There are laws in other countries that we’d get very arsey about – even if our own laws weren’t that different fifty years ago.’

  ‘Yeah, but now . . .’

  ‘Your friends are using other cultures, things we don’t accept here, and trying to make us afraid of people in this country who follow the same religion. But not everyone who follows a religion thinks the same way, or wants to bring those laws here, no matter what Steve with the rubbish stubble says. Why aren’t you talking to Dee about this?’

  ‘Dee’s not one of the religious ones.’

  ‘Dee’s a Muslim! Why don’t you go out and find one of the “evil” ones, then?’

  ‘The evil ones won’t talk to me,’ I said. ‘They hate my freedom.’

  Sam gave me a dark look.

  ‘I’m joking! Look, what are you saying, that they’re all peaceful and gay-friendly here? What about the Muslim kids at school who say they agree with what terrorists have done? Don’t pretend there aren’t any!’

  Sam sighed. ‘It’s tough being a bloke. It’s tough being a bloke anyway. And being a victim of prejudice every day, in little things people say, little casual digs, whether that’s homophobia or racism or any of the things people use to make other people feel like shit, and not knowing how you slot into things.’

  I had that kind of urge to laugh you get sometimes when you’re embarrassed. When I used to hang around with Sam more and we went around school together with our little clarinet cases, there were comments all the time, nasty things about his ‘girlfriend’, jokes about AIDS, and I felt that heavy sad feeling I used to get, just from remembering it. I wanted to say something stupid to ease the moment, like, ‘But you’re not a gay terrorist, Sam,’ but I didn’t.

  ‘It’s like . . .’ Sam started picking at the rust on the chain of his swing. ‘If your parents are telling you to keep your head down and be like everyone else, don’t cause any trouble, be invisible, but maybe you’re too angry to do that. ’Cause the news is telling you Muslims’ lives are worthless. It’s not hard to get teenage boys pissed off and fighty: you’re shown American soldiers killing tiny kids and blowing up villages, in places where you still have family, not just some vague feeling of history. Maybe people you actually know and love live there – how are you going to react?’

  ‘But isn’t that Jonah’s point, that they are always going to hate us?

  ‘But that stuff is not about religion. So it’s crazy for Jonah to pretend that this is all British Muslims, that they’re going to hate us because we’re so liberal and they can’t stand it. Most people who are victims of prejudice tend to understand why it’s bad.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be most, though, if there are enough people who want to kill us or change our laws.’

  ‘Cassidy, how much of this do you believe and how much are you testing me?’

  ‘I just wish I had some of the answers.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you ask your friends these questions? You shouldn’t just nod dumbly at them saying, “Wowee, I never knew those Muslims were so dangerous.”’

  ‘How do you know all of this? How do you know you’re not wrong?’

  ‘Why are you asking me, then?’

  ‘I’m not doubting you. I just want to know. How do you know this is right?’

  Sam got off his swing and gave it an angry shove. ‘It’s just stuff I talk about to my friends. I’m interested because we should be interested, and I’m interested because . . . well partly it’s because I’m in love with one of them. I love Rashad. He’s not even gay, it’s stupid. Nothing is ever going to happen.’

  I got off my swing too and fought the urge to hug him. ‘Love is shit, Sam,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Well, it doesn’t have to be for you. Talk to him.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. I was so sure I would, right then. ‘I just want . . . I want your permission to like him.’

  ‘You have it.’ He looked at me. He rolled his eyes, as if the serious part was over. ‘You have it, Cassidy.’

  ‘I want you to like him.’

  Sam stared at me, saying nothing for a few seconds. ‘Make him nice, then.’

  A couple of days after that I was in a Chemistry class, copper-plating a screw, with Isobel as my lab partner.

  ‘Do you think it’ll work with my earrings?’ she said. ‘Let’s have a go.’ She snapped one into the crocodile clip and we redunked, until the big teardrop shape had a pretty little coppery bottom. ‘Result! What are you doing for lunch, by the way? Are you meeting, er, Jonah? Or do you fancy coming for a panini with us?’

  ‘Panini sounds great,’ I said. There was an Italian place a few streets away that made great sandwiches, but they were quite expensive, so we tended to only have them as a treat.

  ‘Great, I’ll just text Ian and see if he wants to come.’


  ‘Ian?’ I said. ‘And Sophie?’ I bit my lip.

  ‘Nah, not Soph,’ Isobel said. ‘Just me and my brother. Still fancy it?’ She looked up – she was already texting.

  ‘Yeah,’ I shrugged.

  So at lunchtime, the three of us met up to sit on a wall, holding our paninis in their waxed-paper wrapping. It was warm enough but there were grey clouds over us and I hoped it wouldn’t start raining before we’d finished. Ian was teasing his little sister, and I was trying to laugh and look natural, but, honestly, I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t part of their gang any more.

  ‘How many sixth-formers are actually going to be at this Halloween bash, Ian?’ Isobel said at one point. ‘We know you guys are organising it, but are you just going to fleece us with big ticket prices and then leave us dancing to the CBBC Party Album with thirteen year olds?’

  ‘Are you talking about that charity one?’ I said. ‘The Moth Ball? That’s only for sixth-formers, isn’t it? It says so on the posters.’

  ‘There’s a new thing pasted over that, now open to over-sixteens,’ Isobel said. ‘But all of Year 11 is assuming there’s no way of checking that, really.’

  ‘Yeah, it was just sixth form originally,’ Ian said. ‘And more of an excuse for a party than a charity thing. But then it looked like the tickets wouldn’t pay for any kind of decent entertainment, so they opened it up to your year because they wanted to sell enough tickets to make enough to get away with calling it a charity event, then they could get local firms to sponsor bits of it. And because a lot of sixth-form guys want to perv over you and your friends.’

  ‘That’s not something my friends are going to complain about,’ Isobel said. ‘It’s legit, then?’

  ‘I think we’re hoping it’ll even be actually good,’ Ian said. ‘I’m not on the committee, but Soph is involved.’

  ‘Are there still tickets?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, they want to sell loads. They’ve been given permission to open up the whole sixth-form block on the night, so it’s a bit more creepy and house partyish, with the Halloween theme. There’s teams of women at work making spiders out of old tights.’