“What are you talking about?” She almost spits at him as she says it.
“You screwed your best friend over and now you’re trying to screw Aaron. No one cares who he shags, but you’re wanging on like it’s something that matters.”
It seems Katie doesn’t have a comeback for the truth.
“Aaron was right all along. You can’t be trusted. You’d stab me in the back as soon as suck me off if you thought it’d score you some points.”
Katie opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Rex has slid off the table and he’s walking away from her.
“Don’t bother following me, Katie. You’re a dirty little shit-stirrer. We’re done,” he calls, as he shoulders his way into the crowd. When he reaches me, he meets my eyes and smiles, a flat, disappointed smile that tells me that he knows. He understands. I glance back at Katie, who is trying to act like she couldn’t care less that she’s just been ditched in the most public way possible. But she does care, because she is scanning the crowd where Rex left and she catches my eye.
The thing about being friends with someone for so long is that you know them. And I know that she is thinking the same thing I am: if Katie is no longer Rex’s girlfriend, will Marcy still let her hang out with them?
Although I want Katie to fall — I want her to feel a fraction of the misery she caused me — I want her to stay safely in Marcy’s good books. If she feels herself slipping out, then there’s no telling what she’ll do to get back in… No telling whose reputation she’ll trash to make herself look good.
Actually, it’s pretty easy to tell. Rex couldn’t have made the target any more obvious if he’d splashed it in red across Aaron’s back.
FRIDAY 2ND APRIL
GOOD FRIDAY
HANNAH
Ignoring the fact that there was a key family member missing, because he decided to fuck off to Scotland with his uni friends instead, I declare Lola’s sixth birthday party the best yet. Cake? Check. Sandwiches with the crusts off? Check. More sugar than it is sensible for ten kids, four teens and five adults (and one rabbit) to consume? Check. And so many awesome games. I like how my friends don’t pretend to be too cool to enjoy old-school party games — Gideon collapsing with laughter instead of being a statue, Anj causing chaos by whipping away the kids’ chairs even when they were sitting on them; Aaron carrying Lola round on his back when she wanted to pretend to be a cowboy herding all her friends in the garden…
I think we used up all the fun in the world today. Which is just as well, because tomorrow I’m going to have to start revising like a bastard and then my life will be no fun whatsoever.
“Hannah?”
Mum’s standing in the doorway and, because I’m facing away from the door, she has to wait as I wriggle and flop my way round until I’m facing her.
She comes in and sits on the bed and hands me the phone without saying anything.
I frown and take it, glancing at my clock. It’s nearly midnight.
“Hannah? Is that you, love?” It’s Gran.
“Yeah, it’s me. You OK, Gran?” I’m worried.
“Me? Yes, I’m fine… fine.” There’s a pause. “Hannah, I’ve something to tell you, love.”
I’m sweaty and panicking.
“It’s Neville.”
Neville?
“He’s died, love.”
SATURDAY 3RD APRIL
EASTER WEEKEND
HANNAH
It took me a ridiculously long time to work out what to text after I found out about Neville. What do you say in 160 characters?
Heard Neville died yesterday. That sucks. Ru OK?
Sorry 2 hear bout Neville, he was a gr8 guy. Ru OK?
Gran told me bout Neville. That must b really hard 4 u. Ru OK?
Death is bad. Ru OK?
R. U. OK?
In the end I settle for something a little less pushy:
Here if u need me. Hx
Maybe a text is too impersonal. Should I call him?
Normally I’m good with this kind of thing, knowing how to care about someone, giving them the right balance of attention. But that’s not the relationship I have with Aaron. He’s the one who takes care of me.
I sit up. Think, Hannah. What would Aaron do?
It’s like What Would Jesus Do.
Jesus would say something like, “Neville’s found his true place.” He wouldn’t say “heaven” because I’m pretty sure Neville is going down. He made the seven deadly sins his to-do list, with lust underlined three times.
Listen to me talk. I don’t think God’s going to be too pleased if I schlep up to the Pearly Gates before I’ve done a bit of make-up time to cancel out my misspent youth.
It’s no good. I don’t know what Aaron would do and this is one thing I can’t ask his advice on.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have come round to his house? It’s a bit stalker-y. Only I can’t back out now because I’m absolutely busting for the loo and I’m not sure I’d make it home in time and no one wants to find a pregnant girl squatting behind their front hedge.
Mrs Tyler — I can’t call her Stephanie (if I did I’d have to call her husband by his first name and neither of us wants that) — is the one that answers my knock on the door. She looks pleasantly surprised to see me, and tells me that Aaron’s in his room. It’s only once I’ve bolted past her to the bathroom and swapped sympathetic “been there, done that” smiles that I notice Mrs Tyler doesn’t look like she knows about Neville. Although now I’m peeing in her toilet I might have missed my chance to find out.
When I go upstairs, Aaron’s room looks dark, but when I push the door open, I see him lying on his bed in shorts and a T-shirt, watching TV. I walk in and sit on the end of the bed.
“Hey,” I say.
Aaron nods and I turn to see whatever he’s watching. Adverts.
“Are you OK?” I ask, as if I don’t know the answer. I don’t even know why I’m asking.
Aaron doesn’t say anything.
“Are you just sad about Neville?”
His eyes flicker away from whatever point they were fixed on, but they don’t look at me. They look at the leather jacket Neville gave him for Christmas.
“There’s no such thing as ‘just’ sad,” he says, before giving me a look that makes me feel the size of an ant.
“I didn’t mean that,” I say. “Sorry.”
AARON
I shrug.
“‘Just’ saying,” I say with a small smile that’s not meant for Hannah. I wish she’d left me in peace. Silence suits my mood. She’s fidgeting at the end of the bed, trying to find the words that will get me to open up about Neville.
It’s a lost cause. I’m not going to talk to her about this. Words can’t describe how I’m feeling.
“When’s the funeral?”
I suppose that’s better than a question about my feelings.
“Week after next sometime. Easter slows things down.”
“Are you going?”
I nod, once. Of course I’ll go.
“Do you want me to come with?” The question comes at me from the end of a long, dark tunnel so that it doesn’t seem real by the time I hear it. I don’t answer. I’m thinking about funerals. Too many funerals.
There’s a sigh and I come back to the room: Hannah sitting on my bed, meaningless adverts flickering behind her, giving her a halo of sorts. If Hannah’s my guardian angel then no wonder I’m screwed.