Phosphorescence (11 page)

‘Yes,' I croak.

Not even Jessie knows I have had my eye on Harry. Only Nell, safely in Norfolk, has heard about him from me. It is one of those secret situations, so enjoyable to hold to oneself because to release it would make everyone laugh. Harry Sykes is more of a god than Aiden and all those superstars in the basketball team; the graffiti art for the rap band he did last holidays has been seen on television, and the fact that he comes to school is generally considered by fellow pupils to be more him doing the James Ellis Grammar School a favour than them giving him an education. It is ridiculous to try and explain how cool he is and here he is talking to me.

‘How do you spell “phosphorescence”?' he asks. ‘It's a wicked word. I want to look it up online. I like
the whole deal about the plankton and the luminosity. Have you actually ever seen it?'

I almost rise off the ground with amazement because he appears so impressed when I answer, ‘Oh yeah, I've seen it; I've swum in it, and I will again this summer I should think.'

To have Harry Sykes of all people looking at me with proper focus and a bit of awe is too much. I am not ready for this.

He steps closer and leans one hand high on the wall behind me so he is less than an arm's length away, and he says, ‘Can you show us it?'

I am poleaxed by the notion of Harry Sykes and his gang splashing about in the sea looking for phosphorescence. My small patina of sophistication deserts me, and mouthing like a goldfish is all I can do until another weird thing happens.

Mr Lascalles approaches and, instead of rushing past with his head down, creases his face into a smile and says, ‘Lola, I was looking for you. Your project has triggered a thought.'

Why does he have to come and talk to me now? There will be thousands more opportunities, including our sodding geography lesson, but right now, in front of Harry Sykes and his mates, is just the worst. My eyes dart between Mr Lascalles and Harry. I don't know how to keep them both chatting, and in fact I wish the ground would swallow me.

‘Has it?' I mumble, not looking him in the eye and trying to twitch my face into an expression that is both attentive to Harry and off-putting but not rude to Mr Lascalles.

‘Yes.' He barks a loose cough. Harry raises his eyebrows and waits. Mr Lascalles pulls out a large red handkerchief. ‘I'd like to take a group to the Norfolk coast for a camping trip. I wonder if you know anyone there who could give advice on the logistics?'

Undoubtedly I should answer ‘No,' but I am still intoxicated by Harry Sykes and his interest. So I nod like a hypnotized sheep, and bleat, ‘Yes, I know just the person. He's my dad actually. His name is Richard Jordan and he's the warden of the North Norfolk Heritage Trust.'

‘Warden sounds like jail to me, sir.' Harry's expression is grave; his friends have sceptical expressions on their faces. Mr Lascalles is polishing his glasses.

I can't forget that he blew his nose on that handkerchief just a moment ago. I shake my head.

‘No, not that kind of warden. He looks after the land and the wildlife, he—'

Even Mr Lascalles snorts with laughter. They are all taking the mickey out of me and they are the ones who want to go to Norfolk. Hot tears smart in my eyes. I have to get away.

‘I'll put his address and stuff in your pigeonhole, sir,' I call, walking away fast towards the canteen. That's the end of my one and only conversation with Harry Sykes.

‘It will really surprise me if anything comes of this,' is my thought as I put my dad's work address and his mobile number in the box marked ‘Lascalles' the next morning. Everything slumps back to normal
after that, except that I keep glimpsing Harry Sykes whenever I am walking between lessons. Sometimes he waves, sometimes he just nods, but he doesn't come and talk to me again. Thumbing through an old biology textbook, I notice his name on the flyleaf. He has done it in a kind of 3D writing and I run my finger across the page, imagining him labouring over it for hours, although I reckon he's so good that he probably designed this in about two minutes flat. In a weird way, I feel more isolated now than I did at the beginning of term. Then I was properly invisible because nobody knew me, but now, what with my crush on Harry eclipsing any other interests I might have had, I don't want to hang out with Jessie because I don't want to tell her about it, especially as I remember her telling me she once snogged him. Even though it was ages ago, she may still fancy him. Pansy and her gang have given up on me because I am seen as a swot since the assembly reading.

Nell is the only person I can talk to about it, but I know the gap is widening between us. She is now going out with Jason Dawes, and even though she does her best to make light of it, I am left behind. We have one brief text chat.

‘
Wot's snoggin' like?
'

‘
Like havin' a goldfish in your mouth.
'

‘
How do U do it?
'

‘
U try and stick your tongue as far as U can down their throats. They like that.
'

‘
Do U like it?
'

‘
Not really, actually, it's OK. Don't all the girls at your school do it?
'

‘
Probably.
'

We used to go through every new experience together, but it isn't possible any more. Nell's parents aren't divorcing, and I am finding my way among a new group. I feel a long way from home.

There is a party next weekend. Pansy and Freda have invited most of the girls in our year and most of the boys in the sixth form. For some reason they have also asked Dave Fisher, a real drip who has got a crush on me. He has asked me to go with him, but I am hedging. Actually, I don't much want to go at all. It is a terrifying prospect, a party full of older boys, drink and no parents around. I've never been to anything like that, and I know Mum wouldn't let me if she knew.

‘This looks fun. I'm glad you're making new friends,' was all she said when she saw the invitation.

It's true. From the glossy green of the apple on the front of the invitation, and the gingham design of the lettering, you get an impression of wholesomeness which is obviously designed to mislead any suspicious parents.

‘My sister's getting us a case of vodka alcopops from the place her boyfriend works.'

Freda is trying to encourage a group of boys in the lunch queue behind us with the lure of alcohol.

‘Oh, right,' says one of the boys she has addressed, as he reaches past her for a plate of pasta. His name is Vince, according to the embroidered pocket on his bowling shirt. I don't know why she is
so desperate for him to come, as he and his friends spend their whole time in the skateboard park up the road and only seem to come to school for lunch. Sometimes I really know I am on a different planet from the rest of my class.

Three days before the party I have the hugest spot in the history of humankind on my nose.

‘What spot?' says Mum when I charge into her bedroom to ask for something to cover it up.

‘
Mu
-um,' I wail. ‘Please don't pretend you can't see it.'

Mum is drying her hair. Her room is warm and bright with the radio on and the window open to let in the scent of the blossom tree which is in flower in the garden behind our flat.

Her room is much quieter than mine. I never open my window. I got used to it when it was jammed shut, and even now it's mended, I don't bother; it seems pointless because the street below is so loud and dirty. Mum turns off the hairdryer and goes to her dressing table where she pulls open a drawer.

‘Here, try this. It is hardly noticeable – I promise.' She dabs something on my nose and looks at me, right up close so I am reflected in her eyes. It's funny how if you look at a pair of eyes on their own without taking in the whole face, they could be anyone's. Mum's are so clear and brown, with the whites
almost blue, that you would think they were a child's eyes. Then she smiles and her pupils blur as she comes and kisses me. ‘You'll be fine, no one will notice, and—' She is interrupted by the phone ringing. She answers it.

Her face tightens.

‘Oh, hello.'

Pause.

‘Yes, I see. You must talk to her yourself.'

I know it must be Dad.

‘Lola, darling—'

Dad doesn't call me darling, so that's odd for a start. Somehow I don't want to hear what he is about to say, so I rush on, which is what I always do with Dad if I can.

‘Hi, Dad, Did you get my message about the terns?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘I've got to go to school now, you know.' I have to pause, because it is time to go, and I haven't let him say what he was going to. He coughs and continues, talking over me.

‘I thought I'd better ring before you left. I wanted to see if you could change your plans and come home this weekend instead of next?'

This is the excuse I need not to go to the party, but now I have it I'm not so sure I want it.

‘Why? I've been asked to a party in London this weekend, and I've been really looking forward to it.' God, I am such a liar. I didn't want to go at all until this moment. ‘And I've made loads of plans for
next
weekend in Norfolk with Nell and people. And I'm
going to help Grandma with Jack's birthday. That's why we set it for next weekend, Dad.'

Mum is rolling her eyes and looking at her watch. Dad sounds exasperated.

‘Well, I think Grandma and Jack would like you to come this weekend instead now. He's had another fall and the doctor thinks it's a minor stroke. Seeing you cheers him up so much.'

Sometimes I really wish I wasn't an only child. I hate being the only one who cheers everyone up. It's such a responsibility. It makes me heartless.

Mum is waving her keys.

‘I'll see. I'll call you later.'

I put the phone down with a crash and grab my homework.

‘What shall I do, Mum?'

We are on the way to school, and Mum is marching along at such a rate I have to jog to keep up. We are overtaking everyone else walking along the pavement. I should have worn my cheesecloth top because although it's still cool enough for goose pimples in the shade of the high wall, out in the sunshine it's hot and so bright you blink.

‘They said today would be a scorcher,' she says, slowing down but not stopping as she twists her hair up on her head and clips it with a tortoiseshell claw.

‘Should I go up and see Jack and Grandma this weekend? But then I'll miss the party, and I'll have to go
again
the next weekend because I can't miss Jack's birthday. Oh, it's so annoying. And I haven't got any suncream and I'm going to fry.'

The school gates loom. Mum passes me a fiver.

‘Here's some lunch money. Stay in the shade and drink water. You have to decide yourself what to do. I can't make your decisions for you.'

I knew she would say that, and it doesn't help one little bit. Hot and cross, my spot pulsing like a heartbeat, I head for my class.

By lunchtime I have a bad headache and no friends. Well, that might be a bit dramatic, but it's how I feel. I think some of the girls in my year are looking on the party as a chance to do everything. No stopping at anything. I've got Dave Fisher as a date, although I haven't actually agreed to go with him yet, and I've never snogged anyone at all. I definitely don't want him to be the first. It couldn't be worse. I may as well go to Norfolk and stay with Dad, as nothing could be more humiliating than the party.

I take myself off to the proper-meals window of the canteen when all the others go for sandwiches because I need to be on my own.

‘OK, dallin'. Whaddyahavin,' dallin'? Come on, come on.'

Esther, the Filipina dinner lady, beams at me and waves a giant ladle over the possibilities.

Everything looks rank. I point at the last portion of tuna salad, the least wilted-looking plate on the stainless-steel worktop.

‘Toonatoonatoona,' she bellows back into the kitchen behind her. ‘We need more-an'-more-an'-more.'

I am sitting in the shade on my own, fanning myself with the polystyrene tray from my food and trying to wipe a blob of mayonnaise off my T-shirt
when Harry Sykes drops out of the air and lands cross-legged next to me. Well, I'm sure he just walks up and sits down, but it
seems
that he drops out of the air.

‘Will you come with me to this party on Saturday?'

He is twizzling a pen round his fingers. It flashes in the sunlight and I gaze at it, not him, and remain speechless. I am thinking, ‘Thank God I didn't tell Dad I'd go home this weekend.'

‘I could come round to your house and pick you up, or we could meet at the skateboard park.'

Harry obviously thinks silence means yes. He lies back in the grass next to me with his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. I can't look at him. I can't look anywhere except at the grease mark on my T-shirt.

I don't know what would have happened, or how I would have managed to move again, if Jessie hadn't come over, wiping her hands on her skirt and kneeling down on the grass next to me.

‘Sykes, what are you doing?' It is a surprise to me that anyone can address Harry Sykes in anything less than an exultant whisper, but I have to remember that not everyone sees him as a deity. So when he opens his eyes and grins at Jessie, saying, ‘I'm asking your friend Lola to come with me to the party,' Jessie just says, ‘Oh, right.' She gives me a speculative smirk and a wink before standing up.

‘I'll leave you to it then.'

She moves off towards another group.

I must say something. I cough to clear my throat which doesn't work so I croak, ‘I'll meet you at the skateboard park.'

Harry looks pleased. He holds out his hand flat, and I put mine in his, as solemnly as if we are exchanging vows. Harry pulls the lid off his pen with his teeth and bends over my hand, writing something.