Bitter Sixteen Read online

  Richard stared blankly at me. ‘A drag what?’

  ‘It’s Welsh for The Black Dragon,’ I said.

  He continued to stare at me.

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Just . . . be nicer. From now on. OK?’ And with that I ran off dramatically into the darkness.

  Note to self: think of a better superhero name.

  I didn’t tell Daryl. I didn’t tell anybody. Julie or Richard must have said something because for the next few days there were whisperings about peculiar goings-on in Tref-y-Celwyn, but there was no paper trail. Nothing led back to me. I was safe.

  And I felt amazing. I hadn’t thought at the time about how it might have turned out – he might have beaten her to a pulp or he might have calmed down and let her go. He might have caused me some serious damage. Julie might have turned out not to be a damsel in distress and lamped him one – generally, that was how girls rolled in Tref-y-Celwyn. They didn’t take no shit from no-one. But whatever. I had intervened and I had helped and it was a good feeling. In my own minor way I felt like a hero, and that was enough. I didn’t need to tell anyone and I didn’t really want to because it seemed like it would cheapen it.

  I was in a good mood all the way through Monday, despite it containing the most zombiefying series of lessons on my timetable, and I attacked Romeo and Juliet with renewed passion. One small act and I felt as though my life had been transformed. Maybe there was room for superheroics in my little Middle-of-Nowhere home after all.

  Chapter Eight

  THERE WAS A party at Mark Topp’s house the following Friday. He lived outside Tref-y-Celwyn in a massive house with a huge garden and his parents were away, so he did what any self-respecting irresponsible teenager would do and threw a party. He invited me and initially I wasn’t hugely enthusiastic, but in the end I decided to go.

  The night was strangely warm considering how cold it had been for the last week, and the tikki torches and bonfires that Mark had lit helped things along nicely. People were dancing and laughing and talking everywhere, and although I recognised a lot of them, there were a great many unfamiliar faces, most of them older, most of them under various influences. Kloe was there, dancing wildly with a tall dreadlocked guy I didn’t know, and I sat a little way off on a bench by the bonfire, drinking a beer and feeling odd green stomach flops every time I caught a glimpse of them. That’s new, I thought. No it’s not, I replied. No it’s not, I agreed. Hmm, I added. I watched for a little while longer, curious about this new-but-not-new feeling, trying not to look as though I was watching, but I quickly realised that this behaviour was bordering on creepy. In fact, it had hopped over the border and was messing around on creepy’s lawn. I turned away hurriedly, just as an older guy I didn’t know stumbled onto the dancefloor. He was definitely the most wasted person at the party, which was quite an achievement, and he had a jug of something in his hand. In a flash, I saw what was giong to happen. He was going to stumble and spill his jug all over Kloe.

  Or not.

  I concentrated, and exerted just the right amount of force for him to fall sideways rather than forwards. The jug’s contents splattered harmlessly into a bush rather than over Kloe’s head, and the wasted guy tumbled onto the lawn. There was a chorus of laughter and clapping, and I smiled to myself. Sick move.

  ‘’Sup blud,’ said Mark, making me jump. He fell down next to me with two beers in his hands and grinned widely. ‘You’re the life and soul of the party.’

  ‘I try my best.’

  ‘You’re like Van Wilder right now.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ Mark took a generous gulp from one of his cans. ‘There’s plenty of girls here and I’m sure we could find one who appreciates enigmatic edginess, or whatever look it is you’re going for.’ He was obviously enjoying ribbing me, and although I felt like I should have been annoyed, I liked it. It felt like a normal friend-y thing; something I wasn’t used to having with anyone other than Daryl. I summoned the blankest expression in my arsenal. ‘Do you mean this look?’

  Mark put his head on one side. ‘Hmm. Was thinking more brooding-in-the shadows than post-lobotomy hangover.’

  ‘Speaking of lobotomies,’ I said, staying as blank as possible, ‘your eyes seem to be having issues with focusing.’

  Mark nodded, matching my serious face with a pretty serious one of his own. ‘I have been drinking for quite a long time.’

  I gave in and laughed. ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Um . . . late.’ He stood up and said, ‘Come on!’ The DJ had just dropped ‘Play That Funky Music White Boy’, and the dancefloor was buzzing. Mark crossed his eyes and flapped some jazz hands. ‘Play that funky music.’ He paused, then added ‘White boy.’

  A gorgeous purple-haired girl about Mark’s age came prancing over and kissed him. ‘Nice moves, Mark. S’like My Left Foot.’ She was American.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mark. ‘Bethany, this is Stanly.’

  Bethany smiled and waved. ‘Hey!’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, feeling shy and awkward.

  ‘Why are you sitting on your own?’

  ‘He’s brooding,’ said Mark. ‘He does it really well. I’m sure if we left him to it he could do it for the rest of the night.’

  ‘Well, that’s awesome and all,’ said Bethany, ‘but no substitute for dancing like an idiot. Come on, come dance!’

  I was struck with a mental image of me falling over everybody, spilling beer over all the girls, especially Kloe, then stumbling into the bonfire and igniting like dry grass. ‘Um . . . not a good idea,’ I said.

  ‘What are you?’ asked Bethany. ‘Some kinda klutz?’

  ‘He’s no klutz,’ said Mark. ‘You should see this cat move! We have a duel in Romeo and Juliet and he does all this twirling stuff, he moves like a . . . um . . . thing that moves! Like really well!’

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’ asked Bethany, rubbing noses with Mark.

  ‘Not enough!’ he declared, in a Shakespearean baritone, before draining his beer, throwing it away and beating his chest like King Kong.

  ‘Great,’ said Bethany. ‘And to think I came over here to escape from ridiculous drunken frat boys.’

  ‘No such luck.’ Mark switched to an over-exaggerated American college bro accent. ‘Come on, dude! Let’s, like, initiate this poor freshman.’ He leaned forwards and grabbed one of my hands and Bethany grabbed the other, and they dragged me out onto the makeshift dancefloor (actually a huge patio with lots of empty plant pots). A guy called Rob was in charge of the decks, and he abruptly switched from Wild Cherry to drum and bass, which I’d only recently come across. I hadn’t quite made up my mind about it yet, but as everyone went from funky dancing to full-on raving – which was funny to see – and Bethany and Mark, who were still holding my hands, began to dance, I felt something akin to a whoooooosh . . .

  Hmm. I think I like it.

  An hour – or maybe many hours – later, we went inside. There were two people from my year necking on the pool table. ‘Hey!’ said Mark. ‘We have sofas, bathrooms and spare rooms for that. Get off, game time.’

  We had a few games and Bethany destroyed both of us. Then we went back outside and danced some more, and spliffs were passed around. This time I declined because I didn’t think I could handle coming across another talking pet on the way home, and as I watched various people smoking I wondered for a second where Mark’s parents were. Who cares, I thought. Yeah, I agreed.

  I didn’t actually go to bed, in the end. At eight o’clock the next morning the three of us were still talking, and I was wondering when Kloe had left and wishing we’d exchanged more than the two shy smiles we’d managed, when suddenly Bethany looked at her watch and exclaimed, ‘Shit. My train’s in like an hour.’

  ‘Train?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m going back to New Orleans,’ she said.

/>   ‘To wear that ball and chain,’ sang Mark, far too loudly.

  ‘Shhhh,’ someone mumbled from the corner. ‘Sleeping.’

  Bethany ran upstairs and I turned to Mark. ‘What’s going on with you and her?’

  ‘She’s my pen friend,’ said Mark. ‘Or my pencil friend. And sometime email friend. Depends on what mood we’re in. She’s been staying for a fortnight and she goes home today.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Ain’t it just.’ Mark stood up and clutched at his head. ‘Oooh . . . headrush. Coffee?’

  ‘I hope that’ll be enough,’ I said, suddenly realising how rough I felt. ‘Can caffeine be injected intravenously?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said Mark. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Both. Lots. You know, I didn’t even realise there was a direct train line from Tref-y-Celwyn to New Orleans.’

  ‘Not quite direct. I think you have to, like, change at King’s Cross or something.’

  Mark, Bethany and I walked into town and waited on the platform for the train, which ended up being fifteen minutes late. Bethany gave me a hug. ‘Really nice to meet you!’ she said.

  ‘You too,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t hang more.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She turned to Mark and they embraced, kissing a lot, while I tried to look everywhere but at them. Finally they had to break apart and she got on the train, and waved at us as it pulled away, Mark waving back so hard I thought he might bust his wrist. Bethany disappeared quickly, and I patted Mark on the shoulder. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you breakfast.’

  We had bacon sandwiches and more coffee at the bakery, and then I said, ‘Do you want to come to my house?’

  Mark nodded. ‘Sure. Don’t think I’m ready to face the pit of filth that mine has become.’

  My parents weren’t awake yet and we sneaked upstairs, and I hovered (not literally) awkwardly while Mark inspected the place. ‘I like your room,’ he said. ‘Nice posters.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. Daryl was lying on the bed and I could tell he was itching to talk to me, and a voice in my head said screw it. I nodded at Daryl. He shook his head. I nodded again. Mark noticed, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you communicating with your dog?’

  I nodded harder. Daryl shrugged and rolled his eyes. ‘Fine. Hi Mark. I’m Daryl, Stanly’s dog. I can talk.’

  Mark raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh. Um. That’s . . . um.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Well. I thought you’d like to know.’

  Mark looked at me. ‘That’s pretty good. I didn’t know you could . . . ventriloquise. Is that the right word?’

  ‘No,’ my dog and I said in unison.

  That clinched it. Mark’s eyes widened, and he walked over to Daryl and sat down next to him, fascination, amazement and disbelief fighting for possession of his face. He patted him gingerly on the head. ‘You are . . . the luckiest person I know.’

  ‘I am?’ asked Daryl.

  ‘Not you,’ said Mark. He looked at me. ‘You.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘You have a talking dog. A dog. That talks. That’s the coolest thing that there has ever been, in the history of ever. I would kill to have a talking dog.’

  ‘You would?’

  Mark frowned. ‘Um . . . depends who I had to kill, I suppose.’

  Daryl made a strange canine hurrumph sound. ‘I’m obviously not that special then.’

  Mark looked apologetic. ‘Oh . . . that’s not what I meant! Um . . . I’m sorry —’

  ‘Ignore him,’ I said. ‘He’s messing with you.’

  Daryl laughed. ‘He speaks the truth.’

  Mark laughed as well.‘This is amazing!’

  ‘You’re taking it better than I thought you might,’ I said.

  ‘Did you think I was going to cry “heretic”? It’s amazing! Your dog talks! It’s . . . it’s amazing!’

  ‘You said that already,’ said Daryl. ‘But thanks, feel free to say it more. I’m going to watch Reservoir Dogs, if that’s cool with y’all.’

  ‘He likes Reservoir Dogs?’ asked Mark.

  ‘He loves Reservoir Dogs,’ I said. ‘And Dog Day Afternoon, and Man Bites Dog. And Lady and the Tramp. He goes all soppy over the spaghetti bit.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Mark, as Daryl put the DVD on. ‘Amazing.’

  At some point I figured I’d have to introduce Mark to my parents. They were having breakfast downstairs, eating eggs and bacon over what sounded like a civilised discussion, and they both looked surprised when we came in. ‘You’re back!’ said my mother. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back this early.’

  ‘Have a good time?’ asked my father.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Great.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’ asked my mother, managing to look both crafty and innocent at the same time.

  Mark and I exchanged guilty glances. ‘Um . . . we didn’t,’ I said.

  My parents looked amused, even my dad. ‘Misspent youth,’ said my mother. ‘So, are you going to introduce us?’

  ‘Mark,’ I said.

  ‘Hi,’ said Mark. ‘The party was at my house.’

  They shook hands. ‘Hi Mark,’ said Dad. ‘Are you —’

  Don’t say ‘are you Stanly’s friend?’, I thought, because if you do I am going to —

  ‘— in Stanly’s year?’ my dad finished.

  ‘Sixth form,’ said Mark. ‘I’m Tybalt in the play.’

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ said my mother. ‘Yes, Stanly told us about the play.’

  Oh bollocks.

  ‘He’s really good,’ said Mark.

  Oh shit.

  ‘Well I’m glad,’ said my dad. ‘He’s always been quite artistic, but he’s never really shown it off like this.’

  Mark frowned in confusion. ‘Um . . . well it’s more performance really, but I get what you mean, I suppose you do have to be artistic.’

  Now my parents were confused. ‘Is he on stage?’ asked my mother. ‘I was . . . he told us . . . Stanly, you told us you were just helping out backstage.’

  Mark looked at me and raised both eyebrows, and I tried to tell him with my eyes that I’d rather they didn’t know, but if he understood he certainly didn’t pay any attention. ‘He’s Romeo,’ he said.

  ‘Wow,’ said Mark, later. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell them.’

  ‘I told them I was involved with the play,’ I said, searching through a box for one of my many sketch pads. ‘They asked what I was doing, I said I was helping with scenery design and stuff. They were pleased but didn’t say much.’

  ‘I still don’t get it.’

  I fished the pad out of the box and flicked through it before answering. More zombies. A rainbow. A rain of fire. Animals. Characters from Trainspotting. A turtle. I looked at Mark. ‘I knew that if I told them then they’d just go “Oh my God, now you can make some real friends” and I’m sick to the back teeth of that.’

  ‘Sick of what?’ asked Mark.

  I sat down on my bed. Did I want to open up? It didn’t matter. Daryl did it for me. ‘He’s never really had proper friends,’ he said. ‘He’s always been a loner and that really worries and/or pisses his parents off, delete as applicable. They’re always nagging him to make friends. When they gave him that guitar —’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Mark, taking the guitar. ‘I was going to ask if I could have a go.’

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ I said.

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Daryl, as Mark fiddled with the guitar, ‘when they gave him the guitar they figured he’d start a band and make friends. He didn’t. Then when he got the part of Romeo he figured that if he told them they’d say it was a wonderful opportunity to – guess what? – make friends. And it has been, kind of. You’re probably the first pe
rson he’s actually invited over since . . . well, before I knew him.’

  I reached out and tried to smother Daryl with a pillow, but he wriggled away and laughed. ‘He gets a bit touchy sometimes.’

  Mark pulled off a complicated riff and shrugged. ‘I don’t know why you’ve developed this whole loner thing. It’s not like you’re genuinely antisocial and apathetic and all that.’

  ‘I like my space,’ I said, uncomfortable with being analysed. ‘Part of being an only child, I suppose.’ I took a few more sketch pads out of the box and started to look through them.

  Mark shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ He tried another riff and it came out jagged. ‘Whoops. It’s up to you, mate, I ain’t here to change anyone’s ideology. But I definitely think it’s more fun to be fun.’

  I didn’t say anything, and we sat and he played guitar and I drew and Daryl made us laugh.

  That night I went out into town, hoping for some trouble. I kept to the rooftops, and I was in my black ensemble with the hood up, so there was no danger of being noticed. After about an hour, I was disappointed to conclude that everything was peaceful, and that nobody was in trouble.

  ‘Come on then! Come on! Let’s bloody go!’

  Me and my big mouth.

  I followed the shouting to the car park behind the Saint George, one of the pubs that Tref-y-Celwyn has in abundance. Two guys were squaring off, spitting beer-soaked obscenities at one another. They were both in their early twenties and were swaying heroically, and I watched for a minute, trying to work out what to do. There were people coming out of the pub and I thought for a second that maybe they’d try and split them up, but no. We got ‘Come on, smash his face in’ and ‘Don’t let that prick talk to you like that’ and ‘Break his neck’ and ‘Punch his teeth down his throat’ and many more highly constructive suggestions, and suddenly the two guys leapt at each other, and I heard the impacts of fists against faces. I wanted to dive in. I wanted to psychically throw them to opposite ends of the car park and then maybe fly among the onlookers, knocking them down with my mind and my fists. I wanted to stand there at the end, silent and still at the centre of a circle of collapsed, moaning drunks.