It’s About Love

“I’m Luke.”

And she smiles, our hands still together.

(#ulink_22adbe77-c1e5-5662-8814-14b57d28b213)

Whenever I go to a new place I always imagine it as a movie set. I think about how every brick and wall and door and corner and roof had to be chosen and built by somebody. How the people who move through and around the spaces are characters playing their roles and, most of all, I’m aware at all times, somebody could be watching me.

I’m walking past the refectory to the college car park. It’s not raining any more, but the sky is still dishwater grey and my socks are still soggy. Sitting through two hours of comms & culture and then an hour of English was hard and I’m wishing I could just do film studies without the other two, but I’ll need them for the points if I’m even gonna consider getting to uni. Uni? One week at college and now you’re Stephen Hawking?

“Later, Waterboy!” The blond kid shouts. He’s standing with a chunky rugby type and a skater-looking ginger boy outside the double doors. He raises his thumb sarcastically, flashing his grin. Prick. I stare at him as I walk, holding his eyes, face up, until the wall of the reception block cuts the shot.

“Prick.”

“Talking to yourself?”

And she’s right next to me on my right, out of nowhere, her steps matching mine. Her umbrella’s rolled up and she’s holding it like a cane. Her eyes are level with my mouth. She is so fit.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she smiles.

“You didn’t scare me.” I stare ahead. The footpath’s made from the same red bricks as the buildings.

“You forgot my name, didn’t you?” Her eyebrows are raised. I glance at her, then look away.

“How could I forget your name? You’re the princess.”

And as we walk towards the car park, I’m imagining the camera moving out and up, circling round us.

“Where did you go to school?” she says, and the camera hits the floor like a bowling ball. My stomach knots. Tommy’s picking me up. “Not round here,” I say, as I scan the car park for a blue Peugeot 306, praying he’s not already here. Then Leia’s phone rings and saves me. We stop walking. She looks at the screen, then pushes decline.

“Not important?” I say.

She’s still looking at her phone. “Brothers,” she sighs, and slips it back into her pocket. “What other subjects are you doing?”

She’s got a brother. I’m looking over her shoulder for Tommy. “Communications & Culture and English.”

“Me too, English, I mean. We must be in different classes.”

“I guess so.” Why is she still talking to me? What does she want?

“Why were you at the bus stop if you drive?” she says. “Are you seventeen?”

Jesus, she asks more questions than Lois Lane.

A small gang of girls who look like a pop group walk past us and start down the hill. I shake my head. “Not until next month. My friend’s picking me up.”

Leia nods. “He’s pretty cool, right? Noah, I mean?”

I nod back. She says, “The thing he said about keeping a notebook is so true, I’ve kept one for years.”

I think of the notebook in my bag right now and picture all the ones under my bed, filled with ideas; random lines, things people said, thoughts, dreams, memories, snippets of scenes, things I couldn’t say to anyone but that felt like they had to come out. I say nothing and just stare at her. There’s something about her eyes.

“It’s lazy.” She points at her right eye. “Not loads. I used to have a patch when I was a kid.”

I look away and pretend I’m checking the road. Leia hits my elbow. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. Aaaaaaarrrggggghhhhh.”

I turn back to her and rub my elbow even though it doesn’t hurt.

She shrugs. “Like a pirate? Eye patch?”

“Good one.”

That sounded sarcastic. “I mean, not good that you’ve got an eye patch …”

“I don’t have an eye patch. I used to have one.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant. I’ve gotta go.”

“I thought your friend was picking you up?”

“Yeah, I need to ring him. I’ll see you later.”

I start to walk back the way we came and take out my phone, hearing her voice. “Yeah. Later, Skywalker.”

I can feel her watching me, but I don’t turn back. I’m not here for friends. Even pretty ones who know about films.

I hear the horn before I see the car. Our navy blue carriage to freedom. Passed down through three older O’Hara brothers and now it’s Tommy’s. He pulls up outside reception and the passenger door swings open.

“Yes, Shitface! How’s big school?”

Tommy’s my oldest friend. We’ve been mates since we were three. He’s the youngest of four brothers, all of them one year apart, all of them carbon copies of their Dad, Micky; Irish catholic, black hair, sharp chin, long limbs and blue-grey eyes. Dad and Micky have known each other since school.

Tommy was the best footballer in our year by far. I’m all right, but he was something else. He played for the Aston Villa youth team until they kicked him out for trouble. Tommy’s skinny, but he can fight. Even though I’m bigger than him, when we mess around, he’s always a handful.

One time he bit a dog. We were nine and being chased by Mr Malcolm’s Doberman, Dusty, after we’d been stealing apples from his garden. As we were running down the alley behind the supermarket, Tommy just stopped and turned round, gave this weird howl like a werewolf, and when Dusty went for him, Tommy wrestled Dusty to the floor and bit him on the neck. Dusty yelped and ran off and Tommy just sat there looking up at me, grinning. He still brings that up proudly whenever he gets the chance.

He insisted on picking me up today. The car’s seen better days, but it’s real and it moves.

“So how was it then?” he says, leaning forward to check out the campus buildings through the windscreen. Something about him being here feels weird. Like I don’t want to be seen.

He’s wearing dirty grey overalls and a black T-shirt and his hands and cheeks are speckled with white paint. His voice is deep and his top lip’s got the shadow of a potential moustache.

An older girl wearing expensive headphones and a denim jacket walks past the car. I feel my stomach drop as Tommy beeps the horn. I look down as the girl turns round.

“Yes, princess! Need a lift?” He’s leaning out of his window.

I pretend to tie my shoelace, waiting for it to be over.

“Whatever then, your loss!” He slaps my shoulder. “You know her? She was banging. What you doing?”