Читать книгу It’s About Love - Steven Camden, Steven Camden - Страница 15

I’m walking through the graveyard before the hill up to college, reading the epitaphs of strangers on the mossy gravestones.

Most of them seem to be for kids and there’s something really creepy about seeing a name carved into stone above two dates only three or four years apart.

Noah asked us to watch a film we like and choose a scene to use in the lesson and I realise that I’m excited.

As I step out of the graveyard on to the pavement, I see Leia across the road, starting up the hill. I think about calling out to her, but it doesn’t feel right, then the blond kid from film studies comes up from the underpass steps behind her.

I hang back, pretending to check my phone, and watch him catch Leia up. I stay on this side of the road and keep a good distance as they walk together, and I want to know what they’re saying. The blond kid is talking and gesturing, using his hands like he’s pitching an idea. He’s probably chatting her up. I hate him.

Everyone sits in the same seats.

I’m staring at the blond kid as Noah starts saying how he believes the best way to learn is to actually do stuff instead of just talking about it, and how, by Christmas, he wants us all to have our own draft scripts. A sheet of A4 paper goes round the class for us to all write our personal email addresses on. He wants them so he can send us links to check out. A couple of people look at each other wondering whether that’s even allowed. They gave us individual college emails in the first week, but everyone still writes their real one down for him.

Leia’s wearing a big grey sports sweater. The kind that looks like a hand-me-down, and that you can only wear if you have that ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks’ air. The sides of it are hugging her chest and I’m absolutely not stealing looks whenever I get chance.

We’re supposed to write a description of the scene we chose from our film and hand it in at the end of the lesson. Noah says it’s a good way for him to get to know us – that he wants to get to know us through our choices. I look at him and try to figure out if it was him I saw in the car on Saturday night.

It could’ve been.

The room is bubbling.

It’s not like at school, where the teacher would be telling people to shut up every two minutes. People are chatting and moving around and nobody else seems to be surprised by it, so I try not to be. The blond kid keeps looking over at Leia and I can feel myself staring at him like a guard dog or something, and I know I’m being stupid, but I can’t help it. I want him to see my face.

I’m writing about the scene in Reservoir Dogs where Tim Roth is practising his monologue so he’s got an anecdote about something criminal and nobody else in the crew will suspect that he’s an undercover cop.

I’m writing how I like that we see him practise. How I like it when we get to see the little things that happen before or after the action.

How I think most people don’t really consider what happens before they show up at a party, or what someone who isn’t the ‘hero’ is thinking in the moment, and even though I don’t like a lot of Tarantino movies, Reservoir Dogs would probably be in my top ten films ever. I’m writing all this stuff and it feels brilliant.

“Not saying much today are you, Mr Jedi?” Leia doesn’t look up from her page as she speaks.

I can’t see what she’s writing about and I want to ask, but the blond kid watching us is making me angry.

“Let me guess,” she says. “Another love story?”

“No.” And the word comes out of my mouth much colder than I meant it to.

“All right, easy Skywalker.” She’s looking at me now and I read the word RUSHMORE at the top of her page.

“My name’s Luke,” I snap, and I look at her without blinking. Leia looks a bit surprised and she’s about to say something back when the blond kid is standing in front of our desk.

“How’s it going?” He’s looking at just her. His voice sounds like he’s completely relaxed, like the lesson is happening in his house and we’re just guests.

Leia says, “Fine. Simeon, have you met Luke?”

Simeon?

Simeon looks at me, then back at Leia.

“You always find the interesting looking ones, don’t you?”

What did he say? I feel my face turning away from them and I go over the last word I wrote with my pen. He already knows her. Leia puts her pen down. “He’s the strong silent type.” And the fact that they clearly know each other and are talking about me is making my skin crawl.

Simeon holds out his hand.

“Good to meet you, Luke. I’m the platonic ex.” What?

“What?”

I look up at Simeon. His skin is perfect. Platonic ex?

“Yeah, me and Leia go way back.” He smiles his Marks & Spencer smile.

I feel completely awkward, like I’m the new cast member on some teen sitcom that’s been running for years and my eyes are darting round the room, checking if people are watching. Nobody is. Leia turns in her seat. “Ignore him, Skywalker. He likes to cause trouble.”

Take his hand. Let him know.

I shake Simeon’s hand, trying not to squeeze too tight and be that pathetic guy who has to demonstrate his masculinity, but firm enough to let him know I’m choosing not to.

Our hands part and Simeon leans forward, trying to read my writing. My arm instinctively curls round my paper, covering it up. Simeon smirks. “All right Scorsese, I wasn’t trying to steal your ideas.” Him and Leia are smiling and I know it’s uncalled for, but I just want to punch him in the face. He wouldn’t be able to stop me and it would pop the awkward bubble he’s got me in. One punch and he’d be out.

“Anyway, we still up for the Electric later?”

Leia says, “Yeah,” then looks at me. “You up for it? They’re showing Ghostbusters One and Two. Classics.”

And it’s horrible. All of it, the staring, the nickname, his face, the fact that they’re cinema buddies, her smiling.

“No,” I say. “I’m busy.”

Leia’s face straightens, but she doesn’t seem that bothered.

Then people start packing up for the end of the lesson and I’m so glad I get to leave, I think I actually smile.

I buy a jacket potato from the refectory and take it all the way down the hill to the graveyard to get away. I sit on a bench dedicated to a man called Harold who used to clean the graves. A couple of crows are fighting over what looks like a chicken bone in front of a dirty white marble stone slumped at an angle.

I’m telling myself I have no real reason to be angry, that I knew a lot of people would already know each other and be all confident and that. But him? Her ex? Mr Squeaky Clean ‘I’m a young Brad Pitt’ Simeon?

Forget her. Keep to yourself. You’re not like this lot.

I dig a crater into the tuna with my white plastic fork. She said he likes to cause trouble. Maybe he was just saying it to wind her up, test me out.

She didn’t deny it though, did she?

She didn’t. How long did they go out for? Why are they still friends? Is that the kind of boy she likes?

I’m digging into yellow potato now. If he’s her type, then …

Digging with my fork.

They’re just a bunch of rich kids, they’re not like you, forget them.

But she seemed cool. Still digging.

Did she stare?

The fork hits the bottom of the box.

Did she stare?

I’m still pressing.

The fork snaps.

Yes. She stared.