Young-Eisendrath - To Be Honest

To Be Honest

P J Young

Josh has lost it.

His duffle coats stuffed into his bag, its raining and hes shivering: pale, like a blu-tack snail in stonewashed denim and lime green cravat.

And Mr Morlis might carry it off but hes thirty and cool, whereas Joshs fifteen and ... Josh.

Lisi? he asks when weve passed the sodden field of year 11 boys kicking footballs - none of them sparing us even one glance - and shrugged his parka back on.

What?

Do you think Kais gay?

I sigh. No, I do not think Kai Swannings gay. Weve been down this road so many times. Normally I say no and we argue, so today I just say, yes to my best friend with a death stare. It works: he falls silent, swinging his bag and scuffing his brogues through damp leaves and crisp packets.

We skirt the woods around the dual carriageway in the early December gloom as cars slosh past. I stayed late with Miss Mint catching up on Twelfth Night and Josh waited, of course. I dont know what he did for twenty minutes after hed changed out of uniform; probably in the toilets re-tying his cravat. Joshs funny like that.

Its Thursday, the streets are all black and if I was on my own, Id be streaking through the orangey mist with rain dripping down my neck, or more likely taking the bus home because to be honest Id be a bit freaked out. Not that Id admit it to Josh, of course.

What you wearing?

Hes means to Courtneys party and its like the ninth time hes asked but it gets us off the subject of Kai.

Red top with the slash neck, pleated Zara skirt, tights, snakeskin platforms.

Slut.

You?

His eyes glitter. White bomber, skinny Hudsons, gel.

Slag.

He shoves me into a puddle so we spend five minutes wrestling. When we reach the main road the traffics crawling, so we rest, soaked. On the traffic island, quick as lightning I grab Joshs cravat and wipe my face. His eyebrows and middle finger lift ... so easy to wind up.

To mine? I ask, like I dont know.

He grunts, pushes his fringe to the side and then I feel bad. His mums at the hospital getting the baby its injections, so hell have to do tea. Joshs mums always pregnant. Hes got two sisters and three brothers, all with bad teeth. Mum says their dental bills mental.

But thats fine, cos Joshs dads loaded. Hes a banker, managing crises somewhere in Hong Kong. Sometimes, when Joshs stressed and his mums slamming doors, I wish hed come back and manage his family but he never does; just pops back, waves money and impregnates his wife. All a bit yuck, to be honest.

We say goodbye at the corner and he flicks a V and lopes off: a drizzly blur, shimmering over the railway bridge that leads to the posh bit of town.

Say hi to Miss Mint, I yell and he waves his bag and disappears. Josh lives next door to my favourite teacher in the world. I have a little bit of a crush on her. Everyone does.

I bang through the hallway and dump my bag by the mirror. The green dyes faded since Halloween but my hair still hangs round my face like the reeds at the side of the lake behind school. For a while I thought it was cool, especially with tons of black eyeliner, but now I hate it. And its here to stay unless I dye it brown which would not look good.

Yoohoo, yells my mother from upstairs.

I bellow a return greeting, hang on the larder and peer inside but a manky old cereal bars as exciting as it gets. A melon festers in the fruit bowl: something rotten in the house of Reynolds, I think. Which is really quite witty for me.

Theres melon if you want it, Mum calls. Then down she comes.

My mothers called Debbie which you dont get much nowadays but its ok if youre in your forties I spose. Shes not bad as far as mums go: works long hours on Thursdays but generally lets me do my own thing while she gets on with hers. Which, at the moment, happens to be home improvement.

Do you want some cushions for your room? I was thinking something in cream? Maybe patchwork.

No thanks.

Oh. She looks upset. Ive bought twelve.

Mum! Why?

She brightens. Your bedrooms your sanctuary. I got caribou feathers and star jasmine room spray too.

Marabou.

What?

Caribou are reindeer. I dont need cushions, Mum. New jeansd be nice though.

She flops onto the sofa, takes off her slippers and rubs her corns. I wish she wouldnt; I knew all day as a dental nurse must be knackering but there are such things as privacy and bathrooms. She looks at me like one of those David Attenborough seals.

Dont you have quite a lot of jeans?

Yeah, but only two pairs of skinnies, I lie: I have five. I want some maroon ones. Like Miss Mints.

I plonk myself down at the table with my cereal bar which, to be honest, is so sickly its probably making more holes in my teeth than cake.

Your English teacher wears jeans to work?

Well, theyre technically jeans, but not the way Mum thinks, cos Miss Mint wears them with high boots and silk cardies. But I cant explain the intricacies of fashion to my mother who lives in cords and tunic when shes not at work and cords, tunic and a white coat when she is.

Yeah, I mutter and leave it at that. Mum sighs and I can tell shed rather go back upstairs than talk. But she tries.

How was school?

Awful. It wasnt but I always say that, like when youre asked how you are, you say, fine automatically. I switch it to her.

Hows the study?

Ooh, I need your help with the pluperfect after tea.

Brilliant. Mums taken it upon herself to do French GCSE next year, at the exact same time as me. In the same hall , for gods sake. I dont mind her taking exams ... but the same one? She shows off to anyone wholl listen that were doing the same thing just 27 years apart, and then starts doing some really random doo, doo, doo, doo sound like its mysterious or something. When actually its just annoying.

Im good at French; thats why Im taking it in year 10. But Im not much good at other things. Not sciences, like my mum and my sister Emily, whos escaped to Bristol to be a proper dentist. Not English like Josh or dance like Rach. Not art like Erin. I wish. But Im ok at French.

Well, back to it, Mum says. No rest for the thickhead. She gives me a cheesy grin. Tea in an hour?

I give her an odd look. Shes never in this much of a hurry to get back to the books. You ok, Mum? Youre back early.

Of course, she smiles brightly, then fades. Are you?

Apart from having a weird mother and a gay best friend with a crush on the same boy as me? Fine, I say, and swing my bag up in a heavy arc. Just fine.

Next day during biology, Courtney and I are in the middle of tracking fingerprints in pigs blood up our arms when Mr Morlis glides over, making us jump.

If youre into branding, try Danepak, he says gravely.

He doesnt use his scooter much since the Ofsted inspectors saw it peeping out from under his desk and he got in trouble. Plus the Aerosmith soundtrack kind of drowns out noise.

Mr Morlis is a legend.

Hes bald, but shaved bald not proper bald, and he wears the coolest trainers. Sometimes he does experiments with things that smell and coloured smoke which impresses the boys but Im more interested in the way he can get the whole class quiet to explain things that can make your head explode, let alone whatevers on the Bunsen burner. I wish I was better at science. A Levels with Mr Morlis would be wicked. The multicoloured cress moustache hes done on a massive piece of blotting paper hangs over a poster of someone he says is called Alan Partridge and looks awesome. Other male teachers are doing it too but on their faces, which is unoriginal, desperate, whereas Mr Morlis just gets it.

Sorry, sir, I mumble.

Shes working out what to wear to the party, Courtney offers. My fifteenth, she says, applauding what she thinks is Mr Morlis interested expression with mascara-ed lashes.