Pete was waiting there, kicking at a stone jammed in the tar.
“How come you’re always late?”
Nicky pulled up his sleeve and went to say something.
“Look,” Pete nodded down the road. Two girls from sixth year were crossing. “Come on.”
They walked down the hill to the main road, the pavement crammed with groups in uniform.
“Good weekend?” Pete said.
Nicky shrugged.
Pete made a long step, dodging some trodden-in dogshit. “My brother’s mates were over. We got a few beers in. Sunday’s hangover was a bastard.”
Shoving past some kids from first year, they fell in behind the two girls. One wore a skirt just above her knees and the other’s was shorter and tight around her bigger thighs. She walked with one foot turning inward. You could see the heel of her shoe worn squint.
“Which one, Nick? Left or right?”
“I dunno.”
“Give us a straight answer for once.”
“They can hear you.”
“Definitely the left.”
“You like them chunky?”
“I wouldn’t call her chunky.”
“You’ve got a fat fetish.”
“They can hear you.”
“Not saying I wouldn’t, she’s still a big ride. I just like blondes more.”
The dark-haired girl turned, flicked her hair and faced forward.
“I love it when they wear those shiny tights,” Pete said, “Or no tights at all.”
They slowed down, keeping the same distance the whole way.
When they arrived it was early and Pete made them go across to the newsagents. He bought a roll and a packet of crisps, and handed his money to the miserable old woman. Outside he said, “I hate having to touch her hands. Fuckin’ dry and horrible.”
They walked towards the gates, eyes away from the smokers on the wall outside the shop. Pete nodded ahead. “Jennifer Black’s coming.”
She came towards them on her skinny legs, arms folded tight, her chubby pal unwrapping a packet of cigarettes. Jennifer Black’s hair fell straight to her jaw, cut at an angle matching the sharp line of her face.
“Awright Jennifer?” Pete said.
“Awright Skelf.” The girls pushed in-between, heading for the smokers.
“See yous,” Pete said. He walked a few steps with his neck twisted.
Nicky had been put next to her in art once. Her shirt had been rumpled and he’d seen though a gap in the buttons to the white bra underneath.
They met up again at lunch and went over to the usual bit at the fence.
“See much of your pal at the weekend?” Pete said.
“Who?”
“Wee cock-tease.”
Nicky didn’t answer.
“Is that a yes? You finally get her nailed?”
“I didn’t see her.”
“I told you what my brother says. Private school girls get them down easy.”
“She has to wear one of those long skirts.”
“Yeah. But when they’re not in school, I mean,” he spat on the playground. “She’s a bible-basher anyway, isn’t she?”
Nicky shrugged.
“Does that mean you’ll both be big virgins till you get married?”
“She’s just a mate.”
“I’m your mate too. You’re not trying to ride me.”
Pete built another roll and crisps while Nicky stuffed his sandwiches down. They watched the mob boot a manky tennis ball about. He looked at his watch and said, “I’m away to that concert.”
“When?”
“Now. This lunchtime.”
“The thing all they gay posters are about?”
“You coming?” Nicky said.
“No chance.”
“Might be better than hanging about here for once.”
“Mibbe.” He pulled his bag on both shoulders and started walking, “Sure you don’t want to go?”
Pete shook his head then turned away to someone else. Nicky tightened his bag straps and kept going.
There was a chair in the back row, far enough away from the rest of them. They were huddled near the stage, long leather coats and army jackets over their uniforms. Pete had christened one of the girls the Nazi Witch. She was there in her big black boots.
The curtains squeaked. A boy with spiked hair was waiting, holding a guitar. There were slow claps and whistles, and he stepped to the microphone, strummed and opened his mouth. He had something to say, he sang. The bass and drums went BAM BAM. Then he sang a line about killing someone’s baby.
The boy’s arm stabbed at the guitar strings and the beat began. There was a bass player, frowning at the notes through his black hair with a tie from another school slack round his neck. The drummer blinked hard every time he hit his kick drum, moving his lips with the words.
Before the first verse was done, Granny D the music teacher marched on, hand slashing across her throat. A curtain followed her across the stage. The other came from the opposite side, closing over the band. They stopped. You could hear their voices spilling over the speakers.
“We talked about this. Nothing obscene, I said.”
“I didn’t swear.”
“You know very well it was inappropriate. That song.” Granny D tutted. “I went to a lot of trouble for this.”
Someone at the front booed.
“You abused my trust,” she said.
She began telling them to pack their things. Three clicks sounded and the band started up again. The curtains shook. The guitar clanged off something and turned to screeching, and folk covered their ears. Behind the curtains something was going on, making them flap and billow. There was a thud. The microphone rolled off the stage and hung by the wire. Granny D’s foot appeared, shoe dangling and dropping in to the hall. A long-haired boy picked it up and slid it inside his trench coat.
“SHUT UP THIS INSTANT,” Granny D yelled. The foot vanished.
They’d shut off the speakers, but they couldn’t stop the drummer.
“Think he’ll get expelled?” Pete said.
“Dunno. Someone said he got suspended before.”
“Daft fuckin’ moshers.”
“You should’ve come.”
“To hear some freak singing about raping a baby for ten seconds?”
“It wasn’t that.”
“Whatever. The guy’s a sicko.”
They stopped outside Nicky’s.
“Mine for a bit of playstation?” Pete said.
“I’m going in.”
“Scared you’ll get beat again?”
“I’ve got stuff to do.”
Pete shrugged. “Fine. See you later.” He walked off.
Inside, Nicky dumped his stuff, then unhooked the hatch to the loft. The stairs slid out and he climbed towards his drums.
Ruth was at the other end of the couch. Whenever she moved, her perfume wafted over. The film ended and Nicky watched a tear drip down her cheek.
“You knew that was going to happen,” he said.
“It’s still sad though. Remember at the cinema? I was a total mess.”
She slid along the couch until their shoulders were touching.
“Does it not annoy you, how everything goes wrong every two minutes?” Nicky said.
“It’s a film. It’d be boring otherwise.”
“At least it’d be over quicker.”
She sighed. “Fine. You can pick next time.”
Ruth sniffed and examined a few strands of her hair. She got up and stuck on a CD and went back to the far end of the couch. It was the Counting Crows album and they didn’t speak for the first song. Everything was pristine in her house. On the opposite wall there was a family portrait – Ruth, her wee brother and her parents with fake grins on their faces. It was from a few years ago, when she was still flat-chested.
Nicky spoke eventually. “Thanks for having me over.”
“Are you done moaning?”
“I was just kidding.”
She looked away.
Her feet brushed his thigh and tucked themselves under her. “It’s fine. I’m just pissed off with mum and dad, making me stay in for the brat. Like I’m his private babysitter.”
“You should get them to pay you.”
“They say I’m earning my allowance.”
She yawned and stretched flat so her legs lay on his. “When d’you need to go?”
“Just whenever.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m shattered.”
He nodded. He went to say something then closed his mouth and put his hands on her knees. Her eyes blinked open.
“I’ll go then,” he said and stood.
“I’m not trying to get rid of you.”
“I know.” He zipped up his jacket and went to the front door. “You going to youth club this week?”
“Mibbe.”
“I’ll see you on Sunday anyway.”
“I hope so.”
She gave him a tight hug and he left the house. It was dark and he had to edge along the pavement, past big four-by-fours and sports cars sitting tilted on the kerb. A stiffy was pushing hard against his fly, but as he walked it gradually eased off.