I have to be honest with myself: the main reason for me trying to become friends with Jonathan is because of his sister.
Of course I know she’d never look at me. She and her friends hardly ever look up from their phones enough to notice boys staring at them. I sometimes watch her and the rest of them traipsing in and out of the house throughout that first summer in Oak Tree Close. My bedroom window gives me the perfect view across the road. It’s like I have this burning need in me to see her in her natural habitat. It sounds a bit pervy or leery or just not very good, when I think about it, but I don’t mean to be creepy. Mimi’s just… well… amazing. She’s sixteen. Nearly two years older than me. More confident. Seems totally sure of herself. Jonathan’s more like me, though – both in age and how he’s slightly more awkward and quiet.
As well as the sister thing, it makes sense to get to know him. He’s at the same school I’ll be starting in September, and Mum and Dad keep encouraging me to be friendly if ever I see him in the street out for his evening run. I have asked how I’m supposed to be friendly when someone is dashing past you at God knows how many miles per hour.
But I know what they mean, and before long I get my chance to talk to him.
Earlier in the summer, I’d started to go swimming at the nearby leisure centre. It’s a big, noisy place with three pools – one for teaching, one with a massive water slide thing, and another for lengths. I stick to the quieter pool with just lane swimming, which is apparently too boring for the shrieking kids. I quite often get a whole lane to myself and let the long summer days float past on a haze of chlorine and slow breaststroke. It feels weird, spending most of my time alone, when my main friends are back in London, but before long I realise I’m not missing them as much as I thought I would. I get the train in to London a few times to see them – it only takes thirty minutes to Charing Cross – but as the weeks go on I find I’m messaging them less on WhatsApp, not thinking about them as much throughout the days, and soon I have my own routine, my own life, and increasing nerves about starting the new school in September.
I’m thinking all the while I’m in the showers after doing my eighty lengths, then whilst getting dressed. It’s close to closing time and the changing room is almost empty, apart from a dad with two young boys down the far end; he’s chasing after one of them, who seems to be refusing to give up his brother’s shoes. It takes me a while to realise I’m not the only other person: a guy my age is sitting around of the corner of the L-shaped room.
Once I see him, I realise who it is straightaway.
Jonathan Franklin.
He’s pulling his trainers on and frowning a bit as if he’s pissed off about something. I try to think back if I’d remembered seeing him in the pool. I’d been so caught up in my own thoughts I probably hadn’t noticed him. But I notice him now, and within a split second a plan comes into my mind. This boy holds the key to my happiness. If I could just become friends with him, close enough to become a frequent visitor to his home, I might stand a chance of making her notice me. Making Mimi Franklin, the face that’s haunted my dreams for weeks, aware of my existence for the first time. It’s probably wrong of me to use him in this way, but at this very moment it all makes sense and seems perfectly reasonable to me.
‘Hey mate,’ I say, going over to him. I cringe a bit as I say it. I don’t think I’ve ever called anyone mate in my entire life and it sounds fake, but it jolts Jonathan out of his daydream and makes him look up at me. I can tell he knows who I am – I’m not sure how, just in the way his face moves as his eyes meet mine.
‘Oh… hi,’ he says.
He looks awkward and embarrassed, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He gets up quickly, as if he felt I expected him to do something, almost like the way men stand up for women in those old-fashioned period dramas on TV. This causes his towel, trunks and bag to fall off the bench, leading to him hurriedly scrabbling around for them on the floor.
‘You OK?’ I ask, both a bit amused and puzzled by how oddly he’s reacting. ‘I’m Danny, by the way. We met a few weeks ago when I—’
‘I know who you are,’ Jonathan cuts in, a little bluntly.
‘Of course, yeah, sorry,’ I say, realising it was probably stupid of me to introduce myself again, especially considering how odd our first meeting was, with his dad suggesting we shake hands. A second or two passes with neither of us speaking, then he seems to regret his words and starts to apologise for interrupting me. ‘Sorry, I just meant… I remember you…’
I laugh and he laughs too, and after that it isn’t so awkward. I tell him I’m walking back home to Oak Tree Close and wonder if he wants to walk with me. He says he does and we leave the leisure centre together and start the trip back. Based on how the intro in the changing rooms had gone, I begin to worry the mile-long walk will be majorly awkward. But once we settle into our conversation, it’s nice to listen to another guy my age talk about what it’s like to live here and what to expect at Fletcher House School.
‘It’s not so bad, really,’ Jonathan says. ‘I mean, it’s dull and stuff, but there aren’t any scary teachers or awful school bullies or anything.’
The way he says ‘scary teachers’ makes me smile, as if we were eight-year-olds nervous about getting a terrifying character from a Roald Dahl book as a form tutor. As time goes on, little things like that make me realise how much I like Jonathan. He says things that made him seem both young and complicated at the same time. Or just in need of a hug.
‘I hear they let girls into the sixth form,’ I say, wondering if it’s too early to bring up his sister.
‘Yeah, but they get taught in the North Annex. They spend most of their time there, so we don’t see them, really.’
He makes it sound like they’re a rare breed of plant being grown in a greenhouse. I try again. ‘Is your sister in sixth form?’
He nodded. ‘From September. But she won’t be going to Fletcher’s; she’s staying at her school. They have sixth form anyway so there’s no point her changing.’
Damn, I think to myself. I decide it might be too obvious to bring up Mimi specifically again, so I opt for a more general approach. ‘Shame to hear we can’t mix with the girls much. Though I’m sure you guys find ways.’
I laugh a bit and wait to hear if Jonathan and his friends do ‘find ways’, but he just shrugs and says ‘I suppose.’
I laugh again and say, ‘Well, if you didn’t, all the Fletcher House boys would still be virgins when they went off to uni.’
I know it probably isn’t that unusual to be a virgin when you go off to university. For all I know, most people are. But I thought if I sound more experienced than I am, Jonathan might find my company more appealing. It certainly raises his interest.
‘What, you saying you’ve… you’ve already…?’
I make the agonising decision to be honest with him. ‘No, I haven’t. But that’s kind of why I’ve been hoping we get to mix with the girls a bit at school.’
I glance at Jonathan in time to see him frown. ‘So… you’re after a girlfriend?’
It’s my turn to shrug. ‘No, not necessarily a girlfriend. I’m happy to play the field a bit. Nothing wrong with sleeping around, is there? Unless a particular girl comes along I want to get close to. Someone I, like, really fancy.’ I make the sentence sound as casual as I can as an image of Mimi doing her warm-down stretches at the side of the road after a jog with a friend floats into my mind.
‘I’m not really fussed about all that,’ Jonathan says. He sounds almost revolted, like the idea of getting laid seems completely alien to him. ‘I don’t think it’s good to shag around.’
This surprises me and I don’t really know how to react to it. ‘You mean, you get nervous chatting to girls?’
He’s silent for a moment. We turn onto the far end of Oak Tree Close and I’m conscious we’ll be at our houses in a couple of minutes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have got onto this subject so soon, and with such little time.
Eventually, Jonathan says, ‘A bit. But that’s not what I mean. I just don’t like the idea of men chasing after women as if they can’t control themselves. As if that’s all that matters.’ His voice gets louder, as if this is something he clearly feels strongly about. ‘It’s pathetic, as if their entire lives are just a hunt for sex, and women are just these things to give it to them. I’m not going to be like that. I’m not going to be like—’
He stops himself suddenly, before he can finish his sentence.
‘Like… like what?’ I prompt, looking at him, noticing how his face is even more tense than before.
‘Nothing,’ he mutters. ‘I just… nothing.’
I want to question him more, but he looks so upset with himself that I keep quiet as we get closer to our homes. When we part, he seems to have gone back to the embarrassed, awkward boy I’d spoken to in the changing rooms, not able to meet my eye and stumbling over his words. ‘Thanks for walking me— I mean, walking with me. I’m sorry I… I mean. Yeah, sorry.’
I ignore all this, finding his awkward tumbling words too painful to acknowledge, and just say, ‘Let’s do it again some time. I mean, actually go swimming, or maybe for a run. Or maybe I could come round yours for tea.’
I’m afraid I sound desperate or weirdly keen, or even rude for inviting myself round, but he seems so relieved he hasn’t spooked me with his strange little outburst it doesn’t seem to matter. ‘Yeah, let’s do that. That would be great.’
He puts his number in my phone and I say I’ll message him. Pleased the whole thing hadn’t been a total disaster, I cross the street and let myself into the house. Inside, Mum is making tea and she calls out – something about getting the table ready.
‘Did you have a good swim?’ she asks.
I tell her I did and then mention I’d bumped into Jonathan Franklin from across the street.
‘Oh that’s lovely,’ she says. ‘It’ll be good for you to have a friend when you start school.’
I wince at how she words it, as if I’m off to playschool aged four rather than fifteen.
‘What’s he like?’ she says as she chops some onions, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
‘Er… he’s… he’s fine.’ I don’t know what else to say, and she laughs and rolls her eyes.
I start to get the plates out and take them through to the dining room. Mum chats away about something, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m thinking about what Jonathan said. And the sentence he’d stopped himself from saying just in time.