Scarred Roses

Chapter 8-a different perspective

The rest of the week had, in my opinion, not passed quickly enough. The cut on my head had begun to heal nicely, but my sprained ankle had limited me from doing even the daily things that came so naturally to me. Running up and down the stairs, vacuuming the living room, helping mum with dinner, even feeding the animals was taken off my chores list for the time being. That was either covered by Audrey or Nick-depending on who was home at the time. So, what did I do in my seclusion? I read. I used the peace and quiet to catch up on books that had been waiting for me on my dresser table, stories begging to be told. Book three of the Amory Ames mysteries, The War That Saved My Life, by Kimberly Bradley, and I Will Plant You A Lilac Tree, by Laura Hillman. I loved all three of them. Amory Ames was as unflappable as ever, Kimberly’s book made me want to cry at times, and laugh at others, and Laura Hillman’s actually did make me cry. I was old-fashioned in my taste for literature-I didn’t like apocalyptic stories that just got too much hype. I liked real survival stories. People who, against the odds, use their brains and their will to live to survive the terrible events that occur. I suppose that’s why I was always partial to Derby’s library. Nothing but old-fashioned books with old-fashioned stories.

It was Saturday. My ankle had finally healed enough for me to walk properly, and I was thoroughly restless. I’d already helped mum with the chores, and dad didn’t need any help on the farm. I wanted to go to town, but I didn’t want to be surrounded by friends, asking me over a dozen questions about my time in house-confinement. I did have books to return…surely, mum couldn’t object to a trip to the library. No pools to fall into, no bottles of suntan oil to step on. It was perfect.

“Are you sure, Hazel? What if your ankle plays up, and you can’t get home?”

“It won’t mum, I’m sure of it. And besides, it’s only a five-minute walk. I’ll have my phone with me anyway, so you can call me whenever you want me to come home.”

“Well, if you’re certain it’s safe…be back before dark.” She relented, smiling. “And don’t let Mr. McGeer bore you too much with his tales of Glasgow hunting.”

“I won’t.” I replied, laughing quietly as I departed from the kitchen. “Be back by five!”

With the library books stowed, snugly in my bookbag (printed with the ‘Derby High Welcomes you!’ logo), I took my first steps outside since Monday, when I came home from the doctors. The air was crisp and fresh-smelling of mowed grass and pine needles. The breeze was a little chilly, but the nice, mellow warmth of the sun made up for that. And walking along the side of the road, just me and the sounds of twittering sparrows, perched on the power lines, was incredibly refreshing. Not like being stifled or hovered over in the slightest.

The township of Derby was just the same as it ever was. Not too busy, but never completely deserted. Mrs Lambart was out shopping for the day, wearing her forget-me-not dress and felt-hat, Reggie trotting along in front of her; little pug-nose turned up in the air, as if the concrete wasn’t clean enough for his delicate paws to tred. Mr and Mrs Quickly, the elderly couple who owned the chicken farm down the road from us were having their weekly lunch together in the town square. Sitting side-by-side on a park-bench, sharing a parcel of hot chips and vinegar between them. After sixty-eight years of being together, they were still as in love with one another as they must’ve been, the day they met. It was touching, really. And just ahead of me, carrying a box full of jam-jars in her arms, was Margaret Ottoman. The daughter of the couple who owned ‘Ottoman’s jams, jellies and pickled fruits’. Upon seeing me, a big, toothy grin graced her gloss-tinted mouth. Calling me as she quickly approached.

“Hazel! How are you? Haven’t seen you at school lately. Anton told us you’d taken a bit of a tumble.”

“More or less,” I replied, returning her smile. “Lucky for me, I was in capable hands. I’m back at school on Monday, so I shouldn’t have missed much.”

“Not with class, but apart from that, you’ve missed quite a bit. That boy who’s staying with you, Nick Koster, got into a bit of a fight.”

“I heard; he punched Trevor in the café, didn’t he?”

“Well, yes-but that’s not the one I’m talking about. It was with one of those girls-Trevor’s robots. She started slagging off about why you were gone, reckoned…reckoned it wasn’t an accident. And then Nick turns up out of the blue, and tells her to shut up. She starts doing that nasty, giggling thing; asking why he should believe you unless…unless you did something for him. And then he lost it. He didn’t hit her or anything, but he said some pretty nasty stuff-I think the best bit was when he called her a pathetic, insecure virgin who has to justify everything wrong about her by throwing it back on others. I thought his fist packed a punch, but his mouth was even worse. Can you believe that?”

No. I couldn’t. Nick and I had called a truce, but did truces extend to verbal lashings to defend somebody’s honour? Not normally. So, what had brought it on? Why did he continue to defend me from all things to do with Trevor?

“Hardly. Did he get in trouble?”

“No. He was lucky, actually. He chose the perfect time to attack; none of the teachers were on patrol and it’s not as if any of those girls have angelic reputations for telling the truth. You’ve got yourself a real hero there.”

“Indeed.” It felt odd to say, “So, where are you headed?”

“Just back home. Mum ordered in some new jars today, to rejuvenate our product packaging so I was just picking them up. Be sure to stop by the stall tomorrow-we’re selling marmalade.”

“In that case, I’ll be the first in line.” I promised, “I’ll see you later, Margaret!”

“God speed Hazel!”

I waved at her as I continued on my way to the library. It was a fairly small, old-fashioned building. Painted pea-green, with darker, wooden lettering hanging above the front door in a matching colour, on the outside it looked as if it hadn’t aged in seventy years. On the inside however, it was everything you could expect of a cosy library. Plush, velvet chairs and sofas at every corner, the odd table to go with them for those who were studying or working, and high shelves, well-surpassing my height, crammed with books on every, single subject. The was even one of those portable ladders so you could reach the books at the very top and move from side-to-side if need be. Sort of like the library Belle had in ‘Beauty and the Beast’. This was my second, favourite place to go-besides Lilac Park, of course. Nobody probed or disturbed me here, and I had first pick of all my favourite titles. I, after all, was probably the only one who thought of using the local library for resources of which the school library lacked.

“Why, Miss Kazia!” Mr McGeer, one of the two librarians who worked here, popped his head out from beneath the counter. “How can I help you on this fine day?”

“I’ve come to return these,” I said, pulling out the small stack of books from my bag.

“And what did you think?”

“Oh, I enjoyed all three. My favourite though was Laura Hillman’s book.”

“Ah yes, a real-life Schindler’s list survivor, I believe. You know, you hear so much about Schindler, but not nearly as much as you do about the people on his list.”

“I see. Well, it was an excellent read, and she did get her happy ending.”

“And it was a real-life happy ending too! That’s the important thing. And what did you think of that newer title? That Kimberly Bradley book?”

“It was lovely. A different kind of tragedy to Laura Hillman’s, but it was good to read.”

“Well, with any luck, I may be expecting more books from Bradley in the future. Now, if you liked those books, I can recommend a few others if you’d like…”

Mr. McGee gave me the titles of a few books, a few new, but most of them older than myself. I thought it couldn’t do any harm to read a few of them, so I made my way over to the adult-fiction section and dragged the ladder over to D. D for Dunn. Murder at Wentwater court-a Daisy Dalrymple Mystery. Surely enough it was there, followed by about over a dozen, other books of that series. V for Velrome-a biography about yet another, young Dutch girl amidst the harrows of World War two. G for Gregory-the other Boleyn girl. He recommended it as an enjoyable read, but warned me not to believe a majority of what would take place. He recounted with a particular annoyance that this author was renowned for twisting the facts to her own, creative purposes. Deciding that three was enough for a few weeks, I took my books to be issued and stamped, then found myself frowning as I stepped outside. It was only three O’clock, and I didn’t have to go home until five. Perhaps I could start reading my new loot at Lilac Park? I didn’t know if mum would’ve liked it, but there was really no harm. There was no way I was going swimming any time soon, and if there was any place that wasn’t stifling or stuffy, it was Lilac Park. I missed it; I know it sounded stupid, but I always felt just a little melancholy if I couldn’t go there for more than a few days.

Book bag swinging gently at my side, I took step after eager step through the town square, and along the main route to Lilac Park. Just a narrow, gravel path to guide my way. When we were younger, I used to bring Gretel with me, along to the lake, and we’d pretend we were fairies. Following a magical, invisible path that only the two of us could see. Gretel was Thistle-protector of the daisy, and I was Ivy; guardian of the red rose. Together we governed the enchanted woods of Lilac Park; taking care of the fairies, consulting with the other, three governors that made up our wonderful, made-up world. Those were good days. Though Gretel and I still had fun when we could, it wasn’t quite the same as back then.

Settled under my favourite tree, I emptied my book bag and started with the biggest one in the pile. The other Boleyn girl, by Phillipa Gregory. From the very beginning, it made it sad for Mary. Her parents seemed so callous and unkind, her sister, the girl she considered her best friend, haughty and malicious, and married to a man she barely knew at fourteen years old. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine what life would be like if Audrey and I were that way. We were renowned for our close, sisterly bond, and to have that torn apart by pride and ambition would probably be the worst way to ruin a relationship.

“I didn’t think you’d be here.” The voice made me jump. In a place I considered my sanctuary, the last person I expected to see inside it was Nick Koster. “Your mum said you’d be at the library.”

“I was,” I replied, cautiously. “But then I came here to read.”

“Why? I’d have thought you’d be avoiding more walking with that ankle of yours.”

“I wanted to spend time in my favourite place; nobody disturbs me here, and I may read in peace.”

“Well, whatever you’ve got can’t be much worse than my English assignment.” He snorted, “You know anything about F. Scott Fitzgerald?”

“You mean the man who wrote ‘The Great Gatsby’?”

“Even the mention of that book makes me want to throw something!” He groaned, flinging himself onto the grass. Leaning back on the heels of his hands so the sun cast a mellow glow over his skin. “Why can’t we read something exciting? Anne Frank was better than this, and it was the story of a soon-to-be h*******t victim.”

“You’ve read Anne Frank?” This was a surprise! I didn’t think a teenage boy who’s main focus was sports and girls would’ve taken the time to read such a story, on his own, free will.

“Every teenager who’s taken high school English knows that book. It’s not exactly an exclusive piece of literature.”

“Touché. I just didn’t think it was your taste.”

“Not usually, but…it’s weird.” He chuckled to himself, smiling a smile that struck me as nostalgic. “When mum and dad sent me to boarding school, I was kind of left to my own devices. They called every week and sent care packages, but it wasn’t the same. Not like when Alice did it. When she sent me a care package, it’d have a three-page letter, double-sided, and she’d tell me literally everything. About school, her friends, some boy who kept hanging around at the park she used to go to. One time, she wrote to say that she’d read Anne Frank, through-and-through within two weeks, and thought the book was phenomenal. She claimed she was so changed by the book that I had to read it as well. Who knows? She said. It might actually make me feel a little better.

“I didn’t think it would work, but I read the book anyway, just to say that I’d read it. The first few chapters were nice enough-her thirteenth birthday. It sounded like she had a fun, care-free sort of life. You know, despite the circumstances. And then she went into hiding and I kind of knew how she felt. Our situations were completely different but sort of the same? I mean, we both knew how it felt to be trapped. Confined somewhere we clearly don’t want to be, away from our friends…it was almost like I had someone to talk to. Almost. Then when the diary ended…it was so abrupt, you know? It was like, one moment she’s just living the life she’d barely gotten used to, and the next she was sent off to one of those camps. There was no closure of anything. I suppose I just like it because nobody really understood her. Kind of like my parents, really.”

“Nobody understood your parents?”

“My parents didn’t understand me!” He laughed, actually laughed! Even though it wasn’t that funny. “After what happened with…you, they tended to treat me with kid-gloves. I knew that I screwed up, and your parents might not trust me again, so I needed to prove myself. Prove that I wasn’t the freak they thought I was. I tried with them; I tried getting good grades, being good at sports, bringing home nice girls and respectable people they could call my friends; I think they knew just as well as I did that it was a complete sham. I always got good grades, even before, I always liked sports, those girls I brought home were as fake as fake could be, and those so-called friends of mine were real dickheads. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few of them who were decent. But not even they could convince my parents that I was trying to change. Trying to make them understand. In the end, I suppose they couldn’t. I was just either too much of this, and not enough of that.”

I didn’t want to feel sorry for him, nor did I feel obligated. And yet, hearing him…he must’ve talked more to me about his life before this today, than he had to my family, ever since he got here. It’s been three weeks since he’s been here-one more week, and it would be a month, and in that time, looking at Nick Koster has been like peering through a kaleidoscope. A splash of many, different colours and feelings, and sides to his personality I’d never seen before. A side to be annoyed at, a side to be pitied, a side to be loathed, and a side that could be liked-maybe even loved, if it showed long enough. I guess it just made me wonder, that’s all. Wonder why he was telling all of this to me and not to somebody else.

“Being what somebody else wants isn’t easy.” I agreed, “So if it didn’t work, why did you keep trying?”

“Because they were my parents,” He said, as if that were the best reason he had. “I might’ve been pissed off with them, but at the same time I just wanted them to like me. Wanted them to think I was as worthy as their other, perfect children.”

I…I understood where he was coming from. I never aspired to be as good as Audrey was in the eyes of others, but sometimes I would wonder why I wasn’t like her. Why they never admired me the way they admired my sister. I just never imagined why he would need to think that.

“But you’re…you’re perfect in the eyes of everyone here.” I saw the stinging confusion in his eyes, feeling obligated to correct the comment. “I don’t mean to be nasty, I’m just stating a fact. At this school, you can’t be completely popular unless you tick every box on the lengthy list of human perfection.”

“Then humour me, Hazel, what makes me perfect?” The smirk had made a comeback. “Why does everyone at your school like little, old me?”

“This ought to be interesting,” A smirk of my own began to make its’ way onto my lips, as I fished around in the bottom of my book bag. I knew there was a few in here still left…ah ha! Got it.

“You take one-you were bound to see it eventually.”

What’s this?” He began to laugh, taking one of the ballots from my proffered hand.

“An official list of what makes you perfect.” I said, “Somebody in digital technologies class made it a few years back, as a joke, and then it just escalated. Now, people fill these out all the time to see if they qualify as popular.”

“Holy s**t…” He was really laughing now, his hair flopping down to conceal the amusement in his eyes. “Go on then, let’s see if I meet their standards.”

“Alright, question one: What colour is your hair? Each colour is worth a different amount of points. You’re blond, so lucky for you, you’re ranked highest on the list.”

“I should be so flattered.” He said dryly. “What’s next?”

“Eye-colour?”

“Blue.”

“Again, you rank the highest. Skin tone? There’s some swatches here.”

He opened his ballot, holding his forearm to inspection.

“Number three, I think. Sun-kissed.”

“Sounds like an ad for Avon.” I said with a slight giggle. “Face shape?”

“I wouldn’t know-what do you think?”

He had such perfect structure; nice jaw and cheekbones, a straight nose, and a perfectly drawn pair of lips. As for the shape of his handsome face, that was harder to decipher.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say diamond-shaped, though it’s just a guess. Alright, how about lips.”

“Oh, that’s easy, dreamy.” He retorted playfully. “Next!”

“Oh-this one’s just for the girls-they’re marked with the ‘G’.”

“So? You said all the questions. Come on, let’s hear it.”

“Have you ever been pregnant at any time?”

That did it. He’d lost his cocky composure and let out an unabashed laugh.

“I’ll take that as a no.” I giggled, “Have you ever had herpes, chlamydia or gonorrhoea at all?”

“Come on, that’s not on the list!”

“Check for yourself.”

He opened his ballot again, eyebrows raised when he realised I wasn’t lying. Then he let out an even louder laugh than before.

“Okay, before you ask, I don’t have AIDS and have never had Mono, so it’s safe to say that I’m clean enough. Next question please.”

“Alright, alright, have you ever slept with a teacher-man or woman.”

“Who wrote these questions?”

“Somebody who had way, too much time on their hands, I wager.” I said quietly, with a little smile.

“Well, the answer is no. I was tempted, you know, the whole sexy teacher fantasy thing, and all that. But then, isn’t everyone?”

“Good point,” I said, “Alright, just a few more. Favourite position?”

“s*x position?”

“No, yoga. Of course, s*x. Apparently, it matters.”

“Well, if I had to pick one, it’d be…missionary.”

“Okay then…this one’s a little, more tame. Do you have any nineties pop on your playlist?”

“God, no! Next question.”

“Last but not least, out of these, five options, which is your ideal date?”

There was a day at the beach, dinner at a fancy restaurant, a picnic in your favourite park, dancing in a nightclub and drinks at a local bar. I didn’t picture Nicholas Koster to be the romantic type, but then, I could be surprised. He’s surprised me before, hasn’t he?

“Option C,” He surprised me alright.

“A picnic?” I looked to see if he was serious. “I didn’t think you’d be into that.”

“Probably didn’t think I was into teachers either,” He retorted devilishly. “No, I just like the idea, that’s all. I’ve never had anything serious before, so I thought that when I do, a picnic could be a nice thing to do.”

“Oh,” It was like every time he talked, he just seemed more and more unreal to me. Every time he opened up, a piece of the Nicholas I knew had fallen away. Like metamorphosis. When a caterpillar turns into a chrysalis, it spends weeks shedding the skin of its’ old self, until what was uncovered underneath was something different and extraordinary. Don’t get me wrong-nothing has changed between us. We just happened to have a few moments together where we actually got along-the way I do with my own friends.

“You’re surprised,” He said, eyeing me carefully.

“Of course. I didn’t picture you to be the romantic kind.”

“I’m not, usually. Some people would say that I never even had a heart to begin with.”

“You do,” I looked him in the eye as I said it. “It might not seem obvious at first, but deep down, there’s a heart, Mr. Tinman.”

“And deep down in you, there’s a sense of humour,” He replied, regarding me with an impish smile. “So, what happens with the test now?”

“Well, you could either calculate your answer on here, or we could give it to the most popular students in school and have them initiate you into their fold.”

“And how do they do that?”

“They have you dance around a bonfire, naked, covered in the blood of their sacrificial nerds, then of course they’d need a lock of your hair, and- “

“And a morbid sense of humour you have too!” He laughed, “Hazel…you’re not what I expected, you know.”

“Why? Because you’ve talked to me properly?” It wasn’t out of bitterness-not even out of annoyance. I guess I was still in a state of disbelief when it came to him.

“Well, yes, but not just that. I’ve thought about what you might be like now, before I came here. I thought you must’ve become some smarmy, little know-it-all. But…you’re smart, but you don’t brag about it. You’re actually kind of…cool, to hang out with.”

I think that was the first, real compliment he’d ever given me. And he didn’t seem the kind of person to give them away, without any real meaning. So why give one to me? I knew we weren’t supposed to be enemies anymore, but people who weren’t enemies didn’t need to give one another compliments. Unless he wanted something. Come to think of it, he’d come here with the intention of asking questions about his year thirteen English-class novel. Perhaps he was trying to butter me up.

“Alright, what do you want?”

“What makes you think I want something, just because I paid you a compliment?”

“Because I know you; you never pay anyone compliments unless you want something from them. So, what is it? You want me to cover for you, so you can sneak off to a party?”

“You got me,” His smirk fell back into place. “Only, I don’t need you to cover for me. Your mum told me you’re quite good in English, so I was wondering…”

Spit it out! I thought. It couldn’t be worse than answering all those questions on the ballot, in front of a declared stranger.

“Would you tutor me?” Wait-what?

“Excuse me?”

“Would you please tutor me in English?” He sighed, albeit, a little embarrassed too. “Look, I know I said the other day that I didn’t really want to have anything with, you-but it’s taken me over a week at Derby High to realise that I’ve got no idea what I’m doing. English was never my best subject to begin with, and with all this…would you like me to beg?”

“Are you desperate enough to beg?” I almost wanted him too. The sight of my former enemy, fallen to his knees, begging for my help…it was very tempting. But while I was mean enough to think it, I wasn’t mean enough to make him grovel at my feet.

“On one condition.”

“Name it,”

“You do the work. I’m not going to just give you the answers; just a different way of finding them, that’s all.”

“Deal!”

He stuck his hand out once again. The third time I was expected to shake it. Only this time, it was meant to seal a deal. Well, since he was struggling with the work, and I knew it better than a few year thirteens did, it did make sense. In a way, it was no different to tutoring any, other student.

“I’d better get home.” I said, putting my books back into the bag. “I’m supposed to be home by five.”

“I’ll go with you,” He said, jumping to his feet quicker than I had. “I’ve got nothing better to do tonight, anyway.”

We just walked on together; not one word was uttered, nor a single thing to disturb us. So now he knew. Now he knew where I went to read, where I went to be alone, and where I went to just be me. Did I mind? Surprisingly no. Did I like his company? Surprisingly yes. Even if it was brief. Just talking with him, for that short time, felt like I’d just made a new friend. Whenever that happened at school, I used to feel immensely proud of myself-even patting myself on the back when nobody was looking. I wasn’t supposed to feel proud for it now, and I told myself not to, but even so…if I could befriend my childhood tormentor, out of all people, maybe we could all live the way mum and dad wanted us to after all. In peace.

{}

Audrey was at a party tonight, mum and dad were already in bed, and Nick was doing whatever Nick did in the evenings, so for tonight, I had the living room all to myself. It was a toss-up between reading and watching a movie, so by the time I made up my mind about it, I had a few minutes to wait for the popcorn to finish before I’d start it up. What to do…then, there was a ping from my phone. I opened up the message box to find five, unread messages! All from Ingrid.

Ingrid: Hazel!

Ingrid: Hazel!

Ingrid: Hazel, answer me!

Ingrid:Hazeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllll

Ingrid: I’m boooooooooooooorrrrrreeed!

Hazel: Hello Ingrid.

Ingrid: Finally, she answers! So, how is our defying survivor? We haven’t heard from you much since Monday.

Hazel: Because I’ve been confined to the upstairs quarters for the rest of the week! Today’s been the only day so far, I’ve been allowed to leave the house.

Ingrid: Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve all met at The Square for a bite, filled you in on the school work.

Hazel: I kinda wanted some peace and quiet, that’s all. Mum and Audrey have been fussing over my bumps and bruises all week, dad’s been pumping me full of dominion sweets and Dad’s Army episodes, and even Nicholas has been checking on me. Probably, just to make sure I haven’t keeled over yet.

Ingrid: Speak of the devil, has he been behaving?

Hazel: Surprisingly, yes. Which is more than I can say for school.

Ingrid: Someone told you about fight number two?

Hazel: Margaret Ottoman. She thinks Nicholas’s verbal lashing was nothing to be laughed at.

Ingrid: It wasn’t! Bridget saw the whole thing. He was all sorts of nasty, and he didn’t even care who heard him. Even made that girl cry!

Hazel: Who was it?

Ingrid: Shantell Travers. The one who cut off Camille’s fishtail braid in art-class two years ago.

Hazel: Didn’t like her-she was the one who spread those pictures of Curtis Bellamy, wasn’t she?

Ingrid: The very same. b***h! She seems to think she’s the centre of every man’s fantasy.

Hazel: She is awfully pretty-too bad it seems to be her only, good quality. She gets nasty when she’s jealous, which seems to be quite a lot.

Ingrid: Well Nicholas certainly cut her down to size. So, how about we meet up tomorrow-just you and me, no crowds. Everyone else is busy anyway. Flora’s working on her audition for the school production, Bridget and Olive are playing two’s against Oliver Roy and his older brother, and Victor is treating Marlon and Leo to a pint at the local bar, near ‘Kicks’.

Hazel: Can he even do that? Legally, I mean.

Ingrid: Legally he can, if he’s buying it. They can’t do anything if he gives the beer to somebody else.

Hazel: Well, good luck to them. Leo’s never been drunk before, and I’ll be impressed if Victor succeeds on that front.

Ingrid: Marlon will be there too! I’m sure he’ll be able to stop Leo from getting too carried away.

Hazel: If he doesn’t get too drunk himself.

Ingrid: Too true. Will see you tomorrow! Bubble bath and the sanctity of my bed to look forward to.

Hazel: Bye!

I left my phone, face-down on the coffee table, as I went to go and pick out a DVD. Singin’ in the rain. An old-time favourite of mum and dad’s, and a recent favourite of mine. I slid the disk into the blue-ray, skipping quickly into the kitchen to get my popcorn before the opening credits started. With just an extra sprinkle of salt, I took my loot back into the living room, just in time for the opening title, in colour, to appear onscreen. It was like having the movie cinema, all to yourself-only, far more comfortable, and nobody cared if you went in or out in your nightgown. Sinking into the heavenly, soft suede of the sofa, I took a small handful of popcorn and started munching. A nice, quiet way to spend my Saturday, I thought, satisfied. And tomorrow would be the day I got out and socialised, like a healthy teenager.

“I didn’t think you’d be up this late.” Nick stood beneath the archway that separated the living room from the foyer. On his bottom half, he wore a pair of worn, faded-blue pyjama pants. On the top, he wore nothing at all. It was a good thing it was dark in here, that way he couldn’t see the crimson tint in my cheeks as my gaze met his. “What’re you watching?”

“I don’t think you’d like it.” I answered, “It’s not really your style.”

He strode towards the sofa, falling onto the opposite end.

“Try me.”

“Have you ever heard of Singin’ in the rain?”

“Just the song-I didn’t know it came from a movie.”

“There’s a whole, lot more to it than that.” I said, “There’s comedy, romance, and a lot of tap-dancing.”

“Well, count me in.” He said, helping himself to some popcorn, “I kind of like old movies, anyway. My favourites are the Alfred Hitchcock films. Horror, suspense, all the creepy stuff Hollywood refused to use, until then. You ever seen that movie, Rebecca?”

“No,”

“I think you’d like it; there’s not as much horror in it, but it’s got a lot of mystery to it. It’s about this woman who marries a rich, older man, who’s late wife was named Rebecca. Everybody puts Rebecca on a pedestal and compares the new wife to her all the time-especially the housekeeper. I think it was one of Hitchcock’s earlier films-you can tell by the clothes and stuff.”

Yet another thing about Nick that took me by surprise. He didn’t strike me as the type to like movies so much; everybody liked movies, I suppose, but only few had a genuine admiration that allowed somebody to see a mere film as an artistic masterpiece. This gave me an idea…he wanted to pass in English, and I think I’ve found a perfect way to tutor him. But, I’d leave that for later. I wanted to enjoy my movie, and evidently, Nick wanted to enjoy it too.

“Hey, that’s Debbie Reynolds, isn’t it?” He pointed out, “She’s Carrie Fisher’s mother. I know her from the ‘Star Wars’ series.”

“She’s the lead,” I explained, my eyes glued to the screen. “The woman who loves to perform, but doesn’t like the pictures for their lack of originality. She was right, I suppose. Back then it was all Historical features, or soppy, romances.”

“You don’t like romance movies?”

“Oh I like them-I even like romance novels as well. But it’s hard to keep on liking something if that’s all you ever see.”

“I get what you mean.”

As I sat, legs tucked beneath my chin, I got the distinctive feeling that Nick wasn’t watching the movie like I was. I couldn’t say so for certain, but every now and then I felt his eyes on me. Not glaring or judging like he used to, but something else. I wondered, maybe it was because I had popcorn in my hair, or there was something in my teeth? I didn’t know. What I did know was that whatever this was now, whatever we were trying to achieve wouldn’t be easy. How would we communicate at school? My friends hated him, and for good reason too. And there was Audrey! How was she going to react if Nick and I were getting along, all of a sudden? It was a lot to think about, and a lot to deal with. Perhaps, I told myself, that I ought to save this problem for tomorrow morning. When things were just a little clearer, and I was just a little more focused.

After the popcorn was devoured, and the credits began to roll, I turned off the TV, tidied everything up, and bid goodnight to Nick before promptly vacating the living room. He wasn’t going to bed right away; I think he just wanted to stay up and think. So much has happened to him in the short month and a half that had passed. He lost his parents, and his sister in a car accident, he was forced to pack up everything he owned and leave the only life he’s ever known to move to a tiny village with a family who swore off contact with him when he was a child, he’s been sent to a new school, made to live with a girl he’s loathed since childhood, and now has decided to form a truce with said-girl, in an effort to live peacefully in his new environment. If I were him, I’d be taking the time to think all of this through too. I…I didn’t think Nick was truly a bad person. He acted like a bad person, treated other people like dirt, and generally behaved as if he was better than everybody else. But, a bad person didn’t feel remorse for what they did. They didn’t know consequences or better judgement, because where was the fun in that? Who cares if what they do hurts the people who love them? I think Nick tried to make people think he was bad, but the one person he couldn’t fool was himself. He knew that he had a conscience, and despite his best efforts, that conscience could make itself heard if necessary.

I didn’t tell him any of this, of course. If he wanted to hear my opinion, he’d be asking for it. I just went to my room, locked the door behind me, and crawled into bed where it was comfy and private. Today wasn’t what you’d called exhausting, and yet there was some satisfaction in it. Nick and I talked, properly this time, we even laughed together! And just when it couldn’t seem any more unreal, we watched an entire movie, side-by-side, and we both liked one another’s company. I felt like, for once, I was doing something to ease my family’s worry. I was able to put my own feelings aside and find a way to make this all work. And it would work-I knew it would. Just one question lingered in my mind as I began to drift off-how on earth was I going to explain this to my friends?