Hiding Him

1

CROSSING PATHS

‘Go around!’ she bellows.

‘Bev, for me to go around, I’d have to go down through music and back up by the library to get to the room that is literally right there,’ I say, gesturing towards the classroom door across the hall.

‘Not my problem! You can see I’m mopping,’ spits the haggard dinner lady.

I look at her, then at 7B, mere footsteps away.

‘Bev, floors are for walking on, not for eating off,’ I say before quickly tip-toeing through any drying patches I find. I’m wise enough not to look back at the slow-motion explosion as I walk away. Profanities touch her lips before she settles with a loud grunt and a huff.

Just as West and his entourage of knobheads clatter into the hallway in their football boots, I escape by swinging on the door into chemistry.

Mr Powell doesn’t bother lifting his head as he announces, ‘You’re late Mr Hawkins.’

‘Sorry sir,’ I reply, circling the back of the room and mounting the stool next to Robyn.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she asks.

‘Bev and her mop.’

Robyn has this impeccable ability to roll her eyes in such a way that you can almost hear the grinding of stones as she does it. She pushes back her tightly wound braids just for me to watch her dark brown eyes revolve in classic fashion.

‘Where’s Geri?’ I start. ‘She wouldn’t voluntarily miss a whole hour of gawking at Mr Powell’s wavy brown locks, slender but toned figure, eyes that could entice you like a bowl of warm

melted…’

I pull myself out of my fantasising long enough to catch Robyn’s concerned stare from my side. ‘Sorry.’

‘I think she’s in Mrs Barkley’s office. Something to do with the Extravaganza,’ Robyn replies.

‘Already?! It’s not until Christmas!’

‘Yeah, well, you know Geri. Always the keen bean. No doubt we’ll be roped into doing something now we’re in sixth form.’

I reply with an unimpressed but agreeing grunt.

Mr Powell peers over his laptop screen with his bewitching eyes. He stares directly into my soul as if to say, ‘Shut the hell up Hawkins.’

What a dreamboat.

***

After chemistry, Robyn and I walk down to Spanish when Geri and her satchel barrel up the corridor behind us. Her long ginger curls dance over the Year 7s’ heads as they each recoil from her flailing mane. She announces the occasional ‘sorry’ as she barges through groups of lower years to catch up.

‘Hey, okay. So,

Cam… you’re

doing lighting. Robyn, I’ve convinced Barkley to make you a presenter,’ instructs Geri through a pant.

‘What?! You could’ve asked me first!’ Robyn says.

‘You don’t want to know who you’ll be presenting with?’ Geri replies with a smirk.

‘Who is it then?’

‘Noel.’

Robyn’s eyes widen. She looks away quickly and shrugs off a blush.

‘I suppose I could do it,’ Robyn says, playing off her previously disgusted tone.

‘I bet you could!’ I say, jabbing her with my elbow.

Robyn returns with a stare I only get when I’m about two inches from a friendly bitch-slap.

***

Thankfully, lunch falls at a time when, once it’s over, we only have one more lesson before we’re out for the day.

‘I think you’ve got rice in your hair,’ Robyn says, wiggling my brown waves.

My eyes cross over my nose as her fingers shake my drooping fringe.

‘Some may say I have rice in my hair. Others may say I’m accessorising with natural and vegan-friendly alternatives.’

I wait until she’s not looking, then finger-comb my hair to release several grains of rice. A few tables over, some punk Year 11s cackle amongst themselves, celebrating a successful walk-by ricing. It’s not all glitz and glamour being Seaton Secondary and Sixth Form’s resident homo ya know.

‘Barkley said I can direct the whole thing. She’s preoccupied with new student inductions or something,’ Geri says to the table.

Our lunch crew doesn’t really conform to a ‘clique.’ After prom last year, everyone got shaken up and spat back out of the popularity sorting machine. We’ve got former nerds, posh twats, the only gay in a five-mile radius (yours truly) and even a ‘lad,’ all living in peaceful harmony. We’ve unofficially marked our territory on the table closest to the wall on the darker side of the canteen.

‘Who knows,

Cam… new

students, maybe there’s one for you. Perhaps an opportunity for sexual experimentation of the same-sex kind?’ Robyn says, raising an eyebrow.

‘The closest thing I’ve got to sexual experimentation is my right hand and the memory of Mr Powell’s shirt lifting up last summer.’

Ah, what a day that was.

The table erupts in laughter. I’m not the most outgoing person in the year, but when I do speak, I like to make it worth everyone’s time.

‘You kill me sometimes,’ Jack says between snorts whilst balancing Becky in his lap.

I give a little bow and roll a royal wave to accept his approval.

I’m pretty sure Jack counts himself lucky for landing a girl as beautiful as Becky. She’s got this majestic blonde, layered and highlighted hair that is always curled to perfection. Becky was an early bloomer, if you know what I mean.

Even I look at her and think, If I was straight… Jack isn’t ugly by any means; he’s just not the self-maintenance type. His hair is usually all over the place and his clothes almost always have food stains on them. He’s sweet though, so I get why Becky likes him.

‘Oh, Geri, I was speaking to some of the lads and they wanna audition for a slot in the show,’ Jack says, leaning back to be seen behind Becky.

Geri’s expression turns into something resembling a bull seeing red cloth.

‘The football lads? The same pricks that stormed science with water balloons and ruined my perfectly good blow-dry? Absolutely not! I won’t have them make a joke out of

m— our

show!’

‘No serious, they want to do Magic Mike.’

As soon as Jack utters those words, silence falls over the table. The girls and I look at each other with widened eyes as we consider the mental image.

I sit up and place my hands together on the table like a judge giving a verdict.

‘Speaking as a concerned member of the organising committee and devoted Seaton student, I must insist we see an audition.’

The memory of Mr Powell’s shirt lifting up begins to fade as the idea of abs, gyrating and tensing muscles dancing to Ginuwine’s ‘Pony’ replaces

it… My

right hand’s going to need a holiday!

Geri pauses. ‘They can have an audition. But if they try any funny business, they’re out!’

Robyn and I do a little finger wiggle under the table so as not to poke the beast that is ‘Organisational Geri.’ We learnt the hard way that you just have to let her be the boss. It’s safer that way.

***

On the walk home, I’m more grateful for my personal Spotify time than usual. The soft beats and deep-cut bridges of Taylor Swift allow those Year-11 pricks to fade ever so slightly.

Opening the front door, I shout ‘hello’ into the house to check George is, in fact, at his daily after-school activity. I

wait… No

reply. Score! Younger sibling-free time is mine again!

I push the heels of my shoes off my ankles and flip my shoes onto the shoe rack, landing them the right way up and sticking my hands in the air like a gymnast dismounting a vault perfectly. Rosie and Jimmy clatter their Westie paws over the hallway’s hardwood floors, and nuzzle into my crouched position for their routine snuggles.

‘Do you want to go outside?!’ I say to them.

They both gallop excitedly to the back door as I let them out into the garden.

Plonking myself on the sofa, I get an hour or so of Netflix time

before…

‘Hola!’ Mum’s cheery voice echoes from the hall at 5:15 PM exactly.

Apparently, her chosen language today is

Spanish…

‘Howdy!’ I reply.

‘Cómo estás?’ she asks with her head between the door and frame in her quintessentially English accent.

‘I’ve been given the task of lighting for the Extravaganza.’

‘Ooh, that’s good. Next door’s son did lighting too. You should pop round and ask him about it!’

‘I’m sure he’s too busy with wife number three,’I remark, as she turns out the door to put her stuff down in the kitchen.

‘You be nice. They’re coming over for a curry on Thursday. I won’t have any unpleasant silences this time,’ she calls, walking to the kitchen.

Once Mum’s home, I tend to go upstairs to ‘the tower’ to do coursework. My room is in the converted attic that George and I shared until last year. I’ve now transformed it into a navy and white haven. I’m no interior designer, but I love how grown-up it looks since George took his F1 posters and PlayStation crap to the old office.

The doorbell rings.

‘Hi Tracey,’ Geri’s voice echoes from downstairs.

‘Hiya. Come in. Cameron’s upstairs.’

‘Hey!’ I bellow, welcoming her in but not getting up from my position on the bed.

The thuds of her footsteps are quick at first and then slow into more aggressive booms.

‘Do you have to live on the top floor?’ Geri exhausts with an out-of-breath pant as she stumbles through my bedroom door.

‘There’s less people up here. I hate people,’ I say with a crazed grin. ‘What’s up?’

She touches the back of her fingers to her flushed cheeks and sighs.

‘I had to get out. Mum’s going off about something she recorded that Dad deleted, and I just can’t be arsed today.’

Geri collapses into my second-hand sofa opposite. I share a look of half-attempted sympathy, but this isn’t the first time Geri’s come over to escape her parents’ fighting.

‘Can you help with auditions next week?’

‘If Magic Mike are performing, hell yes! What day is it?’

‘Friday lunch, I think.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Geri goes quiet and dodges my eyes trying to connect with hers.

‘What’s up?’ I ask.

‘Oh, nothing. Just got a lot to plan is all.’

‘Nah. You live for planning. What is it?’ I climb off the bed and pull up the beanbag next to the sofa. ‘I’ll only judge you if it’s terrible,’ I add.

Geri fidgets with her sleeves, still avoiding my eye contact.

‘You know Noel?’ Geri asks as she raises her head just high enough for her face to peer through her red curls.

‘Voice-of-an-angel Noel? Robyn’s crush to end all crushes? I know the one.’

‘Well, something kinda happened.’

‘Go

on…’

‘Well, we were in the drama studio. You know, talking about him presenting and

stuff… And

then, next thing I know, he kissed me.’

‘He did what?!’ I shout.

‘Keep your voice down!’ She looks out into the empty hall.

‘I’m sorry, I’m

just— Are

you okay?! Did he like, ask, or anything?’

‘Well, no, but I kinda kissed him

back…’

‘You did what?!’ I shout again.

‘Please don’t tell her! It was just a heat-of-the-moment thing. I don’t even know why we did it! I don’t even like him that way. At least, I don’t think I do.’

‘I won’t, but still. This is Noel. Robyn’s Noel. Noel, Noel.’

‘I know, I’m a terrible person!’ Geri says, forcing her head between her knees.

I place my hand on her back.

‘Oh, lighten up. You kissed. So what? You said yourself it was nothing. So, just let it go and revel in the fact

that…’

I climb onto the bed and begin singing and dancing to ‘You kissed a boy! You kissed a boy! You kissed a boy!’

Geri grabs a cushion from the sofa and launches it at my face whilst trying to force her smile back down. I manage to catch it.

‘Ah-ha!’ I shout as we launch into a quick pillow fight.

‘Oh shove off Cam!’ Geri shouts smiling, as a cushion bounces off her head.

‘So, we’re not telling Robyn?’

‘I don’t know. Not now. I’ll think about it.’

***

Stepping out of the car just outside the local woods, I’m already regretting agreeing to this dog walk. It’s grey, it’s cold, the air is still damp after an apparent downpour and leaves are slowly decomposing into mud under my Converse.

Mum opens the boot, clips the dogs onto their leashes and says, ‘Down you get.’ She hands me Jimmy, and Dad takes Rosie. We set off into the woodland walking trail. It doesn’t take long for Mum to start trailing behind us, checking work emails on her phone.

‘Come on Trace, put it down. It’s Sunday,’ Dad pleads.

‘Just a minute,’ she replies without looking up from her phone but raising her index finger.

Dad tuts and turns back.

‘So, Cam, Mum says you’re doing lighting for the Christmas thing?’

‘Only by default. No one else in sixth form knows how to use the lighting board.’

‘Still, should be fun.’

Clearly, he doesn’t know what fun is in the twenty-first century.

Dad and I get along well enough; he just tries too hard sometimes. I know it’s him making an effort to bond, but he doesn’t get that I much prefer when we’re not talking. He always seems to ask those awkward

questio— 

Oh

crap. He’s doing the look. Here it comes.

‘Any boyfriends on the horizon?’ he asks.

Perfect.

‘Um, no, not really,’ I reply, watching Jimmy take a piddle against a log.

‘Rod’s nephew’s bisexual. I could ask if he’s seeing anyone?’

‘As much as I appreciate the offer Dad, I think I’m gonna pass. Not really the arranged-marriage type.’

Dad reacts with an overdramatic laugh, as if I’ve just invented the knock-knock joke. This is it: the trying too hard.

About halfway into our walk, we’re coming up to the crossing paths. The trees part and I spot the cutest Labrador puppy being walked by its owners. As I gawk and smile at the puppy, I forget to glance up at the owners and do the ‘cute dog’ smile as we approach one another.

I notice sandy-coloured Timberland boots ploughing into the leaves. The puppy’s red lead runs up past fitted black jeans that hug long, toned legs. A green woolly jumper pokes through a dangling burgundy scarf and black winter jacket. As my gaze slides up his neck and passes his ears, his blue eyes cut through the grey mood of the sky and instantly capture my soul. Still not caught looking, I imagine running my fingers through his dark brown, swoopy hair. My mouth runs dry and I have to blink myself out of fixation. I look over to the person he’s walking with. Based on the age difference, I’m going to assume she’s his mother.

As the pair get closer, Dad and I slow our pace to let them pass in front. I put my right hand in my pocket, trying to look even a little bit cool. However, the dog’s poo bags stick to my sweating palms like cling film. My eyes latch onto his like magnets. The world slows down. Leaves gently fall behind him out of focus, as the wind slowly flicks up his fringe. He slides his fingers through his quiff to correct it. As our eyes linger, the crook of his mouth lifts into a smile to reveal dimpled cheeks. My knees start to buckle. I wonder if I should look away or smile back. I go to remove my hand from my pocket, but the poo bags are lacquered to my palm.

‘Oof!’ Mum grunts as she crashes into Dad and I.

‘Watch where you’re going Trace!’ Dad says as he turns to prop Mum up.

I look back at the guy as my cheeks warm into a rosy blush. He’s looking at Mum and Dad being chaotic. His smile cracks as he tries to discreetly chuckle to himself. He looks at me. I smile and raise my eyebrows in desperation.

‘Sorry. Moooorning!’ Mum blasts at the pair as they pass us.

‘Good morning,’ replies the mother.

Jimmy falls behind, watching the puppy trot away. I do a subtle head turn just to glimpse again, even just for a millisecond. He’s not looking back, but it seems like he could have been. That, or I’m just seeing what I want to see. I know I haven’t seen this guy around school. I would’ve remembered those eyes.

***

‘Cam! Dinner!’ shouts Dad from downstairs.

‘I’ll be down in a minute!’

I’ve spent the last hour sieving through the sixth-form community page and the hashtag on Instagram trying to find this guy, but no luck. Charley College is two towns over. I doubt he’d have travelled that far for a dog walk if he goes to Charley. I’ve definitely never seen him in school before. I’d have remembered those dimples!

‘What’re we having?’ I ask, coming into the dining room.

‘Roast lamb,’ Mum replies, emerging through the doorway with a roast still spitting from the oven.

‘Again?! This is the third week running.’

‘Yes, well, you can blame your father for getting four pieces from the butcher,’ Mum says, side-eyeing Dad at the head of the table.

‘They were on offer!’

‘Four, Simon! Four! In what world would we need four pieces of lamb?! Our freezer’s not that bloody big!’ Mum exclaims, pulling off her oven gloves and patting them down on the table next to her. She whips up a carving knife and stabs the meat with a fork.

Dad’s eyes widen at the sight. ‘Alright! Well, I won’t go to the butcher’s next time, then.’

‘Yes, good. Please don’t.’

‘What’ve you been doing all afternoon son?’ asks Dad, shovelling a Yorkshire pudding into his mouth.

Mum slaps the back of his head.

‘What?!’ Dad replies in a high pitch.

‘The book I’m reading says we should leave space for our sons to tell us what they do. We shouldn’t ask. What Cameron does in his own time is his own business,’ Mum says, as she takes a mouthful of lamb and peas.

‘For the record, I wasn’t masturbating,’ I say.

Mum spits her peas across the table and Dad coughs up some gravy.

George watches Mum’s peas bounce onto his plate before he erupts into laughter.

‘Cameron!’ Dad says, glaring.

Mum dabs her lips with a napkin like the perfect middle-class woman she’s trying to be. ‘I think what your father meant to ask is, how’s your coursework coming along?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I reply, poking my fork around the plate.

I hate dinner talk. I’d much rather we sat in silence or just put the TV on. Mum has this thing about Sunday lunch being ‘family time.’ Like we don’t have enough bloody ‘family time’ during the week.

‘Just fine? What about chemistry?’ she prods.

‘That’s less coursework and more exams, so there’s not much going on there.’

Apart from Mr Powell’s bulging biceps.

‘George, how did your mock exam go this week?’ Mum asks.

George looks up with his cheeks full of roast potatoes. ‘Ninety-eight out of 100,’ he mumbles.

‘That’s fantastic, sweetie! But still, you can get that 100, I know you can.’ Mum points across the table.

George raises his eyebrows and rolls his eyes when Mum’s not looking.

I lose track of the conversation. My mind slips into a haze of replaying the stranger in the woods. Running my eyes up and down the memory of his slender physique, his masculine boots turning up leaves as he makes strides with those

muscly…

‘Cameron, your father’s speaking to you.’

‘Huh, oh.

Yeah… fine

Dad,’ I reply, coming out of my daydream.

As soon as I’m out, I’m back in again. There’s a longing forming in the pit of my

stomach—a

hunger almost. No matter how many roast potatoes I smother in gravy and devour, it doesn’t subside. I need to get a grip.

2

FIREWORKS

‘Want a burger, Cam?!’ shouts Mum from across the village field.

‘I’m fine,’ I call back.

I am hungry, but Bonfire Night is an opportunity to escape the family.

‘Why is it so bloody cold?’ Robyn asks, joining Geri and I.

‘I know it’s tradition, but can we just go back to mine?’ I say, pushing my gloves down into the gaps of my fingers.

‘Where’s your sense of adventure Cam?’ Geri says, readjusting her green woolly hat.

‘I will stay until the fireworks, then I’m gone.’

‘Suit yourself.’

I fold my arms and vigorously rub my underdeveloped biceps with a shiver.

‘Alright you three?’ a voice comes from behind us in a velvety tone.

‘Hi Noel!’ Robyn barks as her face lights up like a Christmas tree.

Geri forces an awkward smile before pulling out her phone.

‘Alright?’ I say.

‘You guys up for bumper cars?’ he asks.

‘You betcha!’ says Robyn, pointing and flicking her fingers like she’s a cowgirl.

Geri and I have to take a moment to peel our eyes away from just how terrible Robyn is at normal interaction with him. Geri clutches my arm to acknowledge what we’re both thinking.

Robyn chews Noel’s ear off about their presenting slots, while Geri and I fall a few steps behind.

‘You’re seeing this, right?’ Geri whispers through gritted teeth like she’s a talking wax figure.

‘It’s like a car crash. I should look away, but I can’t help but watch.’

Reaching the bumper cars, Robyn pulls Noel by his arm and into a free car.

‘Prepare for a bumpy ride, you two!’ Noel shouts across to Geri and I.

Oh, Christ… He’s basically just challenged Geri. Her expression morphs into her ‘oh, it’s on’ face. She slams her phone into my chest and my gloved hands muddle to catch