Trapped Between

After I had delivered the bags of vegetables to my mum, who was now wearing her Ready Steady Cook apron, I excused myself and headed back up to my bedroom. I sat at my desk, nudged the touchpad and watched my laptop screen ping back into life. The newspaper article I had been reading before my odd trip to the market was still there. I skimmed through the rest of the article and moved the cursor up to the cross in the top right hand corner, as I did I noticed a couple of other names in the final paragraph.

This is yet another disturbing suicide to plague Newlington School. We all remember eight years ago when sixteen year old Sherrie Hoyle took her own life before sitting her G.C.S.E examinations, and who can forget the disturbing death of Andrew Clayton who jumped in front of an express train in 1998?

I clicked the cursor on the cross and shut my laptop down. I felt nauseas again. I hadn’t even thought about the Sherrie Hoyle case, and Andrew Clayton was pretty much before my time. I hadn’t really known David Pearson either but I still felt a sense of grief when I read their names and how they had taken their own lives. I couldn’t understand how things could ever get so bad that a teenager would choose to die rather than deal with their issues.

I ran back down to the kitchen to rustle together a sandwich, it was all I felt I could squeeze in alongside the stones. My mum was too engrossed in the recipe and mass of pots and pans to chat so she absentmindedly waved at me as I dashed back upstairs with my mediocre looking lunch. I stuck my iPod in its dock, cranked up the volume and got my school books out. If anything was going to quash the uncomfortable combination of nausea and anticipation it was school work

I looked at my watch. I couldn’t believe it. It was half past four already. If I was really going to do this I needed to go now.

I hated being deceitful to my mum and dad but could I really tell them I was going out to meet a boy I’d never spoken to before, and actually never seen before, until this morning? So I tucked my library copy of the Divine Comedy under my arm and made up a story of wanting to swap it for another text before Monday and if I went now I’d make it just before it closed. My mum glanced up at the kitchen clock and made me promise to be back by six, she knew full well how long I could be once I was surrounded by books; I nodded energetically and headed out, shutting the front door securely behind me.

I tried to keep my mind busy with other things as I walked the familiar path up to the park but I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the conflict of emotions whirling around inside me. I felt edgy and nervous about seeing the strange grey boy again but at the same time I felt that heading up to the park was the right thing to do. I couldn’t explain it but I somehow knew I needed to do this.

At five to five I was stood at the main gate to the park. The Divine Comedy was shoved under my arm, looking as bulky and awkward as the pineapple had earlier. I took a deep breath, pushed the heavy gate open and headed in the direction of the memorial.

I felt foolish as I jumped at the sound of a bird in the overhead trees. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down but I felt too wired. Did my feet usually crunch this loudly on the gravel? Did my heart usually thump this manically in my chest? By the time I was nearly at the memorial I had managed to convince myself that I had got the wrong end of the stick and that I was stupid to think I was heading towards a secret rendezvous in the park with a stranger. I rounded the last corner.

I was wrong.

He was there.

He was sat against the monument, underneath the list of names that remembered those who had died in both World Wars. He was completely motionless, like he had been carved out of the grey block back when the memorial had first been made. He had obviously heard my approach because he was staring intently in the direction I emerged from. As soon as he saw me he jumped up into his feet, an expression of total disbelief on his face.

I stopped about ten feet away, feeling awkward as I shifted the heavy book under my arm.

This close I could see that he was, without doubt, the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my life. He still had his leather jacket on that I’d seen him in at the market, but now that I was so much closer to him I could see the detail of his clothes beneath. His grey tee shirt looked soft, like the cotton had been worn and washed a million times and its neckline was frayed and loose. His jeans, which were fastened with a leather belt, grey of course, hung low around his slim hips and the hems were ripped like they’d got caught under his trainers as he walked. His jacket was unzipped but it still fit snuggly around his lean body and broad shoulders. He looked effortlessly cool, like the lead singer from a band. Even though I had somehow absorbed every detail of what he was wearing in about three seconds flat, it wasn’t his clothes that ripped the breath out of my lungs and left me gasping for air.

It was his face.

It was like my vision had sharpened, tuned in to high definition, and I could see every minute detail of his pale face. His mouth, which was turned up in a mystified half smile was full lipped and slightly open showing a picture-perfect set of white teeth. His nose was straight and narrow and slightly scrunched up which added to the look of puzzlement. His ash coloured hair was dishevelled and hung across his forehead framing wide set grey eyes that were perfectly edged by long black lashes. His cheeks bones were cut high making his pale face look angled and hard, yet his eyes, so full of wonder and astonishment, softened him in a way that I could only gawp at. Dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, as if he had struggled to sleep the night before, but they didn’t detract from the perfection of his face, they only seemed to add to the beauty of it.

He was unbelievably beautiful, yet as unbelievable as he was there was still something about him that made me feel on edge, apprehensive about talking another step.

The bewildered expression on his face melted away and his face opened up into the most breath taking smile I had ever seen. Hot as hell, I heard Jess’ voice exclaim in my head. My anxiety seemed to fade away as quickly as his expression altered and I found myself confidently walking up to the bench. He raised a thick but perfectly shaped eye brow when he noticed the bulky Dante under my arm, feeling foolish I placed it down blindly on the end of the bench. I was unable to tear my eyes away from his face.

His smile seemed to falter as he waited for me to say something but I had no idea what to say. I didn’t know what I was doing here; I didn’t even know who he was. What did he expect me to say?

Finally, just as the silence which seemed to be deafening, was getting beyond awkward, he spoke.

“Hello,” he said, and his voice was low and rough. He sounded local and this had me wondering how I didn’t know who he was yet again. “I’m so glad you saw me today.”

I was perplexed. I didn’t get it. Why on earth would he be glad that I’d seen him when we didn’t know each other?

“Erm, okay,” I squeaked around the stones which had once again pushed their way up into my throat, choking me.

“I feel like I’ve been hanging round for an eternity waiting for something to happen and it finally did today.” He looked pleased.

“Erm, okay.” Damn it Beth, I cringed internally, I needed to get a better response sharpish or this conversation, and this unbelievably gorgeous boy, were going to vanish as quickly as they had arrived. “So, what were you doing at the market?” I went for breezy but my voice sounded off, too forced, too dry.

He paused and the look of confusion filtered back into his features. Either he wasn’t going to tell me, or he simply didn’t get the question. I cleared my throat preparing to ask it again. “What were you-?”

“What’s your name?” He asked before I was able to finish my question for the second time.

“Elizabeth Sutton.”

What? Why had I told him my real name? It was like my mouth had released the words before my head had had the chance to remember my dad’s rule, never tell a stranger the truth about who you are.

“Well, Elizabeth Sutton,” he said with a confident smile stretching over his perfect teeth. “Will you tell me something about yourself?”

His voice was mesmerising, the way he said my name was like listening to music. The combination of his face and his voice was overpowering my ability to think straight and my mouth opened without my consent again.

Before I knew what I was doing, a torrent of information about myself, far more than you should tell someone you know, let alone a stranger, flowed out. By the time I managed to shut my mouth, I’d not only told him my name but that my closest friend was called Jess, and that only her and my family were allowed to call me Beth.

I’d told him where I lived and what A Levels I was taking. I’d told him about ‘Limbo’ stood in all its monstrous glory next to the school doors. I’d told him about Jess’ desperation to go and watch the boys play stupid football the next day. I’d told him that I could drive but the insurance was too expensive on my dad’s car so I either walked or cycled everywhere. I’d even told him about Mum’s dinner that she was probably adding the finishing touches to right about now.

I couldn’t believe it.

I kept my lips clamped together disbelief. What was wrong with me? What on earth had possessed me to say all of that? I stared down at my hands, embarrassed as hell and picked at the cracked, green paint on the bench. But the weirdest thing was I’d wanted to tell him all that stuff. I felt like I wanted, no, that wasn’t enough to describe what I was feeling, I felt like I needed him to know me.

“Can I see you again, Elizabeth?” I peeked up at him and his megawatt lead singer smile hit me with full force and I had to gather up every ounce of my self-control not to simper out loud at both his smile and the fact he wanted to see me again.

“Beth.” I corrected him and his smile seemed to stretch even wider. I tentatively smiled back and nodded, shyly, in response to his question. “Yes, you can see me again.”

“And considering we haven’t talked about Dante at all, don’t feel the need to bring the book with you next time.” He chuckled, a carefree laugh, and I felt the oh-so-familiar feeling of flaming blood bubble up its usual path to my cheeks. I thought about offering him my lame library excuse, but it didn’t bother.

And then, whilst I had by face turned down to hide my blush, just like in the dreams I have where once the rock god who has finally noticed me in the crowd disappears off the stage, I looked up to find that the boy in grey had vanished.

I walked through the front door and quickly bunged the Divine Comedy behind the shoe rack, just as my mum was summoning everyone to the table. Everyone meant me and my dad. My sister, Laura, had finished her Degree and Masters and moved straight in with her boyfriend, so it was only the three of us who sat down to eat at the table in the kitchen.

My mum and dad were bursting with pride as they told me they had seen my picture on the school website and that they couldn’t believe I hadn’t told them about it. The rest of the meal was eaten accompanied by my detached commentary about ‘Limbo’, and my dad’s polite compliments about the weird meal my mum had provided us with. Even though my mind was still under the war memorial I managed to tell them about what my sculpture represented an about how I had actually managed to create a sculpture that stood over ten feet tall.

After dinner I offered to dry the pots and let my mum and dad’s conversation about the cars MOT wash over me. I followed my parents into the sitting room and snuggled down on the sofa next to my mum to watch Saturday night trash. I didn’t usually sit downstairs and watch TV but I wasn’t quite ready for the quiet stillness of my room, or the thoughts I was working so hard to push to the back of my head.

A couple of hours later, and after I’d dodged an awkward question from my dad about what books I had took out, my mum yawned and said she was heading up to bed. I knew Dad wouldn’t go up much later, so with a heavy feeling of unease that I’d managed to ignore all night, I said my goodnights and plodded up the stairs.

I got ready for bed quickly, flicked of the light and slipped under the covers. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep easily so I reached my arm out into the darkness and grabbed my iPod from the bedside cabinet. I pulled my headphones on and set the volume to low. I tried not to let myself think too hard about anything other than the music as I settled back down into my pillow and shut my eyes. I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep filled with the sounds of guitars and the dreams of stone monuments, young lives wasted and piercing grey eyes.

Sunday morning broke through my curtains with an unexpected brightness. The sun was shining like a dazzling disc of gold, already high, against the grey cotton sky and I realised I must have slept in. In the bright light of day the events of yesterday, or what I thought had happened yesterday, didn’t seem as foreboding as they had done last night. A new kid, I frowned when I realised I didn’t know his name, had obviously moved into the area recently and just needed a friend. I nodded, satisfying myself that that was indeed what had happened, as I pulled on my jeans and one of Laura’s old Uni hoodies.

Downstairs all was quiet. My mum had left a note in the kitchen saying that they hadn’t wanted to wake me when I was so fast on and that they had gone to Hammond’s Garden Centre. The garden centre was at the retail park about twenty miles away so I knew they’d be out most of the day. I poured a bowl of cereal and was surprised when I looked at the clock to see it was more like lunch time. I retrieved the Divine Comedy from behind the shoe rack and headed back upstairs with my breakfast-come-brunch.

Who was he?

No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to him than just a new kid who had recently moved to Newlington. I spent the next hour sifting through photos on the Facebook and Twitter pages of my friends, and when they came up blank I looked through anyone’s round my age from Newlington who had their account set to public access.

Someone must know him.

No one did.

Jess’s personal ringtone rang out from my phone and stirred me from my feverish hunting. I ignored it. I felt guilty but I didn’t know what to say to her if she asked what I’d been up to the day before. What could I say? Oh, you know the usual. I chatted with a weird boy dressed all in grey who was talking to me one second and then disappeared the next. It sounded ridiculous even to me.

My phone went off again dragging me out of my reverie. It was a text message this time, surprise surprise, from Jess. She said was going to watch and she fully expected me to be there to help grade the hotness of the boys.

What?

It took me a full minute to bring my head back round from the ridiculous to reality, she meant the football match against the Stanton All Boys School, of course. I launched my phone across my room without replying; it bounced a couple of times and came to a stop amongst the pile of chicken wire and rolls of masking tape. Going to watch a football match and chat boys with Jess was the last thing I wanted to do. Her categories of hotness had paled into insignificance, hot as hell seemed rather average in comparison to him.

Instead I threw myself into my philosophy essay, the question was physical life after death is impossible, to what extent do you agree? I managed to sneak in a quote from the damn Dante I still had in my possession. I’d need to somehow sneak it back out with me in the morning and drop it off at the library on the way home from school or I’d be forced to make up another awkward lie if my mum and dad saw I still had it, and I didn’t like lying to them.

I’m not sure why, but the next day when Jess had got over my failure to turn up at the match and had asked me what I’d done over the weekend instead of hang out with her, I lied. It seemed that being dishonest to important people in my life was becoming a little too easy. But Jess, being typical Jess, accepted my tale that I’d gone to the garden centre with my mum and dad without question.

In our usual Monday morning assembly, Mr. Sharpe had suggested how fitting it would be if the A Level art students worked together to make a commemorative sculpture to remember David Pearson and the other two students who had died under such similar and tragic circumstances. So in Art, first period, Mrs. Ashburn put us into small groups to come up with initial ideas for the piece. Claire Peters and Ian Smedley, who made up the rest of my group, began discussing ideas straight away.

“What do you think, Elizabeth?” Claire’s question brought me out of my day dream of grey eyes and wide, white-toothed smiles. I cleared my throat out of embarrassment.

“Erm, I’m not sure.”

“Oh come on, Elizabeth,” Ian gushed through his grin, which stood out in contrast next to Claire’s sour expression. “You and your work have been all over the school website all weekend. If anyone is going to have a great idea it is you.”

“Look, Claire, Ian,” my response came out sharply, more severe than I meant it to as I turned to look at them each in turn. “I didn’t know David Pearson, and none of us are old enough to have actually known Sherrie Hoyle and Andrew Clayton, so I’ve got no idea how to create a sculpture that embodies teenage suicide, okay?”

They both gasped, shocked by my outburst. Claire raised her eyebrows and blew out a long irritated breath as she turned away from me and Ian’s face crumpled, he looked crestfallen. I mashed lips together in a thin, straight line, trying to get a hold on my emotions. I knew deep down why I was short tempered, on top of the underlying horror I felt about these kids who had killed themselves, I had to accept that I was facing a lost cause. I had promised to see him again, but I didn’t know when and I didn’t know where to find him even if I did. I could feel myself tightening; my whole body seemed to be quivering under the tension, heading towards a snap.

That was pretty much how the rest of the day went. I was short tempered and stressed with everyone, and by the end of school, even Jess was giving me a wide berth.

When the final bell rang I rammed my head phones on and set off to the town library. Once I was tucked in between the dusty and gloomy philosophy shelves I felt myself calm down.

I loved this place.

I loved the feel of the books which were so worn and battered from previous readers who, like me, were desperately trying to and understand what life was all about. I traded Dante for a book about Buddhist teachings on karma and headed for the automatic doors. It had started to drizzle outside and I unravelled my hood from my collar choosing to walk home rather than wait for the bus with a load of kids from school.

I took the short cut through the market. All the stalls, which stayed set up throughout the week, were empty. I kicked an empty crisp packet out of my path and pulled my hood up over my head, trying in desperation to prevent the inevitable frizz that was bound to have attacked before I got home. My peripheral vision caught something moving through the drizzle on the far side of the market. I peered through the rain trying to focus on what it was.

It was him.

The boy in grey.

Relief flooded through me. I didn’t have the impossible task of trying to find him, he had found me. Then just as quick as the relief had crashed over me it drew back like the waters that recede before the first wave of a tsunami. Once it had withdrawn I felt just like some kind of marine animal, floundering without its life giving water. I was struggling to move, struggling to breathe. He had found me and I suddenly wasn’t so sure that I wanted to know what he wanted from me. I sucked a ragged breath into my gasping lungs and squinted once again through the downpour.

He was stood under the same sign, and just like on Saturday he was holding up his hand, fingers outstretched.

Five.

It was the same message as last time and I felt the tide inside me shift and change. I had accepted his first meeting, I had agreed to a second, and I knew without a doubt that I was going to go through with it. I checked my watch. I had been so long immersed in the books in the library that I was shocked to see it was already quarter to. I peered out through the drizzle but he had vanished again.

Suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Should I go?

The heavy feeling in my belly was still there, it was familiar to me now, but I found knowing that he wanted to see me made me somehow stomach it a little easier. I had wanted to see him again; I had felt a strange sense of loss when I’d thought finding him was a hopeless case. It was like the last forty odd hours had been skewwhiff and seeing him again had stood things back up nice and straight.

I heaved my school bag further up my shoulder, my mum and dad wouldn’t be back from work for another half an hour or so, so I wouldn’t have to come up with anymore lies.

There was no time for any more umming and ahhing, and if I was honest, I didn’t need any, my mind had been made up since the moment I saw him again.

I yanked my hood up further still, swallowed down the ball of nerves in my throat and set off towards the memorial.