Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
BENJI
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO - JULY
Miles is being a dick. Again.
He said we’d all come to this thing alone.
No girls. No dates. Just us boys. He said we’d all stick together — no hooking up, no pulling — but we’ve not even been here an hour and he’s already chatting up Lisa Walsh in the corner.
Not that I wanted him to chat me up. That ship has long sailed.
I just don’t like how he made us all agree to something that he’s not adhering to himself.
Fine. Maybe, maybe I wanted him to lust after me for a change. For him to show even a slither of regret that we ended the way we ended. Just so I could shove it back in his face, not so I could indulge it.
Not that I had a better offer for Leaver’s Ball. Not after D— turned me down.
My eyes drift once more to where she’s standing in a cluster with Raquelle and a handful of other Art and English Lit students.
The alternative kids, I guess somebody would call them.
And yeah, they do dress alternatively and I don’t always know the music they listen to, or understand the references they make and most of their jokes fly over my head, but not one of them is as cool as D—.
Not one of them carries themselves with the same innate confidence, self-assuredness and presence that D— has.
I feel somewhat qualified to say this after I’ve spent the last six months looking at her far too closely.
That’s why I had to tell her how good she looked.
I know I will move on from this pathetic schoolboy crush as soon as I leave for university, but I just couldn’t not tell her how much that suit, well, suited her.
It embodies her confidence and her ‘fuck you’ attitude that others may think is rude, but I suspect comes from a different source, one more fragile and vulnerable.
It hurts me more than I’ve admitted to myself that I’ll never find out what exactly the reason is that D— keeps her distance from people.
But I will get over it. If I can move past Miles and his sloppy kisses and secret trysts, I know I can get over a girl I haven’t even held hands with.
At least, I think I can. But now, as I watch D— cross the sports hall and disappear down the corridor that leads to changing rooms and toilets, I don’t know if I’ll ever forget her summer peaches smell that was just now mixed with a new muskier, earthier smell, her too infrequent smiles and those big brown eyes that I swear have hypnotic powers.
“What are you looking at?” Miles bumps into me as he appears at my side. I can smell vodka on his breath and it turns my stomach. “Raquelle? I wouldn’t bother with her.”
“What’s your problem with her?” I turn to question him. “Why were you such a twat to her and then act like it was all her fault that she got sad when you rejected her, again and again and again?”
Miles’ head pulls back in shock for a second but then he quickly adjusts his body language so it’s all drunken idiot once more. He leans closer to my ear and his breath is warm on my cheek, and not in a pleasant way. “Is this because you got sad when I rejected you?”
“Fuck you, Miles,” I say and push him away.
I’m about to go find myself a drink but then a far too familiar clench of my stomach has me stopping in my tracks.
I bring a hand to my belly and rub there, like that will soothe away the stabbing aches and angry gurgling that’s already started.
Fuck, I’m hardly getting any warning these days.
I should have told Maman about it, I think as I race for the toilets.
I should have told her about the blood and the pain and the way I get a temperature and cold sweats when it happens.
But she would have worried. She would have made me stop playing footie.
She would have taken me to a doctor and I just wanted to focus on my exams and football.
I just wanted to get them all done so I could then talk to her.
And yet, it’s been nearly a month since my last exam and I still haven’t said anything.
As I clutch my stomach tighter, the pain like a vice on my organs in the lower right corner of my torso, I know exactly why I haven’t told her yet.
Because I’m scared. I’m terrified. The pain is so much.
The diarrhoea is like nothing else. And I know I’ve lost a lot of weight this year and it’s not because I’m still growing.
The disabled toilet isn’t the closest one, but it is my preferred option.
I’ve long been going in there when I know I’m going to be stuck on the toilet seat for a while, and I like the way I don’t have to risk seeing any of the football lads when I emerge from a cubicle.
I can take my time. I can groan in pain if I need to.
I can just focus on what I need to do. I know it’s not very ethical of me, using a disabled toilet, but honestly how I feel right now, I would classify myself as pretty disabled.
But when I get there, the door is closed, and locked.
Desperate, I bang on the door. “Hi, hello, anyone in there?”
There’s no response but I hear the toilet flush. Thank fuck.
I feel beads of perspiration break out over my forehead as I lean my body against the closed door and try to stay conscious and upright.
If I fall over or faint — like I did once before when this happened immediately after football training — I don’t think I’d be able to get up and to the toilet in time and that … that doesn’t bear thinking about.
I thump my fist against the door again. “Please, can you hurry up!”
“Are you seriously asking a potentially disabled person to hurry up?” Comes a voice I recognise all too well.
D—.
I want to ask her what she’s doing in the disabled toilet. I want to tell her to hurry the fuck up. I want to scream at her to get out of there now. But my hands are starting to shake and I have to rest my head on the door to steady my suddenly very weak legs.
But then the door moves. I manage to step back and stay standing as D— appears in the doorway.
“Seriously,” she says, still wiping her hands on her blazer. “Should you be using—”
She stops talking as I push past her and slam the door shut, locking it haphazardly. It feels like a miracle when I crash down on the toilet, my trousers and underwear around my ankles.
And yet, I don’t feel good. Far from it.
As my body does what it needs to do, I feel like I’m dying.
It’s only because I’ve been here before that I know I’ll survive it.
It’s only because this is now a regular feature in my life that I know it’s okay to groan and moan when I need to, that in some strange way, it helps.
It’s only because it’s happened many times before that I know to wait and wait and wait until many minutes have passed without a spasm or another stab of pain.
It’s only because this apparently is my life now that I don’t recoil with every horrific, disgusting noise my body makes.
When I’m done, I flush multiple times. I wash my hands for many minutes and with a lot of soap as if that will cleanse me of the pain and distress and shame.
I start to pray that nobody is walking past when I open the door and leave because there isn’t a chance in hell that the smell won’t leave with me.
With my hand on the door’s lock, I take many deep breaths. I glance briefly at the mirror and see a little colour has returned to my cheeks when the last time I looked at my reflection I was ghostly white. Finally, I feel ready.
And when I open the door, I find D— Ravel waiting for me. My shoulders sink as I notice her arms folded with what appears to be impatience, but then I notice her forehead, which is definitely creased with something like concern.