Chapter 38
I’m about to start the engine when a new school app notification pings on my phone for Leo. Which is always a source of delight at the moment. The last three have amounted to one detention for failing to submit a piece of coursework, another detention for forgetting about the first one, then a third – for two hours on a Saturday morning – for remembering both but not bothering to go anyway.
Leo’s attitude to this is to compare the school to a loan shark. His argument is that, while his initial debt was of little consequence, their now punishing demands are out of all proportion. I take his point but it’s not getting him closer to gaining any qualifications and if he doesn’t break this cycle and serve his time, at this rate he’ll be facing a spell in juvie by the summer break.
I open the notification with weary resignation and discover that it’s his school report. An important one by all accounts, because this contains the results of his first mock exams. Gone are the days when a student would have to come home – proud, shamefaced or otherwise – and hand over a paper version of this. Now, there is no opportunity for cunning pupils to doctor their progress with a contraband bottle of Tippex and pass themselves off as a child prodigy. These days, teachers communicate directly, so there’s no escape. I click on the link. And the results are . . . surprising .
He has top grades in Maths, Geography and Computer Science – subjects he has apparently mastered with his eyes closed. There are a couple of average ones, such as English Literature, which is a feat given I’m not aware that he’s actually read a book in the last 12 months. Finally, there are some that I can only describe as, well, abysmal. Contrary to what he thinks, you do actually need to draw the odd picture to be awarded a GCSE in Art. I have a pretty clear overview of what’s going on here before I even read the comments by his year tutor.
‘Leo is an extremely able and intelligent student, as the grades he achieves in some subjects demonstrate. He is a pleasant and popular boy, but there is an overriding feeling that he will be doing himself a great disservice in the forthcoming exams if he fails to apply even a modicum of effort. Well done on all you’ve achieved so far, Leo. But I can’t underline this enough: it’s now time for some serious application.’
I sit back and look at the windscreen, with one question running through my mind.
What would Philippa Perry say?
How do you deal with a boy who clearly might be capable of gaining a PhD one day if only he had the slightest care about any of it? I shake the thought from my head. Give him a break! There’s so much to be optimistic about here.
He’s got As! That’s what these ‘9’ grades are in old money, isn’t it? So he must have tried a bit . And even if he didn’t, how could I be anything other than delighted that he’s such a massive clever clogs?
I drive home feeling uplifted, which is quite something given my pounding headache and the tangy, ammoniac whiff drifting in from the boot. I rehearse all the words of encouragement I’m going to say when I get home. That I’m so, so proud of him. That I love him. That I’m going to pick him up from school tomorrow and treat the three of us to a trip to Wagamama’s. Not to celebrate exactly – we don’t want to tempt fate before the real exams – but certainly to underline how proud he should be of himself.
As I turn down our street, I wonder if I should take him shopping at the weekend to buy him some new clothes. I could push the boat out and get one of those ludicrously priced coats he loves, the ones that all the yobs wear while hanging around outside off-licences. I pull into the driveway, let Jacob and myself in, and abandon the sock bag by the front door.
‘Leo!’ I call up.
There’s no immediate response from his room because he’s playing an online game with his friends. I know this because I can hear them all yelling the usual terms of encouragement and endearment to each other, such as, ‘ Why are you doing that, you knobhead? ’
I skip up the stairs.
‘Leo!’
I knock on his door and hear him say something, but I’m not sure whether it’s ‘Coming, Mother, just one moment!’ or ‘Take cover, you melt!’, so I open up.
In the immediate moments before I fully comprehend the scene, I am still beaming like Julie Andrews about to burst into song, full of intentions to be the kind, encouraging parent I always thought I’d be. All I can see is a boy wearing headphones, exchanging a jolly stream of abuse with his mates in an averagely disgusting teenage bedroom, the floor so untidy that finding anything is like one of those Where’s Wally? games.
The first thing that wipes the smile off my face is the vape pen, hanging out of Leo’s mouth and filling the room with a sickly-sweet smell. The next is the bottle beside him, a Sauvignon Blanc that I bought from Waitrose because it was awarded a gold star in the Vintners awards. It’s sitting next to his ‘Dunder Mifflin’ mug, about a third gone.
Finally, I register Leo’s eyes. The pure electric panic behind them.
‘ GET OUT! ’
He leaps to his feet and squares up to me at the threshold, making me gasp.
‘Don’t shout at me like that!’ I say because, even though the shock nearly knocked the breath out of me, nobody is going to tell me what to do in my own house.
‘WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?’ he yells, his face reddening. ‘CAN’T I HAVE ANY PRIVACY?’
Disbelief starts knocking in my chest and I feel a rush of blind outrage.
‘Do . . . NOT talk to me like that, young man,’ I reply, through gritted teeth. ‘Who DO you think you are? And would you care to explain to me EXACTLY what you think you’re doing with a bottle of wine? Have you lost your mind? ’
This speech does nothing to make him see reason.
‘Get. Out,’ he snarls, opening the door wide to invite me to go downstairs. ‘I’m asking you nicely.’
The slur in his words gives me a sudden surge of clarity. Only one of us has the capacity to de-escalate this situation. And it isn’t him.
I need to stay calm.
‘Leo. You are fifteen years old,’ I say, trying not to sound exasperated. ‘It is a Tuesday night. And you are drunk!’
‘NO, I’M NOT! DON’T BE RIDICULOUS.’
He’s now blocking the view to his gaming desk.
‘ You are! ’ I splutter, a vein throbbing somewhere in my neck. ‘You’ve got a bottle of wine in there!’
He crosses his arms. ‘No I haven’t.’
‘ I’VE JUST SEEN IT! ’
We continue in this manner for a good five minutes. He lies, he shouts and I call him out, so he shouts some more. He is beyond all reason – and I am beyond getting through to him, so broken and out of ideas that I start shouting too. The result is pyrotechnic.
I feel out of control. I feel irradiated with hormones. I feel hated .
And that’s before our final, atomic exchange, which goes like this . . .
‘Oh, why don’t you just . . . FUCK OFF!’
I gasp. Blood rushes to my head.
And I hear myself say: ‘No, YOU FUCK OFF.’
Even before Leo has slammed the door in my face, I feel a fierce rush of regret. My parenting has hit rock bottom. I’ve got nowhere else to go.
I turn around, dazed, and trudge down the stairs one by one. When I reach the bottom, I put head in my hands. I want to weep, to let it all out, but my eyes just burn and itch.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’
I look up at the sound of Jacob’s voice and see the worry on his face. It needles my heart, not least because it doesn’t feel so long ago that Leo would have behaved just like that.
How did it come to this?
‘I’m fine, sweetie,’ I say, forcing a tearful smile. ‘I’m really sorry you had to hear that.’
‘It’s not your fault, Mum.’
This makes me feel so awful – on so many levels – I don’t even know where to start. As sweet as it is, I don’t want my 10-year-old to try and make me feel better. First, because it feels disloyal to Leo, even if he does deserve it. And second, because it’s not true. It is my fault. Who else’s could it be? There’s nobody else around here to blame, that’s for sure.