Solitaire. Alice Oseman

Lot as if it wanted to join in our gossip and offer its views about celebrity Twitter rows and the current political climate. I noted to myself that I should probably start collecting cats, seeing as they are very likely to be my sole companions in ten years’ time.

      “My spirit animal would so be a cat,” said Becky.

      Lauren nodded. “Cats are Britain’s national animal.”

      “My boyfriend has a cat called Steve,” said Evelyn. “Isn’t that an excellent name for a cat? Steve.”

      Becky rolled her eyes. “Evelyn. Dude. When are you going to tell us who your boyfriend is?”

      But Evelyn just smiled and pretended to be embarrassed.

      I peered into the dark eyes of the cat. It met my gaze thoughtfully. “Do you remember when some lady got caught on camera dumping a cat into a brown bin and it made national news?”

      Every single prank so far has been photographed and displayed on the Solitaire blog.

      Anyway.

      Today is Friday. People are beginning to find it less funny as Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’ has been stuck on repeat all day over the tannoy. I used to have a small obsession with this song, and I am coming extremely close to slitting my wrists with my scissors and it’s only 10.45am. I’m still not quite sure how Solitaire is managing to do all this as Zelda and her prefects have been patrolling the school ever since Wednesday’s clocks fiasco.

      I’m sitting at a table playing chess on my phone during a free period, iPod blasting some Radiohead song into my ears to block out the vomit-inducing music. The common room has only a scattering of people, mostly Year 13s revising for January retakes. Miss Strasser is overseeing the room because, during lesson times, the common room is reserved for people revising and silence is mandatory. This is why I like this room. Except today. Strasser’s hung a spare school jumper over the tannoy speaker, but it’s not doing much.

      In the corner of the common room, Becky and Ben are sitting together. They are not doing any work, and they are both smiling. Becky keeps tucking her hair behind her ears. Ben takes Becky’s hand and starts to draw on it. I look away. So long, Jack.

      Someone taps me on the shoulder, so suddenly that I have a miniature spasm. I take my headphones out of my ears and swivel round.

      Lucas stands before me. Every time we passed in the corridors this week, he gave me these weird little waves. Or smiles. I don’t know, the sort of smiles where you scrunch up your face and in any other context people would wonder whether there was something wrong with you. Anyway, right now, he has his bag slung over one shoulder and in his other arm he has a pile of at least seven books.

      “Hi,” he says, just above a whisper.

      “Hi,” I say. There’s a short pause, before I follow up with: “Er, do you want to sit here?”

      Embarrassment pours over his face, but he quickly replies, “Yeah, thanks.” He pulls out the chair next to me, dumps his bag and books on the desk and sits down.

      I’ve still got my phone in my hand and I’m just kind of staring at him.

      He sticks a hand into his bag and withdraws a Sprite can. He places it in front of me, like a cat would place a half-chewed mouse in front of its owner.

      “I was at the shop at break,” he says, without looking me in the eye. “Is lemonade still your favourite?”

      “Er …” I look down at the Sprite can, not quite sure what to make of it. I do not point out that Sprite is not real lemonade or diet. “Erm, yeah, it is. Thanks, that’s, er, really nice of you.”

      Lucas nods and turns away. I open the Sprite, take a sip, replace my headphones and return to my game. After only three more moves, I have to remove my headphones again.

      “You’re playing chess?” he asks. I hate questions that need not be asked.

      “Erm, yes.”

      “Do you remember chess club?”

      Lucas and I were members of our primary-school chess club. We played each other every time and not once could I beat him. I always threw a tantrum whenever I lost. God, I used to be a twat.

      “No,” I say. I lie a lot for no reason. “No, I don’t.”

      He pauses and for a moment I think he sees through me, but he’s too embarrassed to push it.

      “You have a lot of books,” I say. As if he wasn’t aware of this.

      He nods, smiling awkwardly. “I like to read. And I’ve just been in the library.”

      I recognise all the titles, but of course I haven’t read any of them. T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers, John Fowles’ The Collector and Jane Austen’s Emma.

      “So what are you reading now?” I ask. The books at least provide a topic of conversation.

      “The Great Gatsby,” he says. “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

      “What’s that about?”

      “It’s about …” He pauses to think. “It’s about someone who’s in love with a dream.”

      I nod as if I understand. I don’t. I don’t know a single thing about literature, despite studying it for A level.

      I pick up Emma. “Does this mean you actually like Jane Austen?” We’re still studying Pride and Prejudice in class. It’s soul-destroying and not in a good way. Do not read it.

      He tilts his head as if it’s a deeply serious question. “You sound surprised.”

      “I am. Pride and Prejudice is dreadful. I can barely get past the first chapter.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “It’s the literary equivalent of a poorly cast romcom.”

      Someone gets up and tries to walk past us, so we both have to tuck in our chairs a little.

      Lucas is looking at me very carefully. I don’t like it.

      “You’re so different,” he says, shaking his head and squinting at me.

      “I may have grown a few centimetres since I was eleven.”

      “No, it’s—” He stops himself.

      I put down my phone. “What? It’s what?”

      “You’re more serious.”

      I don’t ever remember not being serious. As far as I’m concerned, I came out of the womb spouting cynicism and wishing for rain.

      I’m not really sure how to reply. “I’m, well, I am possibly the least funny person since Margaret Thatcher.”

      “No, but you were always dreaming up all these imaginary games. Like our Pokémon battles. Or the secret base you made out of the cornered-off section of the playground.”

      “Would you like to have a Pokémon battle?” I fold my arms. “Or am I too unimaginative for that?”

      “No.” He’s digging himself into a hole and it’s actually quite funny to watch. “I … oh, I don’t know.”

      I raise my eyebrows. “Quit while you’re ahead. I’m boring now. I’m a lost cause.”

      I instantly wish I’d just shut up. I always do this thing where I accidentally say self-deprecating stuff that makes other people feel really awkward, especially when it’s true. I start to wish I’d never offered to let him sit with me. He quickly returns to the work he’d got out of his bag.

      ‘Material Girl’ is still playing over and over.