Solitaire. Alice Oseman

outgrown T-shirt. Every useless board game. He kept them all in sky-high piles in his room because everything supposedly had some kind of meaning. When I asked about a particular item, he’d tell me how he found it at the beach, or how it was a hand-me-down from our nan, or how he bought it when he was six at London Zoo.

      Mum and Dad got rid of most of that rubbish when he got ill last year – I guess he sort of got obsessed with it, and he got obsessed with a whole load of other things too (mainly food and collecting things), and it really started to tear him apart – but that’s all over now. He’s better, but he’s still the same kid who thinks everything is special. That’s the sort of guy Charlie is.

      In the living room, it is extremely unclear what Charlie, his boyfriend Nick and my other brother Oliver are doing. They’ve got these cardboard boxes, and I mean there’s, like, fifty of them, piled up all over the room. Oliver, who is seven years old, appears to be directing the operation as Nick and Charlie build up the boxes to make some kind of shed-sized sculpture. The piles of boxes reach the ceiling. Oliver has to stand on the sofa to be able to oversee the entire structure.

      Eventually, Charlie walks round the small cardboard building and notices me staring in from the doorway. “Victoria!”

      I blink at him. “Shall I bother asking?”

      He gives me this look as if I should know exactly what is going on. “We’re building a tractor for Oliver.”

      I nod. “Of course. Yes. That’s very clear.”

      Nick appears. Nicholas Nelson, a Year 12 like me, is one of those laddish lads who actually is into all those stereotypical things like rugby and beer and swearing and all that, but he also has the most successful combination of name and surname I have ever heard, which makes it impossible for me to dislike him. I can’t really remember when Nick and Charlie became Nick-and-Charlie, but Nick is the only one who visited Charlie when he was ill so, in my book, he’s definitely all right.

      “Tori.” He nods at me very seriously indeed. “Good. We need more free labour.”

      “Tori, can you get the Sellotape?” Oliver calls down, except he says “thellotape” instead of “Sellotape” because he recently lost two front teeth.

      I pass Oliver the thellotape, then point towards the boxes and ask Charlie: “Where did you get all of these?”

      Charlie just shrugs and walks away saying, “They’re Oliver’s, not mine.”

      So that’s how I end up building a cardboard tractor in our living room.

      When we’re finished, Charlie, Nick and I sit inside it to admire our work. Oliver goes round the tractor with a marker pen, drawing on the wheels the mud stains and the machine guns “in case the cows join the Dark Side”. It’s sort of peaceful, to be honest. Every box has a big black arrow printed on it pointing upwards.

      Charlie is telling me about his day. He loves telling me about his day.

      “Saunders asked us who our favourite musicians were and I said Muse and three people asked me if I liked them because of Twilight. Apparently, no one believes that it is possible to have an original interest.”

      I frown. “I would like to meet a boy who has actually seen Twilight. Do you not both live in the realm of the FA Cup and Family Guy?”

      Nick sighs. “Tori, you’re generalising again.”

      Charlie rolls his head through the air towards him. “Nicholas, you mainly watch the FA Cup and Family Guy. Let’s be honest.”

      “Sometimes I watch the Six Nations.”

      We all chuckle, and then there’s a short, un-awkward silence, in which I lie down and look up at the cardboard ceiling.

      I start to tell them about today’s prank. And that leads me to thinking about Lucas and Michael Holden.

      “I met Lucas Ryan again today,” I say. I don’t mind telling this sort of stuff to Nick and Charlie. “He joined our school.”

      Nick and Charlie blink at the same time.

      “Lucas Ryan … as in primary-school Lucas Ryan?” frowns Charlie.

      “Lucas Ryan left Truham?” frowns Nick. “Balls. I was going to copy off him in our psychology mock.”

      I nod to both of them. “It was nice to see him. You know. Because we can be friends again. I guess. He was always so nice to me.”

      They both nod back. It’s a knowing sort of nod.

      “I also met some guy called Michael Holden.”

      Nick, who had been in the middle of taking a sip of tea, chokes into his cup. Charlie grins, widely, and starts to giggle.

      “What? Do you know him?”

      Nick recovers enough to speak, though still coughs every few words. “Michael fucking Holden. Shit. He’ll go down in Truham legend.”

      Charlie lowers his head, but keeps his eyes on me. “Don’t become friends with him. He’s probably insane. Everyone avoided him at Truham because he’s mentally disturbed.”

      Patting Charlie on the knee, Nick says, “Then again, I made friends with a mental person and that turned out pretty spectacular.”

      Charlie snorts and slaps away Nick’s hand.

      “Do you remember when he tried to get everyone to do a flash mob for the Year 11 prank?” says Nick. “And in the end he just did it by himself on the lunch tables?”

      “What about when he gave a speech on the injustice of authority for his Year 12 prefect speech?” says Charlie. “Just because he got detention for having that argument with Mr Yates during his mock exams!” Both he and Nick laugh heartily.

      This confirms my suspicion that Michael Holden is not the sort of person with whom I would like to be friends. Ever.

      Charlie looks up at Nick. “He’s gay, isn’t he? I heard he’s gay.”

      Nick shrugs. “Well, I heard that he figure skates, so it’s not entirely impossible.”

      “Hm.” Charlie frowns. “I thought we knew all the Truham gays.”

      They pause and both look at me.

      “Look,” says Nick, gesturing sincerely to me with one hand, “Lucas Ryan’s a cool guy. But there’s something wrong with Michael Holden. I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was behind that prank.”

      The thing is, I don’t think that Nick is right. I don’t have any evidence to support this. I’m not even sure why I think this. Maybe it was something about the way Michael Holden spoke – like he believed everything he said. Maybe it was how sad he was when I showed him the empty Solitaire blog. Or maybe it was something else, something that doesn’t make sense, like the colours of his eyes, or his ridiculous side parting, or how he managed to get that Post-it note into my hand when I can’t even remember our skin touching. Maybe it’s just because he’s too wrong.

      As I’m thinking this, Oliver enters the tractor and sits down in my lap. I pat him affectionately on the head and give him what’s left of my diet lemonade because Mum doesn’t let him drink it.

      “I don’t know,” I say. “To be honest, I bet it was just some twat with a blog.”

       FOUR

      I’M LATE BECAUSE Mum thought I said eight. I said seven thirty. How can you confuse eight with seven thirty?

      “Whose birthday is it?” she asks while we’re in the car.

      “No one’s. We’re just meeting up.”

      “Do you have enough money?