Solitaire. Alice Oseman

      When I speak to my parents, I don’t actually sound very grumpy. I’m usually quite cheerful-sounding when I talk. I’m good at that.

      It’s Tuesday. Evelyn organised some ‘start of term’ thing at Pizza Express. I don’t really want to go, but I think it’s important to make the effort. Social convention and all.

      I say hello to the people who notice my entrance and sit at the end of the table. I nearly die when I realise that Lucas is here. I know, already, that I’m going to find it difficult to think of things to say to him. I successfully avoided him for the rest of yesterday and all of today for this exact reason. Obviously, Evelyn, Lauren and Becky took the opportunity to make him the ‘boy’ of our group. Having a boy in your social group is the equivalent of having a house with a pool, or a designer shirt with the logo on it, or a Ferrari. It just makes you more important.

      A waiter hurries over to me so I order a diet lemonade and stare down the long table. All the people are chatting and laughing and smiling and it sort of makes me feel a bit sad, like I’m watching them through a dirty window.

      “Yeah, but most of the girls who move to Truham only move because they want to be around boys all the time.” Becky, seated next to me, is talking at Lucas who is seated across from us. “So many attention whores.”

      “To be fair,” he says, “Truham girls are basically worshipped.”

      Lucas catches my eye and smiles his awkward smile. He’s got this hilarious Hawaiian shirt on: the tight-fit kind with the collar done right up and the sleeves slightly rolled. He doesn’t look as embarrassed as yesterday – in fact, he looks fashionable. I didn’t think he would be that sort of guy. The sort of guy who wears Hawaiian shirts. A hipster sort of guy. I make the deduction that he definitely has a blog.

      “Only because boys at all-boys’ schools are sexually deprived,” says Evelyn, who is next to Lucas, waving her arms around to emphasise her point. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Single-sex schools damage humanity. The number of girls in our school that are socially clueless because they haven’t spoken to any boys …”

      “… It’s way out of control, man,” concludes Lauren, who is on the other side of Evelyn.

      “I love the Truham girls’ uniform,” sighs Becky. “They all look so good in that tie.” She gestures abstractly to her neck. “Like, thin stripes look way nicer than thick stripes.”

      “It’s not real life,” says Lucas, nodding earnestly. “In real life, there are boys and there are girls. Not just one or the other.”

      “But that tie,” says Becky. “I mean, I can’t even.”

      They all nod and then start talking about something else. I continue to do what I do best. Watch.

      There’s a boy sitting next to Lauren, talking to the girls at the opposite end of the table. His name is Ben Hope. Ben Hope is the guy at Higgs. And, by the guy, I mean that one boy in the sixth form that every single girl in the entire school has a crush on. There’s always one. Tall and slim-built. Skinny trousers and tight shirts. He usually straightens his dark brown hair and, I swear to God, it defies gravity because it swishes in a kind of organised vortex, but, when he doesn’t straighten it, it’s all curly and he just looks so cute you want to die. He always appears to be serene. He skateboards.

      I, personally, do not ‘fancy’ him. I’m just trying to express his perfection. I actually think that a lot of people are very beautiful, and maybe even more beautiful when they’re not aware of it themselves. In the end, though, being beautiful doesn’t do much for you as a person apart from raise your ego and give you an increased sense of vanity.

      Ben Hope notices me staring. I need to control my staring.

      Lucas is talking at me. I think that he’s trying to involve me in this conversation, which is kind of nice, but also irritating and unnecessary. “Tori, do you like Bruno Mars?”

      “What?”

      He hesitates, so Becky steps in. “Tori. Bruno Mars. Come on. He’s fabulous, right?”

      “What?”

      “The. Song. That. Is. Playing. Do. You. Like. It?”

      I hadn’t even registered that music was playing in this restaurant. It’s ‘Grenade’ by Bruno Mars.

      I quickly analyse the song.

      “I think … it’s unlikely anyone would want to catch a grenade for anyone else. Or jump in front of a train for someone else. That’s very counter-productive.” Then, quieter, so no one hears: “If you wanted to do either of those things, it would be for yourself.”

      Lauren smacks her hand on the table. “Exactly what I said.”

      Becky laughs at me and says, “You just don’t like it because it’s Top 40.”

      Evelyn steps up. Dissing anything mainstream is her personal area of expertise. “Chart music,” she says, “is filled with auto-tuned girls who only get famous because they wear tight shorts and bandeau tops, and rappers who can’t do anything except talk quickly.”

      If I’m completely honest, I don’t even like music that much. I just like individual songs. I find one song that I really love and then I listen to it about twenty billion times until I hate it and have ruined it for myself. At the moment, it’s ‘Message in a Bottle’ by the Police, and by Sunday I will never want to listen to it again. I’m an idiot.

      “If it’s so crap, then why does it make it into the charts?” asks Becky.

      Evelyn runs a hand through her hair. “Because we live in a commercialised world where everyone buys music just because someone else has.”

      It’s right after she finishes saying this that I realise silence has swept over our table. I turn round and experience minor heart failure.

      Michael Holden has swooped into the restaurant.

      I know immediately that he is coming for me. He’s grinning like a maniac, eyes locked on this end of the table. All heads turn as he pulls over a chair and makes himself comfortable at the head of the table between me and Lucas.

      Everyone sort of stares, then murmurs, then shrugs and then gets on with eating, assuming that he must have been invited by someone else. Everyone except me, Becky, Lucas, Lauren and Evelyn.

      “I need to tell you something,” he says to me, eyes on fire. “I absolutely need to tell you something.”

      Lauren speaks up. “You go to our school!”

      Michael actually holds out a hand for Lauren to shake. I find myself genuinely unable to tell whether he’s being sarcastic or not. “Michael Holden, Year 13. Nice to meet you …?”

      “Lauren Romilly. Year 12.” Lauren, bemused, takes the hand and shakes it. “Er – nice to meet you too.”

      “No offence,” says Evelyn, “but, like, why are you here?”

      Michael stares at her intensely until she realises that she needs to introduce herself.

      “I’m … Evelyn Foley?” she says.

      Michael shrugs. “Are you? You sound uncertain.”

      Evelyn does not like to be teased.

      He winks at her. “I needed to talk to Tori.”

      There is a long and grating silence before Becky says, “And … er … how do you know Tori?”

      “Tori and I happened to meet in the midst of our Solitaire investigations.”

      Her head tilts to one side. She looks at me. “You’ve been investigating?”

      “Erm, no,” I say.

      “Then