AFTER
Again the English weather fails to surprise me when I wake up on Monday morning to the sound of rain pelting down on the quiet, grey streets of Yieldfarm. When I look out the window of my bedroom the raindrops look like broken shards of tiny glass free-falling from down the clouds endlessly; I stretch out a hand and immediately I feel the coolness of the water slapping hard against my skin. So cold. The iciness that spreads from the tip of my fingers to my whole hand feels biting and harsh, so I think the rain might as well be glass, cutting deep into my skin and settling deep within my bones. I shudder, wondering what it would feel like to have glass stuck in my bones. I imagine not very pleasant.
I feel almost foolish slipping into my school uniform, putting on a pair of mismatched socks, acting as though it's just a regular school day. Like I'm going to walk to school and find Adam waiting for me by the school gates with his infamous blue umbrella in tow—he always had that umbrella with him on rainy days. Like he's actually alive and I don't know about his secret affair, or boyfriend, or whatever Oliver was to him. I'm tired of thinking about it. Just fucking exhausted.
Whatever I've heard and seen this weekend—Oliver's story, Adam's mother—makes me feel as though I've grown ten years older in the span of forty eight hours. It makes me think about my friendship with Adam. That everything I'd ever known about him seemed like a massive lie to me now. He feels like a stranger to me and that hurts. I feel like a stranger to me.
At lunch time, Pippa sits next to me in silence and thank fuck she does, because I don't think I'll be able to stomach any small talk—not after this weekend. From my peripheral vision, I see a couple of Pippa's friends glance back and forth at us unsurely. I can just feel their curiosity, that hunger to know. What the fuck is Pippa Harlington doing hanging around the dead boy's best friend? Giving him a sympathy shag, maybe? Nah, she's probably doing it for attention. To show off to people. To show everyone that she's the real hero of the story, helping that poor, miserable git out of his grief. Look everyone. Look at her and know she's less of an asshole than you are. Because she actually cares.
In my personal opinion, I think Pippa's past caring about what anyone must think of her. In the grand scheme of things it seems foolish to dwell on stuff like this—about what must they be thinking? In the grand scheme of things, any thought other than Adam's suicide seems foolish to me.
Suddenly, there is a loud thump next to me and I jerk my head to my left where I see Oliver himself has settled down beside me at our lunch table. Pippa, who was looking down at her food and picking mindlessly at it, also lifts her head up in surprise.
Seemingly unaware of our staring, Oliver merely takes a small sandwich out of his school bag. I clear my throat just as he takes a large bite out of it.
"Mmpf?" He looks at me and a bit of lettuce falls out of his mouth.
I raise an eyebrow up at him.
"Any particular reason why you're here?" I ask, feeling it unnecessary to be civil at this point. He did just barge into my and Pippa's table. Without permission. Juvenile. But hey, I'm still a teenager. I'm allowed to be petty.
Oliver shrugs and continues to eat, unscathed.
This underwhelming reaction irritates me. So I decide to push it a little further.
"Won't your hooligan friends mind?" And I jerk my thumb towards a table full of –well, hooligans. Oliver's friends. All of them wearing infuriating faux leather jackets over their school blazer, thinking they're the height of cool, and one of them has a trashy tattoo creeping along his neck.
