NUM8ERS

Chapter Six

The music was throbbing through the stairwell. I picked my way over legs and bodies. People hardly noticed me threading my way through: They were getting loaded, getting into the beat, getting into each other.

I was on the lookout for Spider. "Baz is having a party, Saturday night," he'd said, the day after the tramp died. We were down by the canal again, chucking stones at a can. "I'm in. Naturally. Come along, any time after ten. Third floor, Nightingale House."

I didn't know what to say. He said it so casually, but a party on a Saturday night sounded suspiciously like a date, and there was no way I was getting into all that boy-girl stuff. I'd just about got my head around having somebody to hang out with, but it was a big step to anything more. Anyway, not that I'd ever say it, but it would have to be someone decent. If I'd ever thought about it, which I rarely did, I pictured someone good-looking — not ten out of ten, maybe, but at least an eight. Not someone like Spider — long, lanky, twitchy, with a major personal cleanliness problem. And a couple of weeks to live.

I needed to suss him out, find out whether those retards at school were on the right track after all. I wanted to be careful, though, not make either of us look stupid. I'm not a complete bitch.

"Spider?" I'd said, with a question mark in my voice.

"Yeah."

"You know at school...what did you do that for? Wade in like that?"

Spider frowned. "He was disrespectful, Jem. What you said — I could tell it was real. It was what you were really feeling. He had no right to make a joke of it."

"Yeah, I know, he's a tosser, but it's nothing to do with you. You made a right show of yourself. You made a show of me."

"I didn't want him to get away with it."

"Yeah, but I don't need a knight in shining armor. I can look after myself."
He was smiling a bit now. I paused. "It's not funny, man. It's made everything worse," I said quietly. "I've got comments all the time now, 'bout you and me. Sly comments."

He looked away, studied his hands. The knuckles on the right one were nearly healed up now.

My mouth had gone dry, but I had to get this clear with him. "You do know that there's no 'you and me,' don't you, Spider?"

He looked up. "What?"

"We're not, like...together. Just mates."
There was something about his sullenness when he said, "Yeah, 'course. Just mates. Mates is good," that made me think he felt the exact opposite. I was churning inside, cursing that day under the bridge. People were so bloody difficult. Why had I ever got involved?

He stood up, came toward me, putting an arm out. I thought, 'Shit, he's going to hug me. Hasn't he listened to anything?' But his hand formed a fist, and he lightly punched my arm. "Listen, man, I know what you're like. I've told you I'll never say nothing nice to you. And now you've put me straight, I'll never do nothing nice for you, neither. OK? If someone disrespects you, I'll let them. If you're being mugged on the street, I'll walk on by. If I see you on fire, I won't even piss on you. OK?"

I grinned, relaxed a bit. That was better, bit of humor, bit of distance. And he was right, he was starting to know me. No one else had ever been able to tease me like that, make me smile. After all that, me pushing him away, I almost felt like reaching out, putting my arms 'round him. Almost. But of course I didn't. Instead our hands met, fists together, knuckles touching.

"Safe, man."

"Yeah, Spider," I said. "Safe."

"So are you coming on Saturday? Not a date, retard, just a night out. Mates."