“Tits or arse?”
"What?”
“
Tits or arse? What do you look for?”
“On what?”
Si turns his head and swings the rifle in my direction.
“Girls. Obviously.” He punctuates each word with a thrust of the gun.
“I don’t know. Both? Either?
“Twat. What about you?”
He glances at Tom, but keeps the gun pointing at me.
“Um tits, I suppose.”
The breeze picks up and three empty beer cans topple off the remains of a burnt-out motorbike. The one left standing, bleached and torn through with holes, gently rocks back and forth like the guy I see outside the betting shop.
“You suppose? Don’t you think you should know? I’m an arse man.”
You’re an arsehole.
A cocky bastard, but recently Si’s become a right prick. His parent’s split up last year and Tom reckons that’s what’s done it. We barely saw him over the summer, only coming to the woods a couple of times over the break. I’ve seen less of him this term too. Different classes and teams in school, different excuses and interests out. He’d come up to me at lunch today and suggested that the three of us meet up. Like old times, he’ d said.
Tom coughs.
“Yeah, tits. Definitely tits.”
Si unlocks the air rifle and draws the barrel down towards the wooden stock until it clicks. He rests the gun on the inside of his elbow and allows the barrel to hang loose, gently swinging like a thin black arm.
“So who in school does it for you, then? You know, in that department.”
As Tom says this, he looks down at the ground, embarrassed, head bobbing like he’s listening to music. His blonde hair falls over his face, which he’s grown out to hide the spots that cover his cheeks like exploding freckles. He’ll just tell you it’s because he wants to look like Kurt Cobaine. All across ‘year 5’, everyone seems to be getting together with someone, it feels like half the class are going out. I’m not even sure if I’ve got the guts to give Liz Morris the mixtape I’ve made, let alone ask her out.
“Who does it for me? Well, I’ve already done Susie Locke. She was all tits.”
Susie Locke? That’s bollocks, she’s in the year above and doesn’t even know Si’s name.
I can’t get Liz out of my head, I’ve created this parallel world in my mind where we are a thing, which makes my inability to do anything a little easier. But also harder.
“I’ve moved on. I’m working on Liz Morris. Have you seen her arse?”
I’m not looking in Si’s direction, but I sense he’s staring at me. I can hear the sneer in his words, causing them to crackle in my ears. My cheeks are hot, a swell of inadequacy in the face of his needle-like questions.
“You must have seen her arse. You live on the same road, right?”
“Yeah, Nick’s known Liz for years, haven’t you Nick? Aren’t your mum and dad friends with her mum and dad?” Tom falls over his words, like a drunk man throwing darts.
I glance at Tom. He’s working at a spot on his neck, nails pressing deep into red puckered skin, the whitehead remaining resolutely intact. He’s always so desperate to please, like a dog humping Si’s leg. I don’t know why he does it, he gets treated like shit but keeps going back. He and I have be- come closer since Oli left last year, I like him, but I can’t help thinking we’re probably only friends because of Si.
The sun’s bright and it’s still warm despite it being late afternoon. In the last couple of weeks Si’s started wearing his hair slicked back, too much gel, and the light catches it. He used to have cur- tains, little half-moons, hairspray crisp. One of the kids in the year above had called him out on the first day back at school for looking like a twat. Probably Susie Locke’s boyfriend. The next day Si’s hair was gelled and he’d keep it that way since.
Liz just got a job a Saturday job at HMV. And a nose ring. She somehow gets away with wearing itto school. I like that. I got sent home last year for wearing black trainers.
“
Yeah, she lives on my road.” I reply.
“And her arse?” Si asks his question mid-drag of his cigarette, which he holds loosely between his lips. Only his eyes, darting between Tom and I, betray his cool and the time he’s spent in front of a mirror.
“Yes, that’s right, her arse lives with her on my road.”
I watch a lump of ash fall on Si’s spanking white Converse trainers.
Three crows land on a tall tree to our right, hopping from branch to branch, they jostle one another for position. Around us the overgrown nettles are smoking, although GCSE biology tells me it’s the pollen wafting gently into the air, pushed up by the movement of the large hairy leaves in the breeze. I used to get stung all the time, legs covered in giant goose pimples, the initial pain slowly fizzling into a tingly itch right into bedtime.
“Oh, funny. So in that case, I imagine you’ve had the opportunity get a look at that splendid arse of hers. Seeing as both her and her arse live on your road.” His eyes are half-closed, like a wannabe stoner, as he allows smoke to escape his lips and rise up over his face.
Do girls fall for this? He’s just another fifteen-year-old standing around in a shit school uniform talk- ing bollocks.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her arse. Ok? I‘ve seen her arse whilst it, I mean she, has been walking down the street. In school. I don’t pay it a lot of attention.”
