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I was back on my board and off. He caught up with me, light on his battered Vans. “I can see stalking is not going to win you over.”

  “Nothing is going to win me over,” I replied, picking up speed.

  “Okay, okay, I give in. I accept I’m not going to win you over but can we at least be friends?”

  I hoped he would run out of steam but he wasn’t even out of breath. Exasperated, I skidded to a halt and flipped the board up under my arm. “Friends?” I repeated. Making sure it sounded as ridiculous as it was.

  He shrugged. “Mates? Help me out with the vocab – I get lost in translation.”

  He picked up his camera and clicked.

  “Don’t do that,” I snapped. No wonder some cultures feel as though a photograph steals their soul; too much exposure.

  “Okay, not friends or mates. How about muse? You’re the finest thing on four wheels.”

  I swear I should have walked away at that point. Nothing to lose, nothing to gain. The trick is to keep moving.

  “Does it matter what we are?” I snapped. “Can’t we just be?”

  “I can’t just be. It’s not in my nature.”

  “Then I can’t help you.”

  He grinned. “Your initials suggest otherwise. AA? I’ve done my homework. Automobile Association: breakdown recovery service; Alcoholics Anonymous: breakdown recovery service. It’s a sign, like I said, you’ve been sent here to save me.”

  “I’ll leave that to Mrs Martel. She’s the pro when it comes to rescuing people,” I quipped.

  “Ah, so you’ve heard about me and Mrs Martel?”

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. She’s not exclusive.”

  He grinned. “Damn, I knew that woman was seeing people behind my back.”

  “I have to go. Viv will be looking for me,” I said but despite my best efforts a smile escaped me.

  “Great talking with you, Angie Anderson,” he said, dancing about on his feet, as I got back on my board. I was off. He was still talking.

  “Wait until you meet my parents,” he shouted. “They’re gonna LOVE you!”

  I didn’t look back but he took my breath away – audacious prick.

  Then I didn’t talk to him for a while despite sharing several classes at school. Whenever he appeared on the scene he was surrounded by people, girls fawning, hangers-on hoping to make an impression, no-hopers basking in the glow. Even the teachers had been beguiled – an athletic, super-bright student helped cement the reputation of an outstanding school.

  So much for the hard sell on how I was here to save him. He’d delivered his speech and then backed off. Muse today, gone tomorrow. I wasn’t bothered or so I thought. Then I kept thinking about it, about him. I was pissed off at myself for being taken for a ride instead of calling the moves. I should have known better: drop your guard, lose control.

  Viv took singing lessons in her lunch break on Fridays so I grabbed my skateboard from the locker and wandered outside. I wasn’t allowed to ride it at school. I interpreted that as I wasn’t allowed to ride it where teachers could see me.

  Around the back of the school there were ramps and railings for disabled access and a holding area for delivery vans to drop off supplies for the canteen. It was also home to recycling bins and locked-up bikes, which meant it wasn’t a fashionable hang-out area for students. It was also way out of sight, which was perfect for me.

  I didn’t see him at first because he had his back up against a bin. I almost clipped him with my board when I came off the railing but swerved in time. So much for needing to work on my core. I handled the turn and avoided a collision.

  I recognised him by his shoes. He just sat there, knees pulled up to his chest, head on his knees, arms over his head, obscuring his face.

  “What the hell?” I yelled, coming to an abrupt stop near the perimeter railings. Then, more quietly, “Lennox. Lennox?”

  He didn’t look up.

  “Lennox Jones?” I repeated, louder. “Earth to Jones.”

  He lifted his head and I backed off. He looked demented, possessed almost.

  “Leave me alone,” he hissed. “Get the… just get out of here.”

  I stood my ground. “What’s up, Mavericks?” I resorted to his nickname in an attempt to lighten the mood but it wasn’t appreciated.

  “Leave. Me. Alone.” He spat the words out aggressively and glared at me. It was as though there was no recognition passing between us; so much so that I looked around to see if I was being pranked. It had to be a wind-up. I wasn’t having any of it. I don’t appreciate people who blow hot and cold on me. One minute I get the beseeching “lets-be-friends” spiel and the next minute we’re all Shakespearian sad face. I’m not a victim and I’m not a fool. I also often act before I think, which can be a little unorthodox at times. On this occasion, break time and down time, I took my skateboard and swung it, full force, against the recycling bin just above his head. The wheels took the force of the impact and the vibrations travelled down the bin and down Lennox’s spine making him reverberate as though I had given him an electric shock.

  He sprang up and staggered, pressing his palms into the side of his head.

  “Oh shit, sorry,” I said, genuinely mortified. “I don’t know my own strength.”

  We stood a few feet apart staring at each other, both on the defensive. I wasn’t sure what his next move would be but I side-stepped away from the building to make sure my back wasn’t against the wall.

  Lennox maintained eye contact but I could tell he wasn’t focused. “It’s me,” I said. “Angie.”

  I saw his shoulders relax. “Hey Angie Anderson,” he whispered.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be. I get these headaches… y’know.”

  How to make me feel even worse. I was going to apologise again but he continued talking.

  “You know the other week when we first met?” he asked. I detected a strain to his voice, like it was lacking oxygen. Not the usual confident, swaggering vocals.

  “You blocked me. I remember,” I replied wondering where this conversation was going.

  “And I did that stupid move with the knock-out punch?”

  I nodded.

  This time he reached out to me and carefully touched the side of my face. I froze. I swear I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe. I just stood there.

  “It must have looked bad,” he said. “I want you to know that it was a stupid move but I was just fooling around. I would never hurt you.”

  I walked home with Viv and cut to the chase. “You know he weirded out on me?”

  “Who?”

  “Lennox.”

  “As in Jones?”

  “Well, yeah, as in Lennox Jones.”

  “He likes to be called Jones.”

  I rolled my eyes back until I saw stars. Jones, knock-out punch.

  “I hope you don’t indulge him,” I reprimanded. “His name is Lennox. He needn’t bother reinventing himself around me.”

  “Trust me, the guy doesn’t need to reinvent himself. Not just hot he’s super smart. Off-the-scale bright.”

  “Well, I hate to break it to you but he is also flawed.”

  Now I had her attention. “Weirded out how?”

  “At lunchtime, around the back of the school.”

  Viv raised her pencilled eyebrows. “I wasn’t the only one making sweet music at noon?”

  “Not like that.”

  I explained. She listened, clearly intrigued. “You know that he sees Mrs Martel for a sesh before lunch.”

  “Viv, seriously? You know when his therapy sessions are?”

  “Darling, I’m observant. It is an underrated skill in the modern world.”

  “Nosey.”

  “Attentive.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That maybe Mrs Martel released his inner demons?”

  As theatrical as Viv made it sound it wasn’t the most outlandish explanation in the world. As timing went, it made sense.


  “He did seem shaken,” I said, “and not himself.”

  “Be kind to him. We all carry a heavy burden,” purred Viv.

  “I’m not unkind,” I replied a touch defensively. “He just… there’s something about him. I can’t explain.”

  “Talk to him,” said Viv, reapplying her lipstick without a mirror.

  “About what?” I was starting to feel nervous.

  “Then don’t talk to him. Take him to that…”

  I cut her off with a good reason. “He might think it is a date.”

  “Or he might just think you’re looking out for him.”

  “Come with us later?”

  “Soz no. Gene Kelly tribute night. But Rob will be at the park. Rob’s always there. He’s got your back, baby.”

  This reassured me but didn’t convince me.

  Viv sashayed off and I mooched in the direction of home too, creating a distraction by trying not to step on the cracks in the pavement. I went over what had happened at lunchtime, searching for clues before I committed to my next move: spending time with him.

  I know what bothered me – it was the “I would never hurt you”. His words, now my problem. I couldn’t get them out of my head. It throbbed, a sinister echo. There is no need to reassure someone that you won’t hurt them unless there was a threat there in the first place. It felt off, it was off. I knew, in context, that he was alluding to the playful cuff under my chin but I couldn’t help feel it was more than that. I suspected that he could hurt me but I had no reason to believe it. It was just a feeling, a sensation of apprehension. Evidently, it was not enough to put me off though because I decided to follow through on Viv’s idea – the skate park later.

  I didn’t have his mobile number but I found him online and composed a quick message – place, time and rough directions. I hesitated before I pressed “send” because once it appeared in his inbox he had proof that I had actively gone out of my way to search for him. No going back. I clicked before I changed my mind realising it was like those weird psychological conundrums – believing you could hold fire without getting burned.

  Rob Lee was at the abandoned train station in north London with his usual crew – dedicated riders who skateboarded, surfed or snowboarded depending on the season. The place was otherwise deserted and the CCTV cameras had been taken out months ago.

  “Anderson,” he called over, “working on any more edgy moves?”

  “Always.”

  “Where’s that siren sister of mine?”

  “Gene Kelly called. They’ve gone dancing.”

  “You alone?”

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Cool. We’re working on some new skate spots. I’ll tell Viv to keep you in the loop.” Then he was off, cruising back to his mates.

  I worked on some tricks alone, going over and over the same moves. I refused to look at my watch. I knew he was late and that was enough. That was all I needed to know.

  Then he was there, watching me as I turned and flipped.

  “You’re late,” I said when I turned in his direction.

  “Sweet moves,” he replied.

  “No board?”

  “No surf. No point.”

  “Whatever.”

  The whole point of meeting here was to chill out and take in a few turns. Now I was the floor show and he was the spectator again.

  “Wanna go somewhere?” he asked.

  I headed towards a hand rail. “We are somewhere,” I shouted as I jumped and grabbed my board. The fact that he was watching me didn’t make me nervous. I had to concentrate.

  “I meant somewhere without an audience.” He nodded in the direction of Rob and his mates.

  I shrugged. “I know them. No big deal.”

  I cruised over to him. Checked him out up close. The Californian tan was starting to fade and he looked tired. His jawline and cheekbones seemed more pronounced than usual but it might have been the light. The sun was sinking.

  “You okay now?” I asked.

  He attempted a trademark charming grin but it missed the mark. “I’m here.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Had some trouble shaking off a headache – that and the after-effects of a skateboard hitting the side of a metal trash can.”

  I blushed and changed the subject. “Tell me about San Francisco. I love the look of those proper skateparks. Half pipes, moguls, swimming-pool inspired bowls. Must be like riding through craters on the moon.” I stopped, embarrassed that I was babbling on.

  He shrugged. “I’m a surfer.”

  His voice sounded flat and I felt awkward. I almost preferred him when he was pursuing me with undivided determination; the ridiculous meet-the-parents comments and how I was here to save him. It was easier to laugh off. Lennox Jones’ dark side was harder to deal with.

  He was dancing lightly from foot to foot. He couldn’t have been cold because I could still feel the warmth of the sun, which was also pulsing from the concrete ramps and walls around us.

  “Are you on something?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “D-r-u-g-s,” I said, stretching out the letters so there would be no misunderstanding. Nothing lost in translation.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re different. Edgier.”

  “You think?”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “No. I’m not on drugs. Now can we go somewhere?”

  I suggested a coffee shop. He suggested a pub.

  “I’m fifteen,” I reminded him. “We’re fifteen.”

  “I had you down as someone who broke the rules,” he said.

  I picked up my board and started walking in the direction of the nearest underground station. “See you at school tomorrow.”

  I swear I thought he would catch me up but when I reached the top of the stairs at the station he wasn’t behind me. I refused to look back so I had no idea what he was up to. I hadn’t a clue.

  3

  Lennox: gunshots

  I saw her at school. She stood out even though she was attempting to hide in plain sight. I sensed a restlessness about her because I often experienced it too. It’s the need to burst out of your own skin and run free. Her friend was with her – the two of them deep in conversation. I also noticed that she’d brought her skateboard to school and was storing it in her locker. She seemed reluctant to let it go.

  I didn’t speak to her until later. Man, she was doing tricks on her board like you wouldn’t believe. I haven’t seen anyone as confident as that in a long time. God, Angie Anderson was good. The stunts she pulled didn’t rest on talent alone, although, yeah, she had natural moves. No, I reckon she must’ve dedicated hours and hours going over the same jumps like the pros do. Over and over. This repetition demands commitment, stubbornness, dedication, addiction and a certain sort of isolation – refusing to call it quits, when everyone else goes home.

  I wanted her to notice me so I stepped right in front of the rail she was about to ride. Actually, I think I must have leant on it. Not cool.

  I can’t remember what I said but whatever it was it didn’t go down well. I knew I needed to move in before I crashed and burned so I kicked off the introductions. She didn’t reciprocate.

  It went from bad to hell from there. I was fronting because first impressions are all about keeping up appearances. I threw a mock boxing-glove move and when I touched her it was like I’d received a high-voltage jolt from her skin.

  She leaned into me, so close I could smell that signature sweetness from a high-caffeine drink on her lips.

  “Do that again,” she whispered, “and I’ll kill you.”

  I fell hard. High-dependency at first sight. I was hooked on this girl, out of control.

  Then she cruised off on her board, cool as you like and I watched her go. I got the message. She wasn’t the hearts-and-flowers kind. I’d have to work harder than that.

  We’d moved from San Fran to
London. It was a one-year plan. New situation. Same old shit. Even our mother was getting fed up following the love of her life and his job around the world, which was basically getting rich from telling other rich people how to get even richer and “grow” their money.

  Mom and I lodged our complaint. We had a town house in downtown San Francisco and a beach house in Santa Cruz. What more could we want?

  “We’re together,” said my father. “That’s what matters.”

  “But Jonathan…” protested my mother.

  “Group hug,” shouted my father.

  We all groaned. Even the girls. Where’s an absent father when you need one?

  Katie and Carrie were stoked about the relocation but that’s not a marker of a reasonable assessment. My sisters get excited over the littlest things such as pouring chocolate milk over their cereal. London almost sent them over the edge. In their world Harry Styles would be living next door.

  Do that again and I’ll kill you.

  I believed her. She was unruffled, calm and maintained eye contact the whole time. This shooter wouldn’t miss her target. Angie Anderson, polished and smart, would never lose her nerve or her composure. It was like she had been there, done that, seen it all before.

  First impressions, I reckoned I would get on just fine with Mrs Martel. As therapists go, she was bang on the level. She also dressed in black including black-rimmed glasses that matched fierce eyebrows. I liked that about the woman. No colourful-rainbow shit to cheer up the miserable children. Life ain’t eternal sunshine, that’s for sure. You only need to scratch the surface to discover that it’s dark underneath.

  “Lennox Jones. I’m Mrs Martel.”

  Introduction over she suggested I go on Twitch while she caught up on paperwork.

  “Use my iPad,” she said. “No porn, please.”

  “Is this for real?” I asked.

  “Time spent in this office is real,” she replied without looking up from her work. “It gets more complicated when you step out that door. Whatever goes on out there is up to you.”

  So I went on Twitch and got lost with other videogamers turning up the heat on Pokémon Stadium 2.