I shake my head and decide to hope for the best. Getting up, I do some stretches for no other reason than feeling a little cold. Plus, I’ve started doing some push-ups and pull-ups to try to put some muscle on.
******
The following day I’m getting another lift to school with Mrs. Peters. I am just about to leave when I hear raised voices. I look out the front door to see if I can see where they are coming from, but there’s nothing evident until a door slams, and Mr. Peters reverses out of his drive very fast.
I hide behind a bush, so I’m not seen, and wait five minutes before walking across the road. Mrs. Peters is just exiting her house when I appear at the top of the drive, and she has obviously been crying.
We travel a while in silence before I have to ask, “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Peters?”
“There is, but I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it.”
And that is that, and I feel a little awkward to press. I think that it’s Mrs. Peters, she will be able to sort whatever out.
School is school, I have my friends, and we hang out at dinner breaks in the sixth form room. I quite enjoy school now; most of the a-holes, jerks, or bullies have left to get jobs, and the only ones left are the academics who want to go to University.
When we get home that evening, she asks if we can do the work another night because she needs to talk to Mr. Peters about something important.
Of course, I agree, and when we pull into her drive, I make my way home. It’s a bit of a blow and gives me more time at home than I planned for. What compounds it is my parents will be home at six and bring fish and chips from the local chippy. So I have only my homework to do, which won’t take two hours. Going up to my room, I quickly finish my math homework and continue painting my Harrier Jump Jet Airfix model. I remember the Falkland War a couple of years before, and the Harrier playing a significant part in the UK reclaiming the Falkland Islands back from the Argentine invaders.
This year has been quite eventful; Margaret Thatcher beat the miners back, Bob Geldof organized Live Aid, but the most important thing for me was the advancement of computers and gaming. Commodore introduced the 128, and Sega Master System will be released this month. I have been praying I get one for Christmas, but I’m not holding my breath. Mum also wants me to take a driving course that they run where you can learn to drive and pass your test in a week. I got my provisional license through the post a couple of weeks ago. They are buying a car in the January sales, so I think that will be my Christmas present.
My nights during the week seem to be the same. Home, cook dinner, parents home around half six, walk the dog, watch TV and bed. As I do my shoelaces up on the doorstep, I hear raised voices coming from across the road again. After picking Archie up, I cross the road further up to avoid getting involved.
I don’t stop around the Peters’ house all week. There’s definitely something up, and I chose to cycle to school after Tuesday morning’s thing.
Life in the street seemed to have quietened down by the end of the week. I have written to Debbie and thanked her for her letter and asked her to tell Jenifer not to worry. I will wait for her letters however long it takes.
Weekends are great for only one reason, no school. On Saturday, I often cycle into town to go to the library and walk around the shops. I often meet up with friends to go to the cinema in the afternoon.
Today’s offering is a film called Better off Dead. The film is about a schoolboy dumped by his girlfriend for the school ski champ and considers suicide. On top of that, he also has to contend with his strange family.
It’s not a bad film and has its funny bits. Just not one I would pay to see again. After the movie, we pile into a café opposite to waste the last hour of our Saturday. With me today is Clive and Nicolas, but everyone calls him Nick. Andy was meant to come, but he didn’t show for some reason.
Some girls are in the corner booth, and Nick stares at them constantly. I have to warn him that he will scare them off, but I may as well be speaking to myself. I’ve not seen them around before, so I let it go.
One of the girls calls out, “what are you staring at?”
Nick answers, “I don’t know the labels dropped off.”
My forehead just hit the table with a thud when he says that. “Did you have to say that?” I ask. “I told you to stop staring.”
Nick tuts and says, “come on, let’s get outa here.” He’s turned a bright shade of red.
“Bloody hell Nick, is it hot in here?” Clive says, warming his hands like you do close to a fire. The girls hear this and laugh, making Nick hurry up and trip on a bag that has fallen into the aisle.
“Sorry about him,” I say as I walk past the girls, but they are too busy laughing to either hear me or acknowledge me.
We go our separate ways, and I head home. Saturdays are also different in that both my parents are home. This is one reason I am in town, but it’s nice not to have to prepare and cook dinner.
I get in just before six, and mum is reading a book at the kitchen table. Dad has fallen asleep watching the afternoon sports with his paper fallen apart on the floor.
There’s never much conversation at dinner, and we eat in near silence. As soon as dinner is done, I clear the table and help dad wash the dishes.
Walking next door to fetch Archie, I notice the Peters’ kitchen light on, and Mrs. Peters stood at the sink doing the dishes. As I walk past, I see that she spots me, so I wave but continue on my way.