Chapter Five

You're Not Alone

Monday 13th, April

Following the single slab concrete path away from the media block, I lower my head as if dodging sniper fire, which is often how it feels to be here at Southbrook college. Especially after a long weekend. Everyone's way too chummy or keen to hear the latest gossip and catch up.

And for those fortunate enough to indulge in the April heatwave that continues to rage on, it's also the perfect opportunity to show off their newly acquired golden tans.

I, on the other hand am still as pink as the day I was born and since the last time I blushed. And I'm not at all keen to catch up or be caught up in any small talk. I'd much rather make my escape for the day after suffering through a stuffy afternoons media lesson.

But the dance and drama students are out in force on the green lawns, practicing and perfecting their choreography for Southbrook's annual end of summer term charity talent show. Some have staked claim to the sheltered entrances by the classrooms but most bask in the intense sunlight. And I give them short thrift too.

For all I know Maddie could be lurking behind human pyramids and flying high kicks or amongst the small group recreating a Run-D.M.C style break dance battle with wild abandon.

I hot foot it quickly along the concrete slabs, towards the main entrance and the freedom I've been yearning for since Sunday night. I'm cautious to still keep my head down too, along with the hem of a pastel patterned sundress chucked on in a hurry this morning when at loss for what to wear for the twelfth day of unrelenting heat. Everything else I own's now either at the bottom of the bigger than normal wash pile or stained with sweat and left to decorate my bedroom floor.

Just like the back of my neck is now and my top lip as the scenes of Southbrook's creatively talented students play out before me. It's overwhelming and kind of exhausting to try and pretend not to notice them or music students who are out on the lawns too, harmonising and chasing melodies. My stomach sinks in the memory of how it once felt to sing out loud and to do so with confidence like no one's watching and not to care, even if they were.

And I wonder - though it's never been helpful - what 'alternate reality' Josie might be doing right now instead of fleeing for home, to wallow with an ice lolly and last night's TV movie. If maybe she'd be right there with them, singing out at the top of her lungs with cheeks hot only from the sun, and not from some pathetically and ironically named condition, like ICE.

Maybe she'd be happy. And have friends.

And she wouldn't feel so alone.

But then, I remember the other reason why my tummy perhaps feels twisted in knots - anticipation. The can't-think-about-much-else consuming kind.

It's been like this all day.

All day I've been existing on the small promise of seeing Max again, soon, just like he said. And though it was silly to have searched for him between lessons, with a detour by the music block thrown in, I still did. And even now, I'm on the look out. Hoping to catch a glimpse of him between the drop D tuned guitars and mini bongos, and all the prancing performers.

Words from the tacky, stain glass hanging ornament that mum insists on displaying in our porch rings in my ears as I round the corner, towards the colleges mini lake and heat stripped brown reeds.

Good things come to those who wait.

No matter how impatient, I add.

And when I spy a black jacket clad figure up on the brick wall that hosts the Colleges plaque, with bulky headphones on, head tilted towards the light, I feel like maybe it's not just some throw away quote.

Maybe it's got some merit.

Because it is Max. No doubt about it.

His mess of hair's a dead giveaway, as is the backpack that hangs from his shoulders, adorned in an assortment of garish safety pinned band patches. And, of course so are the headphones.

When I approach with quiet caution, close enough to reach out and touch them, he spins his body round, pulls them off and greets me with a megawatt smile to rival that of the sun.

"Hey Josie," Max says, patting the empty space of wall beside him, as if he's been waiting for me to appear too. I notice his hands are tanned same as the balls of his cheeks, giving the hint that he's spent the last couple of days outside like all the others. It also appears that he's acquired some light stubble too, that trails alongside his jawline.

"Hi Max."

Casually he slides off his backpack and dumps it below his feet, shuffling along the wall to make more room for me.

I struggle to take off my own bag in a bid to hoist myself up onto the wall. Being five foot nothing tends to lead to embarrassing moments like this. But as Max offers out a helping hand and I finally settle, I find that my cheeks aren't burning hot like the sun that beats down on our backs. Only semi-so. Normal-ish. Almost.

Fanning out his denim jacket to reveal a jet-black t-shirt, frayed round the neck with the words 'Through Being Cool' splashed across it, he turns to face me and says, "How was your weekend?"

I try and play it cool, ironically, with an apathetic shrug thrown in. As if my weekend hasn't been a total bore but no humble-brag either. "It was fine."

"Not worth the wasted words huh?" He grins, nodding his head sideways towards mine. "If it makes you feel any better mine was pretty much."-Max mimics my shrug- "meh also."

Quietly I pick at the loose threads trailing from the hem of my dress. All too aware that stopping anywhere in this heat is a risky move. I'm sweating from every pore, with thighs stuck together and brows sticky. It's not a good look.

"And how was today at Southbrook?" He asks, lifting his gaze away to gesture at the college sign below our dangling legs. I'm grateful for this momentary distraction. It gives me a few seconds to conceal the sweat pooling either side of my dark sunglasses.

"Over," I say. "You?"

Max tilts his head, as if amused. ""Pretty good actually."

I frown. Surely he can't be serious? Being forced to spend hours here at Southbrook in the suffocating heat and air-con less class rooms doesn't constitute as any kind of good in my books. "Really?"

What kind of alternative reality is he living in?

I wait as he gently swings his matching denim jean legs like a pendulum to an invisible beat. "Well... I had a lie-in this morning and I caught up on some TV. Then, I headed into town, to buy new guitar strings and trade in some old CDS, and now I'm here - talking to you. I'd say that's pretty good for Monday."

"Wait, you didn't have college today? At all?"

Max's dimples breakthrough as he smiles. "Nope."

"Why are you even here then?"

"I came to see you." He shoots me a look like I'm the crazy one. Stupid for even asking and then he leans back, lifts his face up towards the sun. "Because I've been thinking about you. Quite a bit actually."

Wait, what?  I twist to look at him, breath catching in my throat as I try to find the right words, or any to reply. A familiar but unwanted blush soon washes over my skin.

Max softly laughs and focus's his gaze back at me, with eyes that are curiously dark but light too. Flecks of green dance amongst the hazel. "Shit. Again - that came off as super creepy, didn't it? But trust me, I didn't mean it too. Just that I've been thinking about you and your impending presentation of doom..."

The deep tone of his voice as it trails off into further laughter rattles me.

"Don't remind me," I say. It's true. I don't need the hassle. The very word presentation is enough to send me into a tailspin of stress, shakes, and even more sweat.

"Ah crap. Again - sorry, it's just that I thought you might be thinking about it a lot too," he offers quietly, studying my reaction as it softens.

"Kind of hard not too."

"That's what I thought. It's nerve-wracking shit right? Man, I hate presentations. And public speaking."

I wonder if the slump of my shoulders or the flash of red panic streaked across my cheeks tells him that he's not exactly helping, because when Max stretches back and locks his fingers together he gently nudges my bare shoulder.

"Trust me to do the complete opposite of what I want to do, which is make you feel less panicked about it. Really, I do want to help you, with your presentation," he clarifies, locking his hands back to his lap.

My initial reaction isn't to scoff but somehow it happens. And then, I feel like shit for doing so. "Okay... but, again why?"

"Because I know how much it sucks."

"So...you want to do it for me?" I joke. Try to, at least. It raises a faint hint of a smile but there's a hint of panic too. Across the curve of his cheekbones, flushed along the sharpness of his jaw as it tightens.

"No, that's not what I meant." Dragging the rubber sole of his trainers down the wall, Max takes a deep breath. "I was thinking more along the lines of you presenting it to me, first, so you can get used to it. I figure that once you've done it a few times it might not be so bad when it comes to the real thing..."

"That's...well..." Actually it's not a bad idea. It's just not one that's crossed my mind. If anything I've pushed it as far from memory as possible. Burying my head in the sand has felt better than spending many sleepless nights worrying about failing again and making a tit of myself.

"We can start today, if you've not got any plans?"

"Right here?"

"No," he laughs, allowing a short pause. "I was thinking maybe we could head over to mine? It's not too far."

My head jerks back and it's as if his words have fallen, like heavy feet onto the breaks. They send me to a screeching halt as I contemplate the potential and varied outcomes of such an invitation.

"My mum and sister will be there," he adds casually, as if it might help sway opinion. "We can catch some sun on the way there, maybe get an ice cream ..."

"Max... Look. I mean, I appreciate that you'd like to help. That's great," I say, carefully. Slowly. The weird feeling in my tummy bubbles up again. "But I...I don't know you. Like, at all."

He shrugs. "Fair point but not entirely true, at least we've met a few times before."

I counter back with a wave of my hand and the desire for him to continue, prove me wrong. "I know we had PE together back in Year 8 for like, two lessons but-"

"Not just that. You probably don't remember - and I don't blame you - but we had English together also, for roughly three months, would you believe," he says this slowly, his brows lifting, like he really hopes that his words will jog my memory. Have me believing that were not virtual strangers.

They don't.

A flicker of emotion - disappointment? Frustration? Inevitably? is evident in his eyes but fades just as quick as it appears. Max continues. "I sat a few rows behind you, to the left. And you let me skip the queue in front of you once to get the last hash brown and bacon wrap in the canteen, back in high school."

"I did?" My voice escapes with a squeak. "Really?"

He laughs, softly again, self-deprecating almost, which makes sense when he says, "Don't sweat it, I wouldn't remember me either. Because I would have been about this high."- he flattens his palm, then lowers it to waist level - "But my voice would have been higher." It slides right up to his mouth, which widens into warm laughter.

I feel bad. Terrible even. There's genuinely no recollection of pre-pubescent Max - obviously not born six-feet tall, or my kindness, to allow him to queue jump in front of me. I want to tell him that this is because I've done my best to block out high school. How much I hated it. All four, torturous years. And all the faces within them. But I don't. I doubt it would make him feel any better for it either for me to pull away again at all the many scars.

"Sorry," I say, raising my own hands. "Bad memory, that's all."

"That's a good thing though," Max says, catching me off guard. "Not a negative."

"Why?"

"It means you're not a liar." He states this very matter of fact. The previous conversation deftly swept away with my new curiosity about what he could even mean.

"You've lost me, sorry. What makes you think I'm not?" I say, avoiding his stare.

"Okay, so it means that you're probably crap at lying or don't have the capabilities to keep one up - a lie. Good liars need good memories. I'm the same. Plus, I hate liars."

"Who told you that?" I snort. It sounds like something mum would hang in our porch too.

Max's brow furrows. "Can't remember. See? Rubbish memory."

We both laugh. It eases the awkwardness and guilt of me not remembering Max Montgomery.

"It's also my way of saying that I'm not lying about knowing how you feel too. Because it's obvious you've got your reservations, about talking to me. And coming to mine," he says.

"Well-" I begin to stutter but he cuts in.

"I'm not lying." He brings out his hand, pokes his little finger towards mine. "It's childish, I know but I do take pinky swears very seriously." I don't doubt him but he says it all in a mocking tone, which leads me to keep mine firmly on the wall.

Max's laugher is light. He's not offended but he still pulls it away. "You're gonna make me jump through a load more hoops aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Before you even consider that we're struggling just the same."

"Perhaps," I reply, my mind tangled up in the 50/50 percent chance that maybe he does.

"I sound like a broken record, but I do know how you feel." His lips curl down as he drags himself off the wall, landing beside his backpack.

My throat feels dry as I try to explain why I'm having a hard time believing him. Why it's not easy to swallow his declarations. "I just... It doesn't seem like you do - know exactly how I feel, it's, well impossible." I gesture towards his cheeks. And then I look at the rest of his face. All it's features. I suppose it's slightly wrong of me to hide the fact that I find it even harder to believe that someone like Max - with, or without ICE- would want to give me his time of day.

"It's not."

"How do I feel then Sherlock?" It comes off as sarcastic, even though I desperately want him to answer and prove me wrong again. Even if it makes me look stupid.

Max picks at the cuff of his jacket, then he looks up at me, eyes wide and sighs, "...Like you don't want to live, like you want to wipe your hands of it all but then, sometimes you don't because life can be good. It's just that most days - the really bad ones, they make you feel like it's the only way to be rid of this-" He brushes a finger along his left cheek. And as he stares at me intently they gradually turn in colour, like someone's split red ink over pristine canvas.

Just like looking in a mirror.

I shuffle unsteadily on the wall again. I try not to gawp, because I know how horrible it is when someone does so to me, but Max's eyes burn into mine as his face flushes hot and I can't help it.

"You wanted proof right? So here it is, in all it's miserable glory," he says, shoulders lumped, fingers now hooked into the waistband of his jeans.
"And yeah, it may not be as bad as yours. Maybe I've learnt to hide it better but I still fucking hate it. Maybe you hate it more. Maybe we hate it just the same. Doesn't change anything. It's still there. Day in, day out. And we're both just dealing with it as best we can, right?"

Colour me stunned. Red, of course but stunned nonetheless into silence. Rendered speechless. Like my tongues tied in intricate ribbons.

Max swallows a deep breath. "...which is mostly by burying our heads in the sand, hoping that no one will notice us, but I'm pretty tired of that. Aren't you?"

I am.

So very, very tired. Exhausted. And I nod, even though it feels just like he's opened up my head, scooped out the mess of conflicting emotions and presented them before me.

Something shifts. A newfound belief takes hold and I begin to take apart the wall I've so far built up to guard him out, brick by brick as silence falls between us once more.

Max lifts it with words that wrap round the deep lump in my throat. "What I've been trying to say, although not very well, is that you're not alone Josie. Not anymore."

"Okay, I believe you," I say finally, much to his apparent relief. His cheeks are still rosy. Just like mine. "And I'm sorry for doubting it. And you."

He bends to pick up his backpack, shrugs. "It's fine. I'd do the same because I know that it's not easy to trust anyone, especially round these parts."

"No it's not."

"We're friends now then?" Max slides his backpack straps over both shoulders, then offers out a hand.

It sounds like a foreign word - friend. Completely alien. Not exactly a staple in my vocabulary or life, at least until a few seconds ago.

"Or college compadre's if you'd prefer? Acquaintances?" He chuckles. "TBC friends? Or just, well friends?"

"Friends?" I repeat warily. I don't want to come across as too keen. That would be a disaster. A sure fire way to send Max fleeing for the hills if he really knew how desperately alone and in need of a friend I am truly am, have been for years.

Taking his sunglasses from his side jacket pocket, Max unfolds and pushes them up with one finger over the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, of course. You don't think I'd invite any old person over to my house now, do you?"

And with that he slowly begins to grin, nodding towards the main road. Shaking his mess of hair against the rays of golden sun. "Come on Josie, let's walk and talk before this place suffocates us both."