Chapter Six

Through Being Cool

Of all the things I learn during our walk back along the main road, it's that Max really wasn't lying about walking and talking. He can pretty much talk without coming up for breath.

Seriously.

He likes to chat. Really likes it. And so he carries on narrating our journey back, which he'd originally claimed would only take twenty minutes tops but has so far taken almost double that. 

"Was this place ever open?" Max asks quietly as we pass by a parade of boarded up shops and restaurants. His gaze lingers on a sign touting 'The Finest American-Style Milkshakes and Floats' stuck to the inside of a white-washed window.

I continue to trail alongside him, hugging my sides with my hands so my legs - all wobbly and weary - don't buckle under the pressure of having to walk and talk and think about how completely at odds this all is with how I'd thought my afternoon would unfold.

"It was but years ago. I only visited once," I say, careful not to bump into him as we come to a sharp halt at a cross junction filled with speeding cars. "Their milkshakes weren't even that good. The food was even worse."

Max chuckles, kicking at loose chipping from the road with his trainer. "Probably the reason why they closed then, with such damning reviews like that."

We continue to walk along the main street into what feels like a never-ending furnace of heat. The smell of newly laid asphalt masks the sea salt breeze that Southbrook is known for. At least it was until the heatwave kicked in like a raging inferno. Now everything just smells like other peoples sweat and garden BBQ's.

Another downside to the longer days and blistering sunshine is that all the students from Southbrook's Sixth Form are out and about, milling by the park and its playground. A rowdy bunch turn their heads towards us, stares set into scowls. Max however keeps on walking and talking, as if completely unaware.

As he carries on lamenting the lack of things to do and the abundance of boarded up former establishments, he turns to me casually and says, "This town is dying. I can't wait to get out."

"Same," I say, in a similar tone. "But at least you don't live right near the town." I point behind us, back towards the college, the long main road and the train station, on the outskirts of the shopping precinct by the sea.

His lips curl up knowingly. "Yeah. It's pretty rough down there but then again, at least it's not dead and devoid of entertainment like up here."

I nod in agreement. It's the kind of place where nothing ever really happens. Where everyone's tucked up in bed by ten pm. Where favourite past times are washing cars and pruning hedges, or writing to the council about potholes. It's a part of Southbrook that is immune to traffic and the noise it brings. 

And there's a particular type silence up here in suburbia that's so different to that of Crownsworth Road, a stones throw from the estates and the pub that got shut down for selling cocaine and who knows what else. A road that is chock full of cars and kids playing out in it. My road.

"Although, don't get me wrong, I'm glad that I got to spend the last four years here, at home in Snoresville instead of down there, at Southbrook High."

"Too cool for it?" I say, nodding at his t-shirt - his favourite one supposedly. A band t-shirt he found on eBay. One he had to use his mum's credit card and account for because he couldn't live without it.

The more you learn...

"Something like that."

As we wait for the lights to change so we can cross over to a side of town I haven't been to since Lucy Roads' 5th birthday party, I want to tell him that I prefer the silence. And the peace and quiet but he's on a mission, charging ahead up the nostalgically familiar steep, winding street that ends in a cute little cul-de-sac of rose bush fronted cottages and Lucy's old house.

"The devil lives in these quarters," Max chips in, when we walk fast past another cul-de-sac. I don't even have to guess who he's referring too.

"Great," I sigh. "Knew there's a reason why I don't come this way much."

Retiring a finger each side of the one he's got stuck up, he defiantly waves it in front of a house that could only belong to the like's of The Parrish's. The shiny cars in the drive away and out on the road are a dead giveaway. 

"She's the worst," he says once we're in the clear. Maybe he's noticed that I've kept my head as low as possible for the past thirty seconds. "The absolute definition of it."

I nod in resolute agreement. 

Taking a short cut round the back of impressive houses and their sprawling gardens, he continues to reel off a tirade about how her dad once almost ran him over in his Ferrari. Max then stops abruptly to apologise for speaking at break neck speed.

"I'm sorry. I'm just talking at you, aren't I?"

"No, it's fine. I'm happy to listen." Really, it is. I'm just happy to catch a breath, wipe some sweat away though it returns with a vengeance in a matter of seconds.

"I'm a nervous talker, if you hadn't of already noticed," he says, with quiet laughter as we resume our trail past high trellis fences, dodging wasps and lingering bugs caught up in the heatwave too.

"So I'm learning."

"And you?" Max hacks away at a stray branch like his arm's a machete. Some of the rogue leaves wind up caught in his hair.

"Huh? What about me?"

He drags it out and flings it over a garden wall as we come back onto another hillside street. "When you're nervous. What do you do to hide it?"

I have to think. Quietly of course. My inside voice works overtime to decide on a suitable reply. Ultimately the truth prevails. I don't want to lie this early on, and besides as I learnt earlier, Max isn't exactly fond of liars.

"I don't talk. Much...at all, if I can help it. If I'm really nervous I just keep quiet."

"You've been pretty quiet since we left the college," Max says, scrunching up his mouth. His eyebrow lifts slightly as he waits for me to answer.

"I know."

Pushing on past many more impossibly big and unattainable houses and cars, he flashes me a cheeky smile. "I make you nervous?" He puts emphasis on each word, like he can't believe it.

I try to swallow back the sensation of my cheeks burning up, redder than the red vintage Mini we pass by parked in a red-bricked driveway. "A little."

"Because of all the talking?"

"No." I avoid his gaze. And his face. All of him as I stare straight ahead, aware that we must look so silly. Little and large - six foot everything and five foot nothing, cruising Southbrook's sought after real estate.

"Then what is it?"

I struggle again. For the right words. The right reply. Max can't know that this is the closest I've come to venturing into someone else's territory or someone's house. Not since my aunt threw a summer party last year. 

Let's just say it's been a while. And though I've had quite the walk to prepare, I'm no closer to knowing how to act or what to expect. Except that I'm pretty sure he'll invite me up to his room and I won't be able to hide in the dining room like I did at Aunt Pam's.

This is why I'm nervous. But I won't tell. It's not a lie, as such, I just can't find the guts to say it out aloud.

Casually adopting a sarcastic but light tone - something else I've learnt Max does so well, I nudge my backpack into his as we pace up towards the cricket grounds, and laugh. "Because you're too cool for school Max, literally. And how can I compete with that?"

* * *

"Welcome to Casa Montgomery," Max says as I huff and puff up what I hope is the last road to the very top of suburbia that I'll be made to climb today. "Mi casa es tu casa and all that."

I pull at my sundress and the limp strands of hair stuck to the back of my neck in a sweaty tangle. "Thanks, but which one is it?"

He slings his backpack off into one hand and laughs. He knows I'm only messing. "That one."

Following his gaze, I point my feet and attention towards the only house that it could possibly be. Which is a grand mock tudor fronted mansion, guarded by a garage on each side and a long white gravel driveway, framed by bold hedges and colourful floral bushes. And all kinds of intricate trellis and woven ivy.

Amongst it all a stone water feature takes center stage, perfectly in line with a step-in porch and the main door in all it's glossy black and imposing glory.

Mum wasn't half lying when she said it was fancy.

I'm pretty sure my mouth forms a wondrous but comical 'O' shape, and that Max clocks it. Because he shrugs and nods ahead, like he's witnessed the same reaction plenty of times. "Shall we?"

I'm hesitant but there's three parked cars in the driveway, and from a window high up the faint strains of heavy rock music spill out.

Max wasn't lying either.

"So, you can take your shoes off if you like or not," he instructs, once he's fumbled for his house keys and pushed the heavy door open with the weight of one shoulder. "It used to be an enforced rule back when we first moved in but no one bothers to abide by it anymore." 

Max keeps his on but I quickly slip my flip flops off, giving him a polite smile as I wonder where his mum might be and if I'm at all cut out to make a good impression with sweaty pits and asphalt stained toes. 

"You want a drink?" he asks, leading the way towards bright light, along cold wooden parquet flooring that squeaks beneath my bare feet. We pass through a double archway into a kitchen that could easily swallow up my entire house and back garden to boot.

Glossy granite work tops reflect the sunshine streaming through the wrap around glass windows and french double doors that are wide open. I steal a glimpse of green grass and spy an oversized picnic table in faded wood beneath a canopy of oil lanterns.

All very fancy.

And when Max loops round the kitchen island counter, pulls open the stainless steel fridge and presents a can of coca cola, asks if I want a glass or ice, I stumble over my words because I'm too caught up in drinking it all in. 

"Oh, no, thank you. I'm fine without." My fingers firmly grip the cold Aluminum like he might take it back. "My mum never allows any fizzy drinks in my house," I say, hoping it'll explain why I'm acting as if it's made from solid gold.

"What a monster." 

"She worries that it'll rot our teeth." And make my condition worse, I want to add, just like everything else she slowly phased out a few years back: Sugar. Diary. Wheat. Cheap fabric softener. 'Toxic' shower gels and shampoos. Anything with Panthenol in it. 

TV after eleven. Internet too. 

Cracking his open, Max takes a long sip that he appears extremely satisfied with. "I've been dreaming of this moment ever since we left college. And I have to say, it's worth it!"

I raise a smile and a toast of sorts, enjoying the sound of the bubbles bouncing against my can and the anticipation of satisfaction to come from the first sip in so long.

An interruption from the french doors can't even pull my lips away from the metal ridge and the much-missed sugary goodness of an ice cold drink on a sweltering day. Not even Max's mum has the power to tear us apart as she approaches the kitchen, brightly coloured cushions cradled in her arms and I keep on chugging.

"Hey mum," he says warmly, resting his elbows on the counter as he gives me a look to emphasis just who it is. Like I couldn't have guessed.

She has the same colour eyes and dirty blonde hair as him, though longer. Much less messy. Cheeks less rosy though it appears as if she's spent a fair amount of time in the sun if the flush of her arms is anything to go by. Max seems to notice too.

"'Working' from home are we?" His tone is accusing but light. When she dumps the cushions and lifts her palms up to face him like she's committed a crime, she both laughs and sighs.

"Afraid you caught me." Her attention falls to me, stood on the other side of the counter, coke can in hand, mouth full of sugar. Cheeks full of blush. "I couldn't resist sitting outside for a little while. Who knows when this spell of good weather will bugger off, so best not waste it."

Again she looks at me, then back at Max. It's the exact same expression that my mum would likely give if she found Max in her kitchen, which is a wide wow I can't believe she has a friend smile. So wide I worry her lips might split.

"Sure mum," Max replies, tracing patterns on the side of his can. "This is Josie by the way."

She steps forwards as if to shake my hand before she thinks better of it. "Hi Josie!"

"Hi Mrs. Montgomery."

"That's so very sweet of you, but you can just call me Belinda. Or Linda," she says, "or whatever you like."

"Mum."

Belinda or Linda, or whatever I like carries on even though Max's meek interruption hopes she won't. It seems he takes after her in the nervous talk department.

"And Josie, well... wow! What a lovely name that is. Isn't it darling? And how do you know each other? Are you in the same class at Southbrook or did you meet somewhere else?" Her questions come fast and thick. They make my head spin and face heat a few hundred degrees. "Do you live nearby?"

"Mum... I told you... Josie is here so we can work on her presentation..." His eyes dip low and to the side. I assume they've had this conversation before. I don't know whether to be mildly chuffed or weirded out.

"Sorry. I'm just happy that-"

Max's loud groans echo off the kitchen tiles as his mum quietly laughs at herself.

"I thought you were  a cool mum, you know? Above all that typical parental interrogation but it turns out you're just like all the rest." Even I catch the sarcasm in his deadpan delivery, and so she continues to beam from ear to ear.

"Guilty as charged." Again she raises her palms. "I suppose I should leave you both in peace."

"Cheers mum. So, about this grand tour Josie, do you want to come see the rest of the place?" He backs away from the counter and steps towards me.

His mum edges away too, taking a stack of magazines from the side with her. "Don't bore her too much darling," she says, with a little sigh thrown in as if rehearsed. Playing the role of ditsy mum to perfection. Mine would probably do the same if she weren't always so busy fussing over bricks and mortar at the estate agents or what kind of toxic agents are lingering in our bathroom cabinet.

"I'll try not too."

She smiles and waves at me. "Lovely to meet you Josie. Good luck with your presentation."

"Thank you," I manage, slowly following Max's lead back along the hallway. From here he shows me the lounge and dining room, both just as large as the kitchen. And then a downstairs study, a white-tiled bathroom and a second lounge before we take the stairs.

I scan the many framed pictures along the wall as we quickly pass by until my attention sticks to one of a picture perfect family and a grinning Max. All boyish and fair-haired.

"Yeah yeah, I know...hard to believe that I was once a cute kid," he drawls jokily, catching my gaze. When I point to an elaborately decorated picture of a Siamese cat he rolls his eyes, says, "That's Dammit - my cat and my sisters too even though she's allergic now."

I stare blankly back at him.

"You know like the song...? By Blink 182..? Me and Mel named him after it."

I nod even though I've never heard of it and signal for him to continue.

"But he never writes or calls anymore. Stays out all night. We think he's squatting down at number 46 with The Peterson's and their Persian Pedigree, Priscilla." His eyebrows dance comically.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I laugh along with him.

Stepping up from the stairs Max spins to face me. "So, that's the bathroom and then my mums room," - he points further down the hall - '"and that's Melissa's room." Music escapes from under her door and hurtles towards us. "Let's give that a miss for now."

"Okay."

"And at the back, down here is mine." 

A few more steps and we come to stand before a black door covered in bright stickers and blu-tacked on album covers. As it swings open with a gentle push, my legs grow wobbly, like unset jelly from the anticipation of stepping inside. And I don't know what I really expected but it's different and yet familiar too.

But I've never been in a boys room before. Maybe he can tell. Max sidesteps a pair of black jeans and tosses aside a green plaid shirt. Then he nudges a pair of shoes under his messy bed and gives me a shrug.

It smells musty - like boy but aftershave too and something I can't quite put my finger on. Hazy light breaks through the gaps in the curtains before he pulls then apart like a magician and the rest spills in. Dust dances in the streaks as he cracks open both windows. Max gestures towards a hardback chair in front of his small computer desk covered in stickers like the one's in the window of the Surf and Skate shop in town before it closed down.

"You can, um sit there if you like or take the bed, if you want? Whatever is more comfortable for you."

"Here is good," I say, my voice catching, mind still reeling from my new surroundings. His much larger-than-mine room painted in a light shade of blue, decorated with many lopsided posters and the badly disguised mess of broken skateboards and guitar strings beneath the desk.

He kicks off his trainers and swings his legs over the edge of his bed, to face me and says, "One of the wheels is dodgy, sorry."

"It's fine." I drop my backpack to my feet and tilt my face towards the breeze that drifts through the open windows.

"So...this is me. My room."

"It's...nice."

"Yeah," he laughs though I haven't said anything remotely amusing, "it's a mess but it feels like home. Has been for a while."

I wonder if he's referring to his private tutoring. If it's weird at all to have spent the last four years in one place. And then I remember that I've barely left my own room either. It seems we have something else in common.

Apologising for his unmade bed and the sheets that hang off sans duvet - because of the heat - Max makes himself comfortable and utters the dreaded word presentation.

The fear rises up again. Momentarily I'd forgotten all about it and why I'm really here. Which clearly isn't just to marvel at his impressive CD collection or battered guitar hung up on the wall, or how he's allowed me into a part of his world I'd venture to guess not many have seen before.

But here I am. And I can't pretend that I'm not a bucket of nerves. My anxiety now at an all time high from the prospect of having to recite the crappy notes in my sketchbook. Talk about themes in film with a straight face to a boy whose expectant smile makes it hard to concentrate.

"You want to get started then?" Max asks, leaning back casually on his forearms. A lock of hair falls over his left eye as if to purposely to send me off course.

I am not at all prepared for any of it. A part of me had hoped he might forget the real reason he'd asked me back to his and that I would too.

My mouth's now drier than stale bread left out in the sahara. A total contrast to the sheen of sweat across my forehead that menacingly inches down to meet the heat fired up beneath cheeks and chest.

And here we go again.

I don't know what's worse - a class full of bored, judging college class faces and Mr. McFittie or Max's. Because he looks up at me with expectant eyes and with a smile that acts like amnesia over all my scribbled words. All my thoughts gone. Suddenly. Out the window just like all my once ordinarily boring plans for the afternoon.

Gone like my resolve to act cool.