Alfie…
I almost cried then, in broad daylight, before my first day had even started. Tears prickled the backs of my eyelids and sadness welled up in my intestines. And, because he knew me, because he knew me and loved me so well and so hard, Alfie sensed it.
My phone buzzed, right on time.
Alfie: I’m thinking of you today. Just be you – blotchy shyness rash and all. You WILL make friends. Remember, only two years x x
I stood to one side. A smile twitched across my face, though it was a bittersweet one.
Amelie: HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT THE RASH HAD COME OUT? X
A sharp bell rang out and I checked the time on my phone – 8.55 a.m. I only had five minutes to try and find room D24 and meet my new form group. I rummaged in my satchel for my map of campus. The paper shook in my hands as I managed to locate the refectory right in front of me, and, apparently D24 was in the media block to the right of it.
There, I thought. That wasn’t so bad. You are coping.
My phone buzzed again.
Alfie: I miss that rash. You’ll be amazing today x x
I found myself closing my eyes. Standing there with the sun warm on my eyelids, the last dregs of late arrivers striding past me, I could picture every contour of Alfie’s face. The mole just next to his left eye, every tuft of his misbehaving hair. Instinctively, I typed out a reply.
Amelie: I love you
I stared at my screen, watching the cursor flash next to the “u”. Another surge of emotions ran through me and I deleted what I’d written. I watched the screen erase the truth, one letter of it vanishing at a time. The bell rang again. I was now late for my first day of whatever the hell my life was now.
Amelie: I miss you
I sent that one.
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth.
I shake my head. Here, now, on this cold bench at almost three o’clock in the morning. My breath comes out as more of a pant. My body’s so freezing I can’t imagine ever being warm again. That warm day, not so very long ago, couldn’t feel further from this cold witching hour of everyone-else-is-asleep o’clock.
What would’ve happened if I’d sent that first message?
That is one of the Big Ifs I’ve been turning over. What if I had told Alfie I loved him? What if I hadn’t deleted that truth? What if I’d gone with my gut instinct, the primal part of me that typed out the words I love you – even though we had that stupid agreement? If I’d sent that first message, would it have stopped what came afterwards?
I will never know.
Because I didn’t tell Alfie I loved him. I only told him I missed him. I pressed send and watched one tick turn into two ticks. Then I put my phone back into my bag and ran to the media block.
If you’re shy, trust me when I say there’s nothing worse than entering a room late. I opened the door to D24 in a flustered sweaty heap and everyone turned around like meerkats. I tugged at my denim jacket as my rash bloomed further across my body.
“Sorry I’m late,” I stuttered to my new form tutor.
“Don’t worry. You’re not even the last to arrive. Lots of you get lost on the first day.” He gestured to an empty chair in the circle. I sank into it and avoided eye contact with the people sat opposite. “As I was saying,” he continued, “my name’s Alistair and I’m your form tutor for the next two years.” He looked young, with ginger hair and a pink shirt. “You’re lucky, I’m pretty damn awesome.”
The circle laughed self-consciously and I looked up to take everyone in. I just KNEW they’d all spent ages picking out today’s this-is-me outfit and the room reeked of trying-too-hard. One guy sitting opposite had a political slogan emblazoned across his chest and held a leather-bound journal so we knew he Cared About The World and Wrote Things In This Special Journal. The girl next to him showed off freshly dyed pink hair, wearing large cupped headphones like a necklace and a denim pinafore over yellow tights. Not that I could judge. I’d agonized over exactly which granny dress to wear and couldn’t handle the fact it was too hot for my usual cardigan. “Even if you went to war, you’d go in an oversized cardigan,” Alfie had once said, before removing my cardigan and looking at my shoulders like they were the best pair of shoulders in the whole goddamned world. My fashion style is essentially, If some old person has recently died in a dress, that’s the dress I want to wear. I don’t even own a pair of jeans.
The door burst open and a girl with red hair and a perfect fringe appeared on the threshold. “Is this D24?” she asked, not seeming to care how everyone’s heads had craned in her direction.
“It is indeed,” Alistair said. “Sit down, sit down.”
She walked over in her own time and smiled before sitting next to me.
“Hi,” she whispered to me, just like that. “I’m Hannah.”
I felt words catch in my throat but managed a “Hi” back.
Alistair made us wait five minutes for the last latecomer, but they didn’t show. He proceeded to welcome us to college and explain how it was different to our secondary schools. We were allowed to wear our own clothes. We wouldn’t get detentions. We didn’t even have to turn up to class, though we’d get kicked out if we got less than eighty per cent attendance. Today all our lessons would be introductory, before the real timetable started the next day.
“Now, you’re organized into forms based on your subjects and you guys are all specializing in the performing arts in some way,” he explained. “I’m head of PA. That’s why I’m your tutor.” He then unexpectedly jumped onto the table and started cancan-ing and doing jazz hands while we all laughed and looked at one another in disbelief. “Therefore I’m expecting all of you to sign up to this term’s talent show,” he sang like an old-fashioned crooner. Alistair twirled, jumped off the desk, and landed back onto the grey carpet. “Right, let’s all get to know each other.”
The following hour was hell’s teeth. Actually, you know what? I think maybe that’s making too light of it. Alistair made us stand up and freakin’ sing three facts about ourselves. I squirmed in my chair, my rash spreading down and itching my stomach as no one else seemed that embarrassed. I guess performing arts students aren’t natural introverts – in fact, I’m the only singer I’ve met with significant social anxiety.
“I’m Darla,” sang the girl with pink hair. “I love writing songs, taking photos of sunsets, and living every day like it’s my last.”
“Hello, Darla,” we were forced to sing back.
Leather Notebook Boy, to be fair, was not a happy bunny. “I’m George,” he said gruffly. “I like books, and football, and politics, and I think I may be in the wrong form because I’m not studying any performing arts.”
Alistair burst out laughing. “Oh no, George,” he sang, all dramatically like we’d suddenly walked into a musical. “You may very well be in the wrong room. Let me check my notes!” He twirled again and picked up his clipboard. “No, your name isn’t on here,” he sang again. “I’m so sorry, but you don’t belong heeeeeeeere.”
“Bollocks,” George said.