I mooched about, the few coins I had already burning a hole in my pocket. It was pretty empty in there that day. I nodded at Kemal, who was hovering by the fruit machines with his notepad, as usual. Kemal reckoned he was working on a method – a way of telling when one of the machines was going to give up its jackpot. We weren’t exactly mates – more two loners who occasionally exchanged pointless small talk. I spent a bit of time with him last Easter break, when Will was mysteriously often “busy” (which I know now was because he was permanently suckered to Annie) and I didn’t have anything else to do except sometimes hang out in Wonderland. After I’d apparently gained his trust by offering him one of my treat-sized Mars Bars, Kem showed me his lists, with columns of all the machines and the frequency with which they were paying out. He had scribblings of equations and probability calculations and everything. Reckoned he was going to be a millionaire one day. Reckoned it was foolproof.
I reckoned he lost about a hundred quid that break.
“See that one there,” Kem said, coming over to me whilst keeping his eyes fixed on one machine that an elderly lady was sitting at. “Hot AF.”
Point of reference: when Kem says something is “hot” he’s not talking about the old lady – he means the machine. He means he thinks it’s about to pay out a massive win. At least, I hope that’s what he means.
I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
He nodded sagely, like it was a dead cert. I’d seen that look before. It hardly ever was a dead cert. I don’t think those machines work on a basis where mathematical probability would ever help you. Kem never seemed to mind that he always lost his money, though. “Investment in R & D, innit?” he always used to tell me. “Gotta speculate to accumulate.”
“How come you’re in here, anyway?” Kem asked. “Not seen you in ages.”
“Just bored.” I shrugged.
“Are you wishing away your summer break?!”
“No…”
“You’re unbelievable!”
I chuckled. Kem was good fun and I thought I should probably make more of an effort to get to know him better. I knew his family was Turkish (he’d told me), and I knew his hair was way better than mine (that much was obvious, he had a proper quiff going on and everything), and even though he sometimes wore wrap-around Oakley sunglasses, he was actually an OK guy. There was a girl he was trying to impress. He wouldn’t tell me who she was, but he described her with words like “enchanting” and “mysterious”, which I took to mean she wouldn’t speak to him. Anyway, all this attempting to win the jackpot malarkey was apparently just so he could impress her. I don’t know, he went on a lot about how he wanted some souped-up car when he was seventeen, and how he wanted to take her to Cyprus, like fast cars and flashy holidays were all girls needed to be wooed.
“Showtime!” Kem suddenly shouted, as the old lady slid off her stool and hobbled away from the fruit machine. He was over there in a flash, kissing the first of his coins and putting it in the slot. “Let’s bring it home, boys!”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m gonna get some candyfloss.”
“Bad for you, all that sugar,” Kem said, not taking his eyes away from the machine, and smacking the “spin” button with the palm of his hand.
“Bad for you, all that gambling,” I replied.
But he wasn’t listening. He jabbed at the “hold” button and slapped “spin” again. I’ve never been able to get my head around all the complicated lights and noises those machines have. My tastes are far simpler. I paid a quid for a bag of candyfloss, and changed another quid into two-pence pieces for the Penny Falls – alternately stuffing candyfloss into my mouth and coins into the slot as the moving shelves gradually shuffled the coins forward towards the pay-out hole. There were a couple of five-and ten-pound notes in there too, plus a shiny-looking watch, although, like always, they never actually got beyond the edge.
I was down to my last five coins in no time, and I’d only won about another ten that were sitting in the tray at the bottom of the machine. I considered changing another quid, but then I happened to glance at a couple of kids I recognized from two years below me at school – some boy leaning against the side of a Pac-Man machine, whilst the girl pressed into him, grinding her pelvis into his, mouths all over each other. I got a familiar heavy ache in my stomach, like, would I ever get to do that with anyone? And I kind of didn’t feel like playing any more.
I started to realize that I’d wasted too much time on the unobtainable. I’d wasted nearly two years on Will, ever hopeful that he was definitely in the grip of some sexual confusion that would result in him gently placing his lips against mine. Unobtainable.
Lusting after unobtainable people was how I’d come out to my whole family. I was thirteen and a half, sitting in my pyjamas in the lounge, with Mum, Dad and Gran, watching a TV talent show. And there he was. Alfie McDonald. This beautiful sixteen-year-old, the best sort of boy, soft, not afraid to cry, loved his mum and nan, took his dog for walks and liked cooking. I also bet he would spoon me whilst I slept, whilst listening to mellow indie music. He sang a ballad-y cover of “Born This Way” and all the judges stood up at the end.
And it was then I realized it wasn’t just the judges that were standing up.
I casually and slowly manoeuvred a cushion from the sofa over my lap, but when Mum asked me to get another Martini and lemonade for Gran from the kitchen, and I said I would “in a minute” there ensued a terrible and lengthy argument about why I couldn’t get her the drink “right now” that resulted in the full horror of everything being revealed. Later that night, Mum came into my bedroom, sat on the edge of my bed, and asked me if I liked boys, which, under the circumstances, I felt like replying “No shit, Sherlock” to, but I just said “Maybe”, because I wasn’t sure how she would take it, and I thought it might soften the blow if I introduced a small element of doubt into my answer.
She kissed me on the cheek and told me she loved me, before adding, “We won’t mention it to Auntie Pat because she’s a homophobic old bitch and we want her to leave you something in her will.”
So every year, for the last three years, we’ve seen Auntie Pat at Christmas, and every year she asks me if I’m “courting a lovely young lady” and every year I just shake my head, look down at my trainers, then ask if I can have a biscuit, as a way of taking everyone’s attention off my love life. It’s pathetic.
Stupid Alfie McDonald – I had to stop wanting what I had no chance of getting.
But then maybe there was Lemon Boy. The free lemonade, the free lemon lolly … those two facts didn’t completely stack up to a declaration of romantic interest, but they weren’t a bad start. I didn’t think I fancied him, but maybe feelings could grow … maybe that’s how it’s meant to happen, you know, rather than crazy instant lust, something more grounded and rooted in actual feelings…
“AAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAARGH!”
I looked over towards the “Museum of Curiosities” where a teenage girl had just slammed out of the exit, breathless with apparent terror. “Oh, man!” she gasped, taking a couple of deep breaths. “Shit.”