“What?”
“It’s peak season, we were lucky,” he explains.
“We’re here with my parents!” I tell him. “I mean, I guess anything’s better than here, but my folks are all about this being a family thing. I don’t think it’s on the cards for me and you to just go off to some shed in the forest.”
“Cabin.”
“They’ll never agree. Especially Mum.”
“Well, it’s booked now, so. I can’t stay here. I’m persona non grata. Leave your folks to me – it’s only one night, I’ll talk them round. Plus, you’ll love it. Plus, we’ll definitely get some better pictures. And we need them, because guess who’s started following our account?”
I flick my eyes to his.
“Exactly,” Jack says. “Judas and Iago. And they’ve recently posted a picture of—”
“Don’t tell me. Just don’t tell me.”
Jack nods. “Were you dreaming about him?”
I close my eyes.
“You were saying some stuff. In your sleep.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“OK, then.”
We lie in silence for a bit.
I can’t stand it. “What was I saying?”
“You were saying ‘Boo Boo’ a lot. Is that what you called him?”
I flinch at this private, slightly sickly thing now being public.
“Aww!” Jack adds. “That’s cute.”
It’s because that’s what Tariq used to say when he’d come and find me in the library – “Boo!” I sigh at the memory. God, I loved it when he did that. I would look forward to it through every morning lesson and then wait in hope at lunchtime, in case today would be the day Tariq would step out from behind a bookshelf, or creep up behind me at a desk: “Boo!”
I miss him so much. I want to put my arms around him, but now someone else is doing that. It’s unbearable, and I can’t help it, a tear escapes and I wipe it away angrily.
“Do you want a hug?” Jack asks softly.
“I’m good, thanks,” I tell him, even though I do, because you’re right, Jack, I am a coward.
“Morning, sleepyhead!”
Jack’s dressed in shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses, grinning at me from where’s he standing beside Mum, who’s cooking bacon and eggs on the camping stove. I blink at them through sleep-crusted eyes. “What time is it?”
“Seven!” Jack chirps, lifting his sunglasses up on to his head.
“Shit,” I mutter, starting to edge backwards into the tent. Seven is not morning time, it’s still night as far as I’m concerned.
“Don’t you dare, Nate!” Mum says, brandishing her spatula, like she might use it to spank my arse. “You should take a leaf out of Jack’s book – he’s been up since six!”
“I’ve been up since six!” Jack confirms. “Best part of the day – the morning – right, Mrs Nate?”
“Exactly!” Mum says.
I narrow my eyes at Jack. Sometimes I wonder if he’s a real teenage boy, because a real boy wouldn’t be as happy as he is to be up at such an ungodly hour. There’s even science now that proves kids my age need sleep, so why the hell doesn’t Jack?
“Coffee’s ready!” Jack trills. “Coffee, sleepyhead?”
I groan at him.
“I shall take that as a ‘yes’ – luckily I speak Grumpy Teen Boy!” He grins at my mum, who laughs at his joke. God, he is such a lick arse.
He hands me a tin camping mug of coffee. “Two sugars, don’t worry.”
“How did you—”
“Know? I know everything,” Jack smiles. “I’m very observant and caring.”
I sip the coffee.
“So, your parents are cool with Le Plan,” Jack continues.
“What?” I mutter.
“Lovely idea!” Mum says, flipping the bacon. “Truth be told, it’s the sort of place I implied to Linda at number fifty-five we’d be staying, so you can get the lowdown in case she asks – we don’t want to be caught out.” And then in a sentence which has more wrong with it than I can possibly get my head around, she adds, “And it’ll be nice to have a bit of Boy Time with your best mate!”
I groan, because I know this will just encourage Jack, and what do you know…
“Boy Time!” Jack agrees. “I love Boy Time, just the boys, being boyish!” He grins at my mum again and then winks at me.
So, we’re trudging along this ramshackle pavement (because it’s “only the next village along”), Jack still in his pink shorts and flip-flops, pulling a Louis Vuitton case on wheels, and me in not my PE shorts and a red checked shirt. “Look at you, a vision in gingham!” Jack said when I emerged from the tent. I didn’t reply.
It’s hot. And Google Maps is being worryingly vague about where exactly we are, currently positioning us in the middle of a patch of green, nowhere near a road.
“Aha!” says Jack, as we arrive at a bus stop. “I mean, we could walk, or we could just hop on the bus to the village.”
“Jack, my parents would have given us a lift. Why did you claim you wanted to walk?”
“Nate, Nate, Nate,” Jack coos. “I just think, if they see where we’re staying, you know, all luxurious, fluffy towels, robes, and so on, it’s just a bit awkward, right? Knowing they’ll be staying in a literal shithole.”
I mull it over for a second, then nod. “Yeah, I guess.”
“But obviously I don’t want to walk. We’ve already been on the road for nearly ten minutes and I’m practically in a coma. So. Yay for public transport!” He consults the timetable.
“Fine,” I say. I glance over the timetable too, then turn to Jack, who looks equally confused.
“The bus times are missing,” Jack says.
“Right,” I say.
“Because this just says the bus comes every Wednesday, and it’s Friday today, which would mean the bus will come in five days’ time, which is ridiculous. This is England in 2020.”
I notice a sign with a phone number that purports to be a “Travel Hotline” but Jack’s already on his mobile. “The number’s dead,” he says. “Let’s see what Google has to say.” He taps away at his phone, his brow becoming
