Read Online Solitaire, Part 3 of 3 by Alice Oseman - Free Book Online
Authors: Alice Oseman
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the desks in exactly the same way that the sixth-formers do in the common room except with much more enthusiasm. There are not many books; it’s actually more of a large room with a few bookshelves than a library. The atmosphere is quite strange. I’m almost glad that it’s so bright and happy in here. It’s an odd feeling because I never like bright and happy things.
We sit down in the middle of the non-fiction row. He’s looking at me, but I don’t want to look back any more. Looking at his face makes me feel funny.
“You were hiding yesterday!” he says, trying to make it sound like a cute joke. As if we’re six years old.
For a second, I wonder if he knows about my special beautiful place on the art conservatory roof, but that’s impossible.
“How’s your arm?” he asks.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Didn’t you have something to tell me?”
And the pause he leaves then – it’s like he has everything he wants to tell me, and nothing.
“Are you al—” he begins, then changes his mind. “Your hands are cold.”
I stare blankly at my hands, still avoiding his eyes. Had he been holding my hand on the way here? I curl my palms into fists and sigh. Fine. Small talk it is. “I watched all three
Lord of the Rings
last night and
V for Vendetta
. Oh, and I had a dream. I think it was about Winona Ryder.”
And I can feel the sadness pouring out of him all of a sudden, and it makes me want to get up and run away and keep running.
“I also found out that approximately one hundred billion people have died since the world began. Did you know that? One hundred billion. It’s a big number, but it still doesn’t seem like quite enough.”
There’s a long silence. A few of the lower-school groups are looking at us and giggling, thinking we’re having some kind of deep, romantic conversation.
Finally, he says something productive: “I guess neither of us have been sleeping much.”
I decide to look at him then.
It shocks me a little.
Because there’s none of the usual Michael in that calm smile.
And I think of the time at the ice rink when he’d been so angry,
but it’s different to that.
And I think of the sadness that’s been in Lucas’s eyes since the day I met him,
but it’s different to that too.
Split between the green and the blue, there is an indefinable beauty that people call humanity.
“You don’t have to do this any more.” I’m whispering, not because I don’t want people to hear, but I seem to have forgotten how to increase the volume in my voice. “You don’t have to be my friend. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I’m literally one hundred and ten per cent fine. Really. I understand what you’ve been trying to do, and you are a very nice person, you’re the perfect person actually, but it’s okay, you don’t have to pretend any more. I’m fine. I don’t need you to help me. I’ll do something about all this and then I’ll be all right and it’ll all go back to normal.”
His face doesn’t change. He reaches towards me with his hand and brushes what must be a tear from my face – not in a romantic way, but as if I had a malaria-carrying mosquito perched on my cheek. He looks at the tear, somewhat confused, and then holds his hand up to me. I hadn’t realised I was crying. I don’t really feel sad. I don’t really feel anything.
“I’m not a perfect person,” he says. His smile is still there, but it’s not a happy smile. “And I don’t have any friends except for you. In case you hadn’t heard, most people know that I’m the king of freaks; I mean, yeah, sometimes I come across as charming and eccentric, but eventually people realise that I’m just trying too hard. I’m sure Lucas Ryan and Nick Nelson can tell you all kinds of wonderful stories about me.”
He leans back. He looks annoyed, to be honest.
“If
you
don’t want to be friends with
me
, I completely understand. You don’t have to make some excuse about it. I know
We sit down in the middle of the non-fiction row. He’s looking at me, but I don’t want to look back any more. Looking at his face makes me feel funny.
“You were hiding yesterday!” he says, trying to make it sound like a cute joke. As if we’re six years old.
For a second, I wonder if he knows about my special beautiful place on the art conservatory roof, but that’s impossible.
“How’s your arm?” he asks.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Didn’t you have something to tell me?”
And the pause he leaves then – it’s like he has everything he wants to tell me, and nothing.
“Are you al—” he begins, then changes his mind. “Your hands are cold.”
I stare blankly at my hands, still avoiding his eyes. Had he been holding my hand on the way here? I curl my palms into fists and sigh. Fine. Small talk it is. “I watched all three
Lord of the Rings
last night and
V for Vendetta
. Oh, and I had a dream. I think it was about Winona Ryder.”
And I can feel the sadness pouring out of him all of a sudden, and it makes me want to get up and run away and keep running.
“I also found out that approximately one hundred billion people have died since the world began. Did you know that? One hundred billion. It’s a big number, but it still doesn’t seem like quite enough.”
There’s a long silence. A few of the lower-school groups are looking at us and giggling, thinking we’re having some kind of deep, romantic conversation.
Finally, he says something productive: “I guess neither of us have been sleeping much.”
I decide to look at him then.
It shocks me a little.
Because there’s none of the usual Michael in that calm smile.
And I think of the time at the ice rink when he’d been so angry,
but it’s different to that.
And I think of the sadness that’s been in Lucas’s eyes since the day I met him,
but it’s different to that too.
Split between the green and the blue, there is an indefinable beauty that people call humanity.
“You don’t have to do this any more.” I’m whispering, not because I don’t want people to hear, but I seem to have forgotten how to increase the volume in my voice. “You don’t have to be my friend. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I’m literally one hundred and ten per cent fine. Really. I understand what you’ve been trying to do, and you are a very nice person, you’re the perfect person actually, but it’s okay, you don’t have to pretend any more. I’m fine. I don’t need you to help me. I’ll do something about all this and then I’ll be all right and it’ll all go back to normal.”
His face doesn’t change. He reaches towards me with his hand and brushes what must be a tear from my face – not in a romantic way, but as if I had a malaria-carrying mosquito perched on my cheek. He looks at the tear, somewhat confused, and then holds his hand up to me. I hadn’t realised I was crying. I don’t really feel sad. I don’t really feel anything.
“I’m not a perfect person,” he says. His smile is still there, but it’s not a happy smile. “And I don’t have any friends except for you. In case you hadn’t heard, most people know that I’m the king of freaks; I mean, yeah, sometimes I come across as charming and eccentric, but eventually people realise that I’m just trying too hard. I’m sure Lucas Ryan and Nick Nelson can tell you all kinds of wonderful stories about me.”
He leans back. He looks annoyed, to be honest.
“If
you
don’t want to be friends with
me
, I completely understand. You don’t have to make some excuse about it. I know
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