Read Online Solitaire, Part 3 of 3 by Alice Oseman - Free Book Online Page B

effects. It was good at the beginning, especially when Andrew dreamt that he was in a plane crash. And the shot where he wears a shirt that matches the wallpaper print behind him so he sort of fades away. I liked those bits a lot.
    It’s very obvious that Zach Braff (who wrote, directed, acted and compiled the soundtrack) created this film about himself. Maybe that’s what made it so real to me.
    I keep typing Michael’s number into my phone and then deleting it. After about ten minutes of this, I realise that I know his number by heart. I curse myself for acting like such a dumb teenage girl. Then I accidentally press the green call button.
    I swear resignedly at myself.
    But I don’t hang up.
    I bring the phone up to my ear.
    I hear the little click of the call being answered, but he doesn’t say hello or anything. He listens. I think I hear him breathing, but it might just be the wind.
    “Hello, Michael,” I finally say.
    Nothing.
    “I’m going to talk, so you can’t hang up.”
    Nothing.
    “Sometimes,” I say, “I can’t tell whether people are real or not. Lots of people pretend to be nice to me, so I’m never sure.”
    Nothing.
    “I’m just—”
    “I’m fairly angry at you, Tori, to be honest.”
    He speaks. The words circle round my head and I want to roll over and throw up.
    “You don’t see me as a person at all, do you?” he says. “I’m just some tool who’s always turning up to stop you hating yourself so much.”
    “That’s wrong,” I say. “That’s completely wrong.”
    “Prove it.”
    I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My proof is shrouded by something like snow, and I can’t get it out. I can’t explain that yes, he stops me hating myself so much, but no, that isn’t why I want to be his friend more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
    He laughs weakly. “You’re pretty hopeless, aren’t you? You’re as bad as I am at feelings.”
    I try to think about when Michael might have expressed his feelings, but the only time I can think of is at the ice rink, that anger, so crazy that he might explode.
    “Can we meet up?” I ask. I need to talk to him. In the real world.
    “Why?”
    “Because …” Once again, my voice is trapped in my throat. “Because … I like … being … with you.”
    There’s a long pause. For a brief moment, I wonder if he’s hung up. Then he sighs.
    “Where are you right now?” he asks. “Have you gone home?”
    “On the field. By the art conservatory.”
    “But it’s literally
Hoth
out there.”
    A
Star Wars
reference. It takes me so by surprise that I once again fail to say anything in reply.
    “I’ll see you in a minute,” he says.
    I hang up.
    He’s here in almost exactly a minute, which is impressive. He’s not wearing a coat or a scarf or anything over his uniform. I think that he may secretly be a radiator.
    Several metres away, he absorbs the situation. I suppose it’s funny and that’s why he laughs.
    “You took a heater
outside
?”
    I look at the heater. “I am freezing.”
    He thinks I’m insane. He’s not wrong.
    “That is genius. I don’t even think
I
would do that.”
    He sits next to me, leaning against the art conservatory’s outer wall. We stare over the field. It’s uncertain really where the field stops and the sheet-like snowflakes begin. The snow is falling slowly and vertically. I would say that there is total peace on earth, except that every now and then a solitary snowflake flies into my face.
    At some point, he glances down at my left arm, which is resting on the snow between us. He doesn’t say anything about it.
    “You had news to tell me,” I say. It’s pretty amazing that I even remember this. “But you didn’t tell me.”
    His head turns to me, his smile absent. “Er, yeah. Well, it’s not too important.”
    That means that it is important.
    “I just wanted to tell you that I have another race in a few weeks,” he says, a little embarrassed. “I’m going to the World Junior Speed