Read Online The Suicide Club by Rhys Thomas - Free Book Online

I didn’t speak, I didn’t really have any friends. Until one day, that is. I remember it quite clearly. I was walking back to the classroom after playtime and suddenly Matthew accidentally fell into step by my side. We were both walking at the same pace and it was quite awkward. If I sped up he sped up and if I slowed down he slowed down, like our brains were connected. Then, all of a sudden . . . we were holding hands! We just started holding hands. Now I think back on it, it was hilarious.
    Anyway, it was sunny outside and the sky was blue. I felt a little guilty being inside when it was such a nice day. I was glad Matthew had come over though because I wanted to talk to him. He was sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed and I was lying on my duvet, on my stomach. This had been the seating arrangement for computer games since I’d first known him. When I went to his house it was exactly the same, apart from I was on the floor and he was on his bed.
    â€˜What do you think of Freddy?’ I said.
    His face was blank, engrossed in the screen.
    â€˜Man’s a hero.’
    â€˜I’m serious.’
    The little golf man on the screen putted his ball but just missed on the right, because Matthew doesn’t understand the idea of tilting greens and hits it directly at the hole every time.
    â€˜I liked what he said by the lake.’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    He lined up his next putt. ‘But it’s never going to happen. I’m going to university to do engineering and that’s that. There’s no way my parents would let me leave school to go and live in the woods.’
    I laughed inwardly at how the conversation had been bent around inside his head. But what he was saying made sense, I guess. It was a bit of a dream.
    â€˜Jenny kept talking about it on the way home though,’ he said. ‘You know what she’s like. She can’t wait until she doesn’t have to go to school any more. She hates it. Do you know that she gets so stressed about school that she gets sick? I mean, her parents are so strict that she’s simply not allowed to fail. My parents are bad, but hers . . . get in the hole!’ His golf man was lifting the ball out of the cup and throwing his cap in the air.
    â€˜Nice one, Matthew,’ I said. ‘A nine.’
    â€˜I’m going into the city with her this afternoon. And the Californian Girls.’
    â€˜Oh God,’ I moaned. And then added, ‘Can I come?’
    I love the city on a Saturday afternoon. It’s always alive with energy; people going about their lives, buying things and making themselves feel good. The glass is shiny and the lights lift my spirits. It’s like nothing’s real
anywhere
but it’s good fake, not bad.
    Jenny spent most of the afternoon snapping away happily at passers-by with her camera. She loved photography. Shewas really artistic. And when she showed you her photos they were always excellent, not the run-of-the-mill photos that all girls took. Some of her pictures were on display outside the art department, and she loved that.
    There was something vaguely sexy about the way she adjusted the focus on the lens between her middle finger and thumb. Her lithe forearms were working in perfect harmony with the skeleton of her hand – all cartilage and muscles working synchronously like a machine.
    She was really pretty in a cute, Californian way. She wasn’t like Clare. Jenny had blonde hair and a tan, and whilst Clare had sharp features (yuk, what a thing to say), Jenny’s nose and cheeks were more roundy and smoothed. Jenny wasn’t like most of the other Americans, who had a tendency to act adult-like, which came out as plain embarrassing.
    One of the Californian Girls started telling us about a party that she had been invited to. Some of the older American kids who were doing their baccalaureates (which are internationally recognized examinations that our school does instead of the