Solitaire, Part 2 of 3 by Alice Oseman Read Free Book Online Page B

pillow.
    He looks at the house, his expression suddenly downcast.
    “Yeah,” he says, “I guess.” Then he turns back to me. “But we should go out somewhere.”
    He quickly runs back to the gate and locks it. His hair is just hilarious. But kind of nice. I can’t stop looking at it. He walks back and passes me, and then turns and holds out his hand. His jumper, much too big for him, flutters around his body.
    “Coming?”
    I step towards him. And then I do something, like, really pathetic.
    “Your hair,” I say, lifting my hand and taking hold of a dark strand that covers his blue eye. “It’s …
free
.” I move the strand to one side.
    I then realise what I’m doing, jump backwards and cringe. I sort of wish I could disapparate, Harry Potter style.
    For what feels like an ice age, he doesn’t stop looking at me with this frozen expression, and after that I swear he goes a little red. He’s still holding out his hand so I take it, but that almost makes
him
jump.
    “Your hand is so cold,” he says. “Do you
have
any blood?”
    “No,” I say. “I’m a ghost. Remember?”

SIXTEEN
    SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT in the air as we stroll down the road. We are hand in hand, but definitely not in a romantic way. Michael’s face spins round and round in my mind and I come to the conclusion that I do not know the boy walking next to me. I do not know him at all.
    Michael takes me to a café in the town named Café Rivière. It’s next to the river, hence the unoriginal name, and I have been here many times before. We are the only people there apart from the elderly French owner sweeping the floor and we sit at a table with a gingham tablecloth and a vase of flowers by a window. Michael drinks tea. I eat a croissant.
    Dying, though I don’t know why, to make conversation, I start with, “So why’d you change schools?”
    The immediate look on his face tells me that this was not the casual question that I had intended it to be.
    I cringe. “Oh, sorry. Sorry. That was nosy. You don’t have to answer.”
    For several long moments, he continues to drink his tea. Then he puts down the cup and stares into the flowers between us.
    “No, it’s fine. It’s not too important.” He chuckles to himself, as if remembering something. “I, er, didn’t get on too well with the people there. Not teachers, not students … I thought a change of scene might do me some good. I thought maybe I’d get along better with girls or something stupid like that.” He shrugs and laughs, but it’s not a funny laugh, it’s a different sort of laugh. “Nope. Obviously, my personality is far too fantastic for both girls and boys to handle.”
    I don’t know why, but I start to feel quite sad. It’s not my normal type of sad, you know, the unnecessary and self-inflicted pity party sort of sad, but it’s a sad that’s kind of projected outwards.
    “You should be on
Waterloo Road
or
Skins
or something,” I say.
    He laughs again. “Why’s that?”
    “Because you’re …” I finish my sentence with a shrug. He replies with a smile.
    We are silent for several moments more. I eat. He drinks.
    “What are you doing next year?” I ask. It’s a bit like I’m giving him an interview, but for once I’ve got this odd feeling. Like I’m
interested
. “University?”
    He absently fondles his cup. “No. Yeah. No, I don’t know. It’s too late now anyway – the UCAS deadline was yesterday. How am I supposed to decide on a university course? Most of the time at school I can’t even decide which
pen
to use.”
    “I thought our school, like,
makes
you apply to uni in Year 13. Or at least apprenticeships and stuff. Even if you don’t accept the place in the end.”
    He raises his eyebrows. “You know, school can’t really
make
you do anything
.
”
    The truth of this statement is like a punch in the face.
    “But … why didn’t you apply to a few unis anyway? Just in case you decide you want to go?”
    “Because