My Side of the Story Read online

  MY SIDE OF THE STORY

  Will Davis

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Note on the Author

  Imprint

  Huge thanks to Mum, Dad, Tamsin and Seraphina for all their support. I am exceptionally grateful to my agent Peter Buckman, at whose prompting this book was written, and to Anne-Marie Doulton. Great thanks to everyone who offered helpful/tactful advice, especially Dawn, Eunji, Murielle and Sarah. And a big thank you to my editor Michael Fishwick, and to Alexandra Pringle, Trâm-Anh Doan, Chiki Sarkar, Emily Sweet and everyone at Bloomsbury.

  1

  I'm gonna start with one of those disclaimers like you get at the end of films where some writing comes up to tell you that even though it's all based on a true story the exciting bits might not really have happened. So you're all like, What was the point of even making it then? Not that there's much in the way of exciting bits to come, I'm not gonna lie to you. In fact, that's the disclaimer. I was gonna go further and do some spouting about not wanting to be some hotshot and trying to get people to love me for being this totally wonderful narrator, but then I figured that's just a waste of everyone's time. And if that's what you really wanted, and you see it as a reason not to read any further than this, then you can LIC GAS. Which stands for Like I Could Give A Shit.

  So I'm gonna like, give you a brief rundown and then just launch right in. This is what you need to know: My name is Jarold, but everyone calls me Jaz, which is a damn sight cooler I think you'll agree. I know that everyone hates their names blah-blah but mine is really bad so it's lucky it abbreviates to something with a bit of cred. I'm sixteen (just) and I have two remarkably undivorced parents, along with a sister and a grandmother, and we all live in the same house together just like in a TV show. I've just started my A levels too, which me and Al are planning to fail, which is our way of saying Fuck You to the British educational standard.

  Al's my best mate, by the way. She's sixteen too and she's totally into politics, which I'm like, totally not. And yeah, she's a she. Her real name is Alice, which doesn't exactly rock but is still a hell of a lot better than Jarold. Weirdly, like there's some perverted logic that says people with dull names can only get crap abbreviations out of them, hers turns into Al, which means that people always think she's a dyke, which she finds offensive (the word, being political and all). I reckon it's pretty appropriate though, because if anyone was ever destined to be a dyke it's her.

  Anyway, I'm gonna do this now, or else you're still gonna be wading through bullshit ten pages later. I'm gonna start with the hassle. There's actually masses and masses of hassle to come, but this is pretty much where it all begins.

  I'm just going up to my room after having some toast because I was literally starving and Mum's got this new Feed Yourself Rule for weekdays because she says me and Teresa (my sister, alias The Nun) are old enough now to boil our own eggs (it's like, what the hell is that supposed to mean?). So I come round the corner and find both my parents standing there with their arms folded. I mean they're literally blocking my way up like The Guardians of the Stairs.

  I'm like, Hello?

  Jarold, your father and I want a word, says Mum in her business-bitch voice. She's a lawyer, which as you can imagine is great for me. Dad's a chef, which makes this rule about feeding yourself seem doubly cruel. She says he shouldn't have to cook for us because he cooks all day; he never complains though, so it's just another classic example of her bulldozing over everyone else in pursuit of self-satisfaction. And she's one of those people who is never satisfied. Like, ever.

  Anyway, I consider rushing them, but they look pretty serious, even more so than usual, plus their bodies are too close together.

  Well, what is it? I say since I'm on a meter here. I've got to finish my reps in the next ten minutes, before Bad Girls starts, and I've still got sixty to do. You have to wait at least thirty seconds between sets of ten (push-ups, press-ups, sit-ups, whatever), but it's easy to overstep the mark and I really don't wanna miss any of this week's episode because Al texted me that the evil one snuffs it.

  In the living-room, says Dad, like his voice actually carries weight around here. No one moves, not even him, so Mum roars Now! in commando-lawyer mode and we all file in and sit down opposite each other on the stupid armchairs. I sit next to Bilbo, our cat, who claws everything and who Mum's always shouting that she's going to skin alive, but who she secretly calls Cutey when she thinks there's no one around.

  I wait for them to speak and there's this stupid long pause which is infuriating. They're both biting their lips, too, which looks really silly. As if to piss me off even further they give each other this special glance like they've got some secret code of communication going on. If I wasn't in a hurry I might think it was funny, but since I am I go, Are you gonna tell me what's going on or are you gonna mime it to me?

  There's more silence so I make like I'm gonna stand up. This seems to panic Mum into talking.

  Look Jarold, she says in this tense, this-is-a-big-deal kind of a way, We know what you've been up to.

  I'm like, Huh?

  We know where you've been going! cries Dad, still operating under the delusion that someone cares what he thinks. You've been frequenting some gay bar and picking up . . . men!

  He whispers this last word like it's some kind of mortal sin or something, rather than the logical thing you'd expect somebody to do in a gay bar. He's gone all white from the effort of being a parent, and it looks almost like he's gonna faint. Mum takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. He squeezes back like they're pillars of support for each other or something, and then they both look at me, hand in hand, like they think this display of marital harmony is gonna magically turn me straight or something.

  I'm like, And?

  Dad's like, Don't you want to say anything?

  That's a tactic he learned off Mum, and if there's one thing I really hate it's when people can't be bothered to think up their own style. I just shrug, because that's all it deserves.

  First things first, says Mum, seeing Dad floundering, and assuming control like a sergeant. It's OK if you think you're gay. You're young and you might grow out of it. But it's OK and you need to know that.

  She watches me closely. I'm like, So now I know. Thanks.

  But it's not OK for you to lie to us about where you're going and what you're doing! she says quickly, mega-emphasis on the not part. This is pretty maddening, because a) everyone lies to their parents because that's what they're there for, and b) it's not like I'm gonna go, By the way I'm off to the club to do some guy tonight and by the way is that OK} I mean, this is clearly like, a ceremonial talk you get from your parents, so I probably have to have it and everything, but couldn't someone at least have thought about what they were gonna say to me first?

  So I'm like, So from now on I'll just tell you everything.

  Don't try to be smart. You're not an adult yet, says Mum, which is like offering round an invitation to come back at her.

  I'm like, Mum you're embarra
ssing yourself. I stand up.

  Sit yourself back down this minute! she screams, giving Bilbo a nasty surprise. Who the hell do you think you are?

  Look, what is this? I say in a last stab at trying to be reasonable.

  This is you sitting down and listening to someone other than the bloody CD player for a change! she goes.

  I'm like, the definition of fuck off. Next thing I know Mum's screaming her head off like an ambulance, coming up with all this random stuff like it's just occurring to her on the spot and spilling out her mouth. She screams so fast it's hard to make much sense of it, but I get the gist. It's pretty disturbing, let me tell you. It's like you can just scrap that stuff she said about it being OK that I'm gay if this is anything to go by, because if it is, OK is like, Far From. Dad's looking at her all scared while he tries to unprise his hand from her grip (without success). Bilbo makes a break for it and gets away. Lucky him, I think. Neither me nor Dad know what to do so we just watch and wait, and eventually Mum winds down and drops her head between her knees and starts sobbing into the carpet. Dad uses this opportunity to take his hand back, which is now like, a totally different shape.

  Maybe you should apologise, he suggests after a few minutes of us moronically watching her.

  Are you serious? I say. Can't you see the woman has issues?

  That sets her right off again, a bit like an alarm clock, only this time it's much worse and she goes on for much longer. It's quite impressive because she doesn't even take any breaths. To give you an idea, though, I'm not even gonna try and get it all down: YOU'RE GAY AND I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING TO ME THOUGH AS IF YOU WERE NORMAL TO BEGIN WITH I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN IT WHEN YOU WERE BORN IT'S ALL MY FAULT NO IT'S HIS FAULT (Dad's) HIM AND MY MOTHER SHE NEVER COULD UNDERSTAND WHY I MARRIED SUCH A LOSER AND I DON'T KNOW WHY EITHER I WISH I'D NEVER MARRIED NEVER HAD CHILDREN NEVER DONE ANY OF THIS CAN'T YOU SEE YOU'VE SUCKED UP MY LIFE WHY CAN'T I JUST BE LEFT IN PEACE SOMETIMES I JUST WISH I WAS DEAD! Seriously, no breaths. It's like, she should totally have been a diver.

  Anyway, I'm like, Suits me.

  She opens her mouth for another blast but it's too much so she just stares at me and twitches while Dad looks around the room like he always ends up doing, as if he's looking for an escape hatch. It's like, You wish.

  So after a bit more mandatory painful silence she jerks her head towards the door, as if she's dismissing me. I don't need telling twice.

  Upstairs on the landing I pass The Nun, who's opened her door so she can hear Mum's ranting. She's sitting at her desk and she gives me this smug look and all of a sudden I know exactly who their informant was. Like it could have been anyone else.

  You really let the family down this time, she goes, with this exaggerated shake of her head.

  I'm like, Why don't you eat some glass?

  Poor Jarold, she sighs, So terribly misunderstood.

  I consider going in and tearing out some of her hair but I decide, Later, and continue towards my room, which is right at the top of the house. Grandma opens her door as I pass and we exchange looks. She doesn't know about me being gay or anything like that, of course, but since Grandpa died and she moved in we've become like, conspirators together, 'cos when Mum's not yelling at me she's usually complaining about her. I shrug to her as if to say, What can you do? and she shrugs back as if to say, Nothing. Then I go on up the stairs to do my reps. Unfortunately, after their 'word' with me Mum and Dad hole up in the living-room, so I can't watch TV and I miss Atkins' asphyxiation. I end up just doing reps for two hours in front of my shrine to Orlando Bloom.

  OK, let me do some more explaining. First of all I do actually give a shit, believe it or not – I don't want you to think that I don't. I just figure that you've got to be mature about this sort of thing, and Mum may be an adult, but mature isn't something I'd ever call her. But to be fair I guess it must've come as a bit of a shock. Mother Teresa probably had a ball. I can just picture her telling them at breakfast this morning, which must have been when she did it 'cos I had mine at Al's. She would have waited till Mum was holding something probably, for the added drama of some breakage. And Dad probably spent all day smoking at the back of his kitchen (Mum famously told him once that she'd leave him if he didn't give up, which is one of several things I've got on him if ever I need to use it).

  The thing you need to understand about Mum is, she's mental. We're all kind of used to it and so we don't say anything, but it's pretty obvious that she's a bit more than your average highly strung neurotic. And when you get subjected to this sort of thing every week you get desensitised to it pretty fast. She really does have some condition, by the way – I'm sure of it. Sometimes I think Grandma knows what it is, but she's keeping her mouth shut. Then again, it could just be that she's brain-damaged. All kinds of weird shit goes on in the brain, like maybe she's got some clot of blood in some gland that secretes like, logic, and that's why she's all screwed up.

  As for Dad, he's like Mr Passive, unchallenged titleholder ten years running. I mean, he gives a shit if Pm a fag, of course, but what's he gonna do, give me electrotherapy for it? Throw me out? That's like a big joke, because he's the most ineffectual man I've ever met, which is what my answer'll be if he ever starts wondering about whose side of the family I get it from.

  So it's not that I don't care, it's just that there's nothing I can do. My position is kind of wait-and-see, plus it's way bleaker for me than it is for them, you've got to admit. When I said Mum and Dad are remarkably undivorced they're also remarkably unmurdered – by each other. Seriously, they're like a surreal, toned-down, middle-aged version of Sid and Nancy, minus the heroin. Only Mum's Sid and Dad's Nancy. How they sleep in the same room, let alone the same bed, is beyond me. Thing is, they say your parents are supposed to set an example for you, but the only example my parents set is how not to end up, which is why I've sworn to Al that I'm never gonna get married. I used to think I was pretty safe there, but more and more gays are doing it these days, and though Al says she's against it on principle (neo-nihilist) she reckons it's the way the future's going. But I reckon it's bullshit and I'd rather be the bride of death.

  Mum comes up to my room just as I'm about to lie down and have a rub. She's got like, this sixth sense that makes her automatically come and seek you out the second your thoughts turn impure, and there's been a fair number of times when I've had to suddenly sit down because she's appeared in the room. Once you do that you're good as dead, because if you don't make a fast exit Mum'U go on and on and as we've seen she's one of those people who just doesn't ever get dehydrated.

  OK, she says firmly, walking right on in.

  I'm like, Didn't they teach you to knock in mother school? as I hurl myself under the bedcover to hide my hard-on.

  Jarold, she says, ignoring me, I've discussed the issue with your father. We've decided to try and be understanding. But that doesn't mean we don't have some ground rules.

  She always refers to stuff as issues. I'm an issue, Teresa's an issue and Grandma's an issue. It's something to do with being a lawyer, I guess.

  She's like, Firstly, no more going out without our permission.

  What is this, Auschwitz? I say.

  No more lying.

  I'm like, Yeah right.

  And no more . . . activities.

  I'm like, Do you even know what you're talking about?

  She's like, You know perfectly well what I mean! No more doing things with men! I don't know what you've been getting up to and I don't want to know. But you're not old enough and that's final.

  At this point I can't help smiling. I don't know what it is with smiling and me but I often have this urge to smile when someone's trying to be serious with me. Usually that's Mum so it doesn't matter so much, but it's happened once or twice with teachers and got me into loads of trouble. I feel it creeping up my face now like a worm or something. I'm going all red and Mum's giving me her death stare, the one she usually reserves for jury members.


  She's like, If you don't start taking this seriously I'm going to cut your allowance. Completely.

  The way she utters this threat you'd think it was the same thing as being castrated. I get twenty-five pounds a month, and that's supposed to cover me for everything – clothes, CDs, shoes, face soap, even haircuts. Mum and Dad pay for books and uniform, for which I have to provide a receipt. Like most things, it's just pure encouragement to be devious. It's not exactly hard to get around – I just get other people to give me their receipts. But it would be a whole lot less hassle for everyone if they'd just give me more money. The Nun gets an extra five pounds just for being born with a vagina.

  But money's money no matter what, so I keep quiet and turn my face to the side so it's hidden from her as much as possible. Mum looks at the wall, right into Orlando Bloom's eyes, and I can tell she's suddenly wondering, How did this sign get past me? because it's something I've often wondered too.

  I know this is hard for you, Jaz, she says. I think about my hard-on and how right she is. Why can't she just leave now? But instead of doing that of course she goes on and on about how she does love me but how I'm always so closed up, and how she knows it's complicated and sometimes she doesn't know what's got into me but she wishes I'd open up a bit. The woman's like, a serial innuendo. I do my best to nod and make my sniggering sound like coughing, but finally she says, I just want my little boy Jarold back again, in this soppy voice and by this point I just can't take it any longer. I'm like, Please just get over it now, and she tells me I'm heartless but at last she gets the message and goes. Then of course I find that my hard-on's gone too and so I send Al a text saying OMIGOD PARNTS JUST FND OUT IM GAY! WWW.LAMECITY.COM – TELL U 2MORROW J and turn out the light. Half an hour later, just as I'm about to fall asleep, I get one back saying TELL ME T M T M (RPT!!!) + DID YOU DO UR ESSY? As is the way with these things I end up having a whole textothon with her in which I relate all the gory details and so I don't actually get to sleep till like, two.

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