Despite my plans, I don’t speak to either Mia or Marko on Friday; instead I convince myself that it’d be better to wait till Monday, and give me a couple of days to think about what I want to say – yeah, I know I’m stalling...

Without Mia to speak with, the prospect of another lonely weekend stretches ahead of me, and that’s perhaps not a bad thing as end of year assignments will be due soon, and this way I might even get bored enough to start working on them.

Of course, I don’t; instead I find myself unable to concentrate; my mind a mess of long-forgotten memories, thoughts of Marko, and half-remembered music. So while I sit at my computer, ostensibly doing homework, I actually just have the work open in a tab that never gets clicked, while I actually spend my time watching video compilations.

I watch a cat do a funny dance, my mind on Marko, and what I’ll say to him; I watch a collection of riffs on Disney songs, while thinking about Mia and wondering if our friendship can ever recover; I watch five minutes of someone mispronouncing words, and I swear I sense a thrumming from the cupboard as if my violin is calling to me.

I’m midway through a video of this guy imitating his crazy ex-girlfriend, when a loud buzz wakes me from my stupor. I glance up from my computer, and blink owlishly at the wall by my door, where a metal box – an intercom – has been fitted by Dad to save me needing to trundle through the house every time we have a visitor.

‘Who can that be?’ I ask of the empty room, grumbling to myself like one of those grouchy old people who talk to their cats. ‘Interrupting my homework...’

Rolling over to the door, I press the button beneath the speaker, and since Dad wired the device himself, I shouldn’t be surprised when electricity jolts through my finger, and up into my shoulder, turning my whole arm numb.

‘Son of a-!’ I exclaim, snatching my hand back so fast my elbow cracks.

Biting my lip, I mutter some none too polite words, while furiously rubbing my hand on my leg until a tinny voice comes suddenly from the speaker. ‘Damn girl, and here I thought you were the demure type.’ It’s only then that I realise the intercom is connected, and only a moment later that I recognise the voice... Marko!

Instantly I suck down a breath and hold it, unsure what to do next. Part of me wonders how long it’ll take the boy to leave if I just stay silent, but the part of my brain that actually works, realises that now he knows I’m here he’ll just keep on ringing till I answer.

Plucking up the courage, I begin, uncertainly, ‘what... err... are you doing here?’

‘I wanted to talk,’ comes the obvious, but still unexpected response.

My heart does a little stutter, though whether it’s fear or excitement I can’t tell. ‘That’s funny, because I got the impression you’d done speaking to me,’ I state, without thinking, and then cram my fist in my mouth to stop me from saying more.

There’s a long pause, and then, ‘because I haven’t talked to you at school?’

‘Mhmm,’ I mumble around my hand.

 ‘I... I was embarrassed after my behaviour in the elevator.’ Another pause as he searches for the right thing to say, and then, ‘I came to apologise...’

‘I...’ It’s my turn to be lost for words. In the end I plump for the easiest of all, ‘no... I mean, that’s fine... Look, I’m hella busy in here, so... do you want something else?’

‘To apologise face-to-face would be a good start,’ Marko responds, quickly, as if trying to stop me from cutting the connection short.

‘You want to come in?’ My heart’s tempo takes another spike, and I’m certain now it’s mostly fear. I’ve never had boys in my room before; not even when I was younger and boys were just more rowdy girls.

‘It’s either that or I stand under your window reading sonnets.’

I remember thinking, long, long ago, that it’d be nice to have a guy do that for me, just once in my life, but since I live in a bungalow, it would just be Marko stood outside my window, staring in at me – not so much romantic as kind of creepy.

‘Pleeeaaase,’ he says, and given his persistence in coming here I have to assume that a simple “no” is not going to get him to leave.

I tug a hand worriedly through my long hair, and feel a need to check my fingers for loose strands – this stress will be the end of me. But what is there really to think about, when I know Marko is going to get in, no matter what I decide – he always gets his way.

Taking a deep breath, I hit the door release. There’s a distant click; a bang as the front door shuts; and then the boy’s slow steps approaching through the house, with all the deliberation of a killer from a slasher movie – why am I so flustered?

I spin around several times, wondering if I should try and tidy my pigsty of a room, but it’d take a week and there’s no time now. Closer and closer. I should be at my computer when he arrives, pretending to work until the moment he interrupts me, but that’s silly, I already know he’s coming; I’d be waiting for him. Closer and closer. Maybe I should lounge casually on the bed; a book open before me... What am I thinking?

Too late for any of that, now, I slide down in my chair and put a hand to my cheek, a grin affixed to my face as Marko’s head pokes around the door.

‘Hey.’ Smiling as he sees me, the boy slides inside, without invitation; and I know I’m being stupid, but my heart lurches up to fill my mouth.

‘Hey... you.’

Slowly, the boy circles my bedroom, peering at my collected oddities, and seeming far less embarrassed to be here than I am to have him here. Does that say something about me and my reclusive lifestyle, or does Marko spend a lot of time in the bedrooms of girls? I narrow my eyes as I glare at the boy’s back, my mind already made up.

Marko doesn’t notice, of course, any more than he sees my hand flash out and grab a wayward bra, cramming it under my pillow.  ‘So, why are you really here?’ I ask, turning to keep the boy in sight, eying him like he’s a wildcat stalking his prey – me.

‘Like I said, I came to apologise.’ Marko doesn’t look around, but instead continues to peer intently at my bookshelves. He snorts out a laugh as he pulls a book from the others and waves it at me. ‘So how’s this working out for you?’

I squint at the title, “How to make friends and influence people.” My gaze narrows further still as my stare returns to the boy, and state, quietly, ‘I’ve not read it, yet.’

‘No kidding,’ he chuckles, and moves on.

Anyone else making such a crack at my expense would probably have had something thrown at their head. I vaguely recognise the fact that his joke has made me forget about my nervousness and, for a moment I wonder if that was his intent... and then I quickly dismiss the idea as being way too clever for the boy. He’s really pushing his luck; seriously, he should be grateful he even made it through the front door after the stunt he pulled at school.

Eying Marko, I try to decide why I’m giving him this second chance, but all I seem able to focus on are his beige chinos, so tight I have to wonder if he was sowed into them... He looks mighty fine out of uniform, my wayward mind concludes.

Marko turns, suddenly, and catches me looking. His gaze returns the favour, running swiftly up and down my body, taking in my frumpy tracksuit trousers and baggy T-shirt – as I said, I don’t really bother with fashion; I just wear whatever’s easiest to put on.

I run a hand self-consciously through my hair, even as I’m telling myself not to be stupid – Marko is probably just appalled by my scruffy attire; he’s certainly not checking me out. And, as if to confirm this thought, Marko says, ‘your wheels are legit,’ and I breathe a sigh of relief – he was just staring at the wheelchair; I’m used to that.

I glance down at my tatty chair. It’s the same one I’ve always had; only now it has a massive battery and motor fitted under the seat; random wires draped around the body; and a makeshift joystick welded to one arm. I’m not sure “legit” is the word I’d use to describe it: “heap,” might be a better choice, followed by, “of trash.”

‘It’s almost like you built it yourself,’ Marko adds.

‘More or less,’ I say, and when I see him glance quizzically at me, I continue, ‘it used to be manual, but when the pain spread to my hands my dad retrofitted it.’ No point adding that we did it this way because we couldn’t afford a fancy motorised chair.

Now that I’ve mentioned the pain, I expect the boy to ask about my condition, like most people do, but instead he says, ‘that’s very cool,’ nodding appreciatively. ‘I’d be afraid to sit in anything my dad made. It’d probably explode.’

‘It’s never exploded...’ I mutter, but my mind drifts back to the countless times I’ve sat down only to have twenty-four volts stab me in the ass. Then there was the time the battery overheated and ignited the cushion – but that happened before Marko joined the school and the less he knows about my singed underwear the better.

‘Is your dad a mechanic?’ Marko asks.

‘No, but he spent some time in Africa, building generators and digging wells, that sort of thing,’ I say, trying to remember the details. ‘Then there was a coup or something and he spent like six months fixing trucks for a rebel faction...’

I trail off when I see Marko is giving me that look that suggests he can’t decide if I’m making stuff up. I know that look well, having aimed it at my dad on many an occasion. I shrug, ‘I’m just passing the story along as it was told to me.’

He stares at me a moment longer and then decides to take my words at face value. ‘He sounds like an interesting guy.’

‘I guess.’ I’ve spent so long listening to the various sordid tales of my parents’ youth that I don’t even know what “normal” sounds like.

‘And your mother?’ he asks, his tone so light I have to assume he doesn’t know.

‘She left a few years back...’ This isn’t the sort of thing I want to discuss, so I quickly turn the conversation back around. ‘What about your family?’

‘Nothing much to say, really; I’ve got five older brothers and one younger.’ He says this as if it’s nothing, but as an only child the idea of six siblings is already fascinating to me. ‘Some went with me and my mum when she left, others stayed with my dad.’

‘So your parents aren’t together, either?’ I sound a little too thrilled to learn about Marko’s broken home, but a part of me is pleased that we have this detail in common.

‘Yeah,’ Marko says, thoughtfully scratching his ear. ‘Well, kind of... They did divorce when I was young, but they’ve just recently... I don’t know... reunited.’

My heart gives a solid thump in response to his words. ‘Really?’ I have never truly given up on the idea that, one day – when I least expect it – Mum will breeze back into my life.

‘Yeah,’ Marko says, still sounding far less enthusiastic. ‘To be honest it feels weird. After years of hearing my parents bad-mouth each other, they’re suddenly making goo-goo eyes across the breakfast table and I’m supposed to just accept it.’

I can understand his feelings, but I can’t sympathise with them. ‘I’d give anything to have my mum back,’ I mutter, my head dropping.

‘I guess it is nice having the family together,’ he says, scratching his chin. He seems lost in thought, but then he remembers me and adds quickly, ‘and you shouldn’t give up either. Trust me, if my family can reconcile their differences: anyone’s can.’

It’s not really the same situation, but I appreciate the attempt to cheer me up. My parents had to stop travelling when I got sick, but they hated being tied down, and Mum left the moment my condition became too demanding. It is literally my fault they’re now apart and that’s not something that’s going to change as long as I’m alive.

Silence descends, and I’m worried it’s the sort that will go on too long and then we won’t be able to break out of it. I rack my brains for something to say, but Marko gets there first. ‘I really am sorry about the other day,’ he says, perching on the dresser to face me. ‘I should have asked your story before making assumptions and demands.’

I sense the small talk is over, and he’s finally getting around to his real reason for being here. ‘So, you want to hear about my condition?’ As crazy as it is to realise, I’d rather talk about that, than discuss music – or my mum. Besides, if I make him understand my health issues I can at least be sure he’ll give up on the whole duet thing.

‘I’m interested in knowing everything about you,’ he says, settling back as if for story time. ‘But if that’s the thing you want to talk about... shoot.’

Why does everything out of the boy’s mouth make me want to blush? This should be easy; my condition is something I’ve had to explain a million times in my life, but with the boy’s piercing grey eyes locked on me, I find my words have dried up.

Taking a deep breath and holding it a moment, I tighten my fists, and before I can change my mind, I say, ‘I have something called Fibromyalgia.’

A momentary blankness crosses Marko’s face as he tries to remember where he’s heard the word before, and then his eyes brighten. ‘That thing people on benefits have?’

I let out an annoyed huff. Since my condition rarely has visual symptoms, and there’s no definitive test to prove if a person has it, it’s quite commonly used by people trying to scam the benefits system. These people give real sufferers a bad name, and I’ve already had to face the belief that I’m faking my condition a number of times in my life.

‘That’s the one...’ I mutter, not seeing the point in trying to differentiate myself from those people. ‘My immune system is basically attacking my own body. It affects everyone differently, but for me it’s caused arthritis in all my joints.’

The boy winces; he understands arthritis, at least. ‘Like old people get?’

I’ve heard all of this before. ‘Basically...’

‘You’re too young,’ Marko states, as if his words can somehow supersede all the doctors’ reports, x-rays, and blood tests.

‘So I keep telling my body...’ I respond, drolly.

He’s silent a moment, and then he asks, ‘and there’s nothing anyone can do?’

When I was young I clung to the hope that the doctors might be wrong; I read every medical journal on the subject; even looked into holistic remedies. I’m older now, and wiser. ‘It’s for life,’ I say, quietly. Hope only leads to more pain.

‘That sucks,’ the boy mutters. ‘What’s it feel like?’ Another common question.

‘It feels like pain,’ I say and even manage a rough laugh.

But Marko isn’t satisfied with my usual, flippant, response. ‘There are a lot of different types of pain,’ he says, his voice dropping low. ‘There’s the kind that’s sharp, like a knife; there’s the sort that makes your head spin, and your stomach churn; or there’s the dull type that slowly eats away at your insides.’

For someone who has probably never had a real sickness in his life, Marko seems to know an awful lot about pain. Was it someone in his family? I wonder.

‘I used to imagine that arthritis was just a dull ache, like a bruise or a strain,’ I say, trying to remember how that younger, more innocent me saw the world. ‘And I thought old people were just a bunch of whiners making a fuss over nothing. It’s not; and they’re not.’

Marko’s stare never wavers. ‘So if it’s not an ache, what does it feel like?’

I don’t know why he’s so insistent, but fine, if he really must know... ‘It’s like broken glass in every joint: a constant gnawing pain that you try to ignore but never can.’ I know this sounds overly dramatic, but it’s the closest comparison I can come up with. ‘You think it can’t get any worse, and then you move, and the shards shatter and scrap against one another.’

Marko sucks in a hissed breath, and looks suitably horrified, but I’ve known many a person make all the right expressions and say all the right things, only for them to later do or suggest something that shows they’ve understood nothing.

‘You think you understand,’ I say, with a wan smile. ‘But you still think that I’m exaggerating; that nothing can be as bad as I’m suggesting, right?’ I have had this conversation with enough people to know what’s going through his head.

There’s a long pause in which I can almost hear Marko mulling over my words, and then he says, ‘actually, I was just thinking I’m bloody glad it’s you and not me.’

The unexpectedness of his response forces a laugh out of me. I’m used to people feigning concern or sympathy, the worst of which is when they say they’d share my pain if they could – should such a thing ever become possible, I will hold all those people to their promises and take delight in their agonised screams. Mwa ha ha ha.

‘But you can actually walk, right?’ the boy asks, with a chuckle. ‘That wasn’t just my imagination? Or some sort of honest-to-god miracle?’

I laugh as well, and feel myself relax. ‘Yeah, I can walk. I just don’t because it hurts too much.’ And although he’s not asked me to explain, I go on, ‘I used to walk on days when the pain was less, but then people would assume I was getting better, or they’d treat me like I was taking something away from those people who “actually need chairs.”’

Marko nods. ‘I understand,’ he says, and for what it’s worth, I think he does.

‘Sometimes I wish my condition was something visible; perhaps a missing leg or something...’ I say, voicing thoughts that have only ever existed in my head before. ‘Then I wouldn’t need to explain; people could just look at me and know my capabilities.’

‘But then you couldn’t have got up and avoided me the other day, no matter how much of an asshat I was,’ Marko points out. ‘You’d have been stuck with me.’

‘I know... I should be grateful for what I still have...’ I say, staring down at my hands that I’m twisting in my lap. I know Marko was only joking, but for the first time in a long while, I care about the conclusion someone draws about me.

‘That’s not exactly what I meant,’ Marko says, ‘but at least you still have that choice.’

He’s right, but not entirely. ‘The problem is, my condition puts the onus on me,’ I say, still trying to word things I’ve only ever felt before. ‘I’m still just as physically capable as I ever was, but things that were once easy, are now incredibly painful. I’m limited only by my ability to fight through that pain, so any time I fail it’s my fault for not being stronger.’

Marko’s sparkling eyes have gone large and impossibly sad as he looks me over. ‘You’re way too hard on yourself...’ he says, quietly.

‘I have to be, because others won’t give me any slack,’ I respond. ‘They can’t see my pain; they just see me hobbling and huffing and assume I’m making a fuss.’

A soft laugh rumbles at the base of Marko’s throat, and he says, ‘I didn’t think the indomitable Penelope cared about what others thought about her?’

Not all, I think to myself, staring up at the boy; but there are some people whose opinions I do care about. What I say, however, is, ‘I know, silly right?’

Marko shakes his head. ‘Not silly. I think you’re incredibly strong, and if people can’t see that, they don’t deserve to know you.’ He’s silent a moment, his expression thoughtful, and then he bends suddenly forward, bringing his mouth close to my ear, as if to impart a secret. ‘You want to hear something else I’ve learnt about you?’

Caught by surprise, my breathe hitches before I can respond. ‘What?’

He glances around, as if making sure no-one is listening, and leaving me to ponder what he’s about to say for a little while longer. Then he says in a hushed whisper, ‘I’m beginning to suspect you’re secretly a nice person.’

I let out a snort before I can cover my mouth. Is he paying me a compliment, or is he just joking. I choose to believe the later, and say, laughing, ‘then you’ve learnt nothing.’

The boy straightens and puts his hands on his hips, staring down at me. ‘Oh sure you hide it well – real well,’ he chuckles, ‘but I see it.’

‘And why, Professor Octon, would I “act” mean?’

‘I don’t know, because it’s easier to tackle things alone,’ he says, stepping back to lean against my dresser again. ‘People say a problem shared is a problem halved, but that’s not always true; some problems only seem to get worse when you talk about them.’

He’s so spot on it’s scary; I feel like he’s digging into my mind and pulling out the ideas I’ve never dared bring into the light of day. These are things I’ve not told Mia or Dad – or even the shrink I saw a few years back – and I’m not sure I like this feeling of being exposed.

To cover my embarrassment, I get up out of my chair, and plop down on the bed before I allow myself to face Marko again. I’m further away here, and the boy’s not looking quite so down on me. It feels safer, like I’ve escaped Marko’s field of influence.

‘About the other day...’ I begin tentatively.

‘Don’t. It’s okay. I’m sorry I pushed you so hard on your music, it was wrong of me,’ Marko says, his voice as close to humble as it can get.

‘It’s alright.’ I don’t want to hear him apologise again. ‘I shouldn’t have been so defensive, either. I’m just... bad at these things...’

Marko smiles, and seems to understand that this is my apology. ‘Even so, I took things too far,’ he says. ‘To be honest, Mia conjured this image of a girl very different from the one you put forward and I got a little obsessed with wanting to meet that person.’

‘Oh.’ I’d be flattered by his interest if he wasn’t talking like the current me has been a bit of a disappointment. ‘Well, as you can see, that girl is gone...’

‘Maybe,’ Marko says, casually stepping closer to the bed and staring down at me as if searching my face for that past iteration. ‘But there is one place she still exists.’

I think he’s going to point at my chest and say something cheesy, like, “she lives within you.” But instead he whips out his phone, and waggles it at me.

‘I don’t get it...’ I begin to say, but further words fail me as he drops next to me on the bed, close enough that we’re touching. Belatedly I realise he’s now sitting where I sleep, and that my plan to get some distance between us, has utterly backfired.

‘So, yeah...’ As if nothing monumental has just occurred, Marko continues to fiddle intently with his phone for a moment before finishing, ‘I Googled you.’

The boy’s admission is enough to pull my gaze away from where his tight trousers meet my familiar duvet. Half of me is appalled by the thought of what he might have found, while the other half is oddly flattered by the idea he cared enough to snoop into my life.

‘You know what I discovered?’ Marko asks, without looking up.

Still lost for words, I shake my head, I have no idea what information exists about me out there in the wild frontiers of the Internet. I just hope he’s not seen my Facebook account with its pitiful twenty-odd friends, most of whom are family members...

Continuing to tap away at his phone as he talks, Marko says, ‘there were a few dates and times of when a young Penelope Moore was due to play at local centres – youth clubs, schools, hospitals and the like – but then I found... this.’

Finishing with whatever he’s doing on his phone, he turns the screen to me, and my already frazzled mind takes a moment to make sense of what I’m seeing. It’s like my brain is seeing the pixels of the screen as the jumbled pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and when I finally sort out what I’m looking at, my heart plummets within my chest.

On the screen is a YouTube video waiting to be played, with the title “The Great British Talent Contest – 2011.” On the video’s thumbnail I see a stage. It’s the same theatre I saw on TV – The Royal – and in the centre of that stage stands a tiny figure wearing red, and appearing lost and alone in the vastness of her surroundings.

’>;he��.-j

Next Chapter: Chapter Four