“So how did you two meet?”

“We go to the same school,” I said.

“That’s no answer at all. Jenny goes to school with lots of boys, and I don’t recall her ever bringing any of them to meet me before.”

Jenny raised an eyebrow.

“And you wonder why?” she said.

But I could tell that her nerves had settled a little now, and she seemed quietly pleased, as though meeting Marie were a kind of initiation that I was so far managing to pass. It was obvious she and Marie had known each other for a long time and that the woman’s opinion of me mattered. For my own part, it was nice to see Jenny relax a little. I admired how self-contained she always seemed, but it was also good to see her more relaxed, more at ease.

Seeing someone in their sauce, as my mother would say.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but looking back now I can see this whole encounter for what it was. Marie, older and more experienced than Jenny and me, was effectively grabbing our hands and pulling us together, forcing us closer toward the flirtation we were still both tentatively circling.

“We’re in the creative writing club together,” I said.

“Which I already told you,” Jenny added.

“Of course, yes.” Marie feigned forgetfulness. “Well, when you get to my age. The creative writing club—that reminds me. Did you send your story in to that competition?”

Jenny pulled a face. “Yeah. Not that anything will come of it.”

“Hush. You’re a very good writer. Have you read any of her stories, Paul?”

“Only the one in the club. Well—I mean, I listened to that. The one about the dog.”

Marie laughed.

“I liked that one. A bit close to home, maybe, but some of the best stories are.”

“Marie is a font of local knowledge,” Jenny told me.

“There are plenty of stories around these parts, believe me.”

“I know,” Jenny said. “I know.”

The idea of that pulled me up a little. For as long as I could recall, I’d thought of Gritten as a gray and dull place, and I’d dreamed of escaping from it and ending up somewhere better. It had never occurred to me before then that where I lived might be just as interesting in its own way as whatever place I imagined myself going.

“Paul sent a story in too.” Jenny looked at me. “I think?”

“Yeah.”

I had followed my mother’s instructions. I remembered the way my father had sneered at me when I asked him for two envelopes and stamps: one to send the story; the other for a self-addressed envelope if it got rejected and returned.

When it got rejected.

“But nothing’s going to come of mine either.” I turned to Jenny and added quickly: “Not that I mean nothing will come of yours. I’m sure it will. Yours will be way better than mine.”

“You haven’t read mine yet.”

“No. But I’d like to. I mean—if you want me to.”

“Yeah, of course. But only if you want to.”

Marie followed our exchange, her gaze moving back and forth between us, an incredulous expression on her face.

“Teenagers.”

“What was that?” Jenny said.

“Nothing, love. Anyway—let me see what you’ve got for me, bookwise.”

Jenny began unloading the bag, and the two of them went through the contents. The books were all secondhand, and I assumed they had been bought from here. As I watched Marie checking the penciled prices on the inside covers and making a list of figures on a sheet of paper, I guessed that, for at least some of her customers, this place effectively functioned as a library as much as a bookshop.

Marie peered over her glasses at me.

“Would you be kind enough to do me a favor, Paul?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent! I like him very much already, Jenny. Right, you look like a big, strong lad, and I have a box of books out back that I could do with someone bringing in. Would you be kind enough to do that for me?”

“Sure.”

Marie retrieved a set of keys from below the counter and held them out for me.

“You can head through there.” She nodded toward the back of the shop. “Just follow the corridor. My car’s out back. Old orange Ford. You can’t miss it, it’s the only one there.”

I took the keys.

“The box is in the trunk. Be careful, though. The metal really catches the sun and I don’t want you burning your hands.” She raised an eyebrow at Jenny. “I’m sure Jenny doesn’t want that either.”

I had time to see Jenny go horribly red before I quickly shut the comment away inside my head and hurried to the back of the shop.

* * *

The last half term of school seemed to crawl by. I found myself counting the days until the summer holiday, desperate to see the back of Gritten Park for at least a little while.

I did my best to avoid Charlie, Billy, and James, and for the most part I succeeded. Not always, of course. There would be those times when I’d see them—times that never felt entirely like accidents. James would be staring at the ground, and Charlie would be smiling beside him, as though showing off a trophy he’d won.

I always looked away quickly.

Fuck them.

But even when I didn’t run into them directly, there were times when I could feel them somehow. Whenever I was near the stairs that led down to Room C5b, it was like I could sense a heartbeat pulsing steadily below me, and I found myself wondering what was going on down there. What the three of them might be dreaming up together.

But I spent as much time with Jenny as possible. We’d share her bench at break and lunchtimes, until it began to seem more like ours than hers. We’d compare notes on books we’d read and stories we’d thought of; sit and talk; sometimes stroll around the grounds together. On weekends, I’d visit her house. Her mother was always home, so our opportunities were limited, but I remember we spent a lot of time in her room, kissing and fooling around. The connection between us was blossoming. I had never felt so comfortable and relaxed with anyone—so able to be myself without worrying that being me was a problem—and the knowledge that she felt the same was enough to take my breath away.

And, of course, we’d go to the bookshop.

Marie provided us with coffee and cake, and the occasional filthy comment, but the latter became increasingly less embarrassing. Partly because Jenny and I were more relaxed with each other, but also because Marie was a little way behind us by then. But mostly, the three of us just talked. I liked Marie and took to helping her out during our visits: moving and unpacking boxes, organizing shelves.

One time, she was chatting to Jenny when a customer approached the counter. She called me over.

“Paul? Will you serve this gentleman for me, please?”

“Sure.”

I had absolutely no idea how to work the register. I pressed a few of the more obvious buttons, fumbled with the drawer, and did the math in my head.

Marie came over to me afterward.

“The summer holidays are coming up soon, right?”

“Ten days.” I feigned checking a watch I didn’t have. “Sixteen hours, ten minutes, and fifteen seconds.”

She laughed.