The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

like Max’s out there where being hit on the head with a camping magazine constituted drama. I loved spending time at his neat little house. It was so calm and quiet, and his parents so kind and mild-mannered, that it felt like a retreat from the chaos of the world. His mum brought us trays of orange squash and biscuits. It was like being enveloped in a warm, fluffy hug.

“Who’s overreacting?” asked Michael, latching on to the end of our conversation.

“Libby,” Max told him. “She’s got PMT and is being argumentative.”

I opened my mouth to protest, wondering why I ever bothered sharing anything when people didn’t listen properly, but Tom interrupted.

“Okay, so we’re back on Libby again, are we?”

“What’s that meant to mean?” I asked defensively.

“Nothing. Just that even when you’re actually with us and not her for once, you’re still talking about her.”

I felt anger swell in my chest. I’d been stressing myself out lately over dividing my time between Libby and my friends and my schoolwork. My mum was constantly pushing me to study harder, my friends were always nagging at me to go out. Was it any wonder the only person I wanted to be with right now was Libby? It sometimes felt like she was the only person who cared what I wanted.

“What’s that meant to mean, when I’m actually with you?” I spat, sitting up and glaring at Tom. His eyes looked sleepy and unfocused in the light of the moon.

“It means when you see fit to grace us with your presence.”

“I still hang out with you all the time!” I protested.

“Yeah, okay, whatever.”

“You have to be kidding me! I saw you Wednesday. I’m here tonight, aren’t I?”

“Well, only because you’ve fallen out with Libby, obviously. Which explains the last-minute message saying you were coming out after all.”

“I just didn’t think I was going to be able to get my prep done in time!”

“Prep,” scoffed Tom, “or homework as us commoners call it.”

“You know, screw you!” I shouted, suddenly jumping to my feet. The tennis court spun and liquor rose in my stomach with a burn. “I’m getting so sick of your snide little remarks about my school. And my girlfriend! You’re becoming a right pain in the arse!”

“Whoa,” said Max, slowly hauling himself to his feet, “come on, guys.”

“Why don’t you just go hang out with her then?” spat Tom, sitting up. “If we’re such a pain in the arse!”

“You! You’re the pain in the arse!”

Michael stayed lying down but put his hands over his face and groaned.

“Then go be with her, like I said!” snapped Tom.

“What the… Where’s that even come from?!” I asked, spreading my hands out wide in confusion. “I wasn’t even talking to you about her!”

“For once.”

“Time to go home, boys,” chirped Michael, quickly scrambling to his feet.

“Yep,” said Max, putting an arm on my shoulder and steering me away. But I wasn’t having any of it. Months of repressed frustration at Tom were finally being given a voice thanks to his goading and Michael’s vodka.

“None of this is even about Libby and you know it!” I snapped, pointing a finger at Tom, who was now on his feet, swaying slightly. “It’s about the great fat chip on your shoulder. You’ve been weird with me ever since I went to St John’s, just because you can’t stand the fact I’m going to a private school when your parents can’t even afford the subs for football anymore!”

Tom, drunk and defensive, suddenly lunged at me, shoving me hard and sending me stumbling into Max whose sturdy frame prevented me from falling to the ground.

“You think you’re so special now, don’t you?!” he yelled.

I wordlessly shoved him back.

“Stop!” barked Max. He grabbed me by the upper arms, his large goalkeeper hands holding me still, while Michael tentatively blocked Tom’s way.

Tom and I glared at each other, our eyes wide and angry, before I broke free of Max’s grasp and with a quietly muttered Screw you strode off towards home.

Anger.

The one emotion that’s always permissible among boys.

I was lying on my bed in the dark, still fully clothed and fuming, when my dad knocked on my bedroom door.

“Tom’s here,” he said quietly, poking his head around, “he wants a quick word.”

I sighed heavily and dragged myself upright. I was starting to develop a headache.

“Don’t wake your mum,” he whispered as I pushed past him onto the dark landing. “And have you been smoking?”

“Nope,” I lied, trudging down the stairs.

“I’m going to bed,” he mumbled, “and you do the same please.”

Tom stood on the doorstep, his hands deep in his pockets, looking sheepish.

“What do you want?” I asked coldly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, kicking gently at the doorstep, “I was a dick.”

“I just don’t get what your problem is lately,” I complained.

He sighed and looked everywhere apart from straight at me.

“I dunno,” he muttered, “it’s just… it’s weird not having you at Allenbrook anymore, that’s all. And then you started going out with Libby, and I don’t mean to be a div about it, but what with your new school and your new girlfriend, it’s just I don’t see you as much and… I dunno. I don’t know why I’m being such a prick.”

In the glow of our porch light, his eyelids looked heavy. I stared at him and finally understood what his attitude had been about these past few months. Part of me wanted him to just say it. But I knew he wouldn’t. Out of all of us, Tom was probably the person least likely to wear his heart on his sleeve. Plus, he didn’t need to say it. Not really. I knew what he was getting at.

I thought about telling him I missed him too, but I was only going to say that if he said it first.

“I know I’m being a bit crap at meeting up lately—”

“No, it’s fine,” said Tom, shaking his head. “I get it. I just…” He trailed off with a shrug.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” I muttered,