Solitaire

02:02 p.m.

Michael Holden Calling

“Hello?”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Michael? No.”

“Good. Sleep is important.”

“How did you get my number?”

“You called me, remember? Back in the IT room? I saved your number.”

“That’s very sneaky of you.”

“I’d call it resourceful.”

“Did you call about Charlie?”

“I called about you.”

“. . .”

“Is Charlie okay?”

“My parents took him to the hospital today. For tests and stuff.”

“Where are you?”

“In bed.”

“At two in the afternoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Could I . . .”

“What?”

“Could I come over?”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the thought of you there on your own. You remind me of an old person who lives alone, like, with cats and daytime television.”

“Oh really?”

“And I am a friendly young chap who would like to pop over so you can reminisce about the war and share some tea and biscuits.”

“I don’t like tea.”

“But you like biscuits. Everyone likes biscuits.”

“I’m not in a biscuit mood today.”

“Well, I’m still coming over, Tori.”

“You don’t have to come over. I’m completely fine.”

“Don’t lie.”

He is coming over. I don’t bother changing out of my pajamas or brushing my hair or seeing if my face actually looks human. I don’t care. I don’t get out of bed even though I’m hungry, accepting the fact that my unwillingness to get up will probably result in my death from starvation. Then I realize that I can’t possibly let my parents have two children who knowingly starve themselves. Oh God, dilemma. Even lying in bed is stressful.

The doorbell rings and makes my decision for me.

I stand on the porch with one hand on the open door. He stands on the top step, looking much too preppy and much too tall with his hair side-parted and his glasses stupidly large. His bike is chained to our fence. I hadn’t noticed last night that it actually has a basket on it. It’s minus a billion degrees, but he’s just in a T-shirt and jeans again.

He looks at me up and down. “Oh dear.”

I go to shut the door on him, but he holds it open with one hand. I can’t stop him after that. He just grabs me. His arms wrap around me. His chin rests on my head. My arms are trapped at my sides and my cheek is sort of squashed into his chest. The wind twirls around us but I’m not cold.

He makes me a cup of tea. I hate tea, for God’s sake. We drink out of faded mugs at the kitchen table.

He asks me, “What do you normally do on Saturdays? Do you go out?”

“Not if I can help it,” I say. “What do you do?”

“I don’t really know.”

I take a sip of the dirty water. “You don’t know?”

He leans back. “Time passes. I do stuff. Some of it matters. Some of it doesn’t.”

“I thought you were an optimist.”

He grins. “Just because something doesn’t matter doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.” The light in our kitchen is off. It is very dark. “So where shall we go today?”

I shake my head. “I can’t go out; Oliver’s here.”

He blinks at me. “Oliver?”

I wait for him to remember, but he doesn’t. “My seven-year-old brother. I did tell you I had two brothers.”

He blinks again. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. You did.” He’s really quite excited. “Is he like you? Can I meet him?”

“Um, sure . . .”

I call Oliver, and he comes downstairs after a minute or so with a tractor in one hand, still with his pajamas and dressing gown on. The dressing gown has tiger ears on the hood. He stands on the stairs, leans over the banister, and stares into the kitchen.

Michael introduces himself, of course, with a wave and a blinding smile. “Hello! I’m Michael!”

Oliver introduces himself too, with equal vigor.

“My name’s Oliver Jonathan Spring!” he says, waving his tractor around. “And this is Tractor Tom.” He holds Tractor Tom to his ear and listens before continuing. “Tractor Tom does not think that you’re dangerous, so you’re allowed to go into the living-room tractor if you want.”

“I would be absolutely delighted to visit the living-room tractor,” says Michael. I think he’s a little surprised. Oliver is nothing like me whatsoever.

Oliver studies him with judging eyes. After a moment’s contemplation, he holds a hand up to his mouth and whispers loudly to me, “Is he your boyfriend?”

This actually makes me laugh. Out loud. A real laugh. Michael laughs too, and then stops, and looks at me while I continue smiling. I don’t think he’s seen me laugh before. Has he seen me smile properly before? He doesn’t say anything. He just looks.

And that is how the rest of my Saturday comes to be spent with Michael Holden.

I didn’t bother changing. Michael invades our kitchen cupboards and teaches me how to make chocolate cake, and then we eat chocolate cake for the rest of the day. Michael cuts the cake into cubes, not slices, and when I query him on this, he simply replies, “I don’t like to conform to typical cake-cutting convention.”

Oliver keeps running up- and downstairs, showing Michael his large and varied collection of tractors, in which Michael takes a politely enthusiastic interest. I have a nap in my room between 4:00 p.m. and 5:00 p.m. while Michael lies on the floor and reads Metamorphosis. When I wake up, he tells me why the main character isn’t really the main character or something like that and also how he didn’t like the ending because the supposed main character dies. Then he apologizes for spoiling the ending for me. I remind him I don’t read.

After that, the three of us clamber inside the living-room tractor and play this old board game called Game of Life that Michael found under my bed. You receive all this money, sort of like Monopoly, and then the object of the game appears to be to have the most successful life—the best job, the highest income, the biggest house, the most insurance. It’s a very odd game. Anyway, that takes up about two hours, and after another round of cake, we play Sonic Heroes on the PS2. Oliver triumphantly beats us both, and I have to give him a piggyback for the rest of the evening as a result. Once I put him to bed, I make Michael watch The Royal Tenenbaums with me. He cries when Luke Wilson slits his wrists. We both cry when Luke Wilson and Gwyneth Paltrow decide they have to keep their love a secret.

It is ten o’clock when Mum, Dad, and Charlie get home. Charlie goes straight upstairs to bed without saying anything to me. Michael and I are on the sofa in the living room, and he’s playing me some music on my laptop. He got it hooked up to the stereo. Piano music. Or something. It’s making us both doze off, and I’m leaning on him but not in a romantic way or anything. Mum and Dad sort of stop in the doorway and just stay there, blinking, paralyzed.

“Hello,” says Michael. He jumps up and holds out a hand to Dad. “I’m Michael Holden. I’m Tori’s new friend.”

Dad shakes it. “Michael Holden. Right. Nice to meet you, Michael.”

Michael shakes Mum’s hand as well, which I think is a bit weird. I don’t know. I’m no expert on social etiquette.

“Right,” says Mum. “Of course. Tori’s friend.”

“I hope it’s all right that I came round,” says Michael. “I met Tori a couple of weeks ago. I thought she might be a bit lonely.”

“Not at all,” says Dad, nodding. “That’s very kind of you, Michael.”

This conversation is so boring and cliché that I’m almost tempted to fall asleep. But I don’t.

Michael turns back to Dad. “I read Metamorphosis while I was here. Tori told me you lent it to her. I thought it was brilliant.”

“You did?” The light of literature dawns in Dad’s eyes. “What did you make of it?”

They carry on talking about literature while I am lying on the sofa. I see my mum stealing glances at me, as if trying to stare the truth out of me. No, I telepathically tell her. No, Michael is not my boyfriend. He cries at Beauty and the Beast. He taught me how to make chocolate cake. He stalked me when I went to a restaurant and pretended to forget why.