TAKING THE CHRIS (Reece)
“Birds and Cats don’t get on Chris, she’s a bird of prey and you’re a pussy. That’s why you buy her Kit Kats and Coke everyday and still haven’t even got as far as holding her hand. By stringing you along, she’s merely sub-contracting the puppetry strings being pulled by the older boy she thinks is in love with her. Just tell her to jog on mate. If all you do is feed birds, they’ll gladly accept your offering then just fly away, leaving you lonely, hungry and skint. It’s the nature of that particular beast”
Of course I’ve never said this too Chris, his 15 year old heart is as delicately fragile as the egg shell of a new born chick, which is sadly ironic.
Chris steps off the scales in the bathroom, with the digital screen beginning to flirt dangerously with the 13 stone mark, I tell him to try and put this Abi girl to the back of his mind and concentrate on revising, girls aren’t worth the effort, etc etc etc. He doesn’t say anything and just scuttles away into his room to play X Box. The only reason I managed to get him on the scales is because Mum was out, gallivanting somewhere. Only on rare occasions will he admit to me that he has a problem with his weight, and this acceptance of the truth is never displayed verbally. Just a silent agreement between him and I that he gets on the scales, I take a reading, then he goes back to his room to daydream about Abi, play games on his xbox and daydream about Abi whist playing games on his x-box.
Chris is a smart lad, smarter than me. It’s partly why I feel so false each time I tell him to forget about this Abi girl, he knows I’m just paying him lip service. He also knows that I know that it’s nigh on impossible to eject a girl from your head when you’ve already surpassed head over heels and your now kissing your own arse, which is made even harder when you have an arse the size of Chris’s, and a self esteem the size of the full stop next to the word “sentence” at the end of this sentence.
The bathroom is pretty small; the scales are next to the sink which moulds on to the end of the bath. There’s just enough room to swing the door open without hitting the bath tub. The Ikea dream. There’s a window with a sill which is populated with products, mostly belonging to Mum. There’s my few bits, a razor, aftershave and some Lynx shower gel I bought for Chris about 2 months ago which has hardly been used. Next to the bathroom is the toilet; next to the toilet is Chris’s room. I can step out the bathroom in one stride and be outside his door, which is mostly locked shut. Years of coming in late also taught me the where the creaks in the floorboards are. I do the one stride thing and knock on his door. “Chris mate, I’m making some dinner, you want some? Just burgers, chips and a bit of veg?”
If I get an instant reaction after I’ve knocked, that normally means he’s knocking one out, as I normally receive an involuntary “NO.......................THANKS” within milliseconds of knocking.
He was knocking one out. I was already half way down the stairs when I heard the “THANKS”. Sure enough in five minutes he’d be down stairs saying he’s hungry.
This girl, Abi, the one that keeps coming round. She’s in his class and seems friendly enough. Young enough to not know what she’s doing, young enough to think she knows what she’s doing and by now, most definitely old enough to understand and harness one of the greatest powers a female can ever possess, the manipulation of a pussy, which is sadly ironic.
Anyway, this Abi girl, who is quite pretty, so I can see where Chris is coming from (though I’m probably not allowed to say that, as a 23 year old male I’m sure that makes me a sex case and the tabloids would metaphorically burn me at the steak If I was vaguely famous or interesting) comes round a few times a week to revise and chat. They watch DVD’s. Chris likes DVD’s. They eat Ice cream and look at random silly stuff on the internet then she does one.
Recently it seems she’s been spending a good deal of the time she spends with Chris either texting or talking on the phone to this older boyfriend of hers (on Chris’s phone no doubt) who I know is 17, works at a mobile phone shop in town, has just passed his driving test, and is called Brian, who’s the sexcase now?
They started hanging around each other probably about 6 months ago, I think they were paired together on some coursework and have remained friends ever since. From what I can dissect of their friendship, I think there is a genuine part of Abi that feels sorry for Chris and wants to help him, as I do, but this unfortunately is only a reserve team player in comparison with the multi-million pound international striker that is Abi’s insecurity, which like any pre-Madonna teenage girl who thinks she's older than she is needs constantly satisfying. It's the dick in a glass scenario that the comedian Chris Rock talked about, break in case of emergency. Chris is most certainly locked into the glass cabinet and Abi is wheedling the axe.
Chris stumbles into the kitchen, hands in the pockets of his jogging bottoms, shoulders hunched, looking at the floor, belly handing out from under his red England shirt that he clearly outgrew, but still insists on wearing. He stands next to the sink. Like the bathroom, the kitchen is small, an all in one unit with cooker, sink, fridge freezer and surface unit. The Ikea dream.
“You changed your mind about dinner mate? There’s plenty here for you?”
He nods his podgy head, resembling a slightly deflated beach ball. I take that as a yes. He heads over to the bin where I see him put an empty kit kat wrapper into it. With his foot on the lid, the bin remains exposed, revealing more Kit kat wrappers and junk food packaging. Chris quickly snaps the lid shut with his podgy right hand. He looks at me, I look at him. He knows. I know.
Birds and Cats don’t get on, but it never stops the Cat from chasing. I don't tell that to Chris, but I remind myself of the fact, as I know only too well.
