This Time Next Year(51)

*

Bambers was packed by the time Quinn arrived; he couldn’t get over how popular it was. Clusters of teenagers were crammed into the room, swaying self-consciously to the music. In the middle of the dance floor the older, drunker kids were taking up all the space, swinging each other around, screaming the words to ‘Around the World’ by ATC. The air smelt of cheap Superdrug body spray with ‘going out’ names like Twilight Seduction or Midnight Mist. Sweat hung in the air like in a hot locker room after games. Disco lights were set up at the far end, strobing circles of red, blue and green that jumped across the ceiling of the dimly lit hall. A DJ was on decks in front of the kitchen kiosk, a purple banner covered in musical notes that read ‘Music Melvin’ was draped over the kiosk. There was a trestle table bar selling soft drinks, crisps, and those glow sticks you snapped in half to make them work. The table was being manned by the usual selection of mums – the kind of mums who baked cupcakes with 2004 written on in gold icing, the mums who came early to help hang paper bunting and label Coke bottles with stickers saying one pound.

‘Quinno!’ called a voice across the hall. Quinn looked up to see Matt strutting towards him. ‘Quick, have some of this.’

Matt handed him a bottle of warm Coke that smelt like it was 80 per cent vodka. Quinn took a sip and tried not to gag.

‘Painter’s already pulled,’ said Matt, elbowing Quinn in the ribs.

Matt was short with pointed features and deep-pitted acne across his chin and the lower half of his cheeks. He was friendly, funny and brilliant at football, but he didn’t get much attention from girls even though, recently, girls were all he talked about. ‘Fucking Painter, look at him!’ Matt pointed out Paul Painter, a well-built blond rugby player in their year. He had his arm around a girl in a black velvet minidress over by the vending machine that only sold out-of-date crisps.

Quinn felt one of the phones in his pocket buzz. His mother was texting him already. He slapped his friend on the back and handed him back the bottle of Coke.

‘You won’t make it to midnight if you drink this.’ Quinn looked around the room to see who else he knew. ‘Is Jonesy here? Patel?’

‘Jonesy’s smoking. Patel said it was all lame twelve year olds and went to try the pub; says he knows the doorman, such bollocks. Have this, I’ve got plenty.’ Matt handed him back the Coke.

Quinn felt his shoulders begin to relax as he took another sip of alcohol.

He replied to his Mum; he’d arrived – he was fine. She’d messaged telling him to get a cab home on the account; she said she’d ordered him one for twelve fifteen. It was only a short night bus back to the railway bridge and then a five-minute walk home, but there was no point arguing with her.

‘Your mental mum let you out then?’ came a voice behind him, and Quinn felt a friendly punch land in the side of his ribs. He turned to give Jonesy a thump on the arm. ‘It’s yer birthday, it’s yer birthday,’ Jonesy sang, grinding his hips into Quinn and waving his arms in a dance.

Duncan Jones was one of Quinn’s best friends and one of the only people who could get away with making jokes like that about his mother.

‘You got Dr Quincey here drinking?’ Jonesy asked Matt, taking the Coke out of Quinn’s hands and sniffing it. ‘The mentalist isn’t going to like that.’

‘He’s got to have the odd night off,’ said Matt.

‘Let’s not talk about my mum tonight, dickheads,’ Quinn said.

‘Let’s talk about Matt’s mum then. Mrs Dingle is looking proper MILF these days,’ Jonesy said, making a kissing, clicking sound with his tongue and giving Matt a wink.

‘Don’t you … ’ Matt took a lunge at Jonesy. Quinn stepped between them and held out a palm to intercept Matt’s flailing fist.

‘Boys!’ came a warning voice from one of the trestle-table mums. ‘We’ll have none of that, please.’

The night rolled on. Deepak Patel reappeared, having failed to get into the pub, DJ Music Melvin turned out to be half decent, and Quinn danced and drank and laughed with his friends. At one point a few girls came shuffling over to dance next to them but Matt scared them away with his version of breakdancing.

‘If you want to pull, you’ll have to ditch pizza-face,’ Deepak said, pointing at Matt, who by this point was staggering around the dance floor, sloshing his drink down his T-shirt, shouting out lyrics to ‘Bootylicious’ by Destiny’s Child. ‘Those girls clearly want to get to you, but Matt keeps leching on anyone who gets close.’

Quinn hadn’t thought about trying to kiss anyone tonight. He never tried to kiss girls, it just happened sometimes without him doing very much. His school was all boys, but whenever he and his friends hung out with girls, it was usually his louder, more outgoing friends who did all the talking, while Quinn, without trying to, came off as the quiet, interesting one.

A group of girls wearing crop tops and faded denim were watching him from a line of plastic chairs at the side of the room. They all clasped disposable red cups between both hands. One wearing too-red lipstick smiled at him. She was pretty but, even with the vodka, he wouldn’t know what to say if he went over there alone.

At ten to midnight, Quinn slipped off the dance floor and hid in the corridor by the loos. He didn’t want to be exposed at midnight. Music Melvin would start playing ‘Lady in Red’ or some other saddo slow dance. There’d be the awkward shuffle as people tried to line themselves up with someone to kiss, his mates nudging each other, merciless in their mocking of both success and failure. He couldn’t deal with that kind of pressure. He replied to another text from his mum, the fourth of the evening, ‘Happy New Year, Mum. Honestly, go to bed, I’m fine.’