Chapter Text
It’s not that Jeremy doesn’t like lesbians.
His best friend Marcus is gay. (Though he hasn’t been much of a best friend lately, ever since he left Dalston along with the rest of their year, and Jeremy, well, didn’t.)
And it’s not like he doesn’t like Dalston. He actually doesn’t mind school that much. It’s either that or getting yelled at at the store, and Jeremy would rather get yelled at by a teacher telling him off for an actual mistake, than a total stranger screaming at him for not having a specific flavour of instant noodle. Look. Jeremy is not in charge of what’s in the store.
But Dalston hasn’t been the same since everyone he knew graduated—either into sixth form, or just the world in general. The building is the same, the rooms are the same, the furniture is exactly as uncomfortable as ever, but the people are all different now. Younger. And Jeremy feels like he just sticks out like… like you know how sausages come in packs of ten, but the buns come in eights? Jeremy feels like the sausages left over.
Worse, actually, because at least the sausages have each other, and Jeremy. Well. The other kids that got retained his year don’t really show up anymore, so yeah, Jeremy doesn’t even have another sausage.
Marcus hasn’t been responding to his messages. The last time they talked was three days ago.
Sorry, school is like super busy
its okay, batman this Saturday?
That was Monday. It’s Thursday now, and Jeremy feels like maybe it’s time to give up on Batman.
School is like super busy for Jeremy too, and he still makes time to respond, but oh well, maybe that’s just what sixth form is like. Maybe Jeremy will find out for himself if he ever manages to pass his GCSEs.
What was he thinking about?
Oh right. Lesbians.
Yeah he doesn’t have a problem with lesbians. He really doesn’t.
He just wishes his mum wasn’t a lesbian. And that’s not homophobic, is it? Wishing your mum wasn’t a lesbian?
It doesn’t sound homophobic.
Then he replaces mum with son—wait not son—daughter, and suddenly the sentence sounds a whole lot more homophobic.
Maybe Jeremy is a little homophobic. But you got to give people time to adjust to these things, you know?
And crap, speaking of time.
He checks the clock on his desk and groans; it’s already midnight, and he still hasn’t written a single word of his essay.
. . .
Three weeks into the new school term, Mr. Gadling—his history teacher for the second year now—pulls him aside after class (thankfully it isn’t about homework this time), “Jeremy, I think Lulu has something she’d like to say to you, right, Lulu?”
Lulu nods, then rolls her eyes when Mr. Gadling turns to Jeremy again.
“Right, I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” and then he leaves, leaving Jeremy alone with Lulu in the classroom.
“So, Mr. Gadling made me write this thing,” she holds up a crumpled piece of foolscap, “telling you how sorry I am for being a bitch to you and whatever.”
“Oh,” Jeremy says. He hadn’t even realised Lulu was being a bitch to him.
“Want me to read it to you?” Jeremy looks at the paper; it’s a lot of words.
“Not really.”
Lulu exhales a laugh, “good,” she folds it back into her skirt pocket, “it was crap anyway.” Then she slides herself onto a desk, crosses her arms, checking the clock on the far wall, “right, I think we have like ten minutes to kill.”
“Oh,” Jeremy says again. He doesn’t really know what to say to her.
She’s got things to say though. “Galadriel says your mum’s a lesbian?”
Jeremy tenses, “...yes? You got a problem with that?”
“No,” she says, cooly. Pauses, then, “I wish my mum was a lesbian.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, my dad’s just kind of… there. I don’t really know what he’s for, to be honest.”
Jeremy snorts, “trust me, you don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Do you have a problem with your mum being a lesbian?” Lulu asks, surprised.
“No, I don’t.”
“I dunno, sounds to me like you got a problem with your mum being a lesbian,” she shrugs. “You ever listen to girl in red?”
“What?”
“Girl in red? She’s a singer. Could help you like, understand her or something—your mum.”
“Oh, okay,” he doesn’t think music is going to be much help, but worth a try.
“Look, I’m sorry if I made you feel bad about getting held back, it’s just, some of us actually want to know if Gadling’s married.”
Jeremy doesn’t really know how to respond to that. Luckily, Lulu doesn’t seem to expect one.
“Dee, from 5C? She says she’s seen his wife. Says she’s like, a total babe. Like, way out of his league, smokin’ hot, babe. Like, can’t believe he pulled that, babe.”
“But,” she whispers conspiratorially, “no wedding ring. So what’s going on there?” She gives the door a significant look.
(Jeremy doesn’t tell her what he actually thinks, which is that collecting mugs doesn’t feel like the kind of thing people with wives generally did much of.
His dad’s been collecting the pull-tabs of soda cans. Keeps them in a big jar next to grandpa’s ashes. Going to make something, he says, every time he puts a new one in, one day. Yeah you keep telling yourself that, dad.)
“Anyway,” Lulu continues, “sorry. I’m sure you’ll pass this year though,” sounding completely unsure. She pulls a half-eaten box of chocolate Pocky out of her skirt pocket, “you want one? It’s good.”
Jeremy declines. He’s always been more a Pepero kinda guy.
Lulu snaps the end of one between her teeth, “right, forgot your lot like, invented it or something, right?”
“Pocky’s Japanese,” Jeremy points out, matter-of-factly. It would be nice to be able to take credit for that, but sadly, not one of theirs.
“Yeah?”
“My dad’s from Hong Kong.”
“...oh,” Lulu says, looking actually contrite for the first time in this entire conversation, “um.” She stops eating, fiddling with a tab on the box, at a rare loss for words. And Jeremy kind of wishes he hadn’t said anything now, because the silence is so fucking awkward.
“My dad’s from Pakistan,” Lulu offers, after a while, and Jeremy accepts it as the apology it is.
“Um,” he scrambles for something more substantial to add, and settles on a line he’s heard Marcus say countless times, but has yet to test out himself, “so… fuck the queen, am I right?” He tries, half-heartedly.
Lulu looks at him, her mouth spreading into a wide grin, a stick of Pocky held between her teeth, “hell yeah,” she bites down, “fuck the queen.”
As if on cue, Mr. Gadling sticks his head into the room, “you two alright in there?”
Lulu turns to him, then smiles, sliding her snack back into her pocket, “yes Mr. Gadling,” pushing herself off the table, “but you know, you really shouldn’t have left us alone like this. Just because you didn’t hear anything doesn’t mean nothing happened.”
Mr. Gadling’s face goes paper white.
“Nothing happened though,” she says, skipping past him out of the room, “I’ll see you in English, Jeremy.” And then she’s gone.
“Um,” Jeremy feels like he should say something, “we didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah I know, Jeremy,” he has his face buried in a hand, “I know. Off you go, now. Good lad.”
. . .
He ends up going to see Batman on Sunday instead, with Lulu and Galadriel. (After the usual “you wanna see batman Saturday?” “can’t saturday though, friday night?” “Can’t Friday, Sunday okay?” “sunday’s good. see you sunday.”)
Galadriel buys a popcorn that’s way too big and insists he help her with it.
“What did you think?” Lulu asks, on their way out.
“Yeah Pattinson’s still got it,” Galadriel says dreamily.
“I really liked the cinematography,” Jeremy says. It was very nicely shot.
Lulu barks a laugh, “oh my god is that what we’re calling it now?”
Galadriel cackles, “don’t pretend you weren’t totally checking her out, Jer. We saw you.” And Jeremy feels his face grow hot, because, like, yeah obviously Catwoman is very pretty, but being pretty and looking pretty are two very different things, and someone’s out there doing the work of making her beautiful on camera.
“Why were you even looking at me?” Jeremy retorts.
“Because we wanted to see if you were checking her out, and you totally were, Jeremy.”
“Hey it’s fine,” Lulu puts an arm around him, “I really liked the cinematography too.”
. . .
He’s taking a stack of flattened cardboard boxes to the recycling when he hears it. Just round the corner. Public indecency at the dumpsters. Again. He doesn’t know why people enjoy making out in alleys like this. There are rats.
Someone moans.
On any other day Jeremy would wait till they’re finished to take the trash out, but it’s Sunday night, and it’s getting cold, and he would really like to get everything done with early, maybe get a few precious moments with his Nintendo before his weekend is officially over.
He steels himself, then turns into the alley, resolutely not looking in the direction of whoever else is there. It’s good that they’re distracted. Jeremy tries to lift the lid of the recycling bin as quietly as possible.
“—wait, no.”
And Jeremy freezes.
A gasp, “no, not right now—”
Against his better judgement, Jeremy turns, because that sure does sound a lot like—
The lid of the bin slips out of his hand, and it crashes with a loud bang, startling him into dropping his boxes; they land in a heap at his feet, and when he looks up again, he finds himself staring directly into the wide, dinner-plate eyes of his history teacher, his horrified expression partially obscured by a body pressing him to the brick wall.
Jeremy bolts.
He hears footsteps, and a voice calling, panicked, “wait—Jeremy,” then, to someone else, “okay, you stay put—no actually, pick those up and put them in the blue bin, you fucking bastard.”
The door has barely shut behind him when the shop bell rings again, and Mr. Gadling enters, panting, hair and clothing in total disarray. His face is very red.
“My dad’s in the back,” Jeremy lies, just in case Mr. Gadling is here to pull a dead-men-tell-no-tales or anything like that.
“Oh—” Mr. Gadling tries to catch his breath, hastily tucking his shirt back into his trousers, “Jeremy, I am so sorry—” It is unbuttoned just one button too many, Jeremy thinks, but maybe that’s a matter of taste.
“My mum’s a lesbian,” he blurts out, just in case Mr. Gadling thinks he’s homophobic or anything like that.
Mr. Gadling blinks, then seems to finally compose himself, “you doing alright then, Jeremy? How’s the year been treating you?” He asks, like they’re back in the staff office at school, and Jeremy is explaining why he’s turning in homework late again for the fifth time that month; like Jeremy hasn’t just heard him aggressively making out with a man in an alley not two minutes ago.
Jeremy shrugs helplessly, “okay, I guess,” and tries not to think about how bizarre this situation is—talking about how he’s doing on a Sunday night, with a history teacher whose personal life and preferences he now knows way too much about. Desperate to change the subject, “um, we’re having half-off on the canned peaches.”
“Excuse me?”
“The canned peaches. They’re expiring tomorrow, so they’re half-off.” He gestures to a cardboard sign he’d put up last week: 50% off Canned Peaches.
“Oh.” Mr. Gadling looks to the peaches, then back at him, “how many have you got?”
“Like, eight, I think?”
“I’ll take all of them.”
Jeremy stares at him, “you don’t have to do that. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” He tries his best to look like someone who found out his mum was a lesbian a lot earlier than his dad. Which is what he is. Trustworthy.
“No no, I really like peaches, and they just get thrown out if they don’t sell, right?” Jeremy nods. They do; it’s a pity. Mr. Gadling steps over the remaining pile of flattened boxes to get to the shelf, “look, Jeremy,” he says, pretending to read a label on a can, “it’s not—it’s not secret. It’s just private, you understand?”
Well. His definition of private is clearly questionable, but Jeremy understands what he’s getting at.
He nods seriously, “I won’t tell Galadriel,” he says, and Mr. Gadling throws his head back and laughs.
The shop bell rings again, and Jeremy finally sees the front of the man whose back he’d seen earlier. He’s dressed completely in black, and the harsh fluorescent lighting of the store—generally unflattering for most—makes his skin look almost like it’s being lit from the inside. He glides into the store on Doc Martens; not an easy thing to do.
Mr. Gadling narrows his eyes at him, “thought I told you to stay put.”
“You requested that I move the boxes to the blue bin. I have.” He turns to Jeremy, “Hello Jeremy,” he says. His voice feels like it weighs a ton, “I have heard a lot about you.”
Jeremy bristles, taking an instant dislike to the guy, “yeah?”
“Do you have your camera yet?”
“What?”
The man smiles an enigmatic smile, “oh. Too early then.”
“Stop it,” Mr. Gadling hisses at him from the shelf of canned goods, “stop.” Jeremy frowns. “Help me with the peaches,” then he points to the cardboard on the floor, and (in a much kinder tone of voice), “were you taking these out, Jeremy?”
“I can ring you up first.” Technically, the store's closed, but Jeremy will make an exception for Mr. Gadling, who is often making exceptions for him.
“Not a problem, ah,” he bends down to pick them up, “I can take these out for you, least I could do, eh?” The shop bell rings as he exits with the boxes, leaving Jeremy alone with the stranger. Jeremy tries not to look at him too much, keeps his eyes on the register as he scans the peaches one can at a time.
He should say it. He’s heard enough from Lulu and Galadriel to know that he should say it. And if he’s going to say it he has to say it now.
“You know,” Jeremy says, on can number four, hoping his voice doesn’t waver, “you should listen, when someone tells you no.”
There is no response; Jeremy looks up to make sure the guy is still there.
He is. He’s staring at Jeremy, head cocked slightly, more curious than chastised, which is just annoying, really. Mr. Gadling can do so much better than this posh twat.
“I will take that under advisement,” he says, after a long, drawn-out silence. And hey, at least Jeremy tried.
The shop bell rings again just as he scans the last can.
“Total’s four pound eighty, need a bag?”
“Nope," Mr. Gadling riffles through his wallet. He jerks his head towards his companion, “just pass them all over to him.”
Watching the strange man exit the store, quietly balancing an armful of canned peaches as the shop bell rings one last time, Jeremy thinks, maybe Mr. Gadling does know what he’s doing after all.
. . .
It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Jeremy gets back to the store, to find that his dad has replaced the old plastic sheet dividing the storefront from the storage. The new one is metallic and shiny, shimmering like a beaded curtain.
“What do you think?” He says, beaming proudly. Jeremy squints at it, and realises it’s made entirely out of soda can pull-tabs, painstakingly woven together with string.
He smiles back, “I think it looks great, dad.”