Out of all the punishments Louis Brett had received during his time at school, the compulsory camping trip was definitely the worst. He could handle a day’s solitary confinement for filling the school rabbit’s water bottle with urine, and he practically knew the school rules by heart after writing them out in countless detentions. But camping was in an entirely different league.
To begin with, the punishment lasted two full days, and he had to spend the night in a tent in the middle of nowhere with another boy he barely knew. Louis had complained that this had to be against the law and that his rights were being violated, but it was technically taking place during term time, and his father had consented, so there was really no way out. He was just going to have to grin and bear it.
Dropping his rucksack on the floor so that it deliberately crushed an angry Martin Nichelson’s foot, Louis headed over to sign in with his PE teacher and leader of the camping trip, Mr Bruce. Bruce was your average rugby-playing, weight-lifting middle aged sports teacher who took great pleasure in teasing those incapable of performing whichever sporting task he decided to set. He was also known by his initials, BB, which he regularly used to sign detention slips for slackers.
“Morning, BB.” Louis faked a cheery smile. “Nice weather, isn’t it?”
“Brett.” Mr Bruce sighed, folding his muscled arms. “Remind me, why are you here?”
“I started a food fight in the canteen.” Louis grinned. “Pity you missed it, actually. I took a great shot at Tom Johnson’s head with a chicken leg. I tell you, those geeks on the cricket team could learn a thing or two from me. They might actually start to win some games.”
“You started a food fight just before your English GCSE exam, meaning some of your classmates had to sit it wearing gravy-soaked shirts.” Mr Bruce rolled his eyes. “Do you never learn? I forget how many times I’ve punished you.”
“We’re taught not to give in to peer pressure.” Louis smirked. “Think of including teachers, and you’ll know why.” He drew himself up to full height, which was still a good few inches shorter than the six-foot-four tall teacher.
Mr Bruce sighed. “You’re sharing with Carter, Brett. Get your stuff and start pitching.”
“Yes, sir!” Louis gave a mock salute before picking up his rucksack and joining the group of teenagers crowding round a pile of tent poles.
Ian Carter, like the rest of the kids on the camping trip, had just finished his end of school exams at Keenan Road Comprehensive, a fairly large school in south London. Unlike the others, however, he had taken great pleasure in burning his books on the school field as a celebration of the end of compulsory school. His over-the-top reaction had led to him being sent on the punishment trip with the school delinquents.
Ian wasn’t a regular troublemaker like Louis. He’d skipped class occasionally and didn’t always hand in his homework on time, but he was the kind of student teachers generally ignored, mainly because there was always someone behaving far worse.
“Carter!” someone shouted, deliberately rolling the ‘r’ in the middle of Ian’s surname. Ian turned, accidentally hitting Melanie Kneaves in the stomach with the end of his tent pole. Melanie scowled as Ian mouthed an apology whilst trying to figure out who had called his name in such a ridiculous voice. Louis was waving madly at him, and it took Ian a few moments to remember that they were tent partners.
“Over here,” Ian called back, resting the metal pole on the ground. “Come and give me a hand, yeah?”
Louis ambled over, not caring which unlucky classmates he pushed out of the way. “How’s it going, Priest?” he asked, grabbing a tent pole and wielding it like a baseball bat. “Strike one!”
Ian frowned at the use of his loathed nickname, but couldn’t help sniggering as his tent-mate swung the pole just short of Melanie’s head. Melanie grabbed the end of the pole and threw it angrily to the ground.
“You boys are so immature!” she yelled. “You moan about being single, but you’re so childish that no girl would ever go out with you.”
“Just because you’re jealous,” Louis teased. He made fake kissing noises and leant in closer to Melanie’s face. “You know you love me really, Melly.”
“See what I mean?” Melanie snapped. “You don’t even use my real name. What girl would want to date a guy who gets her name wrong?” She picked up two poles and jabbed the end of them into Louis’ stomach, before storming off to join her tent partner.
“Come on,” Ian eventually sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. “We’d better get this tent up before BB has a go at us for slacking. You bring the poles; I’ve got the fabric.” He led the way through the almost grassless field, searching for a decent spot to pitch the tent. Most of the best places had been taken, so Ian had to settle for a patch in the corner of the field, far from the teachers’ tents. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. After all, Ian reassured himself, it was only going to be one night.
Dumping the tent on the floor, he began to spread the material out. Ian had experience at putting up tents; regular camping trips with his church youth group had ensured that. He hadn’t spent the night in a tent for over five years, however, but he quickly found he could still remember how to erect one. He also found that Louis wasn’t bothering to help, instead still wielding one of the poles like a light sabre.
“Hey, Luke Skywalker, I actually need that pole,” Ian sighed, holding out one hand.
Louis passed it across. “How come you know how to put this piece of crap together?”
“I used to go camping as a kid,” Ian shrugged. “Look, why don’t you go and get a few more poles? We’re a couple short for some reason.”
Louis nodded and headed across the field. Ian continued to put the tent up, slowly but steadily. Drifting into a daydream where he wasn’t camping with Louis, he suddenly jumped. Someone had pinched him on the bum. He turned around, scowling.
“You’ve got a nice bum, Priest,” Louis winked, holding three metal poles in one hand and spinning them around mindlessly.
“Don’t call me Priest,” Ian snapped. “That’s not my name.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. If Louis knew the pathetic nickname annoyed him, chances were he’d just use it more often. “And why the hell were you touching my arse? Just give us a pole, yeah?”
“Calm it, Ahmet,” Louis replied, passing a pole across reluctantly. “Where is that knob, anyway? He owes me for that DVD I sold him.”
“Who?” Ian asked, threading the pole through a hole in the tent.
“Ahmet bin Laden,” Louis laughed. “I sold him a pirate of that new film with Angelina Jolie, and he was a fiver short.”
“His name is bin Krosna, and he’s tenting with Danny Allen,” Ian replied, sounding slightly agitated. “I guess you’re gonna go find him and leave me to pitch on my own.”
“I’ll help you if you want, Carter,” Louis offered. Ian stared at him. There seemed nothing on his face to suggest he was joking.
“Have you ever pitched a tent before?” Ian asked.
Louis shook his head. “Camping’s for wimps.”
Ian picked up another pole, sighing. “Tell you what, I’ll finish this, and you get the cash from Ahmet. You can buy me a drink with it when we get out of this dump.”
“Cheers.” Louis grinned. “I’ve got no idea how to put one of those things up, and if it’s a disaster, BB will just yell at me. I swear that man hates my guts.”
“He hates everyone’s guts, Louis,” Ian reminded him. “It was BB who got me sent on this trip.”
“You and your sexy bum,” Louis teased, grabbing Ian’s bum in his left hand. “I’ve felt worse on girls I haven’t dated.”
“What?” Ian spluttered, pushing Louis away.
“I didn’t date them because their bums weren’t sexy enough,” Louis explained. “I’m more of a bums guy than a boobs one. Although Jessica Tennant does have a pair I’d quite like to get a feel of. Everyone says they’re fake, and I’d like to make sure.”
“There’s Ahmet,” Ian announced, before the conversation became any more surreal.
“Bin Krosna!” Louis yelled across the field, charging towards the stocky Asian lad.
Ian rolled his eyes and continued to pitch the tent, wondering what exactly he’d got himself into by sharing with Louis.
Most of the students on the trip had, like Louis, never pitched a tent before. Ian’s expertise meant that he was the second to be fully finished, beaten only by two girls who were among the first to choose a site to pitch. Ian recognised them as Daisy Lowe, who was caught smashing up one of the school computers, and Abiola Osumnu, who, rumour had it, was here because she was caught having sex with her boyfriend in a store cupboard instead of sitting her Physics GCSE.
Testing out his sleeping bag, Ian concluded the left side of the tent was more comfortable. He began to unpack his few belongings from his bag, settling his torch beside his pillow. He took a mouthful from a bottle of water before kicking off his clean white trainers and sprawling over his sleeping bag. He was clueless as to what the day would involve, but was determined to rest as much as he could, for with Mr Bruce in charge, the one thing Ian could count on was gruelling physical challenges. The summer heat wasn’t going to help, either.
Ian’s peace was shattered by Louis’ battered backpack being thrown into the tent, followed by the teenager himself.
“What’s your poison?” Louis asked, unzipping the bag and tipping out the contents onto Ian’s sleeping bag. Wrapped in a pair of grey jogging bottoms were four cans of lager. He broke two off and tossed one to Ian, before opening the other and taking a massive gulp.
“Brilliant,” Ian grinned, inspecting the can. “Isn’t booze banned though?”
“Who cares?” Louis shrugged, tilting his head back. He poured the whole can into his mouth, alcohol dribbling down the front of his plain white t-shirt.
“You’d better change that before BB sees,” Ian told him, sipping from his can. “He’ll send you home or put you on punishment laps or something.”
“I want to get sent home,” Louis admitted. “This is bull. I’ve got masses of better things to be doing with my time. My dad’s a loser for agreeing to it. The only good thing is sharing with you, Sexy Bum. That’s your new name now.” He chuckled, sending dribble down his chin. “The Priest is now Sexy Bum. Hey, roll over and let me see it properly.”
“I don’t think so,” Ian pouted. “Not until you change your shirt anyway. I’m not having BB raid our tent just because you can’t handle your drink.”
“I can down a six-pack and handle it,” Louis boasted as he stripped his shirt off and rummaged among his bag for a pale pink polo shirt. He flexed his muscles, revealing a toned, tanned chest he’d obviously spent a good deal of time working on.
Ian couldn’t help but be impressed. “Which girl did you get that for?” he asked, unable to drag his eyes from Louis’ body.
“No girl,” Louis laughed, pulling his clean top over his head. “You see, I’m trying to pull BB. Everyone knows he pervs on us all in PE. He couldn’t resist a body like this. You know, I bet he fancies your sexy bum too, Sexy Bum. Hey, you owe me a look now, Carter. Roll over.”
“No,” Ian replied, folding his arms.
“But you said when I changed my shirt you’d let me look.”
“Why do you want to look at my arse, anyway?”
“Because you’ve got a sexy bum.”
Ian sighed, knowing there was no way of arguing his way out of it. He never had been the argumentative type anyway, and he didn’t want to fall out with Louis so soon into the trip.
He pressed his face into his pillow, his bum facing upwards. “Alright,” he told Louis, giving in and hoping this would help him bond with his tent mate. “You can look. But that means no touching.”
“Can’t I even stroke it? Louis begged.
“Nope,” Ian grinned. “Rules are rules.”
“I’m hoping there’s no rule against this.” Louis stifled a laugh as he pulled down Ian’s trousers and pants down in one swift move. “Now I’m looking!”
Ian quickly pulled his jogging bottoms up, frustrated. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be duped like that. He grabbed his trainers before storming out of the tent in a pair of holey socks, his face burning with embarrassment.
“I was only looking,” Louis called after him.
Ian ignored the comment. He didn’t even want to think about his tent-mate any more.
