Solitaire, Part 3 of 3 by Alice Oseman

house. Three floors, with an abundance of hiding places. Everything was kind of beige. They had a lot of paintings.
    A lot of paintings.
    They had a lot of paintings.
    And there is one that I remember.
    I asked Lucas, when I was eleven, “Is that a painting of the high street?”
    “Yep,” he said. He was smaller than me back then, his hair white-blond. “The cobbled high street in the rain.”
    “I like the red umbrellas,” I said. “I think it must be summer rain.”
    “I think so too.”
    The painting of the wet cobbled street with red umbrellas and warm café windows, the painting that Doctor Who girl was staring at so intensely at the Solitaire party; it’s inside Lucas’s house.
    I begin to breathe very fast.
    “That painting,” I say.
    He says nothing.
    “But the Solitaire party … that wasn’t your house. You don’t live in this town.”
    “No,” he says. “My parents are in property development. They own several empty houses. That house was one of them. They put those paintings in there to brighten it up for viewers.”
    Everything suddenly clicks into place.
    “You’re part of Solitaire,” I say.
    He nods slowly.
    “I made it,” says Lucas. “I made Solitaire.”
    I step back.
    “No,” I say. “No, you didn’t.”
    “I made that blog. I organised the pranks.”
    Star Wars
. Violins. Cats, Madonna. Ben Hope and Charlie. Fire. Bubbles. The fireworks at The Clay and the burning and the distorted voice? Surely I would have recognised his voice.
    I step back.
    “You’re lying.”
    “I’m not.”
    I step back again, but there isn’t any table to step back on to, and my foot falls on to air and I topple backwards into nothingness, only to be caught under my arms by Michael Holden who has been standing by us since God knows when. He lifts me a little and settles me on the ground. His hands feel strange on my arms.
    “Can—” I can’t speak. I’m choking, my throat is closing. “You-you’re a sadistic—”
    “I know, I’m sorry, it all got a bit out of hand.”
    “Got a bit
out of hand
?” I shriek with laughter. “People could have
died
.”
    Michael’s arms are around me. I throw him off, climb back on to the tables and march towards Lucas, who cowers a little as I face him.
    “All the pranks were related to me, weren’t they?” I say this more to myself than him. Michael had realised this right from the start. Because he’s clever. He’s so clever. And I, being me, didn’t bother to listen to anyone except myself.
    Lucas nods.
    “Why did you make Solitaire?” I say.
    He can’t breathe. His mouth turns in and he swallows.
    “I’m in love with you,” he says.
    At that moment, I consider many options. One is to punch him in the face. Another is to jump out of the window. The option which I go with is to run. So now I’m running.
    You don’t pull pranks on a school because you’re in love with someone. You don’t get a whole party to attack someone because you’re
in love with someone
.
    I’m running through our school, into and out of classrooms I’ve never entered, through dark and empty corridors I never pass through any more. All the while, Lucas is in pursuit, crying out that he wants to explain properly, as if there’s more to explain. There isn’t more to explain. He’s a psycho. Like everyone. He doesn’t care that people get hurt. Like everyone.
    I find myself at a dead end in the art department. It’s the room that I stood on top of only two days ago, that I was sat outside of earlier today – the art conservatory. I dart round the room, desperately looking for somewhere to go, as Lucas stands breathing heavily at the door. The windows are too small to jump out of.
    “Sorry,” he says, still panting, hands on his knees. “Sorry, that was kind of sudden. That didn’t make any sense.”
    I practically screech with laughter. “Uh, you
think
?”
    “Am I allowed to explain properly?”
    I look at him. “Is this the final explanation?”
    He