His father once told him a good man has to stay one step ahead of everyone else. Don't let them catch up to you, catch on to you. That philosophy is probably what had made John Clarke such a good thief, until he finally got caught.
That philosophy is what made his son such a good chess player, so good at pulling the perfect pranks. So good at lying. Jerome prided himself on staying one step ahead of everyone and everything. One step ahead of his friends, his teachers, his parents. One step ahead of sadness, loneliness, pain.
Chin up, Clarke. Stay one step ahead, and you never have to lose.
… … … ...
Looking back on it, it could be said this was all Jerome's fault.
Sort of. Kind of. Actually.
Admittedly, he had been the one who convinced Mick and Alfie to steal the girl's laundry from the dryer one Saturday and spread it across the grounds just as they happened to be returning from town—right in the knick of time, one could say.
But that was really nothing—a lighthearted prank, a simple joke. Besides it brought a nice change from the weird, dark gloom that'd been clamped over the house like a coffin lid since the beginning of term. He was long overdue for a prank anyway—he had a reputation to maintain—and the idea was brilliant.
Jerome did NOT deserve this.
… … … ...
You see, the whole thing was perfect, really.
Walking down to breakfast that morning, with a sleepy Alfie and Mick in tow, he spotted it across the hall before he even got down the stairs. He saw the string, tied across the dining room doorway, waiting for a poor, unsuspecting soul to trip. A classic, amateur move. A prank clearly thought up by the inferior girl mind.
What he didn't see was the bishop—the tiny, black chess piece just beyond the wire—lying on the floor, on its side, just so. Placed perfectly, ready to send anyone who stepped on it skidding and tumbling down.
Yep, bloody brilliant idea, Jerome thought, as he made an exaggerated step with his other foot, trying and failing to keep his body upright, the chess piece rolling out from underneath the sole of his shoe as he made painful contact with the floor.
What he also didn't see was the assortment of water balloons perched precariously on the edge of the dining room table, until Alfie, in an ill-thought attempt to stop himself from tripping over Mick (who had already tripped over Jerome), made to yank at the tablecloth and sent it and the colorful water bombs spilling directly over their heads.
Genius.
… … … ...
Laughter rings from the kitchen as the three boys, soaked thoroughly, scramble over each other on the floor. Jerome looks up to see Joy, Amber, Nina, Patricia, and Mara materialize from behind the cabinets. Joy, Amber, and Patricia are laughing so hard they're out of breath, Mara is grinning quietly, and Nina is trying to stifle a giggle behind her hand.
Lying there, in the midst of it all, the chuckle bubbles out of him completely without his permission, before his mind can catch up. He looks around, sees Alfie and Mick making futile attempts to stand. The dining room floor is wet beneath them. Jerome hears Amber and Joy giggling uncontrollably, Trixie cackling. Mick makes it about halfway up, arm bracing against the door, before Alfie grabs his other hand ("Oi! Mate, let go!") and takes both of them down in a tangle of limbs.
Jerome's chuckle turns into an outright laugh, head thrown back. Alfie throws him a glare as he scrambles across the wet hardwood. Amid the sound of his own laughter, he catches bits of Alfie's rant as his best friend scrambles to get up.
"…—started this, mind you….my bum hurts….your fault…."
Jerome's stomach hurts from laughing so hard.
Fabian bounds down the stairs, two at a time, and into the kitchen, startled from bed by all the noise. The look on his face as he takes in the mess in front of him is enough to bring on fresh peals of laughter from the girls and send tears down Jerome's face.
… … … ...
Walking back up the stairs later, Jerome remembers what his father told him. You must stay one step ahead of everyone.
His father had been right of course. The man had never done anything right in Jerome's lifetime, left a raw, blazing trail of mistakes and resentment in his wake, but about this, he had been absolutely correct.
John himself endorsed his own philosophy many times. When he said he'd visit for Christmas, Jerome remembered his advice, anticipated he would never show, and managed to stay one step ahead of dear old dad.
All in all, it was a foolproof theory.
Being John Clarke's son for 16 years had taught Jerome that if your mind stayed one step ahead of life, you could convince yourself your heart stayed one step ahead of disappointment.
… … … ...
He enters her room unheard. Mara's busy stuffing books into her school bag. He had always wondered how she could cram so many inside, Mary Poppins style.
"That was some trick."
She startles and turns to face him, expression quickly schooled into neutral.
Jerome is completely soaked. His school cardigan is dark with water stains, and the white shirt underneath clings to his skin as he stands in the middle of her bedroom. The boy runs a finger through his hair, a wet mess falling into his eyes. She is staring back at him blankly, the picture of innocence. But he knows, oh, he knows.
"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Jerome…." Mara answers back, trying to appear unfazed, small smile teasing at the edge of her lips.
He rolls his eyes, throws her a soft glare. There's no heat behind it; he's still trying to figure out how she pulled it off.
"…but, if you are referring to the prank someone pulled on you lot this morning, then yes, it was some trick….I wonder who could have done it. Someone wickedly clever and cunning no doubt."
He snorts at that. She pretends not to hear him and continues.
"I mean we may never know. This mastermind is clearly good at covering her tracks. Or his tracks... that is to say…."
The girl rambles on, avoiding eye contact, and Jerome can feel laughter threatening to surface once again.
"…I mean it could be a he…or a she….or a them…."
Jerome's full-on chuckling, watching her stumble on her words. Mara pauses in her rant and, throwing a sheepish glance up at Jerome, grins back.
For a moment they're both silent and it's suddenly awkward and he sees that Mara has this forceful need to just speak, to fill this silence. So she does, unaware of what she's saying, unsure if she's about to fess up, offer an explanation, or just ramble.
"It's really nice to hear you laugh."
The next part is most definitely Jerome's fault.
Two strides put him mere inches from her, hand tugging at the jacket pocket of her uniform, and he doesn't give her a chance to react to the closeness before his mouth is hot and soft against hers. He stoops, pulling her towards him, one hand pressing urgently against her lower back, bringing her body up and into his. His other hand twists into her hair.
She puts her hands on his chest reflexively, and he isn't sure if it's to push him away or pull him closer. He's cold from the water seeped in his clothes, and she feels so hot against him, her proximity pumping blood to the tips of his fingers, to his heart, to his whole body. Her response is tentative, slow, but Jerome presses forward, coaxing it out, eager to explore her mouth when she parts it slightly. He kisses her gasp away, hears himself let out a sound…Mara…Mara…Mara…low and rumbling in his throat.
Their lips meet with a loud, wet noise. She opens up to him completely, and he feels the heat in his stomach travel, simmering, lower and lower.
He doesn't realize his hands have wandered, one flexing into Mara's hip and the other grazing over her chest, until his thumb brushes a sensitive spot and she hisses. The noise seems to rouse her, and he manages to chase her lips for a few more quick kisses before she pulls back completely, forehead against his, panting heavily, eyes closed shut.
After a while, Jerome pulls back too, taking in the sight of her. The cardigan under her jacket is wet where their chests had met, and a few strands of hair falling near her face are damp from where he'd curled his fingers into them. There are water droplets all over her: on her forehead, where his had been a moment before, on her eyelids, on her cheek, on her lips…oh God, her lips.
Jerome leans his forehead back against hers, tries to collect himself and reign in the giddy feeling that's spurring the butterflies in his stomach into a frenzy. His heart is thudding so intensely, he's struck by the oddly happy thought that it could push itself out of his chest and into Mara's.
He tries to clear his head, clam down, but he can feel himself shaking and can't seem to stop. He waits until her breathing evens out, till she opens her eyes, confused, suddenly weary, and slightly dazed.
Jerome knows he looks just as wrecked as he feels. He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks, comes out quite and breathless,
"C-check mate."
… … … ...
He somehow manages to stumble away from her, suddenly terrified of what had happened, ignoring the instinct screaming at him to turn back, bring her mouth to his again, and never let her go. He's gone so quickly, he doesn't see her reach into her jacket pocket and pull out the small, black object slipped inside.
… … … ...
Jerome's standing in the bathroom, pulling off his drenched clothes, still shaking, when his reflection catches his eye.
His hair is a wet mess, his lips are wet too, swollen, a deep red, and his eyes are dancing, irises blown wide. His brain is still fuzzy, unsure of what just happened; his heart is beating rapidly, mixed up, elated, terrified all at once.
His father said that if you stay one step ahead of everyone else, then no one can ever get to you. You stay ahead and you're safe, you're happy, you can't lose.
Standing half naked in the bathroom, peering into the mirror, he smirks at his reflection as the realization hits him.
... ... ... ...
Jerome Clarke was one step behind Mara Jaffray, and he suddenly felt like, for the first time in a long time, he'd finally won.
