Alex’s eyes glint dangerously, as if he’s about to say something else.
“Hey, did you know it’s Alex’s birthday today?” I say brightly, before he can get a word in. “Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him!”
The glint turns into a full-on glare. Even Rita looks slightly scared.
“Well, ain’t that lovely? Happy birthday, young lad,” says Gerald, totally failing to pick up on the general mood. “I’ll count us in. On three: one, two…”
And then the three of us stand there on the mountain top, singing a lusty (and off-key, in Gerald’s case) version ofHappy Birthday, which pulls in onlookers, so that by the time we reach the end, there’s at least a dozen complete strangers, all standing singing together, to the obvious horror of the birthday boy himself, who looks like he’s about to explode.
“Three cheers!” yells Gerald, as the last note dies out. “Hip hip!”
“Hooray!” we all cheer dutifully. Now Alex looks like he’s wishing the volcano would erupt and take us all with it. He’s clearly hating every second of this. He’s obviously too polite to say anything, though,so he stands there smiling rigidly until all three of the cheers are over, then he mutters a stiff word of thanks, before turning and stalking off in the direction of the cable car, with Rita, Gerald, and I stumbling along behind him.
Alex stands at the opposite end of the cable car on the ride down, and is nowhere to be seen as we fight our way through the crowds in the car park. I’m just silently debating whether I should ask the tour guide to wait for him or just leave him here when I see him through the bus window, coming towards us at a quick jog. He climbs the bus stairs, then throws himself into the seat next to me just as we pull away.
“What happened to you?” I ask, curiously. “You were right behind us when we got off the cable car, then you disappeared.”
“Had to use the bathroom,” he replies shortly. Then he pulls out his phone and spends the journey back down the mountain, tapping away at it as usual, while determinedly ignoring all of my attempts at conversation.
“Look, I’m sorry if we annoyed you back there,” I say, as the bus finally reaches sea level again and starts winding its way through the busy streets which line the coast. “With the singing, I mean. I’m guessing you’re not much of a birthday personora wedding person, are you?”
Or a people person, for that matter.
“It’s fine,” he says shortly. “Forget about it. That’s whatI’mtrying to do. And I’m not annoyed.”
“Okay, well, was it what I said about the photo, then?” I go on, feeling brave. “Because I’m sorry about that, too. I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t a good photo, because it was. It was just strange seeing myself through someone else’s eyes, is all. I don’t know why.”
“It’s not the photo,” he says, lowering his guide book and looking at me over the top of it. “I am curious why it got you so rattled, though. Itwas just a photo. Was it the ‘carrots shining in the sun’ thing? Is that it?”
“I’m notrattled,” I counter. “Not really. I guess I’m just not used to seeing photos of myself, other than selfies. No one’s ever really wanted to take my photo before. I’m the Ugly Friend. No one takes photos of the Ugly Friend.”
“The Ugly Friend?”
This time he actually removes the sunglasses altogether, as if he thinks he’ll see me more clearly without them. “Who told you that?”
“No onetoldme it,” I reply, wishing I hadn’t started down this rather self-pitying line of conversation. The last thing I want is to give him even more ammunition to add to his ‘Summer is weird’ arsenal. “It’s just something I’ve always known.”
“You think you’re ugly?”
Alex’s expression is confused — although that might just be the effect of the bruise on his eye, which is starting to turn yellow around the edges.
“No, not exactly. I don’t think I’mugly. But, well, I’m pale and ginger, and everyone at school called me ‘spam head’, so…”
Alex’s eyes flick instantly up to my forehead, and I move on quickly.
“Look, I’m not saying I’mugly,” I go on. “That’s just an in-joke I have with my best mate, Chloe. She’sgorgeous,you see. I’m just average.Everyone’s a bit ugly next to Chloe.”
“Do you have a photo of her, then, this Chloe?” says Gerald, his head appearing over the top of our seats, like a Jack-in-the-Box, before vanishing again just as suddenly, as Rita pulls him sharply out of view.
“Is this the same Chloe who has the flat feet and thick glasses?” asks Alex. “ThatChloe?”
“She doesn’t have flat feetnow, obviously,” I reply. “Or glasses, for that matter. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of thosethings, obviously — she did totally rock them. But, no, she had her eyes lasered. She’s a beauty therapist now.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s beautiful,” says Alex matter-of-factly. “And even if she is, it doesn’t mean you’re ugly. Because you’re not, just FYI. You’re not even remotely ugly, Summer. You’re not even ‘just average’, either.”
My eyes widen in surprise as I try to figure out what to say to this… is it a compliment? Because I feel like it was possibly supposed to be a compliment, but he didn’tsayit like it was, so now I’m confused.
“I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I manage at last, fiddling with the strap of my bag and hoping my cheeks haven’t turned as red as they feel. “No, it definitely is.”
