“Um. Because I’m seventeen?”
“Oh.” It takes a moment to compute. “Right. Sorry, love. Laundry?”
An hour later, I’m sitting on a stool in our stupidly immense kitchen spooning chilli into my mouth and checking my watch. I’m going to be late. I get up, throw my dish in the sink, and start towards the door.
“So this bonfire jamboree thing sounds exciting!” Mum calls after me.
“It’s not a jamboree.” I frown. “I don’t know what a jamboree is exactly, but this isn’t one.”
“Will there be any girls there?” She smiles like she thinks there’s some food stuck in her teeth and she wants me to check.
“I think that’s very likely,” I say.
She pouts. “When will you get a girlfriend, Dylan?”
“When he grows pubes,” says Chris, then glances around like he’s the reincarnation of Oscar Wilde. My dad doesn’t look up from his laptop and Mum ignores him, for once. “You should just get yourself out there,” Chris advises. “I’ve started dating this total babe called Hannah. Bit out of your league, bro, but—”
“Don’t make your brother feel inadequate,” Mum scolds.
“It will be a cold afternoon in waster hell when that twat makes me feel inadequate.”
I flash them a grin and head for the door. I think Chris is probably still working out the insult. Anyway, I can’t hear the rumble of a heavy primate advancing on all fours, so he’s not following me.
There’s a pinch in the air as I cycle down my drive onto Denvers Row. Already I can smell that smoky autumn bite, and above the trees and rooftops the sky glows here and there with the orange thumbmark of bonfires. It takes less than ten minutes to reach the football pitch, where I screech to a halt, turning a few heads in the queue for the entrance. Their vaguely hostile gaze makes me nervous as I wheel my bike to the stands.
I hate the idea of queueing up without Mike, but maybe he’s already inside. I try his mobile. No answer. Crap. Taking a deep breath, I shuffle forward. Some people I don’t know pile in behind me and, lost among them, my nerves finally start to settle. Being at the end of a queue always makes me feel horribly exposed.
Up ahead, I can see Gemma and the committee girls taking money and handing out tickets. Bloody Gemma Argyle. I was even thinking of discreetly checking out the LGBTQ safe-space group before she added it to her fiefdom.
“Hello there.” She frowns at me as I reach the head of the line. “I want to say…David.”
“You can say David,” I tell her. “That is your right. But my name’s Dylan.”
“Ofcourseit is,” she beams, as if my first name had been her idea all along. “Are you alone tonight, Dylan?”
“Seems so.”
“Oh, but you are just the mostterribledate! Disowning me the first chance you get? Two tickets please.”
I smile up at Mike as he elbows me aside and hands over a few quid to Gemma.
And so, the “Guy for the Guys” Bullshit Bonfire… It hurts my Gemma-loathing heart to admit it, but the committee has done a pretty good job. We wander around the field, grinning at the spectacles. Terrifying Miss Harper is behind a shooting gallery, snagging any passers-by with a hooked stick and basically bullying the cash out of their pockets. Mr Robarts is doing a roaring trade standing in the stocks while eager students pay fortunes to pelt him with wet sponges. Under a string of fairground lights, Mr Denman, the obscenely young new art teacher, is also raking it in drawing caricatures. Just about every girl in our year waits in line. Denman gives us a wave as we pass. He’s pretty cool, and, if I’m honest, the subject of quite a few daydreams.
“Well.” Mike grimaces as we reach the huge unlit bonfire at the centre of the field. “This kind ofdoesn’tsuck.”
“I know. Maybe our school isn’t the lamest place in the cosmos.”
“Well, let’s not go crazy.”
Mike’s laugh hasn’t changed since Year Six. It’s still a bit high and jittery and totally doesn’t go with his footballer’s physique. I sort of love that about him.
A random firework goes off from one of the houses neighbouring the school and Mike’s grin is lit in blue and red flashes. I should just tell him. Worst case scenario: I spill my secret, he looks at me like I’m a bit of dog shit on the toe-end of his shoe and walks off, never to talk to me again. That would kill me, of course, but there’s no way it wouldeverhappen. Because he’s Mike, and he’s awesome.
Okay. So I’m telling him.
Here goes.
“Mikey boy! Bro, what was your deal today?”
