Ollie Reynolds marches up to us, fist-bumping Mike. I don’t dislike Ollie, but right at that moment I picture him strapped to a chair, the helpless victim of Slaughter Master, this comic-book villain Mike and I made up in primary school. Denzel Dreyfuss, aka Slaughter Master, is a mild-mannered candyfloss seller by day, but at night he captures superheroes in his sticky pink webs and tortures them in all kinds of inventive ways: pulling fingernails out, branding with hot irons, taking selfies with stupid candyfloss moustaches. Ollie would get the full treatment.
“Oh, hey, Dylan,” he says, noticing me at last. “Now listen, Mike, I know you’re captain and everything, but I have to be honest, you are starting to suck out there. I mean,majorlysuck. You barely made it through the first fifteen minutes this afternoon.”
Mike shoots me a glance and, in another firework flare, I notice how exhausted he looks. There are these deep purple bruises under his eyes. Shit. What is going on with him? I need to get him alone, and I’m about to make up some excuse so we can take a walk, when Gemma and half the committee girls roll up. We all give her the compliments she’s clearly expecting and she smiles and loops her arm through Ollie’s. I had no idea they were dating. Weirdly, Ollie looks surprised too.
“So what are we all discussing, as if I can’t guess!”
“It’s a really amazing night, Gemma,” one of her handmaidens trills.
“Not that.” Gemma shoots her the stink-eye. “I mean our new arrival.”
Ollie grins. “Yeah, he made quite an impression at training today.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about. Some new kid? Big deal. I just want to go somewhere I can talk privately to Mike.
“He’s a little… Well, don’t get me wrong, I am in no way prejudiced,” says Ollie.
“You’d better not be,” Gemma puts in. “As head of the LGBTQ safe-space group, I will not tolerate intolerance in our school.”
I drag my gaze back to Gemma.
“Right.” Ollie nods. “But don’t you think people can take it a bit far? I mean, turning up like that to practice, and then expecting Mr Highfield to let him on the team? Come on!”
“The question should be, was he any good?” Gemma says.
“Well, I really liked him.” Mike shrugs. “And hewasgood. You can’t deny it, Ollie, he placed that corner like a pro. I don’t care if he was wearing pearls.”
“Pearls?” I say.
“No one in our team could’ve taken that corner as sweetly, and you know it,” Mike continues. “I argued with Highfield after the game. It’s a disgrace Ellis wasn’t selected.”
Ellis?He wears pearls to footie try-outs?I have to know this kid.
Ollie holds up his hands. “I’m with you, but what you gonna do? You know Highfield. He’s a pig-headed old bastard. He won’t back down.”
“Oh, please, that bitch is going to back down all right. Trust me.”
It’s a sweet, strong, musical voice. Our little huddle turns and there’s this kid standing behind us, tall and smiling and beautiful and just…overwhelming. I take a sidestep behind Mike, not because I’m scared or shy – something about this guy tells me he’d never want to inspire those emotions – but because I want a moment just to take him in. While I’m watching, he waves about a hundred sheets of paper in the air.
“So, students of Ferrivale, who’s going to be first to sign my petition?”
Mumzilla’s brake lights flash in the rain like two angry eyes. I blink, sneeze, and swipe the downpour from my face with the sleeve of my jacket. Carol Berrington gets out of the car just a second or two after Mike bursts from the passenger door. I stand stock-still and watch him splash his way up the gleaming lane. He’s moving fast, no stumble, and for the first time in almost a month I feel my heart beat in a way that isn’t just mechanical. When Mike reaches me his breathing is strong and steady and the bruises under his eyes seem to have faded a little. I want to smile, but don’t. Even for Mike, a smile would be a betrayal.
“Jesus, Dylan, you’re drenched!”
I look down at myself. My black school shoes feel squelchy and my funeral suit is starting to bobble.
“Yeah.” I squint up at him. “I am a bit.”
Carol reaches us and draws up short, hands on her hips as she takes me in.
“Oh, honey, what were you thinking?” She shakes her head, but not in the condescending way that has recently earned my parents a pretty spectacularFuck you!Behind the rain I can see her eyes fill with tears. “Michael,” she says gently, “get him into the car.”
Mike puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me to the grumbling Volkswagen estate. Exhaust fumes coil, smoky and dragonish around my ankles. I want to kick the fumes away but that would be crazy, and I’m trying my best not to show the crazy today.
So I’ve learned recently that I’m a pretty good actor. I performed my heart out to our GP anyway, and he never once saw through me. He just gave me a bottle of diaze-something and told me to come back if I ever felt like lying down in front of a train. For that whole seven-minute appointment, I kept everything beautifully under control. I did this by imagining I was standing in front of a huge computer workstation, like Homer’s inThe Simpsons.If I sensed a danger signal, I’d vent a little toxic gas and the dials would flick back into the green.
Did I learn this from you, El? The ability to keep everything running smoothly while underneath all you want to do is scream and shout and tear down the world? Were you at your own safety station that night of the dance, adjusting your switches and dials? You were so scared…
