Less than a minute later we’re screeching into the school car park. El’s almost five months older than me and handles his Nissan with the air of a racing driver. He’s even taken the “Unteachable Twonk” (yours truly) out for a few jittery lessons. In my defence, he’s not exactly the most conscientious teacher. I still have no clue how to parallel park or even change gear smoothly, but he’s done his utmost to pass on the über-important skills of handbrake turns and burning rubber. Among other things. I think back to our first driving lesson in the empty car park of the old MegaDeal supermarket at the edge of town, and a delicious heat prickles my cheeks. I learned a few things that night, none of them in the Highway Code.
El hurtles us through the gate and aces a ninety-degree handbrake turn before parking in front of Miss Harper, Grand High Dementor of the geography department. She gives him the kind of look that could suck the soul from a muggle at fifty paces. Then she sees who it is, and smiles like someone’s just offered her a hamper full of kittens. I’m not sure whether she’d choose to pet them or eat them, but still.
“Looking fox-haaaay, Miss H!” El kind of dances around her as we pass, and she giggles. Actually giggles. Jeeze. “You’ve done something with your hair.Fssssst!Hot as.”
The fevered rat’s nest atop Miss Harper’s head has been a fixture ever since my arrival at Ferrivale High seven years ago. It probably predates even those long-ago days and has its roots way back in the dim and distant mists of her supervillain origin story.
We don’t have tickets but such formalities are for mere mortals. Approaching the doors to the gymnasium, El beams a gigawatt grin that sets Katie Linton, Suzie Ford and the rest of the Easter Dance organizing committee swooning. Even Gemma Argyle gives him an indulgent smile. I roll my eyes as they usher us through. Jesus, are they just not getting the subtle signals El sends out? The ones that murmur, oh so softly,GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY!
The bass hits us as we push through the swing doors. The usual stale funk of the gym is complemented tonight by some painfully perky pop. Ellis probably knows the name of the band, the members’ ages and star signs, their favourite junk food and any scandalous rumours doing the rounds. I, meanwhile, have the musical tastes of a great-grandfather and anything post-80s Madonna might as well be ancient Sumerian as far as I’m concerned. Despite knowing this, and that I have all the co-ordination of a freshly ejected baby giraffe, El grabs the collar of my black T-shirt – always black, saves the headache of fashion – and drags me through the crowd.
“Ellis, what the hell?” I seethe into the back of his neck.
“Stop it,” he laughs, swatting my breath away, “tickles.”
“I’ll do more than tickle in a minute!”
He plunges us onto the sparsely populated dance floor, planting his hands on my hips, turning me to face him, drawing me close.
“Promise?”
And screw Ellis freaking Bell and his freaking gorgeous grin.
My stomach flips again.
Okay, Dylan, this is it. No going back. The closet door is firmly barred behind you, chained and bolted. No re-entry, no refunds. It’s gay all the way from here on out.I’m guessing that at least fifty per cent of my classmates have now seen me doing the naked fandango with a guy anyway, so I can’t pretend Catwoman does it for me any more, no matter how much she kicks ass. My heart feels light and fluttery, hardly there at all, but El’s hands are strong and sure on my hips. I don’t look around; I keep my eyes fixed on his.
Deep breath.
Here goes.
It’s time to see what Ferrivale High makes of the new (improved?) Dylan McKee.
“You are, aren’t you?” I whisper into his neck. “You are trying to kill me.”
“Relax,” he whispers back. “And know that, if you try to run, Iwilltrip you.”
The whole thing’s happening so fast that I sort of forget to be petrified. Here we are at school, and I’m out, and El hasn’t given me a moment to be scared. I suddenly realize this has been his plan all along. It’s the last day before the Easter holidays. If he hadn’t insisted on coming to the dance, storming us inside before I could catch my breath, I’d have had the whole break to worry myself stupid. This way, at least we’ll get it over with. And so, yeah, I’ve got to hand it to my boyfriend: he is sort of a genius.
We dance on. Strobe lights from the disco heliograph across El’s trademark pearls, picking them out in greens and blues and yellows. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without them. Those pearls are El’s insistent, glorious flourish; his little wave to the world that says he is who he is, like it or not. They are also freaking cool! I love his pearls. I love his long graceful neck and the dark pixelation of stubble around his jaw and his sharp cheekbones and his sleek black curls and his strong hands in the small of my back and…
Him. I love him.
I love you, Ellis.
I love him so much that my fear vanishes. They know, all of them. Even if they didn’t get to see the video on Instagram before the mods took it down this morning, it will have been downloaded and shared a hundred times by now. When the internet has got hold of your left nipple, a little of your right butt cheek, and your face screwed up in what is either full-on ecstasy or chronic constipation, it will never let you go.
But we dance, and I watch the faces that know go by, and I just don’t care.
“Kill me now,” I say, and don’t mean it at all.
“Why would I kill you?” he murmurs. “I’ve only just found you.”
The rhythm changes, the tempo ramps up, and he pushes us very gently apart. He’s still dancing, but whatever I’ve been doing – it can’t by any definition known to the human race be called “dancing” – stops. I just sort of stand there, swaying.
“What do you mean?” I mouth back. I can hear him perfectly but feel I have to mime because I’m now so lost against the music. “You found me ages ago. Last November. The bonfire. A Diet Pepsi and the school band and Alistair Pardue flat on his arse. Remember?”
“I’ll always remember. But I really found you tonight, Frecks.”
