He leans back, looking skyward. “Yes, I believe you.”
“Good. Because no one else does. You heard about the Year Seven assembly?”
He nods. “I heard.”
It happened the same day I told Mr Morris I was putting my A levels on hold. I was heading down the corridor, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor, because everywhere I looked reminded me of El: El chasing a squealing Gemma out of biology, an imaginary frog cupped in his hand; El joshing with the footie lads, messing up Ollie’s perfectly waxed hair; El and me, out of sight in the little alcove under the stairs, brushing fingertips.
Passing the main hall, a familiar voice drew my gaze from the floor and through the glass doors. The same police officer who had interviewed me at the hospital was standing at the podium, lecturing Year Sevens about bike safety. He was sweating, like pushing the clicker on his PowerPoint was such hard work. I threw open the doors and started stalking towards him.
“Hey, Shit-for-Brains!” I called out. “Any chance you could fit in a murder investigation between cycle safety and doughnut hour? Yeah, that’s right, my boyfriend’s still dead, in case you were wondering.”
Mr Denman tried to get in my way. I elbowed him aside and he made this surprised, ragged grunt. I feel bad about that. It’s pretty obvious his arm’s never going to be the same after that car hit him over the Christmas break, and I’ve got a sick feeling that exact weak spot was where I shoved him. Right then, however, I didn’t give Denman a second thought. Instead, I went toe-to-toe with PC Asshat. He said something gently threatening and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Why’re you touching me?” I said. “All I’m doing is asking a question.”
He told me, very quietly and firmly, that there was no evidence of another person at the scene of the accident, then advised me to leave before I was arrested. I called him a lying bastard and headed for the door.
“Not my finest hour,” I mutter to Mike.
“Oh, I don’t know. Pretty standard for one of the Twat Brothers, I’d say.”
“You see, the policedothink it’s survivor’s guilt,” I continue. “But, Mike, I swear, I relive that night every minute of every day, and Iknowthere was someone else. So that means El must have had enemies. Someone who would leave him to die. Except who could ever hate him that much?”
Mike shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
I look over to the chapel. People are starting to file out into the watery spring daylight, chatting, sharing a joke, folding service cards into their pockets.
“There’s something else too,” I say. “I think that whatever scared El at the dance is connected to his disappearing act at Christmas. Remember I told you how strange that whole week was? Well, something about his fear at the dance reminded me of how he was back in December. It was like—”
Suddenly Mike stands up, his gaze flitting along the avenue.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, joining him.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing. It was just for a minute I thought I saw someone standing there, watching us.” Then he loops an arm around my shoulder and we start back towards the chapel. “It’s going be all right, Dylan,” he tells me. “I swear it will.”
I’m nesting in my usual corner in Hug-A-Book, hiding behind my copy ofThe French Revolution 1789-1799, eating Starbursts and daydreaming about the boy who sits across from me in history. It’s been almost three weeks since the bonfire, and I can’t get him out of my head. Okay, so I’ve had crushes before –High School Musical-era Zac Efron, early-Wolverine Hugh Jackman, and some real-life studs too, like Alex Dayus, who was in Year Eleven when we were in Year Nine – but this Ellis kid is different. Whenever the bell rings and he packs up his stuff and heads off for a lesson I won’t be in, it just kind of kills me.
Arrrggghhhhhhhh!Why am I so bloody shy? It’s not like he hasn’t given me opportunities to talk to him. Even that first night, he was flirting with me. I think. I’m not exactly a world expert on flirting. I rock back in my favourite squidgy Hug-A-Book chair and replay the bonfire in my mind, occasionally tenting theThe French Revolutionover my jeans. Yeah, I am honestly that ridiculous…
“So, students of Ferrivale, who’s going to be first to sign my petition?”
He’s wearing this amazing sand-coloured coat that reaches down to his ankles, like those duster jackets cowboys wore in old movies. The skinniest of skinny jeans, a purple T-shirt withCookin’picked out in diamantés, and black leather boots complete the outfit. A string of pearls around his neck runs red in the bonfire that has just ignited behind us, and his smooth skin seems to hold the light. His smile is kind and gently mocking at the same time.
He doesn’t ask permission but hands us each a petition sheet and a ballpoint. I notice he gives everyone a sentence or two and they grin, as if he only has words for them. This kid’s a born politician.
He stops in front of me. And I think he pauses longer with me than anyone else. Or am I delusional? All I know is my mouth is like a desert, and I’m gawping.
“Well,” says the boy in the pearls, “will you help a brother out?”
I have this awkward liberal-white-guy moment. Does he mean “brother” in a black brotherhood kind of way, in which case it would be totally inappropriate for me to respond. Or… My mouth is now a desert on Mars. Does heknow?Just by looking at me, does he have this ultra-sensitive gaydar that can penetrate the civilian disguise of the most lame-brained, straight-acting, doofussy gay guy and identify him as a “brother” just by looking at him? My brain is jellifying and I keep glancing up from the petition to find him looking at me with this crooked sideways smile.
I sign and hand back the petition.
“Thank you, Frecks,” he says.
Then he touches me. Or not quite. The pads of his fingers hover over the bridge of freckles that span my nose, and it’s like electricity moving across my face. I smell the sweetness of his fingers. Starburst. My junk food connoisseur senses would know that smell anywhere. He likes Starburst. I file that fact away for future reference.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m, uh, Dylan.”
