“Eighteen,” Mum corrects him. “His birthday was just before Christmas, remember? Really, Christopher.”
“Okay, okay,” Chris mutters. “My point is, Ellis was his first boyfriend, so of course he thinks the world’s coming to an end. Remember when I split up with Vicki Clarkson? I cried my eyes out for a whole afternoon.”
“You were thirteen and Vicki didn’t die in front of you,” Mum says. My heart thaws for her a little.
“Right, but what I’m saying is, your first love is always this really melodramatic thing. And what with Dylan being the way he is…well, of course he’s gonna make a song and dance out of it.”
“Chris, I really think you should show more understanding. And I don’t know what you mean by ‘Dylan being the way he is’.”
“Imean,” Chris persists, “that Dylan has always made a big deal out of things. I’m not saying he does it because he’s gay, he’s just that way inclined. And anyway…”
“What?”
“Well…it could be a phase.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Just hear me out. Ellis was a good kid, I’m not saying he wasn’t. But did you ever notice Dylan being…you know, beforeheturned up?”
“Dylan is a very intelligent young man,” Mum counters. “He knows his own mind.”
“Mum, come on. Dylan’s always been a follower. Bloody hell, he couldn’t even walk through the centre of town a few months ago because it made him antsy. People like that need strong figures to latch onto. Look, I’m just saying, if El had been a tightrope walker then Dylan would have joined the freaking circus. So of course he’s gonna be acting a bit mental right now, but I honestly think he’ll come round. As soon as the memory of Ellis fades a bit, we’ll get the old Dylan back.”
My heart is pounding. I want to go in there and smash the bastard’s head right through the marble tabletop. There’s a pause, and then Mum says:
“You couldbe right. Even if Dylan is gay, or maybe bi, Ellis wasn’t good for him. Your father said so that day at the Berringtons’ barbecue. Now, Dad’s got this new intern at his firm, a boy from the community college, but really nice, andhe’sgay. But you’d never know it. Not like… Well. Anyway. Maybe we could introduce him to Dyls one day and…”
I slam the front door loud enough so they know I’ve heard. Yeah, it’s childish but it’s important they get the message: first, I wouldn’t trust Numbnuts Chris to psychoanalyse the teddy bear he still sleeps with. Second, Mum: I. Am.Gay. Jesus, I’ve been gay ever since I first started paddling around in your womb, and I’ve known it ever since a two-page spread of a shirtless Hal Jordan (aka Green Lantern) gave me my first ever boner. And Dad? No, I do not want to meet your straight-acting twink intern.
So do you get it now, El? Do you understand why I wasn’t jumping for joy at my parents’ reaction that night? Because I know just how far their tolerance goes.
I’m halfway down the drive, heading I don’t know where, when the postman calls my name. Letter for me. If it’s another bunch of cards from Gemma and the LGBTQ safe-space guys, I swear… I ask him to leave it with my mum, but then I suddenly noticeURGENTprinted across the top. I’ve never received an urgent letter in my life, and that handwriting, ultra-careful and characterless, makes me stop.
“Second thoughts, I’ll take it.”
I weigh it in my hand. Nothing to it, maybe just a single sheet inside. Perhaps it’s a poison pen letter. I haven’t received any homophobic hate mail since you died, El, but sick minds might bide their time, and maybe Mum has filtered my post without me knowing. I wander over to my bike, hands shaking a little. What if there’s a razor blade inside, or a needle? I’ve read about nasty crap like that.
Pulling my bike from the fence, I angle it so I can rest my bum on the seat. This is ridiculous. I can’t keep staring at the thing like it might be a home-made bomb or a phial of anthrax about to go off in my face. I tear open the flap and pull out the sheet inside.
And my stomach flips.
Jesus, that’s my first stomach somersault in weeks. Because this is fromyou. I know it as soon as I see the distinctive yellow paper, torn from the journal you carried about everywhere. Your “Moodles and Doodles” book. I once asked if I could take a proper look inside and you shook your head: “Everyone needs a secret corner all to themselves, Frecks.”I remember frowning at that:“Even from me?”A pause, a moment to collect your thoughts, then: “Even from you, sweetheart. You’ll have that corner too. It might not be a book, but there’s some place you keep all to yourself and I won’t be there.”
Oh, I have that place now, El. It’s called the world.
I unfold the page like it’s a sacred object. It is. The sun glitters in your pencil strokes, ebony in a yellow sea, and for the first time since I lost you, I feel silent tears. I hold the drawing up so they don’t spoil this beauty. Is that arrogant? Because this picture is me. Dylan McKee, shy and prettier than I could ever really be, peeping out from behind a book. Carefully, oh so carefully, I place a trembling finger along the pencil line of my arm. My skin tingles like I’ve bridged some strange psychic connection across time and space. I’m both there, hiding away in Hug-A-Book, and I’m with you later when you take out your journal and recapture me. With you when you write these words in a circle around me:
Frecks. Dream-haunter. Frecks of the EXTRAORDINARY green eyes and the LOVELIEST smile. Do I haunt your dreams too?
I wipe my eyes ferociously, making sure there are no more tears, then hold the page to my chest. What an idiot I was. I wasted so much time because I thought time didn’t matter. I’m so sorry, El.
After a while I manage to stop looking at the drawing of me and check out the reverse side. Maybe there are more sketches to warm and hurt my heart. There is a drawing here, but it has none of the sweetness of mine. I frown at the page, and all at once I know it wasn’t you who sent this treasure. Of course it wasn’t. Even if you posted it the day you died, it wouldn’t have taken three weeks to arrive.
Gemma Argyle stares back at me. You’ve captured her perfectly, the pouting, preening princess and her other face creeping beneath. She’s dressed in a cloak and hood, something like the Evil Queen’s from Disney’sSnow White. Crooked talons are emerging from her hooped sleeves, twisting in the air as she conjures some dark spell.
Straight away a memory clicks: it’s the Hug-A-Book day, and suddenly I’m thinking about what happened after you left her in the cafe. And I think I know why you might have drawn her like this…
Questions burn inside my head: who sent this and why? A friend, an enemy? How did they even get hold of the drawing? All I know is that we now have something concrete to go on. We were looking for someone who might hate you, El, and with this we could have our first clue. I slide the page carefully back into its envelope, mount my bike, and set off towards Mike’s.
