Head down all the way, I end up at Ferrivale Library. My own personal Fortress of Solitude. Mrs Jackson says “hi” as I pass the issues desk. She’s around fifty, just about the nicest person you could meet, and has this titanic bosom that holds a particular fascination for Mike. I don’t think he actually fancies Mrs J, it’s more a sort of scientific aerodynamic interest. Anyway, I’m pretty sure my favourite librarian knows I’m gay. She’s like the most discreet person ever, but every so often her book suggestions give her away. Don’t get me wrong, Adam Silvera is an amazing writer, but Mrs J needs to subtle up her hints. Once she gave me the Tom Daley autobiography, the one with Daley on the cover, snug in his budgie smugglers, because, and I quote, “I know you like diving, dear.” Honestly, I have never once discussed diving with her.
I start in the history section, subconsciously hunting for something that might annoy Mr Morris by confirming he’s right about me being unfocused. We’re not studying anything about nineteenth century American inventors, so I grab a biography of Thomas Edison. Next, I head intoGraphic Novels. I still call them “comics”, because it’s a grown-up word in its own right, goddamn it. I’m just taking down a bound omnibus edition ofThe Walking Deadwhen a hand snakes through the shelf and grabs my wrist. Because I’m already thinkingzombies, I yelp, and someone on the other side of the shelf giggles.
My stomach flips. It’s a weird, fluttery, fairground kind of sensation.
“Sorry, Frecks, I couldn’t resist.”
Immediately, my mouth’s back building sandcastles on planet Mars. El saunters around the corner and plants his elbow on the bookshelf, chin in his hand.
“I like your ultra-secret, strictly-restricted special place,” he tells me. “I had to give the lady at the desk a weird handshake just to get in.”
He looks me up and down, and I’m not sure if he’s amused or annoyed.
“Where’s Gemma?” I ask.
“Do you care?”
“Um. No.”
“Hey, Frecks?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I have another Starburst?”
“Oh. Okay.”
I drop my bag and fish in my jacket pocket. Then I realize it’s my old jacket with the hole in the pocket and the sweets have fallen into the lining.
“Just a minute.”
I dig my hand deeper, almost up to the elbow, but the bloody things keep slipping between my fingers and sliding further around the back, so now it looks like I’m a vet with my arm halfway up a cow’s anus. Ellis’s nonchalant expression cracks. Yeah, yeah, it’s freaking hilarious. In the end I drag out my hand and shrug.
“No,” I tell him, “I’m sorry, but you can’t have a Starburst.”
He’s now practically on the floor in hysterics. Between giggles, he holds out a hand to me, palm up, as if in surrender. I want to put my palm against his. I want to twine my fingers through his. I actually lift my hand, and I’m going to do it. My heart is raging. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I step forward and he grabs my sleeve and pulls me down to the floor with him.
I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly I’m lying on my back and he’s on all fours, his arms planted either side of my head. His face is centimetres from mine and he’s hiccupping with laughter. I’m laughing too, but quietly, because it’s the library and I’m Dylan. It takes hours (seconds really, but time’s elastic in moments like this) for him to stop laughing and just settle into a smile. Down in the children’s section I can hear a librarian reading aloud to the little kids: “Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?”
Yes, I think.Yes, please. I’d like to join the dance now.
El catches his bottom lip between his teeth and touches me. It’s like at the bonfire, but different too. Not the shock of electricity this time but a slow, wonderfully excruciating warmth. Three fingers, tracing my freckles and my jaw and my cheek. I take a shuddery breath. The whites of his eyes aresowhite, his skinsoflawless, and yet he seems fascinated withmyface, with my blemishes and imperfections. It’s crazy.
“Do you mind?” he asks, his little finger edging closer to my mouth.
I shake my head, though I have no idea what he means.
Gently, very gently, he traces my lips with his fingertip.
And I’m lost. The library, Ferrivale, all of it, falls away from me. And then suddenly an old man shouts something random and clumps towards our half-hidden section. Panicked, I snake my way between Ellis’s arms and drag myself onto a small reading couch. I can’t stand up. Not yet. El, still on all fours, gives me this wolfish grin and crawls over to the couch, sliding into the seat next to mine just as the Grinch rounds the bend. He glares at us for a second.
Ellis, who’s picked up a volume ofHellboy,gives him the arched eyebrow treatment.
“Do you mind, sir? This is an ultra-secret restricted area. Isn’t that right, Frecks?”
“That’s correct.” I nod to the geezer. “Super-restricted.”
The old guy looks at us like we might be deviants. If we are, I don’t care. Anyway, he grunts and trundles off. I laugh and bury my head in El’s shoulder. I don’t even think about how easy that feels until later.
