She looks up at me and a smile flickers at the corners of her mouth.
“You’re right, I hated him that day. I gave him this amazing opportunity and he threw it back in my face, just to go mincing after you. Do you know how many kids wouldkillto be my friend? But he treated my offer like it was cheap. Nothing.” The leader of the LGBTQ safe-space group grins at me. “He humiliated me, that pretty boy faggot. So yeah, I trashed his shitty little car. But if you’re asking, did I follow you to the lake that night? Did I just stand there and watch Ellis drown?”
She draws back into her chair and shakes her head. Although she hasn’t cried, her mascara is swimming down her face.
“No, Dylan, I didn’t. Whatever you think, I’m not that twisted.” She runs her fingers through her hair, scraping her scalp. “You know what I really think? I think that people like Ellis will always be vulnerable, just because they won’t play the silly games that everyone else plays – to fit in, to be popular, to feel wanted. They’re too brave for that. Too fucking brave to be anything less than what they are. I’m not sure that helps you, but it’s all I know.”
She reaches out for the drawing, turns it over and sees my picture on the reverse, and for a horrible minute I think she’s going to tear it to pieces. But she folds it carefully and hands it back to me.
“He was too much Ellis Bell. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
We say goodbye to Ollie and head back to Mike’s.
“What was his deal tonight?” I wonder.
Mike shrugs. “I don’t know. Nice of him to stand up for you like that though.”
“I guess.”
“So do you think she was telling the truth? That she had nothing to do with it?”
I let the question hang for a moment, replaying the scene over in my head. “I do,” I say at last. “Look, I wouldn’t trust her to take care of the family gerbil, but I also believe that she genuinely organized the Easter dance in your honour because she thought it was a nice thing to do. Don’t get me wrong, she did it for the social kudos too. But I don’t think she’s evil enough to let someone die. So you know what this means?”
Mike slips on his baseball cap and grimaces. “That whoever’s got the journal doesn’t actually know who rescued you.”
“Right. But they knowsomething.”
We part ways at Mike’s house. I’ve done my duty – sworn in secret to Mumzilla – and walked him home. When he mounts the front step and gives me a wave, I feel this lump lurch into my throat and stick there.
Death has taken you, El, and all the way along Mike’s driveway it’s as if I can see you walking with him, your hand swinging close to his.
A fresh breeze smarts my face as I come out of the forest and skirt around Hunter’s Lake. I’ve always loved this place. Mike and I used to camp out in the woods with Mumzilla and Big Mike when we were kids. Snug in our two-man teepee, we’d wait until we heard his parents’ snores from the neighbouring tent, then we’d sit up in our sleeping bags, turn on our torches, and scare ourselves stupid with the story of the lake ghost. They say a girl drowned here once, but on a day like this, with the midwinter sun icing the waters, it’s hard to believe that anything terrible could ever happen here.
Okay, I admit my good mood isn’t just because of the lake and the sharp piney smell of Christmas on the air. I’ve decided that today’s the day. I’m going to tell him. El doesn’t know that today’s special for more than one reason – why should he? – but when his text came through this morning, it was the best birthday present I’d ever received.
Frecks, this is I, Ellis Maximillian Bell, and I am ready to repay my debt. Any chance you could come over to mine? Flat 123 (I know, ridiculous) Mount Pleasant, the Estate, yadda yadda. I am putting the kettle on…NOW! xxx
PS: bring Starbursts.
So it isn’t exactly Shakespeare’s 18th sonnet, but it’ll do.
My parents are taking Chris to London for the weekend: a Spurs game and he needs some new clothes, Mum says. They tried to include me, it being my birthday and everything. (Mum: “Maybe we could pop into the Imperial War Museum.” Chris: “Again?!”) But I’d already made up my mind that five weeks since the bonfire, and two since the library, is long enough. I can’t keep retreating from him.
Because that’s what I’ve been doing. I know, it’s mad. What clearer signals do I need than that moment on the floor of the library, his finger tracing my bottom lip? And I’ve seen loads of El over the past few weeks. In history, where I used to drink in the lives of the long-dead, now I can barely memorize a date. Instead I spend the lessons staring at those long black lashes, watching the flex and tone of those forearms with their paint splatters and their magical tattoos. Actually, me watching him is getting embarrassing, but El’s like the aurora borealis or the Grand Canyon, you can’tnotlook. It isn’t just history either. Cute Mr Denman, who I definitely would be lusting over if El didn’t completely eclipse him, has caught me more than once wandering around the art block at break time, studying a certain student’s sculptures and canvases.
It doesn’t stop there. Mike has never known me to be so supportive of the footie team. Now, come rain or shine, I can be found sitting on the touchline, cheering the Ferrivale Falcons. If Mike isn’t suspicious by now then I fear his chosen career as a CID detective is not looking promising. Anyway, every time El scores I seem to get my own personal goal celebration. He waddles over, sort of like a duck, and pats my head. The boys find it hysterical, but they don’t see the wink he gives me when he has his back to them.
Most afternoons find us in the comics section of the Ferrivale library. We’ve become a bit of a fixture; Mrs Jackson even brings us hot chocolate. Mostly we sit and read, or El reads and I steal glimpses at him from behind my comic. We talk about lots of stupid, unimportant junk: favourite movies, TV shows, his art, my love of history and comics, my (according to him) appalling diet. Whenever his endless teasing (“Why are your freckles so freckly, Frecks? Have you had them tested for their pure orgasmic properties?”)threatens to plunge us into sex territory (sex territory?Jesus, Dylan!), I make my usual bumbling retreat.
But no more.
No. More.
Maybeno more?
Arrrrggghhhhhhhhh!!!!Because what if his teasingis just teasing? I could be about to make a serious tit of myself…
Stop it.Carpe diem,Dylan. Seize the day by the balls.
