Dude, have you seen Instagram? Maybe take a look. Nice ass, BTW
Dylan, my man! Didn’t know you had it in you – but now I see that’s just where you like it!!!
Dear Dyls, I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. Just know, Gemma and Suze and me don’t care at ALL that you’re gay now xxx
Etc. etc…
I almost broke my laptop in the rush to check out what all these well-meaning friends were talking about. I sort of guessed, of course, but even as I clicked the blurry freeze-frame and the video started to play, I was whispering in my head:Please no, please no, please no, please no.And then, as if to mock me, my own voice came through the speakers, tinny and mortifying: “Please, yes. Yes, El, yes!”
So yeah, it’s been a hideous and then strangely glorious day. It excuses nothing.
“Mike,” I breathe. “Oh my God, Mike.”
I pull back from El and weave my way through the spectators who’ve assembled to watch our first public dance. I’m not much good in crowds, but right now it’s easy to ignore the eyes that follow me across the gym. A few of El’s footie mates give me a brotherly pat as I pass. Moving deeper, this seems to become some kind of meme, so that by the time I reach the huge blown-up picture of my best friend, my shoulder is actually aching.
Mike Berrington’s big dopey handsome face grins down at me from the wall. There’s the scar I gave him in nursery school when I accidentally elbowed him into the duck pond – a backward letter S that, inflated, looks like a brand across his chin. I feel El’s hand slip into mine.
“What’s the matter?”
I turn to him, hot tears scalding my eyes.
“Jesus, Ellis, I forgot. It’s his fourth bloody session and I forgot.” I see El’s brow clear as he understands. “It’s chemo day.”
And I’m officially the worst best friend ever.
“Do you like it?” says Gemma Argyle, practically falling into us. She throws out her hand towards the big blown-up picture of Mike.
“What the hell is it supposed to be?” I mutter.
She looks at me as if I’ve just murdered her grandmother. Or worse, asked if I could borrow her Louis Vuitton ballpoint in English.
“The committee decided that this year’s ball will be in honour of our brave, inspiring classmate Michael Berrington. All of tonight’s ticket money will go towards buying Mike something really special, once he’s finished his treatment.”
“Right,” El says, “lovely of you. But what the hell have you done to him?”
He gestures at the golden light that appears to be radiating out of Mike’s head.
“It’s the Easter Dance,” Gemma explains.
“So he’s…” El frowns. “Jesus?”
El has always liked Mike. He rates him highly because, as El puts it, “Mikey’s smart, funny, nice to look at, and completely non-threatening to my love life.” It’s true. On a good day Mike could give Ansel Elgort a run for his money, but I’ve never once fancied him. It would be like lusting after my own brother.
“It’s the season of renewal and new life and resurrection and miracles,” Gemma says pertly. She ignores my groan. “And poor Mike needs all the help he can get.”
Fuuuhhh-uk you!I want to say it, but don’t. I think, deep down, part of all this is genuine and Gemma really does mean well. Anyway, she’s not the villain in all this. I am.
I’m heading for the door when El catches up with me. I hold up my hand, palm out. “Give me a sec, okay?”
He nods, all understanding. “Tell the lazy sod I’ll pop round tomorrow and we’ll watch the match, if he’s up for it.”
I almost smile. Mike and Ellis and football. Ghosts of last autumn and the school bonfire and El’s football petition and the first time I ever planted eyes on this beautiful boy run through my head. I give him a weird double-handed wave and push through the swing doors and out into the car park. It’s cool and quiet outside. The tarmac shines blue-black in the moonlight. Kids are huddled in shadows, smoking, snogging, doing other things. I rest my back against El’s car and bring up my contacts.
While the call connects, I glance up at the school roof: the scene of last night’s surprise picnic, organized by my amazing boyfriend – and where we were secretly filmed mid-canoodle (“canoodle”? Jesus, Dylan!). I’m starting to wonder for the thousandth time who could have done such a thing when Mike picks up.
“Hey, porn star,” he sighs.
He sounds tired. God, he sounds so bloody tired. I suddenly feel cold and almost as frightened as when he first told me his news.
