“Please no,” I groan. “Don’t tell me you watched it!”
Mike chuckles like an old man. “Honestly? No. You guys aresonot my type.”
“Aw, c’mon. If you had to choose between me and Gemma Argyle?”
“If that was the choice?” he muses. “I guess in thoseveryspecific circumstances, you might just get lucky.”
“I’m honoured,” I laugh. “Bitch.”
“Bumboy.”
New nicknames, nothing nasty in them, coined around Christmas when I told him. He was the first to know, except for El, of course. He came out to me so I came out to him, quid pro quo:I have leukaemia;I’m gay. We hugged each other fierce under twinkly fairy lights.
“I tried calling. Sent you a couple of messages,” he says.
“Yeah, I turned off my phone after the millionthI’d get that mole on your butt checked outtext. Anyway, none of that matters. How are you doing, Mike?”
“We’ll get to my woes in a minute, Dylan.” He lets out a big breath. “So I guess you’ve had one fucked-up day. Do you know who posted it?”
“Not a clue. But El’s determined to find out.”
“I can’t even imagine why anyone would do something like that,” Mike mutters. “But I’m with El all the way. Wewillfind out who it was, Dylan, I promise.”
I smile despite myself. The two most important people in my life are El and Mike. They make me feel safe and wanted, and that’s no small thing.
“I called your house,” Mike goes on. “Your mum told me you’d gone to the dance. Dude, seriously? The actual Ferrivale High Easter Dance? You know I love El, but sometimes I think he’s a bad influence on you, undoing all my years of hard work. Remember what we used to call that thing?”
“The Dipshits Ball,” I laugh. “Yeah, and it’s every bit as dipshitty as we imagined. There are these great big shiny turds hanging from the ceiling, and the gym’s so pink it’s like they sealed all the doors and gunned down a herd of flamingos. Seriously, Mike, did you know they’ve stuck a giant picture of you on the wall?”
He groans. “Yeah, one of the three witches sent me a screenshot, complete with hearts and crying emojis.”
“Mate, they’ve photoshopped the crap out of you. It looks like someone’s set fire to your farts and you’re basking in the afterglow.”
“It looks like I’m dead,” he chuckles.
He meant it as a joke, but all I can do is stare at my hand, and yeah, I know it’s ridiculous, but I swear I can see our two little hands held tight together. Mike and Dylan, walking buddies, trotting along in our supervised line from junior school to the council swimming pool. Mike and Dylan, karaoke buds, hand-in-hand at Tamsin Carlisle’s fourteenth birthday party, belting out “I Got You Babe” and holding up our phones like lighters. Mike and Dylan, last Christmas, holding hands, coming out in our different ways.
“So do your family know?” Mike breaks into my thoughts. “How’d they take it?”
“Good.” I nod though he can’t see me. “Yeah. They were okay with it.”
“Really?”
He lets it hang. Thing is, I sometimes forget Mike has known my folks for almost as long as I have.
“Uh huh.”
“That’s great then…” he says. “If you’re sure?”
“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”
“Dylan. It’s me.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “So I guess Chris could’ve been a bit more vocal. I basically got a headlock and my skull knuckled, but as it’s a miracle he ever learned to speak in the first place, I suppose that wasn’t a bad reaction. And Mum and Dad? Pretty much how you’d expect.”
“And they’re cool with El?”
“How are you, Mike?” I blurt out.
