I don’t want to watch it again, but I can’t help it. I thumb the screen and the blurry, disjointed game-changer leaps into life. The cleft of a buttock, a grasping hand, lips meeting flesh, a sweeping glimpse of pubic hair, our faces pressed together, and my voice, tinny and mortifying.
It wasn’t our first time, El, not even close, but it was the time you told me that we would always be together.
I stop the clip and shove the phone into my pocket just as the changing-room door bursts open. Footie lads swarm in, tearing off shirts, laughing and ribbing each other. I push through the crowd, my face burning, fists clenched. Someone tries to catch my arm.
“Hey! Dylan! Man, are you back? It’s good to see you, bro.”
I shrug him off and shoulder my way to the door.
So now we know the identity of our pervy porno guy. Only the bastard who frightened you at the dance and whoever abandoned you at the lake left to unmask. And whoever’s posting the journal pages to me, of course. Could that be Ollie too? I’ve considered this before, back when I found Ollie’s flowers down by the lake, and just like then, the idea doesn’t seem to fit. But why, out of all our suspects, do I keep forgetting the journal-sender? Maybe because the others feel like enemies while he/she/they seems to want to help us. Some shy individual who can’t come forward and just hand me the diary, perhaps because they’re embarrassed they took it in the first place. Except why don’t they just post the whole bloody thing? It all seems so random and clumsy somehow.
Anyway, time to confront Ollie Reynolds. Right now, I honestly have no idea why he’s done this thing – my brain’s too scrambled to even begin to guess – but one way or another, I’m going to find out.
I bang out of a side door and start across the field. Up ahead, only Ollie and Mike remain on the touchline, Mike running his hand repeatedly under his baseball cap while Ollie scoops footballs into a net bag. The wind’s picked up since this morning and I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but Mike is a picture of pure agitation.
An unwanted memory hits me as I stalk towards them. The “Guy for the Guys” Bullshit Bonfire; me, Mike, Ollie, Gemma and the rest of the committee witches all huddled around that huge unlit stack. Those were the last moments of the BE era. That’s how I divide up my life now: Before Ellis and Anno Ellis. It’s monumentally unfair, how these portions of my existence are divided: seventeen years of BE, six months of AE. But who knows? Maybe there is a gay-friendly afterlife where we can add immortal years to AE’s tally; a kind of endless LGBTQ safe space designed just for us.
Ollie is just straightening up when I reach them.
“Oh. Hi, Dylan,” he says, his grin shaky. “You hanging with Mike today? That was some effed-up shit at Gemma’s party, I’m sorry you had to go through that. She can be insanely vicious sometimes. Probably why I had to call it a day with her.”
“Probably?” I smile back at him. “You mean you’re not sure?”
He grabs the net of balls and shrugs. He’s about to head back towards the school when Mike, stony-faced, blocks his way. Ollie laughs, then stops. His gaze flicks between us.
“Guys? What is this?”
I don’t say anything, just take his little movie camera from my pocket and wave it in front of him. He drops the net and footballs scatter as he makes a grab for the phone.
“How’d you get that? Give it back.”
Mike blocks him again. I don’t know whether Ollie can’t bring himself to wrestle a cancer patient or if Mike’s whole attitude is intimidating him; it’s definitely starting to scare me.
“Hey, come on, this isn’t funny. What the hell are you trying to prove anyway? Mike? C’mon, man, we’re buds. Whatever you think you know, I just—”
I’ve heard enough. It makes me sick to do it, but I thumb the screen and my voice cuts across the field. Mike doesn’t turn to look. His gaze is laser-focused on Ollie, who stands as if he’s just been condemned to the gallows. He wets his lips, tries to speak. Can’t. Tears brim but he has the sense not to let them fall in front of us. And I think I could forgive him, he looks so miserable, but then he ruins it with a coward’s smile.
“I just copied it off the internet. Honestly, I don’t know why I did it, but everyone was just going on and on about the vid and…I’m sorry, Dylan. I guess I forgot to delete it.”
“You’re a shitty liar,” I tell him. “I checked the properties on the file. This was created the day before the video of me and El hit Instagram. It’s the original.”
My hands tighten into fists. I’ve never hit anyone in my life, never even been in a playground fight, but right now I want to hurt Ollie Reynolds. I lunge forward, and suddenly a blur erupts in front of me and Mike is going to work.
Ollie staggers backwards at the first blow, tripping over the loose footballs. He almost regains his balance but then Mike punches him again and this time Ollie hits the deck. At first I can’t seem to move. I just stand and stare as Mike presses his advantage. I don’t care what happens now. In fact, I’m enjoying the show.
And then I hear you, stern in my head:Stop it, Frecks. Stop it before it goes too far.You’re right, El. This isn’t like how you schooled Alistair Pardue at the bonfire – that single, smart, prove-a-point punch. This is manic and I love Mike too much to let him do this, both to Ollie and to himself. It takes all my strength but I manage to scoop Mike under the arms and drag him away.
We all take a minute. Mike and I standing together, breathing hard, Ollie on the ground, bleeding, shaking. After a while I go over to him and help him to his feet. He wipes his nose on his bare arm and stares at the blood.
“Is it broken?”
He shakes his head. He’s hurt but he seems to accept the hurt.
“Ollie…” I close my eyes then open them and stare at him. “What the hell?”
He looks at us with such a face. I don’t know. Even Mike has to turn away.
“I liked him,” he sobs. “I liked him, that’s all.”
