I stand with Big Mike for a moment behind his pride and joy: a gleaming barbecue of almost impossible size. We chat about my school work, plans for uni, my love life. It quickly becomes apparent that Big Mike does not possess the mind-reading abilities of his better half. Anyway, I’m just telling him about El’s amazing 3D collage project, a replacement for the harpy sculpture he junked just after Christmas, when I see my boyfriend in deep conversation with my parents. My blood freezes.
“Gotta go,” I babble, and launch myself across the terrace.
I take the steps down to the garden three at a time, my gaze never leaving that terrifying huddle of four standing by Mike’s old trampoline. I dodge between Berrington family friends I vaguely know, smiling as best I can, when Gemma Argyle steps into my path.
“Gemma,” I breathe. “Hi.”
“Dylan McKee.” So it seems she’s finally learned my name. She presses a gaudy yellow and pink flier into my hand. “Easter Dance. Couple of weeks’ time. Be there. It’s for a good cause.”
“Oh,” I say, “there’s dancing? Um, yeah, I’m not sure that’s really my scene.”
I don’t tell her that me and Mike have long ago dubbed it the Dipshits Ball. She shrugs in a who-cares-what-your-scene-is-McKee? kind of way and moves on.
I move on too, and a random realization hits me as I reach the huddle. This time last year I’d never have been able to dash through that crowd. I would have walked slowly, murmuring hellos, keeping my head down. I know what’s changed in my life, though I’m not sure how he’s done it. I guess El is just a bona fide miracle worker. But he can also be a monumental pain in the arse. For example:
“What charming pearls, Mrs McKee! I have a set at home just like them.”
I close my eyes, plaster on a grin, and join the party.
“Hey, guys, what’s going on?”
Dad is holding a paper plate bearing a wedge of cheese while Mum sips a small white wine. Lager in hand, Chris is watching El like he’s on safari and has spotted a rare and baffling specimen. El sidles closer to me and I inch marginally away.
“So Ellis here…” My mum seems at a loss. “He’s a friend of yours, Dylan?”
“He’s all our friend,” I say, which sounds horribly ungrammatical. Anyway, I reach onto my tiptoes and knuckle El’s head. “This joker.”
Mum sips, Dad nibbles, Chris slurps.
“Ellis tells us he lives with his aunt on the new estate. Are they nice apartments, Ellis? Gordon thought it was a real boost to the town when the flats were put up, didn’t you, dear?”
“Mount Pleasant is good for the local economy, certainly.” Dad nods. “Just as long as the newcomers try their best to fit in, I think it’s great.”
El smiles. “What exactly does that mean? Fit in?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Dad says, munching his brie between sentences. “Like any community, we have our standards and traditions. It’s up to some of the new tenants on the estate to respect our way of doing things, that’s all. Especially those from other cultures and viewpoints.”
“But what if people like me want to make changes?” El shrugs. “Maybe we’d like our little bit of Ferrivale to reflect our culture too. Instead of us just fitting in with you, perhaps you’d like to fit in with us too? That way, we could all learn something about each other.”
“Yes, Ellis,” my dad says, putting down his fork and casting a condescending eye. “That’s all very idealistic, I’m sure. But, well, you must understand, we were…”
He seems unsure how to finish his sentence, and so El nods.
“You were here first?”
Dad turns scarlet. “No! I didn’t mean that at all!”
“So,” Mum cuts in, “you were saying you live with your aunt? How lovely. And what does she do?”
“El’s aunt manages Bettison’s bakery,” I say. “Sixty hours a week, plus overtime. I don’t know how she does it.”
I dig my nails into my palms. El has shot me this tiny smile but I know how my praise of Julia has come across: as if I’m overcompensating for a failure that doesn’t exist.
“I’ve got a question.” Chris raises his beer like he’s in one of the classes he flunked four years ago. “Have you ever been in a gang, Ellis?”
“I have not,” El says, “but if I ever form one, you can be my first recruit.” He gives my brother a brief up-and-down look. “But I don’t know, Chris, maybe you’re already a member of my gang and you don’t even know it yet.”
Chris follows my dad’s lead, face turning beetroot.
