“Are you in all of Dylan’s classes?” Mum twitters.
“Only history. But Dylan’s a passionate supporter of our football team.”
Before Mum can wonder at my sudden interest in sweaty men running around chasing a bit of thermally-bonded polyurethane, Chris butts in with:
“Youplay footie?”
“Bet your ass, Christopher.”
“Okay.” Chris hands me his beer and goes off to steal a ball from Mike’s little cousins. Cue tears, but Chris is oblivious. “Quick kickabout then, one on one.”
El snatches the ball and sets it dribbling at his feet. “You’re on.”
Chris is wearing shorts and the brand-new pair of Adidas Ultraboost that Mum bought him during a post-Zumba shopping spree. Meanwhile El is in skinny jeans and biker boots. A little crowd, including Ollie Reynolds and the footie lads, form around this clash of the titan and the goon. El doesn’t need the encouragement but a general chant of “El-lis! El-lis!” starts up. I know Mum and Dad keep stealing glances at me but, screw it, I’m grinning anyway.
El annihilates my brother. I mean, justannihilateshim. Chris keeps trying to take the ball from him, even attempting sly shin-kicks and blatant shirt-holding, which provokes boos from the lads, but El coasts serenely above it all. I remember thinking once how his fingers dance, actuallydance, when he’s sketching. It’s the same with his feet. He manoeuvres the ball like it’s a part of him, waltzing it above and below and around his adversary’s clumsy lunges. In the end, Chris doesn’t get in a single touch and El exits the field of combat to rapturous applause. Most people would now bow out gracefully, but my brother is the King of Cockwombles.
“So you should know,” he pants, as he and El rejoin us, “Mum and Dad are big supporters of your lot.”
“Oh yes?” El takes a sniff under his collar, though I can’t see a bead of sweat on his brow.
“Yep. Big gayers, my parents. Civil partnerships, queer marriage, the whole thing.”
El sweeps my folks with a beautiful smile. “That’s awesome of you, Mr and Mrs McKee.”
“Well,” my dad blusters, “it’s only right that we should grant the privileges we enjoy to those who choose a different path.”
“Choose?” El rolls the word around. “Okay.”
“Anyway,” I say, “we really ought to check in on Mike.”
“Charmed,” El calls over his shoulder as I march him off. I don’t even care that I’m holding his elbow, it has to be done.
“Babe, I love you,” I say, “and I know they’re awful, but that was just…I don’t even know what that was. I think you’ve managed to piss off my entire family in five minutes flat.”
“Do you think so? I thought they liked me.”
“Yeah,” I inform him, “but you live in Ellis World, where everyone wears novelty Ellis ears and thinks all your rides are cool.”
We find Mike sitting on a deckchair, surrounded by unopened presents, shaking his head and smiling at us.
“Dudes, you know you’re getting pretty obvious, right?”
I snatch my hand away from my boyfriend’s elbow. El pouts. Whatever. It’s time to focus on Mike. My best friend looks pretty well, considering. His cheeks are a bit pinched and his clothes are sort of baggy, but when you’re puking up your guts every couple of weeks, that’s bound to happen. We sit on the grass either side of him, like lackeys to an emperor.
“Presents?” I suggest.
“Presents!” He grins.
While I rummage in the pile around him, El tries to direct me, even though he has no idea where I dumped my gifts. I snap back at him and Mike laughs.
“You guys are becoming old-couple-cute.”
“Bingo!” I say, lifting three parcels and plonking them in Mike’s lap. “This one first.”
Mike’s fumbling is too slow for El, who decides to help, and after a manic flurry Mike holds up a rainbow-coloured mini umbrella attached to a headband.
“Okay, I know you hate hats,” I tell him, “but you’re getting a bit thin on top and it’ll be summer soon. So…”
