Me and Mike watch him head back up the incline to where he’s left his car.
“He’s not a bad kid,” Mike says.
“He’s a spectacular moron.” I smile. “But no, he’s okay.”
We don’t discuss our next move, but the psychic link of the Incredible Twat Brothers holds true, and as one we sit cross-legged on the grass and wait. On the far side of the lake the last spears of sunlight are pricking the water. The McKee family ducks are gliding towards a fringe of trees, kid-brother duck a little apart, of course. It’s quiet now. Families are packing up their picnics and heading home. Mike leans into me as I dig a yellow sheet from my pocket and unfold it, holding my image up to the sunset. I don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. This was how you saw me, El, a guardian to watch over you as you slept.
“He was pretty amazing, wasn’t he?” Mike says.
“He was.” I shift a little and put my arm around my best friend. “He said once that Art is a wonderful lie we tell ourselves so we can bear the truth. But El wasn’t right all the time. He saw more truth than anyone I’ve ever known.”
The sun vanishes.
I grab Mike’s hand.
And in the next moment the sky’s ablaze. You’d describe what we’re seeing in a thousand beautiful ways, El, picking out every shade of every changing colour of every firework, and I can kind of hear you anyway, but it’s not the same, because my imaginary El will never be a match for the real thing. So I just lean back on my hands and watch and wonder which fantastic, fabulous flare is yours. I told Julia what we planned and she said she’d be watching from her balcony at Mount Pleasant. I’m sure she’s smiling and crying now as we turn your ashes into a starburst firework, a final roar and crack and dazzle from the boy I loved.
Mike stands and pats my shoulder, giving me a minute as the sky fades to black.
It’s time to move on. Because that’s what you’d want for me. And it’s what I want for myself. But I’ve learned now there are no real goodbyes. I will always keep coming back to you and I will always be thankful for the truths you showed me.
I pick up my empty bag and walk with Mike into the trees.
“So I was talking to Ollie Reynolds,” I say, treating El to a mischievous grin, “and he says that most people think George Ezra is not even the slightest bit cool.”
El throws his head back and takes a huge breath through his nose. His nostrils arch like he’s been caught in the downdraught of one of Mr Robarts’s epic accidental farts. Honestly, our headmaster seriously needs to get his bowels checked out.
“Ollie knows nothing.” El tries to smile but his eyes cut away from me.
“Hey,” I say, waddling forward on my knees. The gravel on the rooftop makes me wince. It still seems an odd place for a picnic, but I guess that’s my boyfriend all over. “Something up?”
He grins and brushes my cheek. “Something’s always up when you’re around, Frecks. Anyway, that philistine Reynolds is wrong. George is achingly cool because I say he is.”
“And you’re what? Her Majesty’s Arbiter of Coolness?”
“Can you think of a better candidate?”
Truly, I can’t, so I shut up.
“Coolness is in the eye of the beholder. George is cool. The calves of the England men’s volleyball team are cool. Dylan McKee isverycool. So sayeth the Arbiter. Now shut up and help me unpack this thing.”
I squat down beside him and we start taking supplies out of this huge wicker hamper. After the fourth suspiciously green package, I rock back onto the tartan blanket.
“Is there anything here that’s notnotheavily processed?”
“Sorry, Frecks, I was catering with the hope that I wouldn’t have to roll you back down the stairs. We aren’t really supposed to be up here, and I’m not sure I can stealthily evacuate you if you’re chomping a burger mid-heart attack.”
“Okay, but quinoa?” I stick out my tongue and El pinches it between his thumb and forefinger. “Wha h’even h’is kwweeen-wuh?”
He releases my tongue and kisses my nose. “Some things must remain a mystery. File quinoa away with the Loch Ness Monster and the popularity of thePirates of the Caribbeanmovies.” El sits cross-legged and prepares me this ridiculously horticultural sandwich, which he stuffs into my mouth before I can protest. I hate to admit it, but it actually tastes pretty good.
“So.” He smiles. “The Easter dance.”
“No way!” I glare at him. Then, in case I haven’t been completely clear: “Nofuckingway.”
El pouts. He loves to dance. I’d love to dance if I danced like him, but I don’t, so I don’t.
“What if…?”
