Charlie scowled and looked like he wanted to be a dick right back, but he didn’t. He said nothing and went back to his work, and the silence stung. Leo could handle a row, or a punch up, but the guilt in his gut at hurting Charlie’s feelings bothered him more than he cared to admit.
“Where does ‘de Sousa’ come from? Is it Spanish or something?”
For a long moment, Leo feared Charlie wouldn’t answer, then he set his pencil down and picked up another. “It’s Brazilian,” he said. “I was born in São Paulo.”
“São Paulo?”
“Yup. Got dumped in an orphanage when I was a baby.”
Wow. Leo had figured Fliss and Charlie had to have come from shitty backgrounds to end up in foster care, but he’d imagined something closer to home. “Do you remember it?”
Charlie finally looked Leo’s way. “Nope. My first memory is drawing on my bedroom wall with one of Kate’s lipsticks.”
The art teacher cut off Leo’s reply by tapping Leo’s closed sketchbook. “Make a start please, Mr. Hendry. I want to see an outline by the end of the lesson.” Leo glanced up, irritated. The teacher smiled and held out a pencil. “Come on. If I don’t see some lines, I’ll have to find you a seat at the front.”
At the front? Stuff that too. Leo liked people where he could see them. He opened the book and considered the view through the window. Neither option Charlie had mentioned seemed worth a punt, and Leo hadn’t put a pencil to paper in . . . shit, he couldn’t even remember. Not that he’d ever been particularly good at it.
Why the hell did I take art again?
He had no idea. Choosing his GCSE options at the end of year nine seemed so long ago—
Charlie nudged him. “Just draw something, will you? You’ll be in enough trouble as it is, if Mrs. Parkin reports you.”
“What do you care?”
“Fine. I don’t care. Do what you want and end up a loser like Wayne bloody Murphy.”
“Who?”
“Enough.” The art teacher had come back. “Charlie, set a good example, please. I expect better of you.”
The reprimand went over Leo’s head, but Charlie frowned, clearly rattled. He hunched over his work, blocking Leo, and didn’t speak again for the rest of the lesson.
Leo entertained himself by sketching the waist-length French plait of the girl in front of him. When that was done, he slumped forward on the table, pillowed his head on his good arm, and took in his classmates—the girls first, all nine of them. A blonde across the room shot him a shy smile. Leo rolled his eyes and looked away. Attention from girls came easy. Shame he didn’t want it.
He turned his consideration to the boys—just four in total, minus Charlie—two blonds, a redhead, and a boy with such short hair it was hard to tell the colour. None of them held Leo’s interest. Not like Charlie.
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.
His leg was so close, Leo felt his body heat everywhere, and considered what it would feel like for real, if their legs actually touched, even with the barrier of their school trousers.
Fuck.
Leo sat up and forced himself to shift away from Charlie. Across the room, the blonde girl was glancing his way again, except she wasn’t looking at Leo, she was looking at Charlie, and Charlie was grinning right back. An odd pain flared in Leo’s veins. He’d never seen Charlie smile like that, eyes shining, teeth pure white against his tanned skin. Why hadn’t he seen Charlie smile like that?
’Cause you’ve only known him a week, douche bag.
The bell rang for the end of the lesson. The classroom burst into life, stools scraping the floor, bags hitting the benches. Leo stretched his good arm over his head. Despite his preoccupation with Charlie’s smile, he’d half dozed off. He stuffed his sketchbook into his bag and watched Charlie do the same with a little more care. “What lesson do you have next?”
Charlie shot Leo a surprised glance. “Double maths with Mr. Rogers. Same as you.”
“How do you know what lesson I have?”
“Reg asked the school to give me your timetable, in case you got lost or forgot—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Leo got the picture. Bloody Reg. He’d been like a rash since Leo had puked on his shoes in the doctor’s surgery. Like half carrying him to the car and putting him to bed had meant something. It hadn’t, save the fact that Leo was too much of a pussy to face his own skin. “I’m not going to get lost.”
“Whatever.” Charlie fished a packet of chewing gum out of his bag and handed them to Leo. “If you’re gonna smoke on the way home, use these. Mum can smell fags a mile off.”
