“Augustus!”
Mrs Brighton was in front of me, her hand flushed against my forehead as she worried at her lip. Auden hovered behind her, his eyes darting in between me and the housekeeper who was reaching for a bottle of water to splash over my face.
“You got yourself a fever,” she said, shaking her head. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unwell? Let’s get you inside, sweet boy.”
Confused, weak, and shivering, I leaned on Mrs Brighton as she guided me inside the house, gently lowering me onto a sofa with blankets and a cup of warm tea.
It took me several minutes to realise what had happened in the maze hadn’t happened at all. I had hallucinated it, from the very beginning.
Auden sat beside me under the blanket, his head resting on my upper arm. He was fine. He must have had a fright, though, when he saw me shivering and calling his name.
“Get some sleep, Guses,” he whispered gently.
When I looked at him to give him a small smile, I could have sworn I saw a mushroom in his hair.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Friendship with Ava McTavish was laughing until we couldn’t breathe, paint fights, and finding new and inventive ways of getting out of PE. Ava used her period cramps several times a month to avoid the torturous exercise, and because Mr McCallum didn’t want to know more about her monthly cycle, he never questioned it. I, on the other hand, wore a bandage around my wrist to feign a fracture. Unfortunately, Mr McCallum pointed out that I could still use my legs, and Ava would laugh from the benches as I fumbled through games of dodgeball and cricket.
It was late nights sharing memes, early mornings debating whether an education was worth waking up before the sun, and weekends spent browsing art supplies and bookstores. One night, she’d convinced me to attend my first ever concert and I was terrified. The Devil insisted on listing every single thing that could go wrong, and as the mosh pit crowded around me, the music blasting from the speakers and fluorescent lights dancing across my vision, I was seconds away from a panic attack. Ava reached for my hand, squeezed gently, and pushed people awaywhen they got too close. I was safe with her, building up the courage to jump up and down alongside her when our favourite song came on.
Our friendship was bedroom doors wide open when we visited each other’s houses because Ava was yet to announce she exclusively liked girls, and her parents did not trust that I wasn't lusting over their daughter.
We went from year seven to year eight, year nine to year ten. And then to year eleven, enduring dating rumours because of how inseparable we were whilst everyone else around us built steady relationships unlike the week-long relationships of previous years.
Although Ava had many friends, I only had her. I grew attached, perhaps more than I should have. Not a crush, though everyone seemed to think so. It was more—fear, jealousy. I only had Ava, and if she decided she liked her other friends more than me, I would be alone, and I was terrified of losing her. But things were good. Ava and I were two sides of the same coin.
And then came Eden.
We met her during an art gallery exhibition hosted by the school’s visual arts department. It was a small event, though there were more people than I had anticipated.
Ava and I stood by our artworks watching people walk past, seemingly uninterested.
“This is so humiliating,” Ava mumbled.
“It’s because everyone is just here for their own kid’s work,” I told her.
“I hope mum and dad get here soon,” she sighed, adjusting her canvas so it hung straight on the wall behind her. It was a self-portrait, face decorated with meaningful scenes from her childhood and early teenage years. There were moments with her parents swinging her in between their arms, moments playing board games with her cousins, and even a scene withme from last summer when we went to South End’s Adventure Island. It was beautiful. Truly. Though a competitive side of me still wanted to take first place.
“Is your aunt coming?” she asked, fiddling with the gold chain around her neck as she looked around for her parents.
“No. She’s in Rome.”
“Rome? God, wasn’t she in Florence just last week?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What a rich bitch.”
I snorted.
Moments later, her parents arrived. They were so proud, snapping several photos of Ava in front of her artwork. She complained when they fussed over her, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.
“Oh, Augustus, come, come! Let me take a photo of you both together!” her mother said, ushering me to stand with Ava in front of her work.
“Let me get one of you in front of your work too, sweetie!” her mother added, ushering me the other way toward my canvas.
My artwork was inspired by Shirley Jackson’sWe Have Always Lived in the Castle; an old, gothic mansion with a black gate at the entrance, dark greenery devouring the cobbled pathway toward the front steps. Inside the house was a young girl standing by the window, a solemn expression darkening her features as she stared right into the eyes of whoever beheld the painting. Behind her, an ominous shadow loomed, misting around her as though tightening its grasp.
