“I don’t believe you.”
“What?” It’s my turn to feel, and no doubt, look confounded.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he says, and again I think he’s talking to himself. “I heard what you said about me.”
“What I said about you? When? What did I say about you?”
“At the Leavers’ Ball,” he blurts, and then turns away again, like that cost him something.
I think back to that night. My memories are hazy, not as clearcut as the ones moulded out of shame and embarrassment. “I remember telling you how good you looked, in your suit. Which now, makes a lot more sense.”
Dion’s mouth twitches and I wonder if it was attempting a smile. He wins over his lips though as he continues to glare at me. “You don’t remember,” he says, his tone laced with defeat. “Forget it.”
“No, tell me!” I step so close I can smell him again. It’s still the same spiced eucalyptus scent, like early winter and yet somehow I can still detect the sweetness of late summer peaches, when I inhale deeply enough.
“I…I don’t want to,” he says and because I’m so close, he has to tilt his head up to look at me. I like this perspective of him, the way his chin lifts and his eyes look bigger than ever.
“Then what do you want to do?” I ask, breathless.
“What doyouwant to do, Benji?” he challenges back.
My eyes dip to his lips. They’re plump and parted and so perfect.
“Right now, I want to kiss you,” I tell him. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for fifteen years.”
SIXTEEN
BENJI
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO - JULY
Miles is being a dick.Again.
He said we’d all come to this thing alone. No girls. No dates. Just us boys. He said we’d all stick together — no hooking up, no pulling — but we’ve not even been here an hour and he’s already chatting up Lisa Walsh in the corner. Not that I wanted him to chat me up. That ship has long sailed. I just don’t like how he made us all agree to something that he’s not adhering to himself.
Fine. Maybe,maybeI wanted him to lust after me for a change. For him to show even a slither of regret that we ended the way we ended. Just so I could shove it back in his face, not so I could indulge it.
Not that I had a better offer for Leaver’s Ball. Not after D— turned me down.
My eyes drift once more to where she’s standing in a cluster with Raquelle and a handful of other Art and English Lit students. The alternative kids, I guess somebody would call them. And yeah, they do dress alternatively and Idon’t always know the music they listen to, or understand the references they make and most of their jokes fly over my head, but not one of them is as cool as D—. Not one of them carries themselves with the same innate confidence, self-assuredness and presence that D— has. I feel somewhat qualified to say this after I’ve spent the last six months looking at her far too closely.
That’s why I had to tell her how good she looked. I know I will move on from this pathetic schoolboy crush as soon as I leave for university, but I just couldn’t not tell her how much that suit, well, suited her. It embodies her confidence and her ‘fuck you’ attitude that others may think is rude, but I suspect comes from a different source, one more fragile and vulnerable. It hurts me more than I’ve admitted to myself that I’ll never find out what exactly the reason is that D— keeps her distance from people. But I will get over it. If I can move past Miles and his sloppy kisses and secret trysts, I know I can get over a girl I haven’t even held hands with.
At least, I think I can. But now, as I watch D— cross the sports hall and disappear down the corridor that leads to changing rooms and toilets, I don’t know if I’ll ever forget her summer peaches smell that was just now mixed with a new muskier, earthier smell, her too infrequent smiles and those big brown eyes that I swear have hypnotic powers.
“What are you looking at?” Miles bumps into me as he appears at my side. I can smell vodka on his breath and it turns my stomach. “Raquelle? I wouldn’t bother with her.”
“What’s your problem with her?” I turn to question him. “Why were you such a twat to her and then act like it was all her fault that she got sad when you rejected her, again and again and again?”
Miles’ head pulls back in shock for a second but then hequickly adjusts his body language so it’s all drunken idiot once more. He leans closer to my ear and his breath is warm on my cheek, and not in a pleasant way. “Is this because you got sad when I rejected you?”
“Fuck you, Miles,” I say and push him away. I’m about to go find myself a drink but then a far too familiar clench of my stomach has me stopping in my tracks. I bring a hand to my belly and rub there, like that will soothe away the stabbing aches and angry gurgling that’s already started. Fuck, I’m hardly getting any warning these days.
I should have told Maman about it, I think as I race for the toilets. I should have told her about the blood and the pain and the way I get a temperature and cold sweats when it happens. But she would have worried. She would have made me stop playing footie. She would have taken me to a doctor and I just wanted to focus on my exams and football. I just wanted to get them all done so I could then talk to her. And yet, it’s been nearly a month since my last exam and I still haven’t said anything.
As I clutch my stomach tighter, the pain like a vice on my organs in the lower right corner of my torso, I know exactly why I haven’t told her yet. Because I’m scared. I’m terrified. The pain is so much. The diarrhoea is like nothing else. And I know I’ve lost a lot of weight this year and it’s not because I’m still growing.
The disabled toilet isn’t the closest one, but it is my preferred option. I’ve long been going in there when I know I’m going to be stuck on the toilet seat for a while, and I like the way I don’t have to risk seeing any of the football lads when I emerge from a cubicle. I can take my time. I can groan in pain if I need to. I can just focus on what I need to do. I know it’s not very ethical of me, using a disabled toilet,but honestly how I feel right now, I would classify myself as pretty disabled.
