“Don’t even think about it,” I tell him. “Charity or no charity, it’s not happening.”
He shrugs with a smile that doesn’t look forced. Not that I wanted him to be upset.
“It says here it’s a quid for everyone.” Raquelle points at a shoddily made sign that lies flat on the table.
“Ah, well, I’ll give you two kisses for a pound.” He winks at her, and I swear the jam sandwich I had before I left lurches up to my throat.
“Fine.” She throws a pound in the old ice cream tub in front of them and grabs a fistful of Miles’ jacket. She hauls him around the side of the table and then wraps her arms around his neck. Their lips meet, and I look away. I don’t actually want to vomit in public
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter.
“You’re not selling anything?” Ben asks, and I’m actually grateful for him giving me a new focus even if it is a conversation with him.
“Nah,” I say. “I didn’t have time to get anything ready.”
It’s true. Between all the extra hours I’ve poured into my art coursework, on top of my French homework and reading for English Lit, plus everything I do at home — making dinners, doing laundry, helping Dad with physical and occupational therapy — there was no way I would have had time to make some paintings to sell, although I did think about it. I thought about it more than I would ever admit.
“Shame,” he says, and I notice he has turned his body away from where Miles and Raquelle are still going to town on each other’s tonsils. “I was hoping to have a D— Ravel original. It will be worth something one day.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “Are you taking the piss?”
He looks horrified. “No, of course not, no. I’m serious. I think you’re talented and?—”
“I’m still not kissing you,” I interrupt. I am uncomfortable accepting fake-ass compliments from the best of people, and I’m certainly not going to take them from Ben Smith.
I expect my comment to silence him and it does, but a smirk of a smile on his face surprises me. “What about if it’s free?”
And suddenly I’m the one rendered speechless. Is Ben Smithflirtingwith me? Does Ben Smith like me? Does he think I like him?
Not that I do. Sure, I have started to think he’s handsome in a skinny-white-boy kind of way, and his blue eyes seem to snag more of my attention than I’d like whenever he fixes them on me, but he’s Ben Smith. Football-playing, tracksuit-wearing, enjoying-an-easy-ride-in-French Ben Smith.
“Never gonna happen,” I tell him. And possibly also myself.
SEVEN
BENJI
NOW
“Oh God, I’m sorry.”I wipe my face with my hands.
“Wait,” Dion says loudly, as he reaches for my arm and brings it away from my face. “Just wait. Let me cover this first.”
Oh, shit, I’m fucking up even more. Maybe tears are toxic to tattoos or something. I don’t know. I’m clueless and I’m an idiot and I couldn’t make it through this short appointment without crying. I sniff and use my other hand to wipe away the tears. But it’s ineffective. And my nose is starting to run, so I lift my T-shirt and use that to wipe under my nose, but then I see Dion’s confused face and I realise I’ve revealed my colostomy bag.
Quickly dropping my T-shirt and rearranging it like that will make the bag disappear, I give up — on recovering, on being less embarrassed, maybe on life itself — and I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
“I’m really sorry,” I say eventually when the silence istoo much and Dion isn’t wrapping my tattoo like he said he would.
“Why are you sorry?” He surprises me by asking. His tone is hard-edged, but the words, they give me pause.
“Well, I’m…I’m just a bit of a mess.” I open my eyes.
“So what?” he says with a very unbothered shrug and then gets to work covering my new tattoo in a sheer thin wrap that he tells me I need to keep on for 24 hours. He talks and moves like my emotional outburst didn’t just happen and I didn’t just reveal my shit bag to him.
“I didn’t want to get so emotional,” I tell him when he’s finished and pulling off his gloves. “It’s just been a hard few weeks. Well, months. Years, really.”
I stop talking because a fresh batch of tears is locked and loaded behind my eyes.
