In the park, the high sun lays glitter on the damp grass. I spread my jacket on the ground and sit down. Isaac’s on his way. He’s stopped to buy coffees. I look at my trembling hands and shake them out. Makes no difference. I’ve been uber-tense all day. A jack-in-the-box-wound-up-tight-stressed-out spring about to explode or suffer an aneurism or burst out of my skin. Exams, Finn, Isaac… Unless I chill out my eyes may pop out in cartoon fashion. After I got home last night, all my thoughts began to tangle themselves into knots. At the gallery with Isaac, I’d felt like I was standing still, like the ride had finally stopped. But away from him, the world began to spin again.
Suddenly the sky turns dark. “You’re in my light,” I say.
Isaac hands me an extra-sugary latte. “Here you go. The Carla Special: clogs your arteries with one sip.” He sits down beside me and nudges my shoulder with his.
I sip my strong, sweet coffee. “Just because you’re on a health drive doesn’t mean we all have to conform.”
I notice his black Converse, mostly hidden by his dark jeans, navy T-shirt, plain and old, with a patch of murky white on the collar.
“Did you used to bleach your hair?”
“Finn’s idea of a joke. He bleached my fringe when I was sleeping. It looked supremely awful. Like a human cockatoo.”
“Ha. That’s classic. Gold.”
“Well, blond, technically…”
I feel the softness of his midnight-black hair as I stroke it with my eyes. It’s never sticky with product. Stubble creeps evenly across his face. And then I think: Fuck, why am I staring at Isaac?
Over his shoulder, I see a group of figures heading towards us like a herd of livestock, moving as one. “Do you know them?” I ask.
Isaac stretches out on the grass, casual and unconcerned. “They look vaguely familiar, but no.”
I sip my latte and flick through the pages of his current book, Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. The herd edges closer, definitely on course to trample us. Pretending to read, I watch them approach. Then we are under a cold blanket of shadow, looking up at them.
Six lads circle us, no longer cattle but hunting dogs. Wolves.
“You selling weed?” a guy with big brown eyes and cropped hair asks, his skin pale pink like an uncooked sausage.
“Nah, mate,” Isaac answers.
“Come on. Course you are.”
“I said no. I don’t have any.”
“Not what I heard.” The boy grabs Isaac’s collar, yanking him upwards.
Panic rises in my throat, hot and suffocating. I sit upright, scanning the group. I do recognize them. They’re in Year 11. Not menacing individually, but as a group…
“Thing is, mate, we fancy a smoke. And a reliable source tells me you’re the guy.”
Wrong brother. But for some reason neither of us can get the words out.
Isaac stands up, tall and unflinching. “I don’t want to fight you. You’ll have to look elsewhere,” he insists.
“We’ll take your wallet then.” The pale-skinned guy looks at the others, communicating a secret command with his eyes. He moves close to Isaac, nose to nose.
Instantly, the boy flicks his leg behind Isaac as if dancing an Argentine Tango, hooks Isaac’s legs and pulls. Isaac falls backwards.
“Shit!” he cries. “Bastard.”
Back on his feet, Isaac grabs his attacker’s collar, sending them both falling to the ground. The boy rips at Isaac’s hair, his clothes. Stop it, stop it! In a flash, they’re all on him, thrashing, scuffling for his back pocket. I don’t know what to do! What can I do?
A boy with dirty-looking stubble and a bad haircut pins Isaac’s arms back. Isaac whips his head around and gnashes his teeth at the boy like a hungry dog. Twisting his body at the hips, he kicks at the twelve grappling hands and twelve stamping feet, but under a mass of muscle and flailing limbs, he’s like the ball in a rugby scrum.
“Stop it!” I yell. “Get off him!”
With supernatural strength surprising even me, I grab the ringleader by the waist and yank him backwards. The boy gasps like I’ve given him the Heimlich and releases Isaac, a few strands of Isaac’s hair left in his palm. I suppress a wave of nausea.
Isaac lies on the ground, bruised and bloody-nosed. He could have beaten the shit out of one of them, but six? No chance.
The boy edges towards me, brow down, eyes narrowed. I stand frozen momentarily, a deer in headlights. I turn to run but he catches my arm, digging his nails into my wrist. My arm is almost wrenched from its socket and I shriek with pain. At this, Isaac is roused and jerks upright.
The boy squares up to me and pulls his fist back like a catapult. We stand motionless, staring at each other.
“If you touch her I’ll pull your balls through your mouth,” Isaac spits.
The others go to pin Isaac to the ground, but despite the battering, he’s too quick. He lunges between the leader and me, getting a chinful of fist. He drops to his knees. I catch him as he falls backwards.
“You should’ve just given me your wallet,” the ringleader says.
Isaac scrambles to his feet and grabs him by the collar and crotch. The boy howls while his mates look on, wincing.
“I suggest you shut up if you plan on having children any time in the future. And if you so much as breathe in her direction, you’ll be sucking food through a straw for the rest of your miserable little life,” Isaac’s voice thunders. Wow, I think. Where did he come from?
“Aaaarrggh, all right.”
Isaac releases him. The boy crumples like a Coke can crushed underfoot.
I hook Isaac under the arms and pull him upright.
“Tossers,” he mumbles under his breath, wiping his bloody nose with the murky patch on his collar.
We stagger to the park toilets, ignoring gawping passers-by. He rests against the vile green concrete wall while I go into the ladies and grab a handful of damp pink toilet paper. Ugh.
“Here,” I say, tilting his head upwards, “for your nose.”
“Thanks.”
I go and run some more paper under the tap. The water’s Arctic cold. Back with Isaac, I dab the wet tissue under his eye. He recoils, grimacing.
“It’s not that bad,” I say, trying to be positive. “Are you OK?”
“Just a scratch. Surface wounds.”
“They’ve scratched you all over; we’d better win the jackpot.” I check him top to toe. “Nope, two bells and a cherry. Not our day.”
“How’s your arm?”
“Bit sore. Nothing to worry about,” I say. “You knew they wanted Finn.”
“Yeah. But he’s my brother,” Isaac says.
He stumbles, then steadies himself, holding my shoulder and leaning in. Not on purpose, but still, he’s here. Close enough to…
My pulse quickens. Magnets depolarize and I want to pull him so close…
Thump, thump, thump…
I’m scared. Not ready.
Thump, thump, thump…
I try to look away but I’m drawn into his eyes, falling, falling, falling into the abyss… But … he has the same dark eyes, Finn’s eyes… I can’t do this.
The moment passes and all I’m left with is disappointment pinching at my stomach.