Hello again, Mr. Harris,
The clocks have changed so it’s getting darker an hour earlier, not that it makes much difference to us because the world’s always black when we talk. I wonder if your meal arrived when the stars were brighter and the moon shone earlier because the guards had put back the clocks. Now I come to think of it, I bet they didn’t even bother. I bet it doesn’t matter to criminals if it’s 3 PM or 5 PM or 7 PM. Probably it doesn’t even matter that it’s a Sunday. If every hour of every day is the same, I guess time just disappears.
Time didn’t disappear when I was grounded after Max’s party last year. September was slow, but October barely moved. After the excitement with the photo, school went back to normal, and in case you’re wondering, I never got to see the back of the recycle bin. I didn’t bump into The Boy with the Brown Eyes, either, and life plodded on for a few weeks with nothing much happening except a lot of bickering from Mum and Dad because he kept coming home late after visiting Grandpa at the hospital. At first Mum would plate up his dinner and leave it in the microwave, but then one evening she chucked it in the trash, and Mr. Harris I reckon that’s a good place for us to begin tonight.
“There’s a can of beans in the cupboard,” Mum said when Dad stared inside the empty microwave, his hands on his hips. He sniffed the air, and I wondered if he could smell the chili con carne we’d eaten earlier and the beef Soph had spilled on the carpet when she’d tried to smuggle a bit to Skull.
Dad got a can opener out of the drawer. “Grandpa’s no better,” he sighed. Mum made no sign that she’d heard him, gazing closely at the laptop screen. Dad poured the beans into a bowl, and I imagined Bizzle plopping out all blue and wet and covered in sauce. I smiled to myself, keen to finish my homework so I could write another chapter of the story. “Good day, then, folks?”
“Average,” Mum muttered.
“Probably better than mine.”
“It’s not a competition, Simon.”
“Didn’t say it was. I’ve just had a right stinker, that’s all. I need to talk to you about it, actually.” He punched some buttons on the microwave, then watched the bowl rotate slowly.
“I’m a little busy at the moment,” Mum said.
“It’s important.”
“So is this.”
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing that would interest you,” she sniffed.
“If that’s what I think it is, you’re wasting your time.”
“No harm in looking,” Mum said, clicking on a page about cochlear implants as the microwave pinged. Dad pulled out the bowl and stuck his finger into the beans.
“How long do you put these in for? They’re still cold.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mum snapped, standing up and making a grab for the bowl. Dad didn’t let go of the other side. “Can’t you do anything for yourself?”
“I didn’t say you had to do it!”
Mum yanked the bowl out of Dad’s hands and flung it back inside the microwave.
“Give us a second, Zo,” Dad said in a low voice. “I need to talk to your mother.”
“I’m working,” I muttered, not looking up from my homework. I tapped a pen between my teeth to show I was thinking hard and not to be disturbed.
“Just five minutes, pet. Please?”
“Leave her, Simon. She’s studying.”
“She can study in her bedroom,” Dad replied. “Go on, Zo.”
In a huff, I picked up my books and disappeared out of the kitchen. Of course, I did what any normal person would do and put a glass against the living room wall, but all I could hear was the blood swirling around my own brain. They were in there for an hour. The next three nights, too. I had no idea what they were talking about, and when Soph stuck a straw underneath the gap in the door to spy, all she could see was a bit of fluff on the carpet.
A week later, things got even stranger. I came back from school to find Dad pacing up and down the hall, loosening his tie. Mum’s bum was sticking out of the shoe closet.
“Where’re you going?” I asked, my stomach clenching. Dad never came home early.
“Out,” Mum said, shoving her feet into a pair of high heels.
“Well, obviously. But where? To see Grandpa?”
“Not likely,” Mum replied, dropping her bag on the hall table next to a pamphlet about Bonfire Night. She put on some lipstick as Dad bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Why are you all dressed up?” I asked.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dad said.
I took off my coat and put it on the banister. “But I am worried about it.”
Mum rubbed her lips together and fiddled with the collar of her blouse. “We’ll explain later. Soph’s on the computer, and Dot’s playing with her dolls. I’ve made some pasta so you can have that if you get hungry.” She paused, looking worried. “Promise you’ll watch your sisters and call me if anything—”
“If I do that, can I go to this tomorrow night?” I interrupted, holding up the pamphlet about the bonfire. Mum read the details. “It’s been two months,” I reminded her. “Everyone at school’s going, and I was only meant to be grounded for—”
“All right,” Mum replied, picking up the keys to the BMW. “But only if you get your homework done. And fix your tie, Simon.”
Dad ignored her, snatching the keys from her hand as he closed the front door.
Mr. Harris, I was convinced they were going to see a lawyer about getting a divorce. I sank onto the stairs, feeling sick. I knew exactly how it was going to be. I’d heard about it from people at school. Dad would rent a flat and eat fish sticks every night and forget to buy washing-up liquid so there wouldn’t be enough clean knives and we’d have to spread butter with the back of a spoon. Mum would put on forty pounds and lie on the sofa in pajamas, watching documentaries about women who used to be men. That was precisely what happened to Lauren’s mum until Lauren said enough is enough and turned off the TV just as Bob’s new breasts were about to be revealed. Her mum was annoyed, but it was a wake-up call, and she lost weight by only eating protein then went on a date in a pair of Lauren’s size-eight jeans.
I stared at my own jeans drying on the radiator. I couldn’t let it happen to my family. I crept into my parents’ bedroom and started going through Mum’s bedside table to find out what was going on. In the top drawer was a jewelry box with a key in the lock. Checking the coast was clear, I turned it, hearing a satisfying click. Inside were bits of baby hair in little plastic bags from me and Soph, tiny prints of our hands and feet, and the wristbands we wore in the hospital when we were born. Dot’s baby stuff must’ve been in another box, but I didn’t try to look for it because my attention had been caught by a letter in a yellowing envelope underneath a bag containing my first baby tooth.
Dad’s handwriting, but faded. I can’t remember exactly what it said, but there was cheesy stuff about Mum’s blond hair feeling like gold silk and her green eyes looking like calm rock pools and her confidence shining like starlight, powerful and sparkling and lighting up all the darkness around her. The mum I knew was worried about parabens and putting red socks in the wash with white T-shirts and making sure we took our vitamins. I felt sort of sad that I never knew this other woman, but I put everything back in the correct place then opened a second drawer.
A whole load of stuff about cochlear implants, printed off the Internet, pages and pages of it, highlighted in pink. Underneath that was a letter from the bank saying something about a remortgage. Remortgage. I’d never heard of the word, but the letter looked official. Feeling as if I was getting somewhere, I forced myself onto Soph’s lap in the study.
“Get off!” she cried. I sat down harder, taking over the computer. “Oh God, Zo, you’re so heavy!”
I found this forum for middle-aged people. TeaCozy7 said she was considering it to pay for a patio. Considering what, though? I searched further. Remortgaging turned out to be a way of releasing money tied up in a house if you wanted funds to buy something big, or if you were having money troubles.
“Money troubles?” Soph asked, peering around my body. “Who’s having money troubles?”
“We are,” I said happily. Well, it was better than divorce.
We got hungry before my parents came home so I heated up the pasta, and we ate it at the kitchen table. When Soph was picking at the bits of olive left on her plate, I stole her phone and sprinted upstairs as she swiped at my heels. Charging into the bathroom, I turned the lock and called Lauren. Soph posted a note under the door saying that I was DEAD in block capitals next to a picture of me with a knife stabbing my brain and a PS that asked if she could borrow a protractor to finish her math homework. Mum and Dad came back while I was chatting in the empty bath, my feet propped up on the gold taps.
“Get down here, Zoe!” Mum shouted.
“So, promise I can come and live with you if we’re made homeless?” I asked Lauren.
“Sure. We’ll start our own business, like a dog-walking business called The Dog’s Bollocks because we’ll be the best at what we do.”
“Zoe!” Mum called again.
“I have to go. See you at the bonfire tomorrow,” I said quickly.
“Give me a bark.”
“I have to go!”
“Only if you bark.”
“Woof.”
Lauren laughed as I ended the call. On the landing, there was a flash of silver as a shiny figure hurtled toward me.
“What are you doing?” I gasped. Dot was dressed head to foot in tinsel.
“I found the Christmas decorations in Mum and Dad’s room.”
I dropped to my knees and signed quickly. “You have to take it off! I was supposed to be looking after you!”
Dot spun on the spot with her arms in the air. “I can’t wait for Christmas,” she signed. “For Santa. Is it true he brings you anything you want?”
“Yes,” I said. “But you have to—”
“Anything in the whole wide world?” she signed, watching me closely.
“Yes. But you have to change.”
Dot pointed at two baubles dangling from her ears. “Do you like my jewelry?”
I gritted my teeth. “I love it. But please go and take it all off. Mum’s home.”
Dot’s eyes widened, and she shot off, running into her room and slamming the door. In the kitchen, I found Mum piling up the dirty plates by the sink.
“Thought you’d leave the washing up for me?”
I rolled up my sleeves. “Sorry.”
“And have you made a start on your homework?”
“Not yet.”
“Zoe!”
“I’ve got all weekend!” I protested, filling the sink with water. “And I’ve only got to answer a few math questions and write an introduction for my English essay.”
“Essay? You didn’t mention that!”
“It’s only the opening paragraph.”
“I didn’t say I was going to rush it,” I muttered, scrubbing tomato and garlic sauce off a plate. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll help you.”
“You don’t need to, Mum. I’ve got all these notes from my teacher. Practically a whole notebook full of them.”
Mum opened the fridge looking for something to eat as I put the clean plate on the draining board. “Well, I’ll check it for you when you’re done. English is important for law.”
“English is important for writing, too,” I said, too quietly for her to hear.
She took some salad out of the fridge and pressed a tomato between her fingers to check it was ripe. “This’ll do. Not very hungry, to be honest.”
“Are you and Dad buying a patio?” I asked suddenly.
“A patio? No. Why do you ask?”
I started on another plate. “No reason.”
The following day was the bonfire, and Mr. Harris I might be wrong, but I don’t think you celebrate Bonfire Night in America so I will explain all about it right now. Four centuries ago, November 5, 1605, to be precise, Guy Fawkes and his friends tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament to kill the king. It was Guy Fawkes’s job to set off the gunpowder in the cellar, but the murder attempt failed, and everyone was so relieved that they lit fires and had parties to celebrate. The ritual stuck. People have been doing it in England ever since. On November 5, everyone makes a model of Guy Fawkes out of old clothes stuffed with newspapers, e.g., The Sun (or The Times, if you want his limbs to be a bit posher), then they toss him into the flames. If you ask me, it’s a bit harsh, people eating toffee apples as Guy Fawkes burns to death for a crime he didn’t even commit, but the night is still fun, with fireworks and sparklers and smoke that stays in your hair for days.
The local one was at a park just outside the city center so imagine open green spaces and bike trails and footpaths and woods and a surging river. The entrance was marked by a large iron gate, and when Dad dropped me off, the air smelled of freedom. Okay, and also hot dogs and smoke and cotton candy, if you want me to be accurate about it, but freedom more than anything else.
The fire burned in the middle of the park, orange and red and shimmering yellow. Crowds migrated toward it, moths to a flame, and I was one of them, stretching my wings for the first time in weeks. Lauren was sitting on a bench, so I did that thing of sneaking up behind her, jabbing her sides, and shouting “boo” as she swore—FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!—just like that, at the top of her voice. The word echoed in all the empty space because there was so much of it, a whole universe, in fact, ready to be explored. I plunked down next to her and we chatted for ages, eating cotton candy as the fire turned the night golden.
All the sugar made me thirsty so I left Lauren to guard the bench and went in search of water. Women selling T-shirts and others selling jewelry and men flogging toys spread out in stalls along the bank of the river. Water gushed and smoke swirled and vendors called out as I looked for a drinks stand. A man with a beard held out a model of a red Ferrari, a.k.a. Dad’s dream car, so I stopped and bought it because he’d been worried about Grandpa.
Handing over some money, I saw The Boy with the Brown Eyes by the glowing edge of the fire. By the way, I know full well I could have built up the tension here, especially as we’ve learned how to do that in English using short sentences and pauses and hints to create suspense. The problem Mr. Harris is this is real life, not fiction, so I wanted to reflect how it actually happened. In real life, things don’t build up nicely to a climax. In actual fact, moments occur out of the blue and there’s no warning, like the time Dad hit a dog.
In a book, no doubt there would have a couple of near misses to foreshadow the event, and maybe even a bark as Dad sped around the corner to hint to the reader that something bad was about to take place. In real life, Dad was driving back from the supermarket and the sun was shining and “Dancing Queen” came on the radio as he went over a speed bump that turned out to be a Labrador. And that’s how it happened at the bonfire. No buildup. No warning. One second I was turning away from the stall, and the next I was facing him, The Boy with the Brown Eyes. Just like that.
“Your car.”
“What?”
The man held out the Ferrari. “Your car.”
I shoved it into my front pocket, never taking my eyes off the boy. He was wearing a T-shirt with white writing on the front, staring into the flames and daydreaming about something no doubt important. I pictured a thought cloud above his brain and me diving headfirst right into the middle of it. I forgot about being thirsty. I forgot about Lauren. Pulse racing, I hurried toward the fire, pushing to the front, squeezing past a dad with a little girl on his shoulders and a woman with a poodle in one of those tartan overcoats.
Sparks flew, burning bits of amber turning black above the flames.
“Shall I throw him in?” someone shouted. The crowd cheered. A man held up a model of Guy Fawkes wearing a Halloween mask. His legs were stuffed in green trousers, and his arms jutted out of a cardigan. “Shall I throw him in?” the man shouted more loudly. The little girl clapped her hands. Even the poodle wagged its tail.
The Boy with the Brown Eyes yawned and looked away. I shuffled forward to make my presence more obvious as the man grabbed Guy Fawkes by an arm and a leg. He swung the dummy toward the fire. The head skimmed the flames, and I winced as the crowd roared.
“One…” Necks strained to get a better look. “Two…” Everyone joined in the count. “Three!”
The fire spat. Guy Fawkes flew. And just as the dummy disappeared into the blaze, the boy turned away from the crowd and looked straight at me.
The words on his T-shirt said SAVE GUY FAWKES. For five seconds, we stared at each other, and then the boy smiled.
“Hi.” That one word sent me soaring. The bonfire vanished. The people, too. There was just me and the boy and our eyes shining at the center of the universe.
“Nice top,” I said at last. “I feel sorry for Guy Fawkes.”
“Even though he’s a villain?”
“Guy Fawkes had his reasons. Maybe they were good ones.”
The boy’s eyes twinkled. “Good reasons to do bad things… Interesting.”
“Very interesting.” That cable between our brains burned red. I blushed and looked away. Somewhere a million miles away, the dummy’s mask melted.
“Nothing like a good burning to bring people closer together,” the boy grinned.
“Maybe we should chuck the poodle in next,” I suggested as the dog barked, all fierce fluff in tartan.
The boy laughed. “Maybe it’s Scottish. If it’s Scottish, I’ll let the owners off. What’s your name?” he asked suddenly. This time I told him. The two syllables felt new and shiny on my lips. “Better than Bird Girl,” the boy said, “which is what I’ve been calling you in my head since the party. Well, that or Mousetrap.” My heart skipped a beat. It skipped a thousand beats. He’d been thinking of me, too.
“I’m guessing you’re not The Boy with the Brown Eyes, either.”
“That’s just my middle name. First name’s Aaron.”
Before I could say anything else, a hand appeared on Aaron’s arm.
“Hi!” a girl said. That one word sent me crashing back down to Earth. She had long red hair the color of fire. A black coat the color of coal. A smile for Aaron that burned in my brain long after it had disappeared.
“You’re here!” he said, pulling the girl into a hug. She peered over his shoulder—pale skin with the perfect amount of freckles and a straight nose a plastic surgeon would have been proud of.
“I really need to talk to you,” she whispered in his ear, her fingers on the back of his neck.
“Sure,” he said, which was the exact opposite of the response I wanted him to give, but I tried my best to smile with that French word nonchalance as he apologized to me and stepped closer to the heat for a private conversation.
I glanced at my watch. Quarter past nine. Forty-five minutes until Mum picked me up.
Forty-four minutes.
Forty-three minu—
“There you are! I thought you’d been murdered or something.” Lauren appeared at my side, looking grumpy. “Where’ve you been?”
Holding out my hands to the fire, I pretended to shiver. “Just cold.”
“You could’ve told me. I’m bloody freezing. And about to die of thirst so I had to give up the bench. I put my bag on it, but this old guy hobbled up to me and was like ‘You can’t reserve this seat’ and started going on about his wife needing to rest.”
“That’s quite mental. He was on his own so I reckon he’s one of those people who see things that aren’t there. You know, like necrophilia or whatever.”
I hid a smile. “You mean schizophrenia.”
“What?”
“Schizophrenia. Necrophilia is, well, you don’t want to know.”
I stared at Aaron’s back. Forty-one minutes until Mum arrived.
Lauren shook my arm. “Come on, then.”
“Come on what?”
She jiggled on the spot. “I’m thirsty.”
Aaron was holding the girl’s hands between his, his eyes glued to her face.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, turning away from the fire, feeling cold in a way that had nothing to do with the disappearing flames.
In the line, Lauren was talking nineteen to the dozen, and I’m not entirely sure what that means, but Mr. Harris if you imagine nineteen tongues in her mouth then you’ll sort of get the picture. On and on she went about this boy in the year above, one she kissed at Max’s party, and I was doing my best to concentrate, but it was difficult when Aaron was putting his arm around the girl in the distance.
Lauren paid for a bottle of water as a firework zoomed into the sky. Ooohs from the crowds. Aaahs. Without even thinking about it, I grabbed her arm, and we dropped to the ground right there and then to watch the display, lying on the grass as the night exploded all around us. I pointed at some blue sparks.
“More like sperm,” Lauren said. We both laughed because it was true, the sparks wiggling through the sky as if they were in a race to fertilize the moon. Lauren mimicked the movement with her hand. “Swim, spermies.”
A face leaned over us. “Nice.”
Blond hair. Brown eyes. Fireworks burst behind his head as my heart erupted in a great flash of red. Aaron.
Lauren put her hand over her eyes. I blinked and looked closer. The boy in the year above held out his hand and pulled Lauren to her feet. I heaved myself off the ground, disappointed.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk by the river.”
Lauren linked my arm. “Only if Zoe can come, too.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, suddenly needing to be alone. More people had joined the fire, but Aaron and the girl had disappeared from view. Lauren examined my expression closely. I made my eyes really big and insistent. “Honestly. I’ll be fine. My mum’s coming in ten minutes anyway,” I lied. The boy tugged Lauren’s hand, and she kissed my cheek, making a squeaking noise in my ear.
The flames were roaring now. Smoke made my eyes water and heat stung my skin. I ended up back at the bench to see the old man talking to thin air. It was sad, but only from the outside. I mean, he looked happy enough, telling his invisible wife how fireworks are made, going into great detail about how they’re put together to get the different colors. Mr. Harris, I wonder if you ever talk to Alice, and what you say to her if she does appear in your cell, wafting through the bars and hovering near the lightbulb. Maybe you apologize, and I hope she says it’s okay, because, after all, it was sort of her fault in the first place.
Families were leaving together and couples were cuddling up by the fire and even the old man had someone to talk to, and who cared if it was in his head rather than real. I trudged to the parking lot and slumped onto a wall. A clock glowed on a church in the distance, and I sighed. After feeling as though I was running out of it, there was now too much left. Twenty minutes with nothing to do except—
Voices!
A boy’s. And a girl’s.
I shifted along the wall until I was hidden behind a bush and watched Aaron walk into the parking lot, followed by the girl with long red hair. My stomach twisted. They were leaving together, walking easily with their arms around each other’s waists. An old blue car with a dented roof and a license plate that said DOR1S was parked underneath a streetlight. I peeped through the leaves. Aaron opened the passenger door and kissed the top of the girl’s head before she climbed in. My stomach twisted tighter, draining any hope right out of it.
Now, Mr. Harris, you’re probably expecting me to kick the bush or burst into tears or run into the parking lot and cause a scene. Well, sorry to disappoint you and all that, but my face was completely calm and my body was completely still. The only thing I did was tear a spiderweb, swiping it in two with the side of my hand. Half of it was left on the wall and half of it dangled from a branch, and that was the only evidence in the whole world that something inside me felt broken.
The car windows were steaming up. I didn’t want to think about what was going on inside, I mean we’ve all seen Titanic—or maybe you haven’t, so imagine a hand slapping against some glass dripping with breath and sweat and passion. Taking care not to be seen, I climbed off the wall, my back stiff and my legs sore. Everything hurt and the world was cold and even the stars seemed spiteful, sharp bits of white poking out of all the black. As I wandered back to the stalls, my foot rolled on a stone and I went over on my ankle. The noise I made surprised me because it wasn’t even painful.
“Zoe?” A figure was moving toward me, away from the fire, a black silhouette against orange. I squinted. Max came into view, a can of beer in his hand. He’d tried to catch my eye a few times since the day of the photo, but I’d ignored him. No chance of that now, though. He was standing directly in front of me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Cold.”
Silence.
I flexed my foot even though there was no pain then racked my brain for something to say.
“It’s always colder when there are no clouds. Less insulation. Reminds me of sheep.”
Max took a sip from the can. “What?”
“Sheep. You know. When there are clouds, it’s like the world’s got fur. It’s warmer and all that. But when the night’s clear, it’s like the planet’s been shaved.…” I caught sight of Max’s confused expression and shook my head. “It’s stupid.”
He took another swig. “No, it’s not.”
Silence again. A firework burst into stars above our heads. We both stared at them for too long, and then at each other, and then at the ground. Max cleared his throat.
“I am sorry, you know,” he said, kicking a stone between his feet. The sincerity in his voice surprised me. “It was totally out of order.”
“Yeah, it was.”
He booted the stone away and crossed his arms. “I deleted the picture. Wasn’t easy, though.”
“Forget the buttons?”
That made him smile. Crooked. Off-kilter. “No, actually. It wasn’t easy because you looked good.”
“Really?” I replied, doing my best to sound indifferent. “That’s not what you said before.”
“The Mighty Max Morgan lied before.” I grinned reluctantly as his eyes flicked to my chest. “Honestly, you looked…”
“Drunk,” I finished, my heart beating faster. “Really drunk. I was almost sick on your carpet.”
“I was sick on my carpet,” Max said. “When you left, I threw up near the rug. Unless it was yours.”
“No chance!” I exclaimed.
Max waggled his finger in my face. “I think you’re lying.”
“Think what you like,” I replied, and it was remarkable. I mean, who knew that vomit could be flirtatious?
The stars seemed kinder. Softer. More golden than white and the black sky sort of blue. Max took one last drink then threw it into a trash can. He leaned against it, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. The laces of his sneakers trailed in the mud.
“So, are you still in a mood with me?” he asked after a pause. A rocket shot into the sky. We both glanced at the silver sparks. And then at each other. And this time we didn’t look away.
“Of course,” I said. “You were an idiot.”
“An idiot who you kissed first.”
“An idiot who took advantage of me when I was drunk,” I replied, but I took a step forward.
Max put his hand on his heart. “It won’t happen again. Honest. Next time you’re wearing nothing but your bra, I swear I won’t—”
“Next time?!” I exclaimed, moving even closer. “How do you know there’ll be a next time?”
“Just a feeling,” Max whispered, and he pulled me between his legs and kissed me hard.
Not hard enough. I put my hand on the back of his head and forced our mouths closer, and I thought for some unknown reason of glass dripping with breath and sweat and passion. Max pushed his hands inside my top, over my hips, and onto my back, his fingers cold against my spine. I flicked my tongue against his, pushing myself closer, his leg disappearing between both of mine. The friction there felt good, and my back arched in a way it never had before, sort of like a cat’s. A mouth moved from my lips to my cheek to my neck, and fingers crept up my ribs to the bottom of my bra. Inside my bra. Strong hands squeezed, and he grinned as I gasped. My body was tingling and my blood was throbbing, but Mum was on her way so I forced myself to twist free.
“Not here.” It came out in a pant. Max dragged me toward an empty children’s play area. I dug my heels into the grass. “Not tonight. My mum’s probably waiting in the parking lot.”
“Tomorrow, then?” he asked. I hesitated because I knew I’d never be allowed. “Or the next day?” He actually sounded nervous. Max Morgan. Nervous because of me. Lauren would never believe it.
I lifted one shoulder, unable to resist. “Yeah, why not?” He kissed me again, softer this time, but I pulled away. “I’m going to be late.” Max groaned but took my hand. An image of Mum behind the steering wheel flashed into my mind. “Don’t worry about walking me to the parking lot or anything. Honestly.”
“It’s okay. I’m leaving anyway.”
I dropped his hand. “You go first, then. My mum’s a bit—”
“Moody? Must run in the family.” Max smirked as I elbowed him in the ribs. We walked part of the way then stopped behind a tree. Max glanced into the parking lot. “If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, call an ambulance. My brother’s giving me a lift home. Only passed his test a couple of weeks ago. First time, obviously. Don’t think he’s ever failed anything in his life. Doesn’t mean he’s a good driver, though. Seriously, tell your mum to be careful.”
I smiled as he ran off, jogging past Mum’s Mini, ignoring a Jeep, and hurrying straight to the car parked underneath the streetlight.
An old blue car with steamy windows.
I leaned closer, my heart stopping as Max pulled open the back door and climbed into the seat behind Aaron.
Now, Mr. Harris, there is this word called flabbergasted, and it’s the only way to describe how I felt as I stood there in the darkness. My flabber was still pretty much gasted when I got home and made a cup of tea far too strong because I kept dunking the bag and dunking the bag, trying to get my head around it all. Brothers. Brothers. Maybe I should have seen it coming. There were slight similarities between them, and Aaron had been at Max’s party even though he must have been a couple of years older than the rest of us if he could drive…. Still. It wasn’t a lot to go on.
Steam rose from my cup as I sat on the living room carpet and sipped tea, wondering if the brothers were close and if they were chatting in the kitchen right at that moment, making a sandwich or something. I tried to work out if they’d have the same filling or different ones, Max choosing ham and Aaron opting for cheese and the girl with long red hair going for tuna that would made her breath stink of fish. I’d have given a lot to be a fly on the wall to find out the answer.
Funnily enough, there’s an actual fly on the actual wall right now. Sort of. A little black one is caught in the web on the shed windowsill, stuck in the silk and staring at the garden, probably wondering what on earth happened to its freedom. By the time the sun rises, I bet the spider will have eaten it. Judging by the sky, dawn’s not far off, so I probably should get back inside before Mum wakes up. Now the clocks have gone back, it’s getting light an hour earlier, and Stuart that must be some consolation. Even if you have dinner in the dark, you get breakfast in the sunshine, and I hope it feels warm on your skin.
From,
Zoe x
1 Fiction Road
Bath, UK