Page 11 of Boy Friends
‘What’s great?’ a new voice chimes in.
I freeze. And of course, Simo joins us. His hair is ruffled, the way it always is at the end of a school day; brown curls reaching up into the sky. When he’s deep in thought, he twirls them without even noticing. I want to reach out and unwind them, but I control the impulse.
‘The manor,’ I blurt out, ‘Louise was just telling me that the old manor house outside of town finally sold. And that’s great because, well, it’s a historic building that was falling into disrepair and now it’s . . . not.’
Simo hates gossip. Recent events haven’t exactly changed that. As much as I would like to share his position, I’m far less noble. I admit that I’m morally corrupt and that gossip is fun, as long as my name stays out of the conversation. Simo frowns, and the freckles on his forehead shift. They’re a product of ten cloudless days under the Spanish sun. It’ll be sad to see them fade.
‘Hidden House? The one near the causeway?’
‘Yeah, the buyers are this really posh couple, apparently. Moguls of some sort.’
I don’t know how Louise knows this, but I’m glad she does. Simo doesn’t need to hear that we’re still Lombard’s Number One Topic. He’s subdued enough as it is.
‘Must be loaded to afford it. It’s basically a castle. No wonder it’s stood empty for decades,’ I say to steer theconversation further into safe waters.
‘There’s that. And people think it’s haunted ever since the last owner’s son drowned because he got lost in the fog.’
I watch Simo’s expression turn to stone in an instant. My heart sinks. So much for safe waters.
‘Louise, it’s been great talking to you, but we have to run!’
I reach out to take Simo’s shoulder and navigate him away from Louise and more talk of dead sons, but he turns before I get the chance. Someone wolf-whistles after us, and Simo stops abruptly. Even with his back turned, I know that the vein on his forehead is pulsing angrily.
‘Ignore them,’ I mutter when I catch up, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Without a word, he shakes me off and rushes past the school gate. I follow in his shadow, knowing that in this moment there is little I can say to calm him. Usually I know instinctively how to ease his anger, but I can’t cut through the grief. And when one feeds into the other, I don’t stand a chance.
He was like this all the time when I first met him in primary school. Withdrawn. Quiet. The new kid who kept everybody at a safe distance. He was mourning, though I didn’t realise it then. The expression he wears now, every trace of emotion banished, is the same one his parents wore when they used to pick him up from school each day.
It was Dad who told me, and he probably heard from Miss M, who has a way of knowing everything about everyone in Lombard. He said that Simo had had a brother, but that he had died in an accident. He said I shouldn’t ask Simo about it unless he brought it up first. To this day, Simo hasn’t mentioned his brother once. One more thing to addto the list of things we don’t talk about.
Our feet carry us to the street where Simo lives, but instead of passing it like we usually do after school, he stops beneath an apple tree on the corner. When he speaks, he barely looks at me.
‘See you tomorrow.’
He’s down the street before I get the chance to nod. I watch him retreat, and try to convince myself that this is not a dismissal. I continue to the town’s main junction alone, where the cafe is waiting.
I drop my bag in the flat, which feels quieter than I’m used to. Normally, when Simo needs time to think, he’ll disappear into my room, into one of his books for an hour or two, until he’s back to his old self. I like knowing he’s in there. Dad and Simo are like hands on a clock; they set my rhythm, give structure to my days. It’s only recent events that have thrown things.
To drown out the silence, I turn on the radio and climb on to the wide window sill. Tove Lo’s voice spills from the open-plan kitchen into the lounge, but I’m too caught up to follow the lyrics. From where I sit, I get a view of the junction: the awning of our cafe right below me, the empty pet shop on the next corner, a convenience store diagonally across, and Betsy’s flower shop to our left. Townsfolk and tourists shuffle along the main road, and I observe their comings and goings, until I realise what I’m doing. I’m waiting for Simo to appear and I tell myself to stop. I need a distraction, and I’ll find it downstairs, in chit-chat with customers and wiping up spilt coffee.
My toes graze the floorboards when my gaze snags onthe windows of the pet shop. The place has been boarded up for a year, causing much debate in town. Mayor Pickering thinks it looks like a drug den at the very heart of Lombard, but there’s no point in taking the boards down until a new owner has been found. So now people, mostly kids, glue posters and stickers to the slats, which, in Pickering’s defence, does look sketchy.
I wonder what it is that’s pulled my attention, until I spot a new addition, a drawing of something in black marker. It’s hard to decipher the writing at the centre of what I believe is a heart, so I use my phone camera to zoom in – and almost fall off the window sill. Once I’ve recovered my balance, I find the heart again. As I try to keep my hands from shaking, I stare at the picture on my phone. It’s grainy and out of focus, but the letters are clear.
Heat travels up my spine and covers my back in little pinpricks. I sit, motionless except for the beating in my chest, and stare at the initials enclosed by the heart. A couple of random letters, a basic outline – it could mean anything and be about anyone.
But it’s impossible to miss, and I’m terrified. I’ve barely recovered from the trauma of the noticeboard, and now this. I’m not naive enough to believe that my and Simo’s initials have coincidentally appeared in a place that’s visible fromalmost every angle of my home. The method might differ, but the effect is worse. The noticeboard might pass as a prank blown out of proportion, an innocent mistake by the town council, but the heart is no accident. It’s intentional. Shame pulses through my body, knowing that my feelings have been splashed across town, not once, but twice.
‘What are you doing?’
I nearly jump out of my skin. Dad is inches away, like he’s appeared out of nowhere.
‘Don’t sneak up on people like that! It’s not cool!’ I shout, and lock my phone screen, hoping he hasn’t spotted the picture.
‘Sneak? I called your name twice. And these floorboards, they creak like a haunted house. There’s no point in sneaking.’ He sweeps a strand of hair out of my eyes, and from the way his hand lingers, I can tell he’s picked up on my mood.
‘Sorry, I was . . . thinking,’ I say.
‘’Bout what?’
