Page 6 of Boy Friends
‘It’s not like I’m going to read them.’
‘You’ll have to if you plan to pass English.’
‘You know I’m not going to open these.’
Luca has plenty of flaws, but this aversion to books is surely his biggest. My attempts at converting him have been fruitless, but I’m determined. Constant dripping wears the stone and all that.
‘You can just tell me the plot.’
‘Fat chance.’
‘Fine, I’ll get the audiobooks.’
‘You’ll have to have copies for class. To quote passages for essays, to underline stuff.’
‘I can borrow yours.’
‘And copy the notes I write in the margins? No, you can’t.’
‘Then I’ll get them from the library. I don’t understand why you need to buy them all when you could borrow them.’
This isn’t the first time we’re having this debate. Its familiarity fills me with the hope that nothing’s changed, that we’re still the same people we were before the noticeboard.
‘I hate having to return books. I can’t enjoy them with a deadline,’ I tell him. I need to be able to mark them or open them at any given point to reread favourite passages.
I glance at the door and realise that it’s started to rain. That in itself isn’t a rarity. You learn to expect the weather’s ever-changing moods when living on the coast. The world outside is blurry, daylight dimmed by clouds. Only now do I hear the lazy patter of a thousand little drops hitting theroof. It’s my favourite sound in the world. I think of our bikes getting wet, of my parents at home.
‘Let’s stay for a bit,’ Luca says, eyes half closed again. ‘You can start reading now. And tell me what happens.’
I huff but set the books down and give the cat in Luca’s lap a good back rub. Then I make myself comfortable on the floor by Luca’s chair with my back against the shelves. The air in the shop remains warm, and all I hear is the rain and the cat’s gentle purr. I openTwelfth Night, but only get past the list of characters before Luca speaks up.
‘I’d read your book,’ he says, his voice low. ‘If you wrote one, I mean. I’d read it.’
CHAPTER 3 – LUCA
Dad hands me a mop and points to the bucket of steaming water on the shop floor. The sunlight that spills into the room turns his dark hair to amber and sets his irises alight. Sometimes I wish I looked more like him, less gangly more manly. People never believe that we’re father and son when they first find out. Though that might just be the small age gap.
I start sweeping the floor of all the dirt that customers traipsed into the cafe. I’ve done this a million times and I’m still amazed by how quickly the water turns to grey soup. Humans are messy, that much I’ve learned from cleaning a cafe floor day after day.
‘When you’re done, you can order in food. Your pick.’
I perk up. Dad never lets me order takeout. He says stuff like, ‘We literally own a diner,’ and, ‘I can cook you anything,’ and, ‘Don’t you like my cooking?’ which is completely beside the point. It’s the indulgence that counts. It doesn’t matter what you order; the fact that it’s brought to your doorstep and you don’t have to clean any pots makes it special.
‘Just don’t order burgers, please. Or chips. Might as well order off our menu.’
‘So it’s not my pick,’ I retort. Dad sends me a look that tells me not to test him when he’s being generous, and I quickly get to finishing the floors.
All week long, I’ve avoided the cafe. Even if nobody comes up to me wanting to discuss the noticeboard, I see the curiosity in their faces. It’s a curse, growing up in a small town where everyone knows you and thinks they’re entitled to meddle and ask questions.
Only Dad has been giving me space. ‘You know where to find me if you want to talk,’ he said on the first day, and left it at that. Which is why I’ve barely left my room. It’s amazing how many seasons ofEliteyou can watch if you put your mind to it. But I know I’m not off the hook forever. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure the whole takeaway offer is a strategy to get me talking. So I best make it the most indulgent vegetarian food order I can.
Half an hour later, Dad and I sit on the Persian-blue couch in our lounge. The air smells of honey and garlic, chilli and lime. A tower of boxes waits on the coffee table while we select a film.
‘How about that Italian comedy with the gay brothers who own a pasta business?’ Dad suggests.
‘Not while eating pad thai. How about the one with the miners at gay Pride?’ I suggest.
‘I don’t want to be sobbing into my food, thanks. How about the gay romance with the farm and the actor with the stick-out ears?’
