Page 9 of Boy Friends
Luca is bent over, hands on his knees and breathing hard. His skin is flushed, his neck glistens. I watch a bead of sweat trace its way from a spot behind his ear down to his Adam’s apple. It clings to him until it detaches and drops to the ground. I tear my gaze away and march to the door of the town hall. Inside, a corridor takes me to the assembly room. Luca calls after me, but I barge in without waiting for him.Voices halt mid-conversation, and six pairs of eyes stare at me, mouths agape.
‘Simo Lorca,’ Mayor Pickering observes, the first to catch himself. ‘And Luca Dean, naturally,’ he adds, when Luca appears at my side. He’s a little man with a loud voice who wears turtlenecks pretty much every day of the year. ‘That’s an unexpectedly sweaty sight for my sore eyes.’
‘Are you quite all right? You seem upset,’ Heloise asks. She leans against a blackboard that’s seen better days, a piece of chalk between her fingers.
‘I am upset,’ I say, taking in the rest of the room. Curtained windows frame a view of the ocean, but my attention is on the members of council huddled in its centre. Besides Mayor Pickering and Heloise, there’s Betsy, the owner of Pott’s flower shop where Dad gets his plants, Linda, the mailwoman, and Justine Ribbons, whose daughter shares some of my classes. Maybe it’s just me, but they all have a sheepish look about them. ‘I have good reason to be upset.’
‘And we totally understand,’ Betsy says, but the apologetic smile doesn’t help.
‘I don’t think you do,’ Luca joins in, and I’m glad to hear the heat in his voice. I feel more united with him now than I’ve felt all week. ‘I thought you were a political body, not a gossip column. Since when are you in the business of spreading lies about people?’
Heloise tuts, clearly affronted by the accusation.
‘Just to be clear,’ the mayor begins, ‘you’re not in love, then?’
‘No,’ Luca and I reply, one syllable like a hammer to a wall.
‘Then we owe you an apology,’ he says, and sounds surprisingly sincere. ‘We had no intention of spreading misinformation. We merely sought to declare our support, share the joy, but it seems the gesture was . . . rushed.’
‘What I don’t understand is how you even came to think . . .?’ I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
‘You’ve been inseparable since primary school,’ Linda pipes up. ‘And when you returned from Spain this summer, you seemed very . . . together.’
‘That’s a little too much speculation for us to end up on the noticeboard,’ I retort. ‘Who made the decision?’
‘We all did,’ Betsy replies.
‘But who came up with the idea?’
‘None of us,’ she says.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It was a submission. Online. On the council web portal,’ Mayor Pickering explains. I look to Luca, who shakes his head. ‘Anyone can submit a message for the noticeboard. We take all suggestions into account, weed out everything that’s irrelevant or rude – you can’t imagine the number of flagrantly vulgar entries – and take it to a vote. The winning submission then goes up for the week.’
He points to the blackboard, on which Heloise has written out this week’s options. The top one –WELCOME HOME, DANIEL!– is circled.
‘And these submissions, they’re completely anonymous?’ Luca asks.
‘Correct.’
His shoulders sag, and I share in his disappointment. There’s no way we can trace it back to the culprit. I’m notexactly a tech geek, and Luca’s hacking skills are equally non-existent.
‘It was a genuine mistake. We were happy for you and your, erm, supposed attachment. And we meant no harm,’ Justine offers, speaking up for the first time. She’s one of Lombard’s biggest volunteers and organises most town festivals, but she never lords her charity over people. Still, I can’t muster any warmth towards her today. The intention is pointless when it results in harm.
Luca looks like he’s run out of steam, but I’m still fuming, and judging by the worried look on her face, Betsy can tell. ‘We could set things straight for you? Use the noticeboard to say something like “Simo and Luca are not in love!”’
‘Absolutely not,’ Luca shoots back.
‘That’s the worst thing you could do,’ I add. ‘I suggest you keep our names off that board from now on.’ With nothing left to say and zero patience for any more empty apologies, I turn my back.
‘You know, boys,’ Mayor Pickering calls after us, ‘council meetings are open to the public. You’re welcome to join any time, not just to complain.’
There are few moments in life when I’m tempted to flip someone off, but now my hand trembles with the urge. Only the respect for my elders that my parents have drilled into me holds me back – that and Luca, who pushes me out of the building and on to the square.
‘Who is Daniel, anyway?’ he mutters.
‘What?’
