Page 40 of Boy Friends
and daisies die
and daisies grow again
life decays
and people go
and only grief remains
Sat on my desk, I should be focusing on homework, but instead I leaf through the collection of Lorca’s poems, my mind elsewhere. Elsewhere being Luca, who has disappeared into himself, like he too is hiding from the cold. Something happened at that family lunch, but he won’t say what. I’m half convinced that I’ve done something to upset him, and the only thing that reassures me is the fact that today, like so many days, he sits huddled at the foot of my bed. Sometimes he asks me to read, but mostly he scrolls and keeps his thoughts to himself. He’s starting to become an enigma, almost like Lorca’s poems.
I fear I might have to disappoint Tío Andrés; the kinship he speaks of is lost in translation. Maybe it’s the language barrier, and on top of that poetry isn’t known for being straightforward and easy to interpret. But even when I find English versions, the meaning escapes me. There’s a whole lot of symbolism, talk of the moon and all kinds of flowers, turned into riddles. I wish I could copy some of his verses into my notebook, give my head a break from being haunted by Spanish sonnets, but I can’t do it with Luca present. It would be like handing him a key to my mind and letting him roam free.
What I need is a change of scenery. I’ve stared at theflowers with their drooping heads for too long. I shut the book of poems away in the desk drawer, careful to hide the notebook beneath it.
‘We should see what they’re showing tonight,’ I say into the silence.
Luca throws me one of those befuddled looks that tell me he was worlds away and hasn’t caught up to reality. I hand him my phone. When he sees the picture of the noticeboard, he stills. I know he also feels the whiplash of the memory of that one message from a month ago, but this week’s announcement is as innocent as they come:
JOIN THE LOMBARD
FILM FESTIVAL!
‘But they show the same stuff every year,’ Luca protests.
To combat the antisocial attitude that creeps into town with the autumn weather, the council screens a film each night for a week, in the hopes of drawing us out of our homes. Lombard Film Festival isn’t exactly Cannes, so they mostly replay old classics and whatever blockbuster has finally become affordable, months after it released in city cinemas.
‘Do you have a better plan?’ I ask. ‘Or are we spending another night stuck inside on our phones?’ He pouts, knowing I’m right. ‘You like films. And for once you’ll getto watch one on a screen that’s bigger than the palm of your hand.’
‘Fine,’ Luca says, and hands back my phone. As it moves from his hand to mine, his gaze lingers on my fingers. They have healed since the incident in the library, but he hasn’t forgotten, and neither have I. Sometimes I still feel a twinge of pain, and it serves as a reminder.
For a couple of weeks I contemplated the dried blood beneath my fingernails, tried to let it scab over and heal without reopening the wounds. By the time the crust fell off, revealing a layer of new pink skin, I’d come to a realisation. People keep telling me how I feel, and in trying to prove them wrong, I’m pushing away the person who least deserves it. I hurt myself, then tried to shift the pain on to him so I wouldn’t have to bear it alone. All because of a heart carved into a bookshelf. Some letters on a noticeboard. As much as it pisses me off, this expectation that we’ll turn into a couple sooner or later, I can’t let it change who we are. Ever since, I’ve been trying to figure out how to remain the Simo he knows, whatever people think. No more pushing Luca away, that much is clear. But beyond that? I’m not sure.
We arrive at the town hall, our shoes damp, rain dripping on to the colourless rug. Even before we reach the auditorium, I fear the worst. There are kids everywhere, holding boxes of sweets or chasing each other through the hallway.
‘Of course we picked the day they’re showing a children’s film,’ Luca says, still pouting.
Careful not to trample any toddlers, we reach thecorkboard displaying the schedule. I barely register the film title –Coco– before my eyes snag on something else. Ice settles into my bones. I try to steer Luca towards the auditorium, but he turns rigid beneath my touch. He has seen what I see. His expression jumps from surprise to confusion and before morphing into a stiff blankness.
The flyer is a pale pink and almost blank, except for three little words:Spread the love!Across the bottom, a row of tear-off strips, each with the drawing of a heart enclosing our initials.
For several suspended breaths, neither of us moves. When my heart slams back into my chest, I reach out and tear the whole sheet off. Though I’m shaking on the inside, I meet Luca’s eyes, fold the paper up as if it’s nothing but a flea-market announcement and slide it into my pocket.
‘Let’s just enjoy the film, yeah?’ I say, and force him ahead of me, into the auditorium.
What he can’t see is how I press my thumbnail into the tender flesh that has only just healed, trying to remind myself that I won’t let this break me.
We find seats at the very back, and for the next fifteen minutes I scan the room, to avoid looking at Luca. I spot Joni with a man I assume to be her son, but apart from a gaggle of parents and the town council, they’re the only adults. A few rows ahead, Louise is chatting to Jacob. Mairi and her brothers are being ordered around by Councillor Justine, their mother, while Heloise observes the crowd with the gaze of a schoolmistress who despises kids. When the lights dim, I realise that just because the flyer was hung in the hallway, that doesn’t mean that the person who putit up is in the room right now. Anyone can walk into the town hall, tack something up and leave again unnoticed.
‘I just want you to know,’ Luca whispers, ‘the posters and hearts and all that, none of it matters. They can say what they want about us, but I only care about you. About us.’
Tension trickles out of my body, and the ache in my jaw tells me I’ve been grinding my teeth. I relax into the seat and, rather than suppressing the impulse, I cover his hand with mine, although just for a second. It might look like I’m reassuring him, when really I’m the one seeking comfort.
Two hours later, I arrive home, without Luca. It took me a good thirty minutes to get out of my head and focus on the screen. And even then, I struggled to keep up. I was expecting a silly animated adventure, not an exploration of death and grief. Despite the promise to keep my best friend close, Hamza is on my mind. I need time to myself, time to sit with my thoughts, without distractions.
My shoes are so sodden they make a squelching sound when I remove them. I feel just as drenched, weighed down by memories of my brother. I wonder what he would make of the noticeboard and the love hearts. And not for the first time, I wonder what he’d make of Luca. Not that I’ll ever find out.
‘Simo, come here for a moment.’ Mum calls from the lounge.
