by Lucy Cuthew
And we drift apart a little bit
as we circle the rink,
and before I know it,
we’re chatting,
and it’s so easy.
“Do you normally come here
on a Saturday night?”
“No!” I say, laughing.
“I work at the planetarium,
then usually I go home
and Dad makes me
and Mum pizza
and we have a
movie night.”
“Nice.”
“What about you?
What do you
normally do?”
“Not this!” he admits,
slipping again
and tightening his grip
on my hand.
“I play rugby on
a Sunday morning
so I just get
an early night.”
“Wild,” I say, smiling
while trying to stop
picturing me and him
having a quiet night in.
“If I don’t have rugby,
and I’m feeling really crazy,
I sometimes stay up
until, like, midnight,
watching science videos online.”
“What kind of
stuff do you like?”
“Space stuff,” he says.
“Mostly. Some of it
is so amazing.”
I want to whisper
You’re amazing,
but instead I say,
“Yeah, amazing.”
DARK
It’s as
dark
as night
in here.
And in the darkness,
no one can see
what you’re doing,
or thinking.
And that
makes me
bold.
I slide along beside him,
our fingers touching,
and just like that
we’re holding hands.
I glance around,
quickly checking
if anyone is watching,
but Harriet is with Jackson,
pushing Dev into Marie,
being so obvious it’s cringey.
She doesn’t see me.
The disco ball
rotates above us.
His face is speckled
with the silver flecks
of the turning light.
I want to say,
“I like your face,”
but instead I just blush
and breathe in
his leather jacket
and something sweet
like
“Cherry chapstick?”
“Huh?” he says.
“Are you wearing
lip balm?”
Benjamin chuckles,
and takes my arm
to draw me closer.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“But don’t tell anyone.
It’s my sister’s.”
“Why are you
wearing it then?”
I tease.
“Because it’s cold
and I’ve got chapped lips
and she left it
in my pocket.”
“You share clothes with
your sister?”
He laughs. “We’re close,”
he says and shrugs.
“And it’s a great jacket.”
“It is,” I agree,
laughing as we
lap the rink,
our arms going slack and taut
pulling one another closer and
drifting away because of
centrifugal force.
“Huh?” he shouts.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
I shake my head.
My hair flies out behind me.
I feel like Beyoncé.
“You did!” he says,
pulling me close again.
“You said centrifugal.”
“Well, it is,” I laugh,
although strictly speaking
centrifugal is a fictitious force,
a mere explanation of a sensation.
But the music’s too loud
to go into that now.
He laughs and suddenly
brakes with his skates,
swinging me around him,
demonstrating he
knows exactly
what I mean
by centrifugal.
I take his other hand
and twirl around him.
We stay like that
for what feels like
an eternity,
staring at each other,
until he pulls me in
and—
in my mind
the word
K I S S I N G
explodes like a supernova
leaving a black hole,
sucking everything in.
Then suddenly
the disco ball halts.
The music stops.
Our hands drop.
Midnight strikes.
The magic disperses.
And in the flight to escape
the bright electric light,
I lose Benjamin.
SMELLY FEET
We’re just about to leave,
when Benjamin
comes up to me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say, hoping the smell
from my un-booted feet
isn’t wafting his way.
(I’ve been at work all day.)
“I’ve got to go,
but it was fun
skating with you.
Thanks for helping me.”
I want to say something
smart or witty,
but I don’t know what.
“Yeah,” I say, “it was, um…”
“Centrifugal?” he offers.
I laugh, impressed,
and a bit annoyed
I didn’t get there first.
“You’re great on skates,
by the way,”
he adds, then grins
and walks away.
Leaving Harriet,
Marie, Bethany and Leylah
gawping at me.
BENJAMIN LIKES ME?
We say goodbye to the girls.
I walk out next to Harriet,
with smelly feet,
on cloud nine.
As we weave under
the acid-bright car park trees
to meet my dad,
Harriet goes on and on
about who likes who
and how Jackson
is so much nicer
when you talk to him
one on one.
Then she starts going on
about how Marie and Dev
would make a cute pair
if only they weren’t both
so shy and how she’s
going to try
to help Marie by getting
her to send Dev a
flirty selfie.
“Maybe I should do it for her?”
“No,” I say. “Don’t.
Just leave her.”
“All right, all right,” she says,
while I’m thinking,
Don’t ask about Benjamin.
I don’t want her interfering.
I want to keep it for me.
“So,” she says.
“Benjamin Jones?
Would you?”
“No,” I reply quickly.
Harriet
wrinkles her nose and goes,
“Well, I reckon he’s into you.
Do you want me to help you?”
“No!”
“He’s quite good-looking,
don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I agree.
#Understatement
; But I can’t help
smiling as I think
about him.
Harriet gazes at me,
then pauses and
cocks her head.
“You look so pretty.
Smile like that again.
I’ll take a picture of you.”
So I do.
GOSSIP
Dad picks Harriet and me up
around the back of the car wash
at five past twelve,
like he promised.
“Very cloak and dagger,”
he says, as I climb in the front.
Harriet tries to squeeze in the back,
but it’s covered in Dad’s biking crap.
“Sorry!” he says, reaching around
and shoving his stuff out of the way.
“I’ve been mountain biking today.”
“Cool, where did you go?” Harriet asks,
like a massive suck-up,
giving Dad the cue to go into
way more detail than
anyone wanted him to.
“How was work?” Dad asks me.
“Did you talk about the form
for the summer placement?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nod.
“What’s that?” Harriet says.
“Oh, just that summer thing
at the planetarium.
It’s kind of nerdy.”
“Ooh, will you get one for me?
I’ve always thought
it sounded cool,” she says,
more to Dad than me.
“You can just apply online,” I say.
“I only picked a form up
because I was there today.
It’s loads of work, you know?
You have to get a reference
from someone in astronomy.
And you need to be free
all summer.”
“Imagine if we both got it!
It could be amazing.
You and me! Doing astronomy!”
“Yeah,” I say, glancing
at Harriet in the back.
“That would be amazing.”
“So, what about your night, girls?”
asks Dad. “Anyone snog?”
“Dad!” I groan.
“What?” he says. “I just want
a bit of gossip. Call it my fare.
Come on … who snogged who?”
“Ugh. No one calls it
snogging any more,” I say.
“What do they call it?”
“They don’t call it anything.
And you don’t talk about it.
Don’t even think about it.
We’d rather give you money
than gossip.”
We’re waiting
at a red light
when Harriet leans
into the middle,
and I glance at her face
glowing red
in the reflected light,
all confessional,
and she goes,
“I didn’t snog anyone,
but Jackson did ask
if he could message me.”
“Gossip!” Dad squeals, clapping,
like he thinks he’s one of us.
“You have always been
my favourite, Hairy.”
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Harriet ignores me.
THE TREE HOUSE
Mine and Harriet’s telescope
lives in the tree house
between our gardens
where we used to
have tea parties
and make mud pies
and rose perfume
out of decomposing petals
and mulchy leaves.
Now we stay up late, chatting
and stargazing
and taking photos of
stars and
planets and
the moon.
Then we sneak to the baker’s
to buy the first pastries,
before finally going
to sleep at dawn.
I’m knackered from
standing up talking all day
but Harriet wants
to go to the tree house,
and our parents say it’s OK.
I move the telescope
to the waxing crescent moon:
a perfect sliver of possibility.
“It’s clear,” I say to Harriet.
“You should come and see.”
But Harriet lies
on her back,
dangling her legs
over the edge,
making the canopy rustle
in the night breeze.
“I’m busy,” she sighs,
her eyes on her phone
missing the stars
shining bright
right above us.
TOP THREE
“Busy doing what?”
“Thinking about
Mr Number One,”
she says,
rolling onto her tummy
to face me.
Me and Harriet always
play Top Three.
The top three things we’re
thinking about,
or worrying about,
or obsessing about,
on any given week
or night
or hour.
Harriet’s top three recently?
Boys, boys, boys.
“Come on, then.
Who is he?”
“Actually,
there’s a new entry…”
She sits up,
pulls her knees into her belly,
and performs a drum roll
on the floorboards
with her feet.
“At number one …
Professor Brian Fox.”
“Ew!” I groan.
“Brian Cox is not a fox.”
“Yes, he is. He is fit AF.
And he’s clever.
I’m talking
major
fanny
flutters.”
(Ugh.)
“I’ve been listening to
loads of his stuff recently.”
“And me, for my application,”
I add, then immediately regret
mentioning it.
“Ooh! What do we have
to do for those again?”
“Write a long essay.
And get a glowing reference
from someone with evidence
of your passion for astronomy.”
I know I’m making it sound hard.
“I was thinking of asking Mr B
to write one for me.
And to check my application.”
“Oh, Mr B!
He’s still top three.”
“Please, Harry.
We’ve talked about this.
He’s too old!
And he’s a teacher.”
“Oi! No judgement,
remember?”
“OK. Sorry.
Go on, then.
Let’s have it.
Top three.”
She puts down her phone
for a moment,
using her fingers
to check off her crushes.
“One, Prof Brian Fox.
Two, probably still Lee.
Three, Mr B …
and his thighs.”
Harriet lies back again,
picks up her phone,
and sighs.
“His thighs?” I cry.
“WTF?”
“Shh,” she says, jabbing me.
“You’re interrupting my fantasy.
He was taking PE on Friday.
Tiny shorts.
His thighs are
unbelievably
meaty.”
“MEATY?” I shout.
Then gag.
“Don’t say meaty.”
“Mmm,” she sighs,
&n
bsp; rubbing her thighs,
“meaty meaty meaty.”
“What was he doing
taking PE?”
“I think he was subbing,”
she says to her phone.
“I’d sub for him any day.”
“What does that even mean?”
“No idea,”
she says, giggling,
lifting her head up
and twisting to look at me.
“But he is dreamy.”
She grins then
lies back again,
and I look down at her,
legs swinging
in the dark of the night,
stirring up the oily
scent of the tree.
“What about Jackson?”
I ask, to get away
from thinking about Mr B
in tiny shorts
and to stop her saying
the m-word again.
“Do you like him?”
“Kind of,”
she says, shrugging.
“We’re messaging right now.
Shall I send him this?”
She turns her phone
to show me
a pouty,
booby
selfie.
“Oh my God!” I scream.
“You have no shame.”
“Why should I?” she says.
“Come on, he’s asking me
for a selfie.”
“He’ll show everyone.
Like he did with those girls.”
“It’s only a bit of bra.
You know, you can be
such a nun.”
“Only compared to you,” I snort.
“You’ve got the hots
for everyone.”
“And you for no one.”
I think about mentioning
Benjamin,
but she’s still on about
her selfie, anyway.
“Maybe I won’t send it.
It’s not that flattering.
What do you really think?”
“Don’t send it,” I snap.
“Don’t be so reckless.”
“You’re no fun any more!”
she grumbles,
and slaps her phone down
and flips over to look at me.
“What about you, O queen
of the parched vag?
What’s your top three?”
Benjamin,
Benjamin,
Benjamin,
I think.
