Fin & Rye & Fireflies

by Harry Cook

  I can’t be certain, but he seems to be almost pleading for us to give him advice. Like he needs confirmation that he’s doing the right thing. Then again, maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.

  “Sounds . . . good,” Poppy says, taking another pic on Snapchat, obviously trying not to say how she really feels.

  “I would love to talk about this more, Rye-bread, but I have practice for the QSA’s first choir performance tonight for next week’s school assembly. We’re doing the ending of Sister Act: the ‘I Will Follow Him’ song. I’m playing Whoopi and the rest of our nuns will be totally bedazzled. It’s going to be dope.” June looks really excited. “If any of you want to join, there’s still some parts to fill –”

  “No offence, but I’d rather eat a steaming turd burger than participate in that,” Poppy says. I can’t help but laugh. June can’t either.

  Rye looks distracted but says, “Thanks, June, but I’m good.” He’s about to add something else when the bell goes and we each scatter for our next classes.

  June has geography, Poppy has science. Rye looks over my shoulder at my timetable and points at my next class. “History. D-block. I’m in maths right near there. Wanna walk with me?” he says, flashing me his killer smile.

  I follow Rye down the hall towards the double doors that lead to the other blocks. The wind has really picked up and now it’s pouring down with rain.

  “Crap,” Rye says, looking over at me with a half-grin.

  “Do you have an . . . an um–”

  “Ummmbrella? Nope.” Rye is now giggling as a crack of thunder sounds somewhere in the distance.

  “How fast can you run?” I ask, bending down to tie my shoelace which is soaked through to the plastic cord.

  “Pretty fast, actually. I’m kind of a big deal around here.”

  I do a double take. “Are you serious?”

  Rye nods, like his sprinting prowess is something I should have known.

  “But . . . didn’t you . . . I thought you skipped P.E. yesterday because of some . . .”

  “Fin, I’m messing with you.”

  I laugh, my infamous honk laugh making its appearance once again. “Pretty fast and pretty funny,” I say sarcastically.

  “I know. I know.”

  We both smile at each other for what feels like a moment too long.

  “Hey, I’ll make you a bet,” Rye says, breaking our gaze. “If I make it to D-block across the quad first, you have to tell me something you’ve never told anyone. If you win, I have to tell you the same.”

  I squint at him, wondering if he’s serious. There’s not a hint of a joke in his big almond eyes.

  “Deal,” I say, putting my hand out for him to shake.

  With that he takes my hand, and as I wait for him to shake it, he lifts it up like I’m the Queen of England and pecks it with a kiss before bolting across the field.

  I’m half stunned to the spot by what just happened when I realise I should be running. I tear off across the sloppy mud, the wind slapping my cheeks and the rain drenching my hair and clothes.

  I’m gaining ground on him.

  “Not bad for a Pittford boy,” Rye shouts behind him, the dirt from his sneakers erupting from the ground like mini volcanoes.

  “Not bad for a guy who shouldn’t be running because of Saturn’s retrograde!” I shout back.

  I hear him burst out laughing as I close the distance between us.

  We’re neck and neck and both of us are smiling at each other. I have giant fireflies in my tummy, circling and spinning and doing backflips as I look at him. I desperately want to win. I want to know as much about him as I can.

  We’re thirty paces from D-block and I can feel a hardcore stitch coming on. We both slap the side of the building and collapse with our backs to the wall, heaving our breath like our lungs weigh a ton.

  “I won,” we say in unison, then catch each other’s eyes and grin.

  “No way,” I say, shaking the rain from my fringe and out of my eyes. We are under a canopy but it’s still hammering at the roof and pooling in puddles just outside our little sanctuary.

  “Tie?” Rye says, his eyes pleading and giving me a feeling that makes me want to simultaneously faint and lean over to kiss him. (If that were possible . . . It should so be possible for this very moment.)

  We sit breathing for a while. I glance sideways at his smooth skin and defined chest, the few tiny hairs sprouting from the V in his T-shirt. I guess him and Eric hang out at the gym together. I look back at my own body and feel mega self-conscious about what Rye would think of it.

  “You wanna go first or should I?” he asks, getting his water bottle from his bag and taking a swig.

  “I’ll go,” I say. “I once went to prison for grand theft auto.”

  Rye looks at me with his mouth open and his eyes round like the full moon.

  I hold his gaze for as long as I can and then crack up laughing. He takes a moment and then is laughing too.

  “You’re so weird,” Rye says between laughs. “In the best way.”

  I blush but I don’t think he notices because he’s still laughing.

  “But seriously, what’s your secret?” he asks once he has calmed down.

  “To be honest? I kind of told you it last night . . .” I say.

  “Moving here, you mean?” Rye asks, suddenly serious.

  “Uh-huh. I didn’t think I’d ever really talk about it. I figured I’d keep it hidden and try to lie low until I was old enough to leave home and find a place of my own. High school’s nearly over. College next, so depending on where I end up, I’ll hopefully either get a scholarship and head to a dorm or I’ll go and work and rent a room or something.”

  Rye looks at me with something deeper than sadness. It’s not pity either. Maybe it’s empathy pure and simple, but it looks like he wants to hug me. I sit on my hands to stop them from trembling.

  “Fin, is it really that bad . . . ? At home, I mean . . .”

  “I . . . I mean I love my parents and . . .” My throat becomes tight and I realise I sound a bit like Kermit the Frog. I cough to pull myself together. “I know they love me . . . I know that. They just don’t understand. They . . .” I rub my face. “You know one of the things my dad said to me when he first found out?”

  Rye shakes his head and his soft, sad smile encourages me to go on.

  “He said, ‘Life is hard enough, I don’t want it to be any harder than it needs to be for you.’”

  We both sit quietly for a second.

  “Maybe he doesn’t realise that the thing that’s making life really hard for you right now, is him?” Rye says.

  I can only nod in reply and, when I’m sure Rye isn’t looking, I brush a tear from the corner of my eye. I don’t want him to think I’m a complete mess of a human.

  Rye goes to stand.

  “Wait. Your turn,” I say, standing to face him. “It was a tie remember?”

  “I know,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “Not here, though. Are you free tonight?”

  My heart skips a beat. “Yeah.”

  “Meet me at Kettle Lake at seven, deal?”

  He puts his hand out for me to shake. And, because I’m feeling bolder than usual, I peck the top of it like he’s the Queen of England now.

  *

  After school I practically run the entire way home. I haven’t felt this buzzed since that one time when I drank four Red Bulls and ate a double pack of Pop Rocks and nearly collapsed. It’s no longer raining but the humidity clings to my skin like a wet blanket.

  When I get home there’s a car I don’t recognise in our drive. The house smells of expensive perfume and I hear a high-pitched squeal from the living room as I walk through the hall.

  “Fin Whittle, as I live and breathe, how tall have you got?”

  I groan as I instantly recognise the voice of Mum’s friend, Alison Lane. They met back in grade school and have been in solid competition with each other ever since. When Alison go
t a minivan for her four kids, Mum suddenly got a new compact van for me and Elliot – totally unnecessary as Elliot was already driving and I caught the bus to school. When Alison got her hair done in a Katie Holmes bob, Mum did the same but instead somehow looked like she’d had her hair cut with a ceiling fan. Alison now conveniently lives in the next town over (yay for us) and helped with the move when we left Pittford.

  I take a deep breath. “Hey, Mrs Lane,” I say as she pulls me in for a hug and a kiss on each cheek. Great. Now I’ve got lipstick on my face.

  “Your mum and I were just talking about Lorna from Pittford Parish.”

  “Lorna? Elliot’s ex?”

  “Exactly – apparently, she’s gone les-bi-an.” She enunciates the three syllables of lesbian like it’s the most difficult word in the world.

  Mum appears behind her. “Ali, your tea is getting cold.”

  This makes zero sense considering Alison has been talking to me for less than two minutes, but I’m glad for the rescue.

  “Oh hey, I was just telling Fin here about Lorna,” she stage whispers, conspiratorially. I must have cringed because next thing she’s snapping at me, “Fin, dear, do stop it before the wind changes.”

  Mum looks fearful like she’s expecting dancing unicorns in rainbow-striped socks to prance down the hall at the very mention of the word les-bi-an.

  “Nice to see you, Mrs Lane,” I say before heading up the stairs to my room.

  I’m at the base of the ladder when I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find Mum.

  “Fin, I . . .” she starts, then stops. “I’m sorry.”

  I blink, swallow and try to figure out what would be more beneficial: responding, or climbing the ladder and throwing myself back down it.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “For letting her . . . For letting Alison go on like that,” Mum says, scrunching up her forehead as if only just realising how intensely awkward it all was. “I just . . . Forget it.”

  “No, what?” I ask.

  “I . . . I just don’t know how to do this . . . Any of this.”

  I’m stumped, out of words. I genuinely have no idea how to respond. Part of me wants to yell at her. She’s my mum and it’s not my job to make life easier for her. I don’t get why I have to navigate for my parents while working everything out for myself, too.

  But instead I just nod and head up to my room.

  I shuffle some boxes around, certain I’ll unpack more soon, and sift through my clothes box until I find my skinny jeans, a grey T-shirt and a burgundy sloppy sweater. I then get changed, lace my Converse up, throw on a grey slouch beanie and some fingerless gloves and head back down the ladder.

  When I get outside Dad is just arriving home. His tie is loose and half of his shirt is untucked and scrunched up at the side.

  I wave and he smiles. I’m relieved; he’s in a good mood.

  “Where are you off to?” he asks, brushing some dust off of his trouser leg.

  “Just into town,” I say.

  “Meeting Poppy?”

  “Nope, just thought it’d be good to take a walk before dinner.”

  “All right, then.” He looks over my shoulder and groans. “Please tell me Alison is not in there.”

  I smile. Dad and I always used to laugh at how ridiculously conservative she is. (Yes, highly ironic now considering Dad carted us to a new town because he found out I like dudes.)

  “She’s in a mood. Have fun.”

  18

  Rye

  Of all the days for Mum to look after Barney – a Saint Bernard that belongs to one of her tarot clients – today was not the day. The giant fluffy mess reminds me of Cujo (if Cujo didn’t kill people), and I love all eighty-two kilos of him, but the last thing I needed when I walked out of my room, feeling good in my checked Sherpa jacket, black jeans and Timberland boots, was to be given a slobbery kiss from Barney.

  “Fuck,” I yell, holding his ginormous head back and scratching his ears.

  “Language,” Mum says, appearing from a closet by the dining room as if by magic.

  “Sorry but – hey can you – just . . . it’s . . . maybe don’t . . . BARNEY.”

  His big dopey eyes look up at me and he flumps down on his belly.

  “Oooh, you’ve done it now B-man,” Mum says, grabbing some white vinegar and baking soda from the kitchen shelf and dabbing it on my T-shirt while Thelma runs over and sits by my feet, looking down at Barney like the teacher’s pet that she is.

  “Thanks,” I say to Mum who is already luring Barney away from me with a YumYummy dog cookie she buys in bulk from the farmer’s market. Thelma looks on with jealousy burning in her eyes, a feeling I try to ease by giving her a legendary ear scratch.

  “Where are you off to this fine evening?” Mum says.

  “Poppy,” I say, avoiding eye contact.

  “Poppy?” Mum says, shutting the door as Barney attempts to bound back inside.

  “Yep.” I’m still attempting to avoid meeting her gaze for longer than a moment. I don’t want to talk to her about Fin just yet.

  “Interesting,” Mum says, barely blinking.

  I give her a look that says, What are you talking about?

  “It’s just I saw Isla when I went to McElroy’s tonight to pick up some chips and she said Poppy was –”

  “Eric,” I say. “I’m going to see Eric.” Another lie, I know. But I don’t really feel like talking about Fin right now, especially as we’re just hanging out as friends.

  Mum doesn’t say anything for what feels like an hour.

  “Right,” she says at last, nodding slowly.

  “Yep.”

  “Are you and Eric . . . you know, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure,” I say, grabbing my phone from the bench, giving Thelma one final chin rub and a kiss on the nose and heading out the front door.

  From the top of our street I can see the sunset start to dip below the horizon and cast an orange glow that looks like the sky is on fire. From up here I can see McElroy’s Fish & Chippie and a couple of old fishermen casting off from the wharf.

  I take a left down Briar Avenue and follow it past the mechanic’s. The owner, Roy, walks like a duck and spits when he talks like he’s fresh from the Wild West. I give him a wave and nearly jump into the bushes when a loud honk erupts from behind me. I’m convinced I’m about to be bonnet-rolled by a truck.

  “Doctor Jones” by Aqua is blasting on the stereo as I turn to look and see Poppy, laughing her head off.

  “You’re so jumpy,” she says, throwing her head back to laugh silently like that old Muttley cartoon dog.

  “Yes, Pops, it’s called anxiety, remember?” I say, opening the door and getting in. She owes me a ride to Kettle Lake for nearly making me literally shit my pants in the middle of the street.

  “God, you’re funny, Rye-bread.”

  I roll my eyes and open the window; the air caressing my face is the best feeling I’ve had all day.

  “Can you drop me near the lake?” I ask.

  “Okey smokey,” she says, taking a cigarette from the glove compartment and lighting it.

  “Ew,” I say, taking it out of her hand and butting it out in the pull-out ashtray.

  “Hey!”

  “No, don’t even. It’s 2020, and that habit is disgusting.”

  “Sheesh. Who made you the anti-smoking police?”

  “I just would love to inhale the fresh air without that filth blowing all over my face.”

  Poppy lets out a snort. “Speaking of blowing all over your face . . . You off to meet Eric?”

  She’s a disgrace, but I love her. “No, actually. I’m meeting Fin.”

  Poppy’s eyes light up but before she can get too carried away, I change the conversation.

  “I’m definitely heading to Eric’s tomorrow, by the way. The guy deserves a second chance.”

  The spark seems to dim in her eyes but she keeps talking. “He
ad-ing to Eric’s?”

  “My god, you’re gross,” I say. It’s not that I don’t find it kinda funny talking about that stuff, but I can’t find the fun in it when she talks about Eric. I feel so much pressure around him and it takes all the excitement away.

  “And you’re a repressed prude,” Poppy says, grabbing another cigarette from the glove compartment and lighting it before I can snatch it away.

  I feign an asthma attack and she slaps me on the arm. I give in. Poppy always wins.

  “Why are they called ‘glove compartments’?” Poppy asks as she snaps it shut. “There’s nothing but the car manual in there.”

  “It used to be for gloves I guess. You know, driving gloves.” I pause. “But then, don’t you think cars should come with gloves if that’s the case?”

  “You’re truly weird,” Poppy says.

  “No, I’m not. It’s that putrid smoke messing with my thought process.”

  “Or Fin.”

  I turn and glare at her.

  “Oh, come on Rye. Don’t act like you haven’t thought about him. About those big eyes. That big –”

  “Jesus, Poppy. What is wrong with you tonight?”

  “– smile, Rye. His big smile. But thanks for sharing where your mind is at.” She does this over-exaggerated wink and I crack a smile. Poppy needs to be on TV. Or in an asylum. Or in an asylum on TV.

  *

  Poppy drops me off at the old dirt path that leads up towards Kettle Lake and suddenly I’m nervous. I don’t know why. It’s not like Fin and I have ever said more than a few words to each other. He’s only been here a week or so. We don’t call each other and dissect new Netflix series like me and Poppy or have Skype sing-along sessions like me and June.

  Yet here I am, walking in the direction of a place I’ve been coming to my entire life, like it’s perched atop a sheer cliff.

  The sun is practically gone, but you wouldn’t know it. Everything is glowing orange and the trees feel alive. I know my mum’s hippie ways have rubbed off on me, but I’m actually really stoked. I take off my shoes so I can walk barefoot. Nothing beats being outside in this. The sound of the lake in the distance gets my heart going and, sure enough, as I round the corner I see Fin.