The boy’s hair was short, a little unruly at the top, and looked like he’d tried to spike it with product but failed. His eyes… well it was hard to see what colour they were because of the heavy, black frames and thick lenses like the bottom of a glass bottle that covered them. I think they’re green. His skin is sprinkled with acne spots, and he has thin lips, squished tightly together in a wide, closed-mouth smile.
“What the ‘eck do you think you are doing?”
He shrugs his shoulders in response but doesn’t utter a word. Looking down at the floor, he shoves the sand around with the toe of his Nike trainer—expensive Nike trainers by the looks of it. The football shorts that he’s wearing are crisp white with blue and yellow bits. I’m not sure if is for an actual team because I hate football. His skinny legs are ghostly white. If it weren’t for the coloured stripe around the ankle, you wouldn’t be able to tell where his legs stop and his white socks begin.
“Do you think it’s okay just to grab someone like that when you don’t even know them?” I snark.
His thick eyebrows push together as he scowls, making them into a monobrow.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” I push further.
Shaking his head in exasperation, he lets out a deep sigh. With his lips parting in a sarcastic grin, I see that his mouth is crammed with metal braces. Thick bands of wire crisscross his protruding teeth making me wonder how he manages to shut his mouth at all. I’m just about to say something else when he spins around, showing me his back, and walks away.
“Hey,” I shout. “Hey,” I shout again as I take off after him. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you any manners?”
I try to pick up speed, but in my heavy Doc Martin boots, my feet just keep sinking and sliding in the fine sand. When at arm’s length, I reach forward and grab a handful of his T-shirt and pull, spinning him around to face me.
“If someone asks you a question, it’s only polite to answer it.”
Wriggling free, he takes off again, but I’m determined not to let him get away. He’s quick on his feet, but I have longer legs which counters the sinking boot problem, so it doesn’t take me long to catch up with him again.
I don’t know why I’m bothering really, but I’ve been bored stupid in this god forsaken teeny, tiny seaside town. Everyone seems to be old, and well, he is the first person I’ve seen anywhere near my age group. The fact he’s a boy is a little disappointing, but beggars can’t be choosers. It wouldn’t have been half as bad if he was good-looking, but that’s just my luck.
I speed up into a jog, passing him but then turning around abruptly in front of him so he has to stop, otherwise he’d run straight into me.
“What’s your rush?” I pant a little out of breath. “You from around here?”
He nods. Then sighs. A quick side step and he’s running up the beach and disappears out of sight between two sand dunes.
“Rude!” I shout after him, but I doubt if he’s heard it. He’s well gone, and I can’t be bothered chasing after him.
I flop down onto the sand and smack the surface with my hands in frustration. Something sharp catches the tip of one of my fingers, and I look down to find a cream-coloured shell, covered in flecks of gold, brown and black. I flip it over to find a multicoloured pearl effect on the inside that shimmers when caught in the sunlight. I run my fingers over the rippled surface, knocking off any remaining sand, then slide it into my pocket. It’s not quite as pretty as the one I saw earlier on the rocks, but it will be a nice addition to my small, but growing collection. Pushing up onto my feet, I decide to make my way back to the holiday cottage because there’s always tomorrow to look for more.
Chapter Two
Samson
Samson aka Samson; because his mother insists on everyone using his full given name.
(Pronounced Sam-sun as in Sun Child, bright like the sun.)
I feel a bit weird watching her as she walks across the rocks, getting closer and closer to where they disappear under the lapping sea. I can’t help it: she looks so out of place, so… different.
Her hair is dark purple, almost black—long, straight and thick, hanging way past her shoulders and shielding her face. She wears ripped and tattered, dark faded jeans and a loose, baggy shirt that looks so well worn that it has undoubtedly been black once but has almost faded to grey. A chain hangs down from the waistband of her jeans at the front and scoops around to the back, disappearing under the hem of the shirt. I assume it is fixed to a belt of some kind. The thick heavy boots that come part way up her lower leg might look sturdy, but they won’t help her grip on the green algae that coats everything where she’s currently standing. I should know. The three-inch scar below my left kneecap is still pink and raised from the last fall I had. It’s just a matter of time before she slips.
She looks so determined to get to something that has caught her eye. Edging further and further forwards it, totally transfixed. She doesn’t even know I’m here, or how close to her I am. I can see that she is starting to slide on the slime, so I move fast and catch her, bringing her back onto the firmer sand. What does she do? Shouts and screams at me. How ungrateful. So, I get out of there, quick time, not hanging around for more abuse.
I wonder if she’ll be there tomorrow?
Chapter Three
Darcie
After breakfast, Dad starts to make his way down to the small wooden summer house at the bottom of the garden, laptop tucked firmly under his arm, pencil stuck behind one ear and a pen behind the other. This keeps his hands free for his A4 note pad and a large mug of steaming hot coffee.
“I’ll see you later Darcie,” he shouts, waving the hand still clutching the notepad.
“Dad,” I growl at him.
“Sorry, sorry. Darc,” he corrects himself, using the name that I insist on being called. “Stay out of trouble and be back by five.”
Some would criticize his ability to parent, leaving me to my own devices while he slopes off to finish his latest literary masterpiece. Let them, Dad does his best and has done since Mum died of breast cancer two years ago. It had been cruel and hard on both of us, but it has brought us closer in a lot of ways, yet both of us happy to have our own space due to our undeniable differences. It’s made our relationship work. He is slightly eccentric with a mind and imagination that takes him God only knows where, whereas, I am—as some would say—a typical dark, and moody, sulky teenager: a Goth. However, I would say I’m an individual, non-conforming young adult who has a distinctive taste in music.
Anyway, what ‘s going to happen in this boring old town? It’s not like I can get lost, or abducted—unless it’s by aliens. Besides, most people take one look at me and give me a wide birth. Even though the kids at school try to intimidate and bully me, I ignore them. It still hurts sometimes, though. All they see is the coloured hair, the black lipstick, the pierced nose and instantly assume I’m trouble. The latter is just a fake nose ring, but as soon as I’m sixteen, I’m getting it done for real.
I don’t let judgmental people get to me. This is me, and I can take care of myself.
I make my way down to the sea front because today is the day I’ll find something special. I can feel it.
Chapter Four
Samson
My father is at his London office until the weekend. Lucky for me, my mother has declared no schooling today. This can only mean that she’s off to help the Vicar with church matters. Wicked. Two days in a row is a rarity. I’ve been home-schooled for as long as I can remember. Mum say’s it’s easier that way as the nearest decent school is nearly forty miles away. It was either that or boarding school, but mum wasn’t having any of that.
She is well educated. In fact, before I was born, she worked in the financial district of London. It was at that time that my parents met when they were both living in London. My father, now a partner in one of the big law firms, had just graduated university and was ready to work hard to gain a name for himself. According to mum, i
t was love at first sight and from that moment they were inseparable. What really happened was that only a month or two into their relationship, she found out that she was pregnant with me. To this day, they think I don’t know the reason why they married, but I’ve seen the evidence—the certificates. I know the truth.
I’m sure they are just staying together out of some strange assumption that they must because of me—that I would fall apart and become some lost kid if they split up. So, my overprotective mother insists on continuing with the charade, at least until I’m no longer a child in the eyes of the law and have found my own way as an adult.
When I was born, they moved here to Seacove, on the south-east coast. It’s a relatively undiscovered area. Only around a hundred and thirty-five people live here, with about four to five hundred visitors a year. Many are the older generation, which is understandable because there is absolutely nothing to do. No bingo, no amusement arcade, not even a donkey on the beach. Seacove might be the prettiest, untouched seaside village in the whole of England, but it is also the place I so wish to escape.
If you stand on the balcony of our elevated house, you can see out to sea. A tiny dot of a person is walking across the beach, and I know it’s her. I watch for a few minutes as she walks, stops and bends down, picking something from the ground, before she moves on again.
Dare I?
Normally, I would way up the pros and cons before making any decisions, but for once I have no convictions. I want to see the girl with the attitude and the purple hair.
Quickly, I walk back into the living room, down the stairs and through the door that leads into the garage. I grab my bike and helmet and set off to the beach.
Chapter Five
Darcie
The beach is littered with tons of shells today, but most of them are much the same. I’m looking for the ones that stand out from the rest—ones that are different to add to my collection. I’ve found two or three so far, but nothing like the one that was just out of my reach yesterday. The shape of it was typically cone—the type that when you hold it to your ear, you are meant to be able to hear the sea. It was the colouring that had drawn me to it: whiter than white background that only made the markings stand out all the more. It started off almost black at the base, then to a deep blue, then grey, getting smaller and lighter to the tip, until it was almost like silver glitter. When the sunlight hit it, it had sparkled like nothing I’d seen before.
Every time I’ve seen the tip of a similar shaped shell, I’ve gently dug into the sand around it, popping it free, only to be disappointed. I’d found one similar, but with a pale pink colouring. It was kind of cool, but I’m not really a pink girl.
I’m tempted to try the rocks again—see if the shell is still there.
“Do it,” I say out loud to myself, fisting my hands and pumping them down towards the ground. I walk towards the shoreline with a sense of urgency and determination.
Suddenly, the feeling of being watched has me stopping in my tracks. I know it’s him before I’ve even turned around. The Boy.
Chapter Six
Samson
I stand watching her for a few moments, not sure what to say. She puts her hand across her forehead, to shade her eyes against the morning sun. One eye open, one eye closed making it look like she’s winking at me.
“Hi,” I managed to get out, but it’s so quiet and she doesn’t respond. So, I decide to say it again, but louder. “Hi.”
“I heard you the first time,” she replies with an air of cockiness.
“Oh.” I look to my feet only to find myself shuffling about, a sign of my nervousness. Vocabulary silence hangs between us, only the sound of the sea and the gulls squawking can be heard. At least I manage to meet her gaze, determined not to look away first.
“What you looking for?” I ask, knowing that I need to push my shyness aside if I want to at least find out the girl’s name.
“Seashells.”
“You collect them?”
“Not really, but there’s not much else to do around here, is there?”
“I guess not,” I snicker. “There’s millions of shells around. Bucket loads.”
“Yeah, but I’m looking for the ones that are different—the ones that stand out amongst the rest.”
“Right, that figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps back defensively.
“Well… it’s… you know,” I gesture at the way she looks—the way she’s dressed. “You’re sort of different yourself; you stand out.” Her face looks like thunder. “Not that that’s a bad thing.” I hold my hands up as if surrendering. “In fact, I think you look cool.”
“I’d prefer badass, but I’ll take it.”
Her arrogance is tainted by the blush that sweeps across her cheeks. She tries to hide it by dropping her head forward, so the vail of dark purple hair falls further across her face.
“You nearly fell yesterday. I caught you and you didn’t even say thanks.”
“I was fine. Besides, I’d have only got a bit wet.”
I take a few steps closer to her. “Look.” Balancing on one leg, I bring up my knee, showing her the thick scar that runs just under my knee cap and although partially healed, it still looks pink and a little sore. “Those rocks are lethal. I should know: I’ve fallen that many times.” I hop a few times giving her time to look, before putting my foot back onto the ground. “What was it that you were reaching for anyway?”
“A shell.”
“There’s millions of shells, right here on the beach.” I lean down and pluck one from the sand and hold it out to her. “See?”
“Yes but…” She takes it from my outstretch hand and holds it up. “It’s boring. It’s just like all the other trillions of shells. The one I saw caught between the rocks was… different, special.”
“In what way?”
“The colours, and the shape. It was black, blue, silver.”
“Which?” I laugh.
“All of them. I’ve not got anything like that.”
“That’s kinda cool,” I reply nodding my head. “You want me help you look? Not on the rocks though.”
“Sure.”
We walk, and talk, looking for shells. Many times, I hold one up for her to check out. None of them are that special, but I don’t think she wants to hurt my feelings, so she pockets some of them anyway.
“Are you here on holiday?” I ask her.
“Yeah, sort of. My Dad’s a writer and on a deadline. He reckons that this is the perfect place for him to concentrate without any distractions. You?”
“I live here.” I stand next to her and point out my house on the horizon. “Just over there.”
“Wow! Nice house.”
“Thanks. Why aren’t you in school?”
“Dad took me out. Said even though it was term time, it worked out cheaper, even if they do slap him with a fine.”
I nod in agreement. Although, it doesn’t apply to me, I’d seen people talking about it on breakfast TV.
“What about you. Why aren’t you in school?”
“I’m home-schooled by my mum. She’s gone to help the vicar.”
“Are you one of those religious churchy people then?”
“My parents are, so I just go along with it.” I scrunch up my face, waiting for her to say something derogatory about it.
“My mum was too, but I don’t really believe in all that stuff.”
“She was?”
“Yeah. Mum passed away a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
She goes quiet, and I feel bad about bringing the conversation around to her mum, although I’m not sure how we got there in the first place.
“I’m Samson by the way. What’s your name?”
“Darcie, but I hate it. I preferred to be called Darc, as in The Dark Night, but spelt with a C.”
“Well that’s good to know.”
“Why? So, you do
n’t pee me off by calling me by my real name?”
“No, because when I ask you if you fancy an ice-cream, I can say… Hey Darc, do you fancy an ice-cream.”
“You’re weird do you know that?” she laughs.
I smile back at her waiting for a real answer to my question. She hesitates for a while before her mouth curls into the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. Her teeth are perfectly straight and white against her black painted lips. It makes me catch my breath.
“There’s a shop, over there,” I blurt out as I exhale, pointing to the yellow building in the distance. “I’ve got money, so my treat.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your favourite flavour?” I ask walking in front of her but backwards, so I can see her face.
“Der! Chocolate of course,” she snickers.
“Do you like orange?”
“Yeah, why?”
“They do the most delicious chocolate orange ice-cream,” I gush with excitement. “It’s not orange flavoured ice-cream with chocolate bits.” I put my hand on her arm stopping her and leave it there while I explain. “No, it’s creamy milk chocolate with orange flavour. Think Terry’s Chocolate Orange, melted and then morphed into ice-cream. It’s to die for.”
Her eyes drop to where my hand is still holding on to her. I pull it away quickly worried that I might have overstepped the mark again by touching her.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I notice that one is green, the other blue. I can’t help but look, captured by their stunning rarity.
Key to My Heart: An Anthology of Sweet Romance Page 25
