One Snowy Week in Springhollow

by Lucy Knott

  They discuss every single detail about Devon’s spandex-clad bod, his workout routine, and the awesomeness of his cape, while I silently applaud Hope for asking such great questions. She really is a natural at these interviews and knows the perfect questions to ask. I think she’s right: this article will no doubt do our small magazine wonders. It’s hard not to get washed away by all the movie buzz and behind-the-scenes sneak peeks that Devon is giving us.

  I find myself drifting in and out of the past and present, excitement zipping through my veins when it hits me that Devon is a part of one of the movie franchises we used to watch growing up. Hope’s passion has created this relaxed and safe space and I wonder if this, if the three of us sat chatting like this, would have made the rest of high school and college a happier experience for me. With that thought a pain pierces my chest, slicing through any daydream of what could have been and reminding me of what is and what was.

  ‘So, Devon, you grew up here in Springhollow and moved to New York when you were sixteen. What was your childhood like?’ Hope asks in her confident and velvety voice, surprising me with this much more personal question. The topic of superheroes, though a part of me secretly loved hearing about it all, was painful enough.

  Devon’s eyes glance over at me for the first time in over twenty minutes and for the first time in ten years I feel as though someone is looking at me, like really looking at me, but I feel like a fraud. I’m wearing a dress my mum bought for me and the days of knowing every move a superhero makes are long since behind me, and I have no idea who this suave and well-dressed man in front of me is. We’ve finished talking about superheroes now; surely we can leave. I shift uncomfortably in my chair and tug at the hemline of the stiff dress. Why isn’t he as sweaty and awkward as I am?

  I try to cross one leg over the other, suddenly feeling inadequate sandwiched between my glamorous best friend and refined ex best friend. I interlace my fingers over my knee. My back has gone surfboard straight. ‘Did you have a rough childhood, Mr Wood? Did our lovely town here suffocate you, threaten to hinder your talents; your need for big and better opportunities sending you on your way?’ The questions tumble out without my consent and very much without Hope’s. I hear her gulp beside me. I barely recognise the tight and angry tone in my own voice. Who knew I could be so mean? But I’m starting to feel extremely off-kilter and claustrophobic with Hope’s change in direction, though I know I’ve just made it worse. I glare at Devon, struggling to keep the light smile on my face.

  He meets my gaze and that blush creeps back into his cheeks, then he checks his watch. A stir of anger swishes around in my belly. A moment ago, I wanted to get out of here, but for some reason now I’ve asked the questions, I want answers. I want to hear the painful truths even if it’s only going to hurt me more. Him checking his watch and wanting to run makes me clench my fists.

  Hope lets out a nervous giggle and attempts a subtle elbow to my bicep. It stings but I ignore it, waiting for Devon’s answer.

  ‘You would be right, Hope. I lived in a house opposite the park, which was where I spent most of my days, playing superhero. I loved it here. I was sixteen, yes, when my parents decided to move to Long Island,’ Devon answers smoothly, taking his eyes off me and giving his full attention back to Hope. He completely ignores my questions and that only makes the rustles of anger in my stomach grow.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful park. Do you miss Springhollow? Did you miss it when you were a kid, or did New York instantly win you over?’ Hope asks, her tone keen and interested.

  Devon’s lips purse. He does that thing again where he brushes his knuckles over his pout indicating he’s thinking. He used to do the same thing when we were teenagers when he was deep in scheming our next stunt.

  ‘Our town seems rather dull in comparison to the bright lights and glam of New York, wouldn’t you agree? I mean you’ve been gone for ten years. I’m sure New York had everything you ever needed. You had no reason to look back, I assume?’ I ask, my voice hard. I receive another elbow from Hope for my input, which hurts worse the second time – I will definitely have a bruise there in the morning – but this time Devon doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay trained on Hope’s.

  ‘I do, I miss it very much and I missed it back then too, but New York certainly has a magic to it that pulls you in,’ Devon responds before making a subtle swirling motion with his hand that I take to mean “can we wrap this up?” because as soon as he does this the man behind the camera makes a hand gesture to Hope, which Hope registers, shuffles her papers and launches into her closing monologue.

  ‘Well, thank you so much for talking with us today, Devon. Good luck with your movie and we hope you can enjoy some of the magic Springhollow has to offer, for old time’s sake, during your stay.’

  What was that? Do people now just bow down to Devon’s every whim? He didn’t answer all our questions and I know for a fact his parents brought him up better than that. How rude. People rustle over, unclipping microphones and praising Devon for his answers.

  ‘You did great.’

  ‘Perfect, warm, charming – the village will eat it up.’

  I’m gobsmacked.

  The minute I’m relieved of my tiny microphone I jump out of my chair. The lady with the clipboard pulls Hope aside with nothing but compliments and I move away quickly from the spotlight. As I bend down to pick up my beanie from where Hope threw it, a shadow looms over me.

  ‘You’re wearing a dress,’ Devon says softly.

  His words catch me off guard and for all the frustration, confusion, and heat coursing through my body, I freeze. I turn around, coming face to chest. I forget that now I have raise my gaze to the heavens if I want to look Devon in the eye.

  ‘No sh…’ I go to say but Devon is waving his hands over his suit and there’s something different in his smile that wasn’t there in front of the cameras. Then my brain clicks. He remembered.

  ‘And you’re wearing a suit,’ I reply, stammering over my words. He’s wearing slim grey trousers and a grey blazer over a white shirt. It’s fitted and shows he has filled out. Something flutters in my belly and I hurriedly look away as someone shouts to Devon before bustling over and tugging at his arm to try and take him away, taking no notice or bother of me or the fact that we might have been talking. I’m reminded of my irritation and the fact that Devon is no longer the boy I once knew.

  ‘I’m not a fan of suits,’ I say quickly and quietly and turn to secure my bag. I rush to the door, exit the party room and wait for Hope at the bar. The air in the pub feels a lot less stuffy than in the back room and my shoulders instantly uncurl.

  ‘Just like old times, huh?’ I look up from staring at my feet and see Ryan leaning on the bar, a rag over his shoulder and a grin on his clean-shaven boyish face. Ryan went to the same primary school and high school as Devon and me. His family own this pub so he always knew he would take over one day, having helped here since he was old enough. He’s the kind of cool guy who got on with everyone back in school. He was even nice to me and Devon, though we had nothing in common and the other popular kids liked to tease us. He didn’t exactly stand up for us, but he never joined in.

  ‘Something like that,’ I mumble.

  ‘I have to admit I used to think you guys were a little geeky, but I give credit where credit’s due – your man’s made a name for himself,’ Ryan says, with a cool chuckle and a contemplative tilt of his head. ‘Who would have thought? Hollywood,’ he adds, shaking his head in disbelief.

  I’m about to argue that Devon is not my boy, my dude nor my friend and certainly not my man, when Hope bursts from the room, looking like a Christmas angel, her eyes starry, happiness radiating off her and like she has an aura of white light surrounding her. I blink. ‘What took you so long?’ I ask, agitated. She turns to wave at Ryan and links my arm, finally guiding us out of the pub and into the refreshing air.

  ‘Devon just wanted to thank me again and ask a few questions of his own,’ she says l
ike Christmas has come early. I feared she was going to be mad at me for my outbursts and butting in but she’s walking with such a giddy spring in her step that I’m struggling to keep up. ‘I have to go and tell Jess everything,’ she exclaims when her road comes up. She lives on the street before the bakery while I live on the street after it.

  ‘OK, have fun,’ I say, as she hugs and kisses me quickly and dashes down her street, making me think I got away with my high-brow interview input.

  ‘We’ll talk on Monday about your interview etiquette,’ she shouts as I watch her run up her path. Shoot, maybe not.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I shout back before walking the short distance to my house, feeling grateful that goldfish can’t talk because I have a giant headache.

  5

  I pull my duvet off my head, grateful that it’s Saturday and I have nowhere to be. The sky outside is a hazy light blue with a grey tinge and I cross my fingers for snow. It’s been years since we had a white Christmas. I glance at my alarm clock: six-thirty. I mustn’t stay in bed for too long as today I have to bake. What I’m planning is shaping up to be quite the task and, so far, I’ve only made a small dent. I wriggle and do a happy horizontal dance at the thought of filling my house with the smell of gingerbread and spending the day in my winter wonderland with nothing but Christmas on my mind. The bitter taste that yesterday left on my tongue shall be washed away with a homemade iced peppermint latte and some Christmas tunes.

  A hammering on my front door startles me, disrupting my leisurely state as I shoot upright and my heart rate spikes. Who on earth is making such a racket this early on a Saturday? The hammering is growing louder and incessant and fear floods my whole body. Has something happened to Hope or Jess? Oh God, my parents, when did they say they were they flying home? Planes make me nervous.

  I clamber out of my cosy king bed and cross my bedroom in two strides. My bedroom is my favourite room in my house. It consists of my giant bed and that’s pretty much it – well that and potted cacti plants in each corner and hundreds of hand-sewn and stitched cushions and pillows, a few throws and a couple of candles adorning my window ledge. It’s my safe place, my haven, and I adore it, but the knocking is throwing off its usual calming ambience.

  I bolt down the stairs to the door as fast as I can, my cool wooden floorboards chilling my feet with every step.

  The knocking isn’t relenting so I shout, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ before opening the door mid-sentence, ‘Hope, is everything al…’ My voice trails off when I clock that it’s not Hope or Jess stood at my door but all six foot four inches of Devon Wood, new Hollywood heartthrob, celebrity, superhero and my former best friend.

  I tense from my shoulders down to my toes. My eyes simply cannot get used to seeing Devon dressed in tailored trousers, which are a deep grey and black gingham this morning, and a fitted blazer to match. He fills my doorframe. I know for sure I am doing a fine impression of a howler monkey. I can’t close my mouth. What’s wrong with me?

  ‘Sup?’ Devon says, in a dorky, awkward way, his shoulders hunching a little as he breaks the silence.

  I snap my mouth shut and shake my head. I used to hear those words every day from a nerdy, hoodie-wearing boy, with wavy hair and enough energy for the both of us. The words don’t match the mature, cool man in front of me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I manage, as the wind whips around me and chills my lungs.

  ‘Hope gave me your address and I had to see you,’ Devon replies, with a touch less chill and sophistication in his tone than he had yesterday. He crosses his arms over his chest making his blazer strain against his biceps. I had been praying for snow this morning. He looks cold and my legs feel as though they have turned to icicles with the door wide open.

  I shakily step aside and gesture for him to come in. He hesitates slightly then moves his eyes away from mine, looking ahead like he’s nervous, before stepping into the hallway. My hand trembles as I close the door behind me while Devon takes his shoes off.

  Once he’s placed them neatly by my shoes, I lead him into the living room. It’s still relatively dark so I walk over to the coffee table and turn on the lamp before walking over to my Christmas tree and turning it on too.

  *

  ‘When I’m big, I’m going to buy all the awesome superhero ornaments in the shops that my mum never lets me buy,’ I tell Devon as we sit at the base of my tree and ogle the presents underneath it, trying to guess what they are with our x-ray vision.

  ‘Me too. When we have our own house, it will be so cool. No one will tell us what to do. Our Christmas tree will be the best,’ Devon replies, flicking an ordinary gold bauble with his finger and watching it sway on the branch. My mum likes her tree elegant and themed; it’s always all gold and silver, and it’s rare that she lets my sticky six-year-old fingers help decorate it.

  *

  I absent-mindedly graze my fingertips over a plain silver bauble before turning to look at Devon. Strangely enough, something about him and his broad frame making my modest living room seem tiny makes me feel like all is right with the world once more. He adds something to my colourful, clean space but I’m not exactly sure what.

  ‘What was all that about yesterday, Scar?’ he asks, interrupting my thoughts. The only person who has called me “Scar” in the last ten years has been my dad. I move to the couch and take a seat, picking up a cushion and cuddling it to my chest as I tuck my feet up underneath myself in need of comfort and security. I don’t feel Ed would appreciate me scooping him out of his bowl for cuddles.

  ‘What was all what about?’ I retort, with a whole mix of stubbornness and fake innocence. If he’s referring to my outburst of questions, I stand by that I had every right to ask them.

  Devon stays put, standing by my coffee table, his brown eyes wide, glaring at me.

  ‘It was a professional interview with cameras present and media personnel. You can’t do that,’ he explains, a hardness to his voice that I’m not accustomed to hearing from him.

  ‘I’m very sorry that I embarrassed you in front of a room full of people. I have absolutely no idea what that feels like,’ I say, my voice coming out a little higher, with sarcastic undertones, as memories of high school come flooding back. I squeeze my cushion tighter.

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve never embarrassed you.’ Devon’s voice comes out softer; concern flashes across his face. In one stride he’s sat on the couch next to me. I kick my feet out from underneath myself.

  ‘Really, D? You think that when you left, high school became a delightful paradise and all of a sudden Ruby took pity on me and her days of embarrassing me were magically over?’ I scoff, looking over to my tree. The headache from last night that I had managed to cure this morning with wonderful Christmassy thoughts is returning.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replies, slowly. The care in his voice irks me. I focus on the glittering tinsel. ‘I just thought, maybe with growing up…’ he starts.

  I turn back to look at him. ‘What? That they’d all just snap out of it, be nice to me and accept me?’ I enquire, gripping the cushion tighter still, trying to resist the urge to whack Devon across the head with it. I don’t think the new and mature Devon would appreciate that, though the urge is terrifyingly strong.

  ‘People can change,’ he offers in return; his hands look as though they are about to reach out and touch my knees before he thinks better of it and retracts them. I let out a breath that had apparently got stuck as I watched his movement. I shrug, not having a response to that. Thanks to the man before me, I’m not all that keen on change. While yes, the idea of Ruby changing overnight into someone whose main objection in life was not to make fun of me would have been pretty swell, I’d have preferred some things to have simply stayed the same, like my protection and sidekick not up and deserting me.

  ‘You seem like you’ve done well for yourself though. You work at the magazine – that’s cool. Are you drawing for them? I’ve kept an eye out for your comics, but
I wasn’t sure if you’d changed your name. Do you have a pen name?’ With each question Devon asks, I get a glimpse of the old, enthusiastic Devon, who loves to talk and often does so with his hands. It’s unnerving. It can’t be this simple; opening up, chatting as if we were still sixteen, skirting over the fact that our lives are now worlds apart and have been for ten years. Am I supposed to just fill in the blanks and forget the past?

  ‘D, I can’t do this. Congratulations on your movie, on your life. I’m so happy it’s all worked out for you. I really am, but you left,’ I say, standing up and making towards the living room door. ‘You left and we’re different people now,’ I add, as I get to the door. Him thinking that my life turned out exactly as I had planned makes the disappointment I have in myself stir in my gut; it’s extremely unpleasant.

  ‘You never wrote back,’ Devon says, his words coming out quiet and vulnerable, making something twinge in my heart. I stop moving and go to retaliate, to make an excuse. He’s the one who hurt me, who lied and didn’t tell me he was leaving, but I come up empty. It had been too hard. I didn’t want to be pen pals; I wanted him with me. I couldn’t skateboard, deal with the school bullies or go to parties with a pen pal.

  ‘It was easier that way,’ I mumble, barely audible, not quite believing myself. Had it really been easier living a life pretending that Devon didn’t exist? No superheroes. No comic books. Had it all been worth it? If life had been better without him then why did I still think about him? Why did I struggle every year on the anniversary of his departure?

  ‘Easier?’ he scoffs. ‘Easier, for who?’ D murmurs. I don’t turn around; his voice sounds so defeated and hurt and it’s all because of me.

  ‘I’m going to make coffee,’ I splutter and shuffle into the kitchen. My familiar friend guilt is back. When I was sixteen, I hadn’t thought about how hard it would have been for Devon to leave. All I had heard was great opportunity this, fantastic opportunity that, and that New York had the most amazing schools. I didn’t listen to Devon saying he would miss me. I skimmed over the part in the letter where he talked about visiting. All I knew was that the person who had been by my side for sixteen years wasn’t by my side anymore and that it was painful, for me. He had hurt me.