by Lucy Knott
*
‘Sssh, just don’t tell her, Scar,’ D pleads in a whisper.
‘She’s going to ask where your pocket money went and what am I supposed to say to my mum now?’ I ask, annoyed.
‘Just keep him hidden and don’t say anything. I’ll come and get him tomorrow. It won’t take long to clean my room.’ D goes over his spontaneous and terrible plan as he passes the hamster cage up to me whilst I’m balancing on the large tree branch outside my bedroom window. I could now add hamster smuggling to the list of things my mum could mark against me should she find out.
‘If my mum finds out, I swear I’ll…’ I start but D interrupts me.
‘Hey, this is all your fault in the first place. She wouldn’t be monitoring me cleaning my room if you hadn’t decided we try and make our own fireworks last week. Now she thinks I’m hiding all sorts of dangerous objects.’
I try and hide a laugh as I climb over the ledge and secure the hamster cage in my cupboard. I cover it with my clothes, leaving just enough light for the tiny creature when Devon walks through my bedroom door, his hands tucked inside his rustling pockets. I move to close the door behind him.
‘We did it. Right I’ve got to go, Scar. Please look after him,’ Devon says, handing me the little ball of fur.
‘You don’t have to worry about a thing, I’ve got your back. If I go down…’ I say, confidently.
‘I’m going down with you,’ Devon finishes with a nod. I smile. ‘Bye, Steve Rogers,’ Devon says to the hamster in a squeaky baby voice before heading home.
*
The words ‘I’m going down with you’ rattle around in my head as I stir lashings of cold milk and peppermint syrup into two mugs of coffee. I breathe in the aroma to try and calm my nerves. I never thought I’d be nervous around Devon but then I didn’t think I would ever see him again either and here we are. I tentatively walk back into my living room and hand Devon his coffee.
‘Thank you,’ he says, taking the handle. I place mine on the coffee table and sprinkle a few flakes into Eddie’s bowl, having not fed him yet this morning.
‘What’s his name?’ Devon asks as I give Eddie a one-finger wave through the glass before taking my seat.
‘Eddie,’ I say, leaning over to get my mug. I take a hearty sip. Devon quirks an eyebrow. It’s not exactly the Steve Rogers of names I know, but I like it. I keep my answer short as I watch my once-upon-a-time best friend in his smart attire smell the mug before hesitantly taking a sip. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve gone off peppermint coffee? We used to get it from Rolphs’ Bakery every Christmas,’ I say, somewhat amused by Devon’s actions.
‘It’s been a while,’ he replies, puckering his lips at the sweetness. The elephant in the room returns with a heavy thud. A part of me wants to brush ten years under the rug and it’s a huge part of me. I just want to let it all out and chit-chat, but the other part of me is terrified to do so.
‘I’ve missed you, Scar,’ Devon tells me after a minute’s silence. His eyes are trained on his coffee mug.
‘When do you leave?’ I hear myself asking and it comes out harder than I had intended. My wall goes up immediately, reminding me that catching up is not a good idea, not when I assume Devon is only visiting for a short while to make his documentary. Suddenly Devon’s bottom lip juts out slightly, which is the tell-tale sign that I may have gone too far, that Devon is sad, and he is close to tears. Devon is more emotional than me; he always has been. It takes a lot to make me cry, like my best friend leaving without warning, but I’d never let anyone see my tears. But Devon is not my best friend anymore. His tears won’t affect me now; my best friend duties are in the past.
‘I leave next Sunday,’ Devon informs me and I feel like I’m sixteen all over again. I pass my mug back and forth between my hands, taking turns to wipe away their clamminess on the cushion. ‘Maybe we can hang out?’ Devon pipes up, looking at me with his puppy-dog brown eyes.
I raise an eyebrow and slurp my coffee, going over this proposition. My thoughts are currently at war with each other. On the one hand I can’t fake the ease that keeps sneaking into my heart or the buzz of joy that keeps fluttering around in my stomach with being in Devon’s company again; just like old times. And on the other hand, how can I trust that this is a good idea?
I can feel my inner child fighting to get out, ready to throw a tantrum if I don’t stop being so stubborn and not let Devon in. When he looks at me with those familiar eyes it makes me want to pull out my Superman cape, tie it around my neck and believe I can fly; then a second later I want to tie it around Devon and strangle him with it.
‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea,’ I say, trying to sound diplomatic, not wanting to cause any more hurt, to either of us.
For a moment silence descends on my cosy living room as we sit and stare at each other.
‘You don’t want to hang out with a superhero?’ Devon says, a playful smile threatening his lips, a sparkle breaking through the shadows in his eyes.
‘I’d only feel inferior. I’m no superhero,’ I say matter-of-fact, my lips twisting into a small grin. I’m happy for him, of course I am. I can’t deny the sting that we didn’t do it together, but my former best friend is a bloody superhero with cardboard cut-outs, posters bigger than me and full spandex attire.
‘Yeah, well superheroes wear pants, Scar. You should probably start with those,’ Devon says with a mischievous smirk and a twinkle in his eye. I look down and suddenly become conscious of my outfit: my oversized tee is resting at the top of my thighs, my tiny boy shorts visible. I jump up off the couch, lobbing a cushion at Devon as I do so. He shoots his hands out in front of him to stop my attempt at thumping him in his grown-up muscled bicep. His hands are large and too strong to get past and so I give up and race to my bedroom to grab a pair of shorts. My cheeks feel flushed for no reason as I rummage through my wardrobe. It’s just Devon, it’s not exactly a big deal – we used to have baths together.
‘You just let me sit there the entire time, you…’ I shout, halfway down the stairs, a nervous giggle creeping up my throat as I make my way back into the living room. The minute I walk through the door I freeze.
Devon has a shy smile plastered on his face and is stood awkwardly next to the couch, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. I peel my eyes away from him to the reason I have a chill down my spine. Hope is standing in the living room doorway.
6
I am pacing the kitchen making more coffee for my guests, wondering if it’s too early in the morning to make mine an Irish one. Through the hall I can hear Devon being his usual hyperactive self, answering Hope’s questions while showing great interest in her job at the magazine; it seems some things have stayed the same: he’s still a people person and a chatterbox when there are no cameras about.
When I had initially seen Hope in my living room, I had hastily excused myself to allow my best friend and former best friend to get better acquainted; and to avoid the onslaught of questions. When I hear Hope laughing – a high pitch giggle – I’m not quite sure if that was a good idea, especially when I re-enter the room and she shoots me daggers; apparently all her warmth and charm is being saved for Devon this morning.
I place the tray on my coffee table, a black coffee with one sugar for Devon. He smiles when he sees it. Hope grabs her peppermint latte in her cacti-print mug and crosses her legs on the deep turquoise chair to the side of the couch. All iciness evaporates when she takes her eyes off me and secures them on Devon once more.
I pick up my own coffee, glancing from Devon to Hope as I take a seat, back in my spot on the couch. Devon simply watches me. I can hear what must be his phone buzzing in his pocket; it’s beeped like twenty times, but he doesn’t make to answer it. Then Hope speaks up.
‘So, do you get to have a break over the holidays or are you working right through with these press junkets?’ she asks.
‘Oh shoot.’ Devon stands up rapidly, looking at his watch, towering over both of us.
‘So sorry, Hope, I’ve got to go. You just reminded me I’ve got two interviews today and need to show the producer around the village.’
‘I totally understand,’ Hope says waving away his apology, pushing her round spectacles up her nose as she stands to say bye. She gives Devon a hug.
Devon squeezes her cheerfully, meanwhile I’m sat rather comfy on my couch and am momentarily stunned at the scene I am currently witnessing.
What is going on? What is happening? I look to Eddie for answers. I swear he gives me a coy smirk before he swims to the other side of his tank.
Then Devon turns to me and gives me a nervous look. He quickly bends down to take a sip of his coffee, smiling when he does so, before giving me a tentative nod, clapping his hands together like he’s unsure what to do with them and then he walks towards the door.
‘Right, OK, well I best go. Hope, if you and Scarlett want to catch up for drinks later, just let me know – you have my number.’ Now he sends a more confident wink and an Academy-Award-worthy smile my way. What the…?
Devon then retraces his steps to collect his coat, while patting down his jeans to check he’s got everything – keys, phone, wallet – before Hope shows him out. When I hear the front door close, I wander back into the kitchen and collect all the ingredients I need for my original task for today that didn’t involve ex best friends and best friends having a good old chinwag in my living room.
‘Scarlett Davis, you have some explaining to do,’ Hope exclaims, as she marches into the kitchen, hands on hips, her black leggings and crisp white shirt combo looking stylish and fresh at just gone eight-thirty a.m.
I nurse my cold brew wondering if I am in fact dreaming, have hit my head really hard or am in some parallel universe. I don’t want to explain things to Hope but even if I did, I’m too dazed at this moment to do so and I really do have to get a move on with my gingerbread for the Christmas fair. Hope plonks herself down at the kitchen table.
‘I came to tell you that Devon Wood had sent me flowers as a thank you for a lovely interview and that Jess is out of his mind that I didn’t tell him sooner and smuggle him out of work, then I get here and…’ She doesn’t finish her sentence; she just gawks at me as I drizzle golden syrup into my mixing bowl. The fact that Devon sent her flowers chips a minuscule edge off my wall. ‘I can’t believe you used to have baths with Devon Wood and you never told me. You’ve seen that man naked,’ Hope says dreamily as she pinches a gingerbread from the plate on the table.
‘Oi, I need those for the fair and I think that crosses a professional line, thinking of one of your interviewees naked. I’d watch that if I were you,’ I say, sternly, not best pleased that visions of new Devon in a bath suddenly swarm my brain. ‘And, Hope, we were babies – please never say that again. Don’t turn it into something gross – and what exactly did you guys talk about?’ I add, the words coming out quick, trying to dispel the images of Devon in a bath by attaching negatives to them.
‘I didn’t turn it into something gross. I don’t think there would be anything gross about having a bath with Devon Wood,’ she says moving her eyebrows up and down over the top of her light gold frames.
‘Hope, please, no one is having baths with Devon Wood. That was a ridiculously long time ago,’ I say, exasperated with my BFF. This is all too much at such an early hour. I whisk the gingerbread mixture with vigour, inhaling the perfume of nutmeg and ginger, and in my mind start constructing the gingerbread house and what it will look like when it’s finished.
‘I’m sure a lot of people would like to,’ Hope says, interrupting my happy thoughts. I drop the whisk and brush a hand through my short bob, flicking back the thicker side part that falls in my face. Hope’s comment hits me right in the chest, reminding me that Devon and I are not babies anymore. Having baths together is not part of our secret club where we build caves and mountains with bubbles; that was a lifetime ago. Devon is now a Hollywood heartthrob, he’s not my nerdy best friend, he’s not my Devon, he hasn’t been mine for ten years.
I rub a hand over my heart. This is why the past should stay in the past. This is why hanging out is not a good idea. My heart hurts.
‘Well, he should go and have baths with any one of those people instead of waltzing in here like the past ten years haven’t happened. Who does he think he is? The guy does a bit of acting and suddenly he thinks he can do whatever he pleases?’ The hardness in my tone from earlier is making a comeback. I’m talking more to myself than Hope, but I see her watching me, a quizzical look on her face.
‘What?’ I snap. ‘You can’t just surprise people like that, not take their feelings into consideration. It’s rude, turning up unannounced.’
Hope gets up from the table and walks over to the counter. She picks up the whisk and starts whisking while I take a sip of festive coffee to calm myself down. She then opens her mouth to speak before closing it again, like she’s choosing her words carefully. I turn away, then turn back to her again, waiting for her to back me up.
‘I imagine it was all a lot to take in yesterday. At least you weren’t ambushed by him being there. He had no idea you were coming,’ she starts, softly. I can tell she is aware of the whirlwind of emotions spinning through my head and is trying her best to be diplomatic whilst still being understanding and show she’s on my side. ‘He had no time to prepare for your unexpected entrance at the pub, but isn’t it lovely that he wanted to see you. And, Scarlett, I’m sorry you were so anxious yesterday with me springing the interview on you, but you lied – you told me you didn’t know Devon. You didn’t let me in. All these years you’ve had me thinking Jess and I were too nerdy for you, and all this time your aversion to superheroes is because of Devon Wood. Yes, he told me all about you two growing up thinking you were Springhollow’s superheroes.’
She lets out a small “this is unbelievable” kind of laugh. ‘I understand this is all a bit of a shock, given what Devon told me about you two, but I don’t think he came here to upset you or because he’s throwing his Hollywood weight around, he simply came to see a friend. And by the looks of how content he was sat on your couch, you two have unfinished business.’ She resolves.
The mixture now looks creamy, so I take over adding the flour, distracting myself from having to look at Hope and deal with her words of wisdom. She gives me some space and leans against the island.
Her words are buzzing around my brain as I fold the mixture. Hope doesn’t say anything else; instead she moves to busy herself with pulling yoghurt from the fridge along with orange juice and a bag of granola from the cupboard while I form a dough with the mixture, wrap it and place it in the fridge to rest for thirty minutes.
‘Devon left, Hope. Ten years ago, he left, and I couldn’t face superheroes when he was gone,’ I admit, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. ‘I was so mad at him for leaving, it was easier to hate it all and push it away than deal with it.’
Hope places a glass of orange in front of me. I absent-mindedly wipe the condensation off the glass.
‘I know you struggled at school, Scarlett, but why didn’t you tell me you were hurting? Why didn’t you tell me about Devon?’ Hope asks, taking a seat next to me with two bowls of yoghurt and granola. I leave the glass and move to twirling the spoon between my fingertips.
‘I was done with school. I hoped for a fresh start at college and you and Jess were a godsend after dealing with Ruby and her gang. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Devon always had my back when the other girls laughed at me for liking boy stuff and boys didn’t think I was cool enough to play their games. God it’s so stupid when you look back, but I always had Devon; no one could come between us. Then he left in the blink of an eye. He was the loud one, the one who would get us into other games or occasionally have other kids want to play with us. When he left, I became invisible and I liked it that way. I didn’t want to play with anyone else and I didn’t talk about him because that would have made him real.’ I mutter my story – even now it hurts
recalling my school days. The village folk might have been a tight-knit community but that didn’t stop school from being full of cliques and bullies, many of whom moved away over the years.
‘He said you were like Batman and Robin,’ Hope says through a warm smile.
‘Oh yeah.’ I chuckle. ‘Did he say who was who?’ I take a bite of granola, not wanting to dwell in my sad memories for long, I’ve done that way too much over the years and knowing who was who when we were kids, I am curious to know what Devon said.
Hope laughs. ‘He said he was Robin. I can only imagine the fights. With your stubborn heart I imagine Devon has a strong dislike for Robin now.’ She nudges me playfully. I laugh at how accurate her statement is. I certainly got my use out of the Batman costume; I think I let Devon wear it once. ‘So, if you were so close, why didn’t you stay in touch? Did your parents not encourage you to write or arrange phone calls?’
The bite of granola I have in my mouth suddenly becomes hard to chew. Ten years is a long time to keep a story buried; digging it up isn’t easy. I take a drink of orange to help the granola go down before pushing my bowl away.
‘Our parents were not very fond of each other. My mum struggled with Devon and I being glued together all the time. She didn’t always do a great job of hiding her disappointment that I didn’t enjoy going to ballet like the other girls. Our mums thought we needed other friends too, often arranging play dates with other kids, but we always figured a way out of it, playing out on the street, gravitating towards each other. That and we should have had our own ward at the hospital with how much we frequented the place. They were at a bit of a loose end with our antics.