by Lucy Knott
‘OK, fine.’ Hope finally sits down and gets back to work.
‘Great,’ I say occupying my brain with an email on “How to keep Chickens” for a sponsor of ours. It’s rather interesting and maybe Eddie could do with a friend. But it’s difficult to really take any of the words in. I don’t believe that Devon could fall for someone like Ruby, not after all she put us through at school. My Devon didn’t fit with someone with such a mean and malicious streak but then again maybe I don’t know the real Devon. People said fame changed people. I don’t think it has changed D, not after the time we have spent together, but how could I be sure? I still don’t know what happened two years ago; how he managed to pay Ruby a visit at the summer fair but not me.
An email pings into my inbox from our governors requiring more detail on how we plan to proceed with a monthly magazine. I scan over the words, grateful that they can keep my mind busy and off thoughts of “would the real Devon please stand up?” but at the same time my palms grow sweaty. There’s a lot of talk of more content and filling the pages. If it’s to be a monthly issue, then it will require more substance to justify a slight price increase. Hope is copied in to the email too.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks, chewing on the end of her pencil. I immediately go through our staff register and try to come up with a way to expand people’s skill sets and give them multiple areas to cover. We’re only a small team. It might be tricky, but surely we can make it work.
‘We can send people out in the field more, see if they can find more hidden gems of Springhollow. It will be a meatier issue so the more stories the better. Maybe Billy can add an extra feature on horoscopes, focus on a specific one each month,’ I say, not feeling all that enthusiastic or inspired by my off-the-cuff ideas.
‘Yeah, maybe we do more interviews, ask the villagers about their favourite memories of Springhollow or favourite era,’ Hope suggests, her tone a touch shaky. As I read the bottom of the email, I understand why. The governor goes into detail about how they would like to see a mock-up of our plan going forward so they can approve our new vision. If they don’t see it creating a rise in subscriptions or it being beneficial and viable to produce, then it’s likely that the magazine will be scrapped. Oh, and they want our proposal on Monday.
‘That sounds good. See, we have ideas; it’s all going to be fine,’ I tell Hope with forced positivity, but she’s now well and truly in Business Hope state of mind and so I bring up the file of our current magazine’s formatting, side by side with a blank Word document and I will my fingers to type out the answer to our magazine woes.
*
I return from a coffee run and a quick visit to the building site to check in with my dad, as my lunch hour draws to a close. It’s always nice to get out and stretch my legs. It’s never bothered me fetching coffee for Hope, as I adore popping in to see Mr and Mrs Rolph at the bakery; they make the best coffee in town, and it feeds my own coffee addiction. I also love surprising my dad each day with a new flavour and seeing him in his element at work. He loves what he does and it’s a pleasure to watch him on the job. Today I picked up a few extra Christmas specials for Dad’s work buddies. I think the peppermint is now a favourite of theirs too.
As I go to place Hope’s coffee on her desk, she takes it from my grasp as she stands up, walks around her table and ushers me back towards the door.
With her hand on my elbow she says, ‘I need you to do a quick job for me, pretty please. I know it’s not in your usual job description but I can’t send anyone else with all the changes and altered deadlines looming and you know how much I love your writing, so can you please go to the address on this paper and cover the events taking place. We just got a phone call. Someone mentioned we might want to get the local news on it and well, we’re the local news.’ Hope barely takes a breath and it’s not like I can say no when she’s already guiding me out of the office and she’s my boss. Hope always got a kick out of the articles I used to submit to Alfred, but after being turned down so many times, I’d just stopped submitting them, even when she became the person in charge.
‘Erm, yeah, OK,’ I say, a little hesitantly, taking the piece of paper from her hand, my eyebrows drawn in; my nose scrunched up at the vagueness of my new task.
‘Thanks, I owe you one,’ she says cheerfully, giving me half a hug before returning to her seat. I appreciate her compliment and confidence in me to cover a journalist’s job and can’t hide the sudden excitement I feel getting to escape the office for a little while. I smile as the peppermint-chocolate coffee I’m holding in my hand wafts up to me, the contents swirling and sploshing inside the paper cup. I make my way down the stairs, a little extra pep in my step, and out into the cold once more. Opening the folded sticky note my feet automatically walk in the direction of “Daffodil Lane” the minute my eyes scan the message. It reads that I am to report the happenings that are occurring on the corner where Daffodil Lane meets Riverbend.
It’s been a while since I have ventured over to this side of town. Thinking about it now I’m actually surprised that we got a call reporting newsworthy activity. Apart from houses, a small community centre and the skatepark, there’s not much there. I backtrack my thoughts and return to skatepark as I reread the paper in my hand. On the corner of Daffodil Lane and Riverbend is the skatepark. What on earth was happening at the skatepark? Kids are still in school until – I check my watch – three-thirty, which is an hour and a half from now. I quicken my pace as my mind starts whizzing with possibilities. I can see the headlines now “Kick flips and Zimmer frames”, “Ollying old ladies”, “Heel-flipping hedgehogs”.
A good fifteen minutes have passed by the time I reach the iron-gate entrance of the park. I’m panting slightly from my brisk walk. Over my panting I strain to hear noise, but I can’t hear any commotion or wheels hitting the ramp and worry that I’ve messed up my one job and missed all the action, letting Hope down. I desperately don’t want to let her down, not with the current state the magazine is in. I push the gate and it creaks open. I toss my coffee cup into the recycling bin before pulling out my notebook and pen, ready to jot down any sudden movement. But there’s no one about. I take a few steps towards the bowl, my heart rate picking up when I hear the familiar sound of someone crashing and burning on their board. Adrenaline is coursing through me when I realise it’s been ten years since I stepped foot in this place.
The memory constricts my chest. My hand holding my pen rests over my heart as I try to rub away the tightness. Why do we have to grow up? Or why is it that when we grow up, we have to stop doing all the things we love in order to come across as sophisticated or professional? And where on earth had my mum hid my board?
As these thoughts play on my mind, the occupant of the skate bowl rolls closer to me and up the side of the bowl. He’s a few feet in the air above me, grabs his board, twists his body impressively before connecting with the bowl again and rolling away. I make a note that maybe our town will have their first ever participant in the X-Games one day; that would be an awesome headline and one I think our town should get behind. I find a low rail and sit on it, content that I’m not in the way considering no one else is here when the skater lands with another impressive manoeuvre in front of me and throws down a bag. My skin begins to tingle when I look over the scarf pulled up around their mouth, beanie hat pulled low, but eyes big and bright and reflecting the afternoon sun’s bold orange glow. How is it that my best friend and former best friend have only known each other for five days and they are already in cahoots, aiding each other in secret missions? I let out a chuckle.
‘Am I really here to report the latest news?’ I say with an eye-roll as I place my notebook and pen on the ground, give Devon one more mock annoyed look and open the backpack.
Inside is a brand-new Element skateboard. I gasp, yanking it out of the bag and rushing to my feet. ‘Seriously?’ is the only word I can manage as I take in the pristine board with its bright colours and smooth deck, turning it
over in my hands and looking at it with great adoration.
‘Seriously,’ Devon replies, muffled through his scarf. ‘There’s something else in there too.’
I pry my eyes off my new board and dive into the bag, pulling out a pair of cargo pants and Converse. Only then do I register my black pencil skirt and boots. ‘When did you get so smart?’ I tease. Hastily, I step into the trousers, pulling my black boots off, Converse on and shuffling out of my pencil skirt and shoving it in the backpack. I can feel my toes tingling with anticipation as I drop the board in front of them, stepping onto it with my left foot.
‘Oh, I don’t know about this. I’m sure reporting the news would be more fun,’ I say sarcastically, shoving Devon to get past him so I can drop into the bowl, which is covered by a concrete structure, keeping it free of snow. The minute I drop into the bowl I feel exhilarated. My feet are thanking the shoe gods for Converse and I feel like I’m on top of the world.
It’s only when a trickle of young teens start chatting and taking over the ramps that I finally look up and jump off my board. I’d been following D around the course, tracing the curves of the bowl, catching a few rail slides and seeing if I could still do a trick or two on the half-pipe that I wasn’t aware of the time. I’m pleased to say that muscle memory has been on fine form this afternoon and I can’t wipe the windswept grin off my face.
Devon kicks up his board beside me while I catch my breath at the top of the pipe.
‘I can’t believe you got Hope to let me have the afternoon off work to skate, especially considering we’re currently in crunch time with saving the magazine,’ I say, stunned.
‘I have my uses. What seems to be the problem with the magazine? Anything I can help with?’ Devon says with a grin and flash of concern. I look him up and down, appreciating his offer, but he has plenty on his plate. I don’t want to add worrying about a Springhollow treasure to his busy schedule. I shrug.
‘The weeklies aren’t selling so we thought about taking it monthly, giving people something to look forward to, but that means packing it with more… well, I don’t quite know. Springhollow is a small village. I’m sceptical to how many stories we can possibly dig up in this place. You already ruined my “Skateboards and Zimmer frames” headline,’ I confess to Devon, unable to keep from spilling my truth. He lets out a hearty laugh at my last comment, which makes me scrunch up my nose and rub a hand over my chest.
‘I like that – maybe that’s what you need, to think outside the box. Think like Scarlett. Also, I don’t believe you haven’t skated in years; you didn’t miss a beat,’ Devon notes casually. His scarf is now around his neck so I can see his rosy lips as he speaks.
“Think like Scarlett,” echoes in my brain. What on earth does that mean and why did D make it sound so easy?
While I contemplate his words, I hold the tip of my board and line my back wheels up against the edge of the half-pipe. Not having figured it out yet, I glance at D and shrug, taking his skateboarding compliment, which makes me feel good. ‘I came back two days after you left, but I couldn’t do it. Mum went ballistic when she saw me carrying my board home, told me it was bad enough that I was a smart, pretty young girl but I should certainly not be skating with a broken arm and fractured hand. She gave me the whole speech about being an adult, getting a job and being respectful and professional around town. It was fun,’ I express, with a laugh, not unaware that that’s the most I’ve said about that ever. I really was turning into Devon, letting my emotions sneak out like that.
‘Sometimes you can’t worry about what everyone else thinks,’ Devon starts, with a look that holds so much sincerity that I almost want to reach out and hug him, almost, but my brain gets the best of me, too scared to open up too much, to ask him more about his hurt in case it stirs up my own again. But there was certainly something unsettling about his advice. Was he worrying about what people thought of him?
‘That’s easy for you to say when the whole world thinks you’re a superhero,’ I tease, nudging his elbow. Catching his eye, the flicker of pain vanishes. He shoves me back, making me wobble. I very nearly lose my balance and fall into the half-pipe but recover quickly.
‘Race you to the gate,’ he shouts, dropping in and leaving me up top. I momentarily get distracted. I may not like sharing my own feelings, but there’s something unnerving about Devon not pushing to share his because – whether I like it or not – that’s never stopped him before. Just now he shut down quick and for the first time, I feel bad for resorting to a joke instead of addressing whatever hurt he is harbouring. Ruby may be a bully, but maybe she listened to Devon; was there for him in ways I couldn’t be. I could be the fun friend, a piece of childhood nostalgia, but maybe he needed a woman, a woman who opened up to him and didn’t hide behind walls.
The thought of not being all that Devon needs makes my stomach turn. It used to always just be me and him. There’s a sharp longing in my chest for those days; I want them back. But does that mean I want Devon as more than a friend?
My face must be a picture when I reach Devon at the gate; he beat me by a long shot, my thoughts having kept me glued me to the half-pipe for a good five minutes after he declared the race.
‘Why so tense, Scar?’ he asks looking over my features.
‘I’m not tense.’ I shake my head with a laugh.
‘You were pouting – that means something’s on your mind.’ Devon looks up at me through his long lashes as he stuffs both our boards in his backpack. Should I talk to him, tell him what’s on my mind? There are now a bunch of things on my mind, but one thing is standing out above the rest, which makes me feel guilty about work. Should I ask about Ruby and tell him that I’m feeling wholly confused about our current friendship status after all these years apart? Would he laugh?
‘I was just thinking that this has been the best day ever. I’m definitely going to be doing this more often,’ I say merrily, allowing the happy words to replace my heavy thoughts and totally chickening out when it comes to my emotions. Devon’s eyes linger on mine. I know he can sense I’m not telling the truth, but again he doesn’t push. Do I want him to push?
‘OK,’ he says in a way that confirms he can still see right through me. ‘Ice-cream?’ he questions, with a side smirk, moving past my sudden awkwardness.
‘Yes please,’ I answer, forgetting my woes with one thought of Salvatore’s gingerbread ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce in a cinnamon waffle cone.
‘Does Salvatore still do his gingerbread ice-cream at this time of year?’ D asks, making me beam as we leave the skatepark behind and walk along Daffodil Lane.
‘He sure does, but you can’t order the same thing as me,’ I say with a wide smirk on my face, feeling my shoulders relax over my confusing thoughts as we walk our familiar route to the ice-cream shop.
‘Oh yeah, so you can eat mine too?’ he replies, grinning just as big as me.
‘Exactly.’ I nod. With Devon by my side now the walk back to the village square doesn’t seem as far. We chat about the new tricks he has learnt on his board – New York has plenty of skateparks and the big kid in him never stopped skating – it makes me miss the big kid in me all the more. I cave and ask one or two questions about his acting gigs and in typical Devon style he gets super animated and enthusiastic, talking about his passion for his chosen art form; not once does he touch on the fame and he doesn’t speak at all like he did in front of the camera when I first bumped into him.
By the time we get to Salvatore’s window I’m ready for all the ice-cream – skateboarding for an hour has made me ravenous. I order my gingerbread ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce in a cinnamon waffle cone and can’t help digging in before Devon has placed his order; I don’t even care that my hands are slowly growing as cold as the ice-cream in their mitts.
Devon orders a peppermint chip ice-cream with a chocolate cone and my heart skips a beat – it’s just the excitement over ice-cream I tell myself, and getting to share this festive treat with
such a good friend, but as we thank Salvatore my eyes survey Devon as he takes his first bite. His chocolate brown eyes grow wide, he has a slight rosy hue in his cheeks and his hair is making animal shapes with sweat and dew. When he smiles his nose crinkles and his eyes narrow making room for that wide grin that can dazzle from miles away; he looks like a man and every bit a Hollywood heartthrob, yet a boyish charm remains.
As he savours his first bite, I rise to my tiptoes for a sneak attack; taking a bite out of his ice-cream. He lets out a howl of a laugh when I lick my lips and wiggle my eyebrows.
The remainder of our walk to The Sunflower Inn consists of Devon trying to take a bite out of my cone and me trying to dodge him until I finally relent and let him have the best bit; the butt of the cone filled with the last remaining gooey and melting bit of gingerbread ice-cream and thick chocolate sauce. That scores me one of those dimple-incurring smiles followed by a smug look. I give him an eye-roll and a hefty shove into reception where Devon’s face falls serious as he looks around, taking in the surroundings. There’s no one in the lobby except Willow who eyes us curiously when Devon puts a finger to his lips, signalling for me to keep quiet before he makes a ninja-like move towards the stairs and waves for me to follow. I see the mischievous twinkle in his eye like we’re about to embark on one of our childhood missions, so I copy his movements bending low; spy mode activated.
We make it to his room after plenty of three ninja-like manoeuvres; a cartwheel here, a roll there, and burst through his door in a fit of giggles.