by Harry Cook
I get to my locker and my prayers are immediately rejected when Poppy walks over, cautiously, like she’s approaching a caged lion.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “I’m so sorry about last night . . . about . . .” I say, but I have no idea where else to go with my sentence. I can’t seem to figure out what happened either.
“Don’t be,” Poppy says, holding up her hand to stop me from taking a one-way train to panic town.
“Where’s Rye?” I ask, scanning the corridors to see if he’s nearby.
“He’s devastated,” Poppy says as she twists a curl of hair around her finger. “About Eric, I mean. They had another fight. But I keep telling him and he doesn’t do anything . . .” She sighs and leans back against the locker.
I’m about to say how it’s probably a lot more difficult when you’re actually in his situation but don’t get the words out because June appears seemingly out of thin air and is standing in front of Poppy, her eyes glazed and her nose snotty. Not her usual look at all.
“Can we talk?”
“June, not now, I –”
“Poppy. Please.”
I turn and face my locker, feeling extremely awkward. Seems not just Rye and Eric had an argument last night. When I turn back around Poppy and June have left and, thankfully, I’m able to take a breath. Just in time for Rye to show up and punch the wind right out of me again with those eyes of his.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.
He looks awful. His eyes are sunken and dark rings give him a panda look.
“How ar– stupid question,” I say, shaking my head.
He smiles. “How are you would be the easier question right now,” he says, brushing a curl from out of his eyes.
“I’m . . . yeah. Firstly, I’m so sorry about last night.”
“Yeah what was that?” Rye asks, looking at me curiously, like his friendly visit had revealed I moonlight as a stripper at Legs Eleven.
“It’s . . . I actually don’t even know where to begin. But I’m sorry.” Rye waves his hand and his eyes scan my face and then my chest. I have this feeling he’s checking me out, but soon enough his eyes are back on mine and an innocent smile is plastered across his face.
“My brother Elliot just got home so . . . I mean that’s good.” I don’t know why this is important information or why Rye would be remotely interested, but there you go. I’d give him the pin to my ATM card if he asked. This guy does something to me that I’ve never felt before. I want to tell him everything and I want to know everything about him.
“That’s awesome,” he says. “Are you close?”
“Yeah. I mean we were or . . . no, we are. He’s –”
“Fin, are you okay?”
The past twenty-four hours have sent me all over the place emotionally and I don’t really have a clue what’s going on. The only good thing I can think of is that Elliot seems to be someone I can count on right now. I need that.
“So, you and Eric?” I say, my desperate attempt at changing the subject seems to work as Rye sighs. He looks exhausted.
“Yeah, we’re done,” he says and, as bad as I feel for him, I’m also kind of stoked. He deserves to be treated the way he treats everyone else, kindly, and he couldn’t have picked a worse fit than Eric.
“I’m so sorry – he was a bit of an ass-hat –” I stumble to a halt at the look he gives me. I realise I’ve messed up.
“I really liked him, Fin,” he says quietly, but I can hear a note of hurt and irritation in his voice. “I thought he liked me too – and I wish people would stop making me feel stupid for believing that. Poppy’s bad enough but now you –”
Rye looks devastated and now I feel like the ass-hat.
“I’m sorry, please don’t listen to me. It was a dumb . . .” I try again. “Look, can . . . can I do anything?”
Rye looks at me for a second, and I hold my breath.
“Nah, I’m good. Really,” he says, and his eyes linger on mine. My tummy rolls like the mixers in our food tech class. “I have Thelma and my mum and my fireflies. And I’m sorry for snapping – it’s a lot, you know?”
Not for the first time, I wonder what went on between him and Eric.
“Well, here if you need me,” I say, trying to play it cool. No point thinking I stand a chance when Eric is so clearly like a magnet to him. I take the last of my books from my locker and spin the dial to lock it shut.
I’m walking away when I hear him call:
“Do you fancy Penny’s Diner tonight? You, me, June and Pops?” There’s a sweet hopefulness in his voice that wasn’t there a moment before.
“That sounds fun,” I say. “You sure June and Poppy are okay, though?”
“Ugh, I swear those two are getting worse every month. They’ll be fine. They just need to realise how much they love each other and stop this messed-up immature behaviour. It’s really boring.”
Rye seems visibly annoyed at them. Maybe the talk of relationships wasn’t the best course of conversation from yours truly.
“I’ll text Poppy now and see if they’re in. Meet there at seven? Does that work for you?” He’s smiling again and I feel like his eyes are pulling me in, magnetic.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
*
I’m sitting at Penny’s Diner with a double chocolate thick shake and a plate of onion rings in front of me. As usual I’m early, and I’m talking like hours early. Ever since Rye told me about his anxiety and how he goes to Kettle Lake to watch the fireflies to calm himself down I’ve been thinking of ways I could do something special for him without coming across like a needy loser who has never met another human being before. I think I’ve done pretty well, but then again, he may hate what I’ve brought him. He may think I’m borderline pathetic and never speak to me again. However, I don’t really care at this point. I don’t have a huge amount to lose I guess, except my dignity which, meh, who needs that.
Penny’s Diner really is dope. It’s like going back in time to the fifties but without the blindingly ignorant humans. The retro jukeboxes on every table allow everyone to pick a song in the queue for the speaker system and the pinball machines are all inspired by eighties movies like The Goonies and Beetlejuice.
I chow down my onion rings which hit-the-SPOT and then take my time on the thick shake. It’s one of those really thick, thick shakes that taste like you’re just sucking up creamy, sugary fat through the straw. I love it.
I check Instagram and see Poppy’s story – her and June singing along to “Dancing Queen” as they skip – yes, literally, skip – down the street together. I guess they’re okay now. I hope they are. They seem to genuinely care about each other. If they weren’t constantly at each other’s throats it would be as sweet and gorgeous as this shake. But at least they are brave enough to deal with the crap life throws at them, however messy it gets.
I close Instagram and when I look back up from my phone Rye is standing there smiling at me. He looks so damn cute. He’s wearing a white tee and jeans that are rolled up at the bottom. His Converse are scuffed but they suit him. He shakes his curls from his eyes and suddenly I feel like I’m melting into my seat.
“Hey,” he says, a beautiful grin on his face.
“Hey. How are you?”
I scoot over and he slides in next to me.
“I’m actually really good,” he says.
“Good. That’s – yeah. I’m glad,” I say, the back of my neck prickly and warm. I had this all planned out in my head. To the extent that I even rehearsed how it would go down, but now I just feel like a weirdo who’s seen too many cheesy movies.
“You okay?” he asks, smiling slightly.
“Yep. Yep, all good. I just . . .” I shake my head, desperately trying to get myself together.
“You just . . . what?” Rye asks, his eyes on mine.
“Just. I’m so sorry for what I said earlier. It’s not my
place to badmouth Eric . . . Here,” I say, fishing out from my bag the big stupid gesture I’ve been planning since hearing about his breakup with Eric.
“Fin . . . I . . .”
Oh my god, is Rye going to burst into tears? His eyes have this glossy sheen to them and his cheeks are flushed.
“It’s for when you’re anxious and you can’t get to the lake . . . Kind of like an SOS firefly kit,” I say sheepishly.
He turns the mason jar around in his hand, the glow-in-the-dark paint I’d splattered within coming to life as shadows pass over it.
“This is . . . One of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me . . . I . . .” He looks at me and I have this overwhelming urge to kiss him. I lean closer but stop. The atom bomb that dropped the last time I acted on impulse back in Pittford reverberates in my mind and instead I just give him a funny kind of one-shouldered shrug.
Rye leans in and hugs me; not in a “we’re friends, thank you so much” way. More of a “this really is special” kind of way – if that makes any sense whatsoever.
“Sorry to break up the partayyy,” comes a voice that sounds anything but sorry.
I turn and see Poppy and June, hand in hand and leaning across the table looking at us hugging. We pull apart far too fast and I take a sip of my thick shake.
“Hey, Pops,” Rye says. “You look ace, June,” he continues. “Those plaits are fire.”
We all squish together into the booth.
“Look at us, double-dating,” Poppy says which makes my face flush and Rye go tense.
“It’s not . . . We’re not . . .” I say, trying to give Rye the know-ledge that I’m not expecting anything. He looks over at me and half smiles then nudges me warmly with the side of his body, just enough for me to feel and nobody else to see.
“So, how are you doing, Rye-bread?” Poppy asks, ignoring the sudden awkward curve ball she’s thrown into the room.
“I’m good. It’s obviously a lot, but I’m doing better than I thought.”
June nods kindly. “You’re really special, Rye. Don’t forget that, okay?” she says.
“I second that,” Poppy chimes in.
“So you both are . . . good? Now?” Rye asks the pair of them, deftly throwing the awkward Molotov cocktail back in Poppy’s direction like a ninja.
June squirms slightly, but Poppy looks as if Rye asked her whether she showered this morning.
“A-okay. Perfecto. Couldn’t be better,” Poppy says, waving to the waiter as she swiftly avoids any further talk about anyone’s relationship status.
We order a few more drinks, another portion of onion rings and a plate of pancakes to share for dessert. June is super friendly with our waiter, Jerry. According to her, he’s one of the sweetest guys not only in Lochport, but in the entire universe. When he can, he gives her milkshakes on the house, which obviously adds bonus points to his legendary status.
Within less than half an hour we are all eating delicious mouthfuls of the pancake stack as we sing along to some classic Cyndi Lauper that Rye requested from the jukebox.
“Kevin McAllister is a douche bag. I have every right to my opinion,” Poppy says, licking the maple syrup from her fingers. The fact that we are debating the problems we have with Home Alone 2: Lost in New York sums up exactly what level of insanity we find ourselves in this evening.
“He was, like, ten years old,” Rye says, suppressing a laugh.
“Ten years old and conveniently able to use his dad’s credit cards to check in to the Plaza and gallivant around New York City? Please. Give me a break.”
I laugh.
“And don’t even get me started on his treatment of that poor homeless bird lady.”
Rye gives her a look that says what is wrong with you, but Poppy is on a roll.
“Seriously, Rye. He makes friends with a homeless lady who is covered in birds, she saves his fucking life from two robbers who want him dead and then the asshole gives her two plastic turtle doves as a thank you?!”
I can’t help it – I’m crying with laughter.
“Meanwhile, this little sociopath is living it up at the Plaza and instead of offering her a warm bath, some new clothes or a sandwich, he gives her some weird tree ornament.” Rye scoffs, clearly being persuaded. “WHERE’S SHE GONNA HANG THAT, RYE? SHE LIVES OUTSIDE WITH BIRDS AND THE TRASH!”
We’re all hunched over belly laughing at this point and I can barely see through the tears in my eyes.
“He definitely grew up to be the Jigsaw killer from the Saw movies. No kid can deck out a torture house like Kevin McCallister and grow up to be a bank manager or something. He’s out for blood. Crazy weird, man.” Poppy grossly dips an onion ring into her thick shake, takes a bite and smiles, relaxing her shoulders, clearly winning the argument as none of us say anything, we’re all catching our breath and grabbing our sides to nurse laughter stitches.
“Poppy, you’re a mess. I can’t be –” Rye stops mid-sentence and loses his glow suddenly.
I follow his eyeline to the front of the restaurant and realise what has made the blood leave his face.
Eric is sliding into a booth by the pinball machines and he’s not alone.
“Is that Chad fucking Haig?” June says loudly over the clatter of cutlery. She’s dropped the F-bomb, which even I know is rare for June.
Rye shakes his head and I’m sure his eyes are welling up “Um – who’s Chad?” I ask.
“That little creep,” Poppy says, half standing.
“Chad is this guy Eric was caught messaging a while ago. Some pretty raunchy stuff too, but he swears it was just a joke,” June says quietly to me as Rye looks on mortified.
“I . . . I’m sorry I have to go,” Rye says, standing and throwing his backpack over his shoulder.
“No way. Sit,” Poppy says. Clearly livid, she storms over to Eric, who doesn’t even try to hide how much he’s loving the drama and attention.
June and I follow her, half expecting to have to intervene. She looks like she wants to throw a punch. Rye joins us slowly, his expression both devastated and sort of resigned.
“What are you playing at, you douche?” Poppy says, standing over Eric and glaring at him like he’s the most revolting person she’s ever seen.
“Um. Excuse me?” Eric says, laughing to Chad who sits smugly beside him.
“Uh. B-bu-buuh. Are you having trouble computing? This all a bit too much for you?”
“Poppy, how about you go sit down and have another milkshake? You’re being hysterical as usual.”
“Oh I am, am I?” Poppy gestures over at Chad. “Seriously, Eric. You traded in a Porsche for a Toyota Camry.”
“Hey, fuck you,” Chad says as I hold a laugh back with my hand.
“No, fuck you. You’re the asshole who was sexting Eric when you knew he was with Rye. What kind of douche canoe does that?”
“Actually, Poppy,” Eric says, turning a vicious grin towards Rye. “I was the one who started it with Chad. I mean, little house on the prairie over here never wanted to put out. What am I supposed to do? Wait around for him?”
We all go silent in mass shock. I cannot believe he just said that. I can’t believe someone would admit to being such a jerk.
“I . . . loved you,” Rye says under his breath, almost to himself.
Something inside me erupts – whether it’s perfectly legitimate outrage or just pure jealousy that this dude is so special to Rye – and I’m furious.
“Man, you’re a real pile of garbage,” I say, not recognising my own voice.
I stand rooted to the spot as Eric gapes stupidly and I feel everyone’s eyes on me. He goes to say something, but more words spill out of me with the force of a flash flood.
“I mean, seriously. Look at you. You’re a big man-baby who threw a tantrum because his boyfriend wanted to take his time before sleeping with you. And then you jumped into bed with the first dumbass you could find.”
“Do you people not realise I’m sitting right here
?” Chad says.
“No, we do,” June says, holding her hand up to him in the Stop right now thank you very much Spice Girl pose.
“Rye is one of the coolest people I’ve ever met,” I say, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched. “And you’re a jackass for treating him like this.”
Eric stands and I’m expecting him to either throw something at me, or pick me up and just throw me.
“I’m out of here,” Rye says, pushing past all of us and out the front doors. None of us has the capacity to fire anything more at Eric and Chad so instead we leave, Poppy raising her middle finger at them both as we follow Rye out silently.
“Rye, come back,” Poppy says, her hand entwined with June’s as we catch up to him.
“Not now, Poppy,” Rye says, his feet slapping the pavement as he shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I’m sorry for getting involved,” I say.
Rye stops and turns.
“What you did was . . .” I wait for it. Bracing myself for the slap of disappointment in his voice. “Beautiful and really kind . . .”
Oh. My shoulders sag in relief.
“I just really have to go.” And he turns on his heel and walks away.
22
Rye
I’m barely onto Oakview Crescent when I start crying. Before I know it, I’m hunched over and bawling. It’s the kind of crying when your body feels like it’s being carved out like a pumpkin from the inside.
Then I’m shouting at the roadside grass and tearing it up in chunks. I feel like an idiot. A complete and total failure of a human being for letting Eric pull the wool over my eyes for so long. Am I really that dense, that desperate?
When I get to the patio outside our house, Thelma waddles over and I bury my face in her soft fur. I can tell Mum has given her a bath because she smells of lavender and her ears feel like velvet.
“Hey babe,” I say, kissing her on the nose. I grab her water bowl and head to the tap on the side of the house. The grass is green and lush and the air smells of brine, corn and faraway bonfires.