by Harry Cook
“Here you go,” I say, placing her bowl down and then sitting next to her, not bothering to head inside. My face feels swollen from all the crying and there’s phlegm stuck in the back of my throat that I try to hock up and spit out.
“What are we gonna do, huh?” I ask, Thelma’s big head leaning on my thigh as she lets out a doggy sigh.
I hear the screen door creak open and turn to see Mum’s fluffy bunny slippers, the ones she bought for a dollar at a car boot sale last winter.
“You’re home early,” she says, leaning down and brushing the hair from my eyes. “You okay, hun?”
I look up at her and don’t need to say anything. She kneels down and gives me this smile that is comforting without pitying me. She just wraps me in a hug and kisses me on the forehead.
“Love you, Rye-bread.”
“Love you, Mum.”
*
An hour later I’m still wide awake, staring up at the ceiling while Thelma snores loudly at the foot of my bed. I unlock my phone and scroll through Facebook, then Twitter and then Pinterest, followed by a nice pivot over to Tumblr, Snapchat, TikTok and Wattpad before getting comfy on Instagram. This cycle repeats a few times until I’m back on the Gram and scrolling through Eric’s old photos. I can’t help it. I know it’s pathetic and predictably stalker-ish to sit and scroll through my ex’s Insta feed, but it’s like my thumbs are possessed and I can’t control them.
I click on a photo of Eric that he posted this morning. He’s in his car outside a Dunkin’ Donuts with an iced coffee and a pink glazed cronut and I’m suddenly holding my chest and trying to squint back tears. That was our thing. Yet here he is acting like it’s just another day. I guess to him it is.
I tap out of the photo and keep scrolling, my whole body numb as I enter layer after layer of this torture vortex I’ve gotten myself into.
I’m about to tap on a photo of a mini-golf club that I remember him posting after our first date when a text illuminates my phone and snaps me out of my Insta-funk and back into the present moment.
Fin: Hey, I just wanted to see if you were okay? I’m sorry for saying anything to Eric. That was dumb.
I close Instagram and wipe a crusty tear from my cheek. Thelma wiggles in her sleep and makes a half-bark sound and does a little half-run in the air. She’s clearly dreaming.
Me: I honestly can’t tell you how much it meant that you stood up for me . . .
I hit send and instantly feel weird.
People rarely stand up to Eric. He’s one of those guys who loves to shift blame, to get his own way no matter what. I could never win a fight with him. I could never be the good guy. He had to be right, always, so the fact that somebody else, some adorable nice guy, who seems to look at me a lot, would stand up to him makes me feel all kinds of weird – but mostly weird in a good way.
The three dots of the “typing” bubble appear and another wave of something rushes through me. Why do I suddenly care about what Fin has to say? Maybe it’s just nice to feel like someone gives a damn about me. That I actually mean something to someone. Not that I know that I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe Fin is simply a really nice human being.
Fin: You don’t deserve to be treated like that, Rye.
He used my first name. He’s serious.
Me: Thanks . . . You’re sweet.
Fin: No, I’m serious. You deserve someone to tell you how great you are. Every day.
I feel my face burn. Why is he being so sweet? What could he possibly want to be sweet to me for?
I crawl to the end of the bed and give Thelma a belly rub.
Fin: I’m sorry if I’m overstepping the mark. I just think you’re great.
I start typing then stop myself. Then stupidly send a thumbs-up emoji like I’m ten years old and cringe at myself so hard it hurts.
I roll over. The breeze through the window feels soft on my skin and I kick a leg out of the blanket to be half in, half out – the only way to lie in bed – and let my eyes close.
I’m halfway to the land of nod when I hear Thelma scratching my backpack on the floor. I know what she’s after. I bought her some organic dog treats the other day and forgot they were in the side pocket. I crawl out of bed, unzip my bag and give her one of the treats – which she eats like she hasn’t just had dinner an hour ago followed by whatever Mum and Carl have been giving her. Greedy doesn’t come close.
It’s when I unzip the main compartment to find my phone charger that I spot it. The mason jar with the glow-in-the-dark paint. From Fin.
My heart jumps around like I’ve just been startled awake from a nap.
I stare down at the jar in my hand.
I plug my phone on charge, put the firefly jar next to my bed and open up my messages.
Me: I think you’re great too. Like . . . really, really great.
Send.
23
Fin
Waking up this morning feels different. I feel different. I suspect it has a lot to do with Rye saying last night that he thought I was great. Not just “great” either. Really really great – which is basically a proposal. He clearly wants to be my husband. Okay, I’m not serious. Then again, if he was, I would a hundred per cent be down for eloping, marrying, running away together; the whole kit and caboodle. Okay. Enough. I sound insane.
I brush my teeth then throw on an old basketball singlet with the words “Toon Squad” on the front and Jordan on the back. It used to be Elliot’s – Space Jam is actually his favourite movie.
When I get to the kitchen, Elliot and Dad look like they’re deep in conversation about something. I walk in and feel both their eyes burn into me. It’s so obvious that they were talking about me. I’m assuming Dad is telling Elliot about what an embarrassment the last few weeks have been.
“Fin!” Elliot says, the steel in his eyes replaced with dimples and a big smile.
“Morning,” I say, heading to the cupboard and getting myself a bowl of cereal.
“How was last night?” Dad asks.
“Great. What did you guys do?” I ask back.
“Me and Elliot chucked a football around the yard, then he showed us a bunch more photos of his trip, we gave him an update on your progress, we had some foo–”
“Sorry, what?” I say. My legs feel like someone’s just filled them with concrete.
“We had some food at the bistro in town and –”
“No, you said my progress?” I ask, my voice louder than I intend it. I breathe slowly, trying to calm my heart rate. “What are you talking about?”
“We wanted to get Elliot up to speed about what’s been happening. It’s nothing to get upset over, Fin,” Dad says calmly, taking a bite out of his toast and a sip of his tea.
“You still haven’t answered my question, though,” I ask, my blood pulsing under my skin.
“You are progressing fine. I was telling Elliot how, since the previous incident, you have been on the straight and narrow – ha! How very appropriate.”
I flinch. I can’t wrap my head around any of this.
“I explained that we had an episode – a little road bump – back in Pittford. You’ve since met a girl, but I’d still like you to consider a workshop –”
“Workshop?” I scrunch my face up.
“Yes, son.” Dad shifts in his seat. “A workshop I’ve read about. It’s for young men who need some grounding and guidance. It’s to help get you back on track, nothing more than that.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my mouth void of all saliva.
“I said some grounding and guidance,” Dad says, exasperated, as if I’m making a big deal out of nothing.
I look to Elliot who is staring at Dad in complete incomprehension.
“Wait, Dad. You can’t be serious,” Elliot says.
I wipe my upper lip which is drenched in sweat. “Dad, can we please not do this right now?” I ask. I don’t know what is going on, but I can feel my chest contracting and I’m struggling to breathe.
“There’s nothing to freak out about, Fin. Like we discussed, you’re doing great. Your new girlfriend proves that –”
“Dad, stop,” I say.
He looks at me sharply but continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “The workshop looks ideal, perfect for you. It’s a grounding course for young men. It is a way to provide a foundation for a happy life. To provide core life skills to understand the principles of being a responsible man –”
“We get it, Dad,” Elliot says, taking a bite out of his toast.
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.
“Look, let me give you an example,” Dad goes on conversationally – as if he’s trying to sell the workshop to himself, as much as to us. “There’s a boy at your school who thinks he’s a girl named June. Now, he could’ve –”
“Dad, STOP.” I take a breath. “You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Zero. So please. Stop.”
The words bounce around the walls, slapping each of us across the face as they ricochet off the cupboards.
Elliot gives me a hint of a smile – he’s on my side at least – but Dad just stares, his face blank.
The silence that follows my little protest seems to drag on for hours.
“Be that as it may,” Dad says at last, his voice rigid with authority. “It starts first thing tomorrow morning. School will understand. Your mother will take you.”
End of discussion, if you can call it that.
*
When I arrive at school my phone buzzes.
Elliot: Love you bro.
Three simple words and I want to ugly-cry like I always do at the end of Titanic. I send back a simple Love you too x and head inside A-block.
I get to my locker, take out a muesli bar and head over to first period: history.
Poppy is waiting for me when I get there with arms wide open awaiting a hug. This is new to me. Poppy is usually far less affectionate, especially in the morning.
“And how are you on this fine day?” she asks.
“Swell,” I lie. “You?”
“Oh, Fin. The grass is green, the sky is blue. Rye is no longer dating the human equivalent of an overflowing sewage tank. June and I are fab-u-lous. Life is dandy, my man.”
I force a smile. “How’s Rye doing?” I ask.
“He will be absolutely fine,” Poppy says, tapping my nose. “I’ve decided that we are all going to the Coney Fair tonight. Rye needs a distraction, and what’s more distracting than a snaggle-toothed fairground guy who looks like he might want to wear our skin as a coat?”
I giggle. “Sure, I’m in,” I say. Mum and Dad will be thrilled that I’m going to a fair with Poppy. I’ll leave out the Rye bit.
Poppy and I start walking to our class and I wonder if Rye is even coming when he puffs up to us, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and rubbing his eyes. It looks like he’s been crying. Perhaps he’s been watching Titanic too.
Poppy gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Hey you,” she says.
“Hey,” he says, with something between a wince and a smile.
In return I give him my best smile (a bit of teeth, dimples engaged) and re-read his text in my head: I think you’re great too. Like . . . really, really great.
“How are you?” I ask, my voice sounding all raspy.
“Good,” he says, then looks at me and smiles. Like, really smiles. My heart kicks the hell out of my ribcage.
Poppy glances between us and I see her trying to hide a smirk.
We find our way to the back of the class and sit in a row next to each other. Poppy sits in the middle which drives me insane because I have this uncanny feeling she’s enjoying seeing me attempt to get a peek at Rye without being obvious.
Ms Chester wanders in and sits at her desk. I’m not going to lie, she looks like she’s had a catastrophic start to the day. Her eyes are bloodshot and her hair is all over the place. She’s prone to the occasional midweek meltdown – so Poppy says.
“Class, today we’re going to be watching a documentary on the rise of the Roman Empire, narrated by the extremely talented Benedict Cumberbatch,” Ms Chester says, rubbing her eyes.
“It’s Stephen Fry,” someone near us yells out as the programme starts playing.
“Ah, well. Life sometimes gives you a Fry when you ask for a Cumberbatch. Get used to it.” She shrugs and takes a swig from her water bottle on her desk – although I’m wondering whether it’s actually filled with water judging by the squint she makes.
The documentary drones on and Poppy passes me a note. With a whisper she says, “From him,” and gestures across at Rye.
I nearly let out a squeal but thankfully manage to contain myself.
My hands feel numb as I open up the note to see a few words in Rye’s inky handwriting.
Thanks again for everything. Means a lot.
I want to climb over Poppy and plant a big fat kiss on his perfect lips, but instead grab a pencil from my bag and start scribbling.
Don’t thank me. I’m sorry I can’t do more.
I look over to Poppy who seems thoroughly entertained. She takes my note and hands it to Rye, all the while keeping her eyes glued to the TV as Stephen Fry’s mesmerising voice narrates the documentary.
Ms Chester seems to be hypnotised by his dreamy English tones too; either that or she’s taking a nap with her eyes open.
I try to seem nonchalant while taking a quick glance over at Rye who is opening up the note. I see a smile flicker on his lips.
I should’ve asked something. I should’ve tried to keep the conversation going. I’m so bad at this.
Rye puts the note in his pocket and stares at the TV. I guess that’s it for the note swapping.
I try to concentrate on what’s going on on the screen but I can’t, for the life of me, focus on anything but Rye’s profile in my peripheral vision.
I see him shift over on his chair and I think he’s retrieving something from his pocket but I’m too awkward to look. I’m terrified of coming across as some desperate loser who waits for –
Bzzzzz.
My phone vibrates and I nearly punch a hole in my pocket trying to pull it out.
Rye’s name lights up in my palm. I look up and he’s smiling at me. My stomach completely backflips.
Rye: I thought it’d be easier to text. Poppy is giving me the creeps. :-P
Me: I think she knows we’re messaging each other.
Rye: I am seriously considering sending you an extremely dirty message to see her reaction.
I can’t help but cross my legs and feel all tingly at the thought of any kind of message like that from Rye.
Me: Are you doing okay . . .? You know, with everything?
Rye: I am now.
More stomach backflips. I glance over at Poppy who is giving us both a look that says: Really? before rolling her eyes.
This could’ve all been avoided had she correctly taken the social cues and let us sit next to each other when we first got to class. Something tells me she’s more than enjoying this.
She takes out her phone and within thirty seconds we are all in a three-way group chat. I love how easily we are getting away with this. Ms Chester appears close to comatose and seems not to notice (or care) that we are completely ignoring Stephen Fry.
Poppy: You two are joining June and me at the Christmas Coney Fair tonight (yes, it’s only November but Christmas is happening, okay). It can be a double date.
Rye suddenly looks uncomfortable. The word date clearly threw a spanner in the works.
Poppy rolls her eyes again.
Poppy: Fine fine fine. Double-non-date. Happy?
Rye chuckles.
I smile sheepishly. Is it wrong of me that I would’ve loved it if it had been a date?
Rye: Same as last year? Meet out front of the Ghost Train?
“Six thirty?” Rye mouths to us, looking up from his phone. We all nod as the bell goes and Ms Chester wakes u
p from her dream world.
The rest of the day goes by in a daze. I think about Rye more often than not and when I’m not thinking about Rye, I’m thinking of the workshop that’s now looming on the horizon. Anyone who organises something like that is going to be a creep at best. I really don’t like the idea of someone like that lecturing me on “normal” life skills. But, in the end, I force these thoughts out of my mind and instead focus on maths, science, geography and then lunch with June and Poppy while Rye heads home to feed Thelma. Technically we’re not supposed to leave school grounds at lunch, but Rye lives about a five-minute walk away so I guess the teachers just give him a pass. June told me that Thelma sometimes waddles up to the school gate and waits for him out front for the end-of-school bell and chums him home – I know. He’s so cute, it actually hurts.
*
Coney Fair is on the very edge of town and has some of the most rickety old rides on the face of the earth.
It’s your typical carnival. The Zooper-Dooper, Ferris Wheel, Ghost Train, Love Tunnel, plus a million creepy stalls where you can win an oversized stuffed soft toy koala.
I stand next to the Ghost Train and check my phone. No messages. I have this sinking feeling that they are going to bail on me. That I’m going to be abandoned in the middle of this fair with nobody. As usual I catastrophise and freak out long before I assess any facts or my life has a chance to actually go wrong.
A guy about my age is leaning up against the Ghost Train scrolling through his phone.
“You got a wrist band?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“I . . . No, not yet,” I say, noticing that he’s wearing a name badge that reads “Warren”.
“You need a wrist band to ride the Ghost Train, buddy.”
Ugh. I hate when people call me “buddy”.
“Warren,” I say, “I’m waiting for some friends. I’ll buy my wrist band in a sec.”
He gives me another short look up and down, rolls his eyes and goes back to leaning against the ride.