“But you’d read the journal. You must have guessed from that last drawing that something bad had happened to El. Why didn’t you send that page first?”
“I didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t even know if it represented anything real. But it was the most powerful image in the book and I just…I felt the darkness in it, Dylan. I didn’t want to show you that darkness unless I had to.” He shakes his head. “But then last night, what you said about us all being responsible. It’s true. All of us, in our own way, are responsible. We rejected El or wished he was different or wanted to make him in our image. And that isn’t me trying to get out of my responsibility. Me and Denman, we hurt him most. But last night you said again that you had to know. That it was killing you. And, Dylan, it was. I could see it. If there was some truth you could get out of that last picture, I didn’t have the right to keep it from you. So I sent the page. Jesus, I’m so fucking stupid!”
“But you always knew.” I nod. “When you said at Hinchcliffes that it wasn’t me that caused Ellis to go off the rails at Christmas. You’d read the journal. You guessed something must have happened to him.”
I get up from the swing and approach him. He flinches at my touch.
“I was so scared,” he says. “So scared and so ashamed. And so I did these things, these mad things I’d never have thought I could ever do, all because I was terrified of losing my friend. My friend who sits with me in the hospital and makes me laugh. My friend who rubs my back when I’m puking my guts up. My friend who saves me every day and doesn’t even know it. I couldn’t lose him. And so I betrayed you, Dylan, and I’m…” His voice cracks. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“Dylan…” He’s sobbing now, his face shining with tears, his poor body shaking. “Dylan, I can’t love you like Ellis did, but I do love you. So much. You’re my brother, my best friend. But I also know, after what I’ve done, things won’t ever be the same between us. And I can accept that. I can. I just hope…” He presses his hands together. “Dylan, please. Just please don’t hate me.”
“Mike?”
I wait until he turns to face me.
And then I don’t hesitate.
I pull my best friend into the fiercest hug.
It’s still Year One, Anno El, but three months since he died. I’m standing on the shingled shore, feeding mouldy bread to a very dysfunctional family of ducks. The father’s strutting about and the big brother seems to be a crumb-stealing jerk but the mother still fusses over him. The youngest, meanwhile, is doing his own thing at the waterline. I wonder if he’s into dude ducks, but I guess that would be stretching a ridiculous comparison too far.
Looking down, I brush the crumbs off Ellis’s old yellow shirt. I talked to my therapist about vacuum-sealing it to keep the El smell alive, but I decided you can’t hold onto things like that. Maybe I’ll remember his smell forever, maybe it’ll fade over time, and maybe I’ll be pottering around in the library’s large-print section sixty years from now and two kids will wander by, laughing and hugging, and I’ll catch the ghost of it again. Who knows?
Another therapy decision: helping Julia pack up his room. She told me I could take whatever I wanted and I chose a drawing or two, and these I will preserve as best I can. Not just because they’re memories, but because I will show them to the people I love and the people I’ll come to love and I’ll say, This was who he was. This was my Ellis.
The ducks scatter and I kneel down and unzip my backpack. This is the last time I’ll talk to him, at least for a while. It’s a deal I’ve made with Dr Rosenthal. So here goes:
I think you’d like her, El. She’s quiet and listens and sits on the floor with me while we talk. We even share a packet of Starburst every now and then. But don’t get big-headed, we don’t just talk about you. We talk about how it’s going at my rented place and how Mum and Dad pop round for a cup of tea and a chat every Thursday. We’ve kept it weekly because it’s hard, rebuilding trust, and baby steps are best. Anyway, up until last month I was buried under catch-up essays and exam prep, so I didn’t have time to see much of anyone.
Mr Morris has been amazing. I think he practically had a heart attack when I called the school and asked if I could at least try to get back on track with my A levels. Mr Robarts was wary, especially after the police officer/assembly showdown, but – get ready to piss your pants laughing – it was the Grand High Dementor herself who defended me. Yup, Miss Harper went into battle on my behalf, taking on all-comers, slaying every opponent with a single glare. I think she did it for you, El, but I’m grateful just the same.
So, yeah, university in September, if I’ve passed my exams. And I’m going into halls. I don’t think I could afford a flat all by myself, and anyway, starting a new life as the weird Billy-no-mates is not a way to meet friends and influence people. And I want to meet new people, El. I really do. So I’m thinking of signing up for theatre club (I know, I’m bound to trip over a spear-carrier or whatever) and I’m going to enrol with the LGBTQ+ Society. I wonder if the spear-carrier will be cute and klutz-friendly, like you? A boy can dream, right?
Only one thing will interrupt my first term at uni. Sometime in October I’ll be required to give evidence at Denman’s trial. He hasn’t confessed. I didn’t think he would. It’s not a monster’s style to make things easy for its victims. Not that it matters – the police have more than enough evidence against him, and since his arrest, other students have come forward with their own stories. Kids from Ferrivale High and from a school where Denman taught previously. Their testimonies have added to the prosecution case, and maybe even more importantly, they’re now getting help to deal with what happened to them.
Okay, El, I want you to know something: in all this moving on, I’m not leaving you behind. I don’t think I’d be able to do that even if I tried, and Dr Rosenthal agrees. I’ll always carry you with me. My first love, perhaps my best, maybe my only, who can say? All I know is that you sketched out a place in my heart and there you will stay, bold and strong and indelible. You changed me; you made me braver and better than I ever thought I could be. For that alone, I’ll never forget you.
I squat beside you for a moment now, my head resting against you. It’s almost time. But, oh yeah, one more thing to make you smile: Chris has come out as bi. Only, being Chris, he is now the most bi bi who ever lived and has a girlfriend and a secret boyfriend on the go. Even Mum is a little disgusted with him. Anyway, I think that’s pretty much all my news.
From behind me I can hear George Ezra singing “Pretty Shining People”. I turn and smile up at Mike and Ollie, Mike carrying his dad’s old boom box down to the shore. Ollie gives me this sheepish grin. I don’t know. Yes, he did a shitty thing, but we’re all human and we all do shitty things to each other all the time. Anyway, we’ve talked and, although we’ll never be best buds, I can’t carry around all this hate. And that’s not Dr Rosenthal talking, that’s just my own brilliant insight.
The same goes for Mike. He’s doing okay, by the way. His chemo’s finally finished and he’s starting his final year again just before I head off to Bristol. He’s already planning a couple of weekend visits and has made me promise to find him a LGBTQ+ Society Alliance straight girl who has a thing for footie boys with buzz cuts. I watch him bounce down the incline, chatting away to Ollie, and I send up a prayer, for what it’s worth. There are no guarantees, I know that now, but there’s hope, right? That’s the one wildcard the universe lets us hold onto.
“Hey, Bumboy,” he says, cuffing my head.
“Mike, I gotta say, that is a bit homophobic,” says Ollie.
“Oh, get over yourself. Just because you’re now all out and proud, it doesn’t mean you get a say over my and Dylan’s perfectly harmless nicknames.”
He nudges Ollie with his hip and starts singing along with George. I squint. Mike’s singing has this nails-on-a-blackboard quality. It really is something special. I bump fists with Ollie and ask if Mumzilla and Big Mik
e are in position.
“They’re on the spot. I told Dad it was totally illegal and he’s really excited. Mum said she’s waiting in the car in case a quick getaway is required.”
“And you’re sure about this? Mike, it’s all the money Gemma gave you from the Easter dance.”
“Correction: the Dipshits Ball. And I can’t think of a better way to spend it.”
“Seconded,” says Ollie.
“Okay then.”
I lift your urn out of my bag and hand it to Ollie. He holds it like a sacred object, which I guess it is.
“I’ll take care of him, Dylan.”
Me and Mike watch him head back up the incline to where he’s left his car.
“He’s not a bad kid,” Mike says.
“He’s a spectacular moron.” I smile. “But no, he’s okay.”
We don’t discuss our next move, but the psychic link of the Incredible Twat Brothers holds true, and as one we sit cross-legged on the grass and wait. On the far side of the lake the last spears of sunlight are pricking the water. The McKee family ducks are gliding towards a fringe of trees, kid-brother duck a little apart, of course. It’s quiet now. Families are packing up their picnics and heading home. Mike leans into me as I dig a yellow sheet from my pocket and unfold it, holding my image up to the sunset. I don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. This was how you saw me, El, a guardian to watch over you as you slept.
“He was pretty amazing, wasn’t he?” Mike says.
“He was.” I shift a little and put my arm around my best friend. “He said once that Art is a wonderful lie we tell ourselves so we can bear the truth. But El wasn’t right all the time. He saw more truth than anyone I’ve ever known.”
The sun vanishes.
I grab Mike’s hand.
And in the next moment the sky’s ablaze. You’d describe what we’re seeing in a thousand beautiful ways, El, picking out every shade of every changing colour of every firework, and I can kind of hear you anyway, but it’s not the same, because my imaginary El will never be a match for the real thing. So I just lean back on my hands and watch and wonder which fantastic, fabulous flare is yours. I told Julia what we planned and she said she’d be watching from her balcony at Mount Pleasant. I’m sure she’s smiling and crying now as we turn your ashes into a starburst firework, a final roar and crack and dazzle from the boy I loved.
Mike stands and pats my shoulder, giving me a minute as the sky fades to black.
It’s time to move on. Because that’s what you’d want for me. And it’s what I want for myself. But I’ve learned now there are no real goodbyes. I will always keep coming back to you and I will always be thankful for the truths you showed me.
I pick up my empty bag and walk with Mike into the trees.
“So I was talking to Ollie Reynolds,” I say, treating El to a mischievous grin, “and he says that most people think George Ezra is not even the slightest bit cool.”
El throws his head back and takes a huge breath through his nose. His nostrils arch like he’s been caught in the downdraught of one of Mr Robarts’s epic accidental farts. Honestly, our headmaster seriously needs to get his bowels checked out.
“Ollie knows nothing.” El tries to smile but his eyes cut away from me.
“Hey,” I say, waddling forward on my knees. The gravel on the rooftop makes me wince. It still seems an odd place for a picnic, but I guess that’s my boyfriend all over. “Something up?”
He grins and brushes my cheek. “Something’s always up when you’re around, Frecks. Anyway, that philistine Reynolds is wrong. George is achingly cool because I say he is.”
“And you’re what? Her Majesty’s Arbiter of Coolness?”
“Can you think of a better candidate?”
Truly, I can’t, so I shut up.
“Coolness is in the eye of the beholder. George is cool. The calves of the England men’s volleyball team are cool. Dylan McKee is very cool. So sayeth the Arbiter. Now shut up and help me unpack this thing.”
I squat down beside him and we start taking supplies out of this huge wicker hamper. After the fourth suspiciously green package, I rock back onto the tartan blanket.
“Is there anything here that’s not not heavily processed?”
“Sorry, Frecks, I was catering with the hope that I wouldn’t have to roll you back down the stairs. We aren’t really supposed to be up here, and I’m not sure I can stealthily evacuate you if you’re chomping a burger mid-heart attack.”
“Okay, but quinoa?” I stick out my tongue and El pinches it between his thumb and forefinger. “Wha h’even h’is kwweeen-wuh?”
He releases my tongue and kisses my nose. “Some things must remain a mystery. File quinoa away with the Loch Ness Monster and the popularity of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.” El sits cross-legged and prepares me this ridiculously horticultural sandwich, which he stuffs into my mouth before I can protest. I hate to admit it, but it actually tastes pretty good.
“So.” He smiles. “The Easter dance.”
“No way!” I glare at him. Then, in case I haven’t been completely clear: “No fucking way.”
El pouts. He loves to dance. I’d love to dance if I danced like him, but I don’t, so I don’t.
“What if…?”
I hold up my half-eaten plant burger. “Ellis, I swear, there is no bribe that you can invent that will persuade me to attend what Mike and I have long-dubbed the Dipshits Ball.”
“What if I re-enacted our driving lesson from the supermarket car park?”
It’s tempting, but… “No. I still have the gearstick bruise on my arse.”
“Then what if I tickled you in that place you like? For an hour.”
I open my mouth then shut it again. Crap. He’s good at this. But…
“No deal. Anyway, I’m not ticklish down there any more.”
“Then what if I…?”
He leans in and whispers in my ear.
I drop the sandwich.
“You are a very evil temptress, Ellis Maximillian Bell.”
“I know.”
Afterwards, El tells me I’ve cheated. I’ve allowed myself to be pleasured by a master at the absolute pinnacle of his powers (and, seriously, I can’t argue with that) but I still won’t promise him we can go to the dance tomorrow. I tell him that he is a skilful lover but a poor negotiator. He ought to have secured my agreement before giving me a sample of his wares. If he wishes to present his case again for the Dipshits Ball, well, I will consider any new proposal he has to offer. He laughs and snuggles his head into the crook of my shoulder.
We stay like that for a while. At some point during El’s magic-making I thought I’d heard the screech of the rooftop door, but it’s quiet now. Anyway, no one’s started shrieking about two sixth-formers up on the roof getting busy, so I’m assuming we got away with it. A few lazy blackbirds circle overhead, eyes on my weed burger. We ignore their caws and turn to our second favourite subject: plans for summer and uni.
We rehearse this same conversation every couple of hours. He tells me about the gigs he’s excited to attend in July, I tell him about the comic-book convention in August. We then discuss his idea for a mural in our little living room in Bristol and he asks my opinion on the right colours for the bedroom. “The bedroom’s your department,” I tell him, and he grins. I try to act all nonchalant during these talks, but every time I think about our future together…yup, my stomach flips. So I just lie there on the prickly gravel and listen like an enchanted child to these amazing stories of times yet to come.
Suddenly I roll sideways and kiss him hard.
“Wow! What was that for?”
“For forever,” I say.
His eyes cut away. “Forever’s a long time, Frecks.”
I take his chin and draw him back to me.
“Are you giving up on me already?”
“No way.”
“So we’ll be together forever then,” I tell him, and start to spin my own future histori
es now. He snuggles in and listens. “There were once these two boys, Ellis and Frecks, and they fitted together so well no one could ever tear them apart. They lived and studied together, and after university they went and found a place for themselves in a huge city where they made new friends and partied hard. But they worked hard too. And after a few years they decided that, although they were totally happy just the two of them, they might have room for some little people.” I look at him, because we’ve never talked about kids and stuff, but he smiles this contented, lazy smile, so I continue. “So one day Ellis and Frecks and their little people all decide that their love is so fucking huge and immense—”
“Shhh,” he says. “No swearing in front of the kids.”
“I’m sorry. But they all think, We’d like to show the whole world how special our family is. So they invite all their family and friends…”
“Aunt Julia,” El sighs. “And we buy her an amazing dress.”
“And maybe even Chris.” I nod.
“If we must.”
“But before the invites are sent out—”
“Designed by me, with the little guys’s handprints on them, like butterflies.”
“Ellis, who’s telling this story?”
“I’m sorry, Prof. Please continue.”
“That’s better. So before these very cute invites are sent out, Dylan gets in his car, which isn’t that great a car because he’s only on a history teacher’s salary—”
“But I’m a famous artist by then, exhibiting at The Prado and The Met, and so I buy you a Bentley and… I’m sorry, go on,” he giggles.
“Okay. I get in my Bentley and drive all the way across the country to this perfect little village, where Mr Michael Berrington lives with his beautiful wife Anne-Marie and their kids, Little Mike and Even Littler Mike (because we know the Berringtons are pretty awful at thinking up non-Mike names for boys). I take Mike to the pub and, you know, he’s absolutely fine. Healthiest he’s ever been. In fact, he’s now captain of the England footie team.” El kisses me again and squeezes my hand. “And I ask him to be my best man.”
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