Drop (26 page)

“I believe you were in charge of coffees,” he says, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa.

“So I was.” I buy two lattes and a £4 pecan chocolate brownie because, why not?

“Extravagant,” Isaac muses as I sit back down beside him.

“Skipped breakfast. My stomach feels the size of an acorn.”

“Tasty, nutritional lunch then?”

“Something like that. We can share though.” I cut the brownie with the edge of a plastic fork. Isaac picks up half and eats it in one go. “You’re weird,” I say.

“Hungry. Need to up my calorific intake.” He munches. “Been doing a lot of running. Clears my head.”

“I do the same with gym. I taught Finn how to cartwh—”

I stop short. A silence expands between us like a huge inflatable pink elephant. I have to stop myself tumbling into the memory, so I look around for a distraction. There are flyers on the table. A gig at the gallery in a few weeks. Poetry slam on Sundays. Screen-printing workshops in the basement on Saturday afternoons.

“Hey, you should enter this.” Isaac thrusts a leaflet into my hand. It reads:
Maggie Penn Art Prize. Submissions by 20 August. Win £250 worth of materials and art-course funding. Plasma Gallery supports local talent.

“No way. I’m so not good enough. It’ll be a miracle if I pass.”

“Do it.”

“No time to make anything new. All I have is a tatty notebook full of half-baked ideas.”

“Get it in the oven and bake it then. You’ve got weeks before the closing date.”

“You mean like the flaming paper plates over there?”

“Ha. No. You know what I mean. Something ‘beautiful, well-crafted’, like you said.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, then try to change the subject. “You know what’s baked to perfection? This brownie. Mmm, totally worth it,” I say, then sip my coffee.

“OK, ignore me if you like but I still think you should enter.”

“You’ve got brownie on your chin.”

“Where?” Isaac asks. I point to the crumb.

“Right there.”

He struggles but finally wipes the brown blob from his face.

“All better?” Isaac asks, smiling, his gaze lingering a little too long. An uncomfortable feeling bubbles in my stomach. It’s not the brownie.
Does he still like me that way?

“Better,” I confirm.

“Do you want to meet up after school tomorrow?”

“Um, I don’t know… Got buckets of work to do. In revision sessions till half three. Biology’s killing me. Applications of genetic engineering.” I pause. “Or as it’s commonly known, Gibberish Theory. I try to understand it but it’s like reading Greek or binary or whatever.”

“Applications of Gene-berish?”

“Something like that.”

“We could revise together. You can say no if you want.”

I
should
say no. Definitely no. Because my head’s still full of Finn and the what-went-wrongs and what-a-fool-I-ams and how-am-I-gonna-get-throughs. I’m wrestling with too many regrets already. The thing is… Right now, I feel so at ease with Isaac. And actually, the negative thoughts seem to stop shouting when I’m with him. I feel …
calm
. Why is that?

“Well… Maybe you can quiz me or show me some flashcards or something,” I say.

“OK. See you in the park by the bandstand at quarter to four.”

In the park, the high sun lays glitter on the damp grass. I spread my jacket on the ground and sit down. Isaac’s on his way. He’s stopped to buy coffees. I look at my trembling hands and shake them out. Makes no difference. I’ve been uber-tense all day. A jack-in-the-box-wound-up-tight-stressed-out spring about to explode or suffer an aneurism or burst out of my skin. Exams, Finn, Isaac… Unless I chill out my eyes may pop out in cartoon fashion. After I got home last night, all my thoughts began to tangle themselves into knots. At the gallery with Isaac, I’d felt like I was standing still, like the ride had finally stopped. But away from him, the world began to spin again.

Suddenly the sky turns dark. “You’re in my light,” I say.

Isaac hands me an extra-sugary latte. “Here you go. The Carla Special: clogs your arteries with one sip.” He sits down beside me and nudges my shoulder with his.

I sip my strong, sweet coffee. “Just because you’re on a health drive doesn’t mean we all have to conform.”

I notice his black Converse, mostly hidden by his dark jeans, navy T-shirt, plain and old, with a patch of murky white on the collar.

“Did you used to bleach your hair?”

“Finn’s idea of a joke. He bleached my fringe when I was sleeping. It looked supremely awful. Like a human cockatoo.”

“Ha. That’s classic. Gold.”

“Well, blond, technically…”

I feel the softness of his midnight-black hair as I stroke it with my eyes. It’s never sticky with product. Stubble creeps evenly across his face. And then I think:
Fuck, why am I staring at Isaac?

Over his shoulder, I see a group of figures heading towards us like a herd of livestock, moving as one. “Do you know them?” I ask.

Isaac stretches out on the grass, casual and unconcerned. “They look vaguely familiar, but no.”

I sip my latte and flick through the pages of his current book,
Ham on Rye
by Charles Bukowski. The herd edges closer, definitely on course to trample us. Pretending to read, I watch them approach. Then we are under a cold blanket of shadow, looking up at them.

Six lads circle us, no longer cattle but hunting dogs. Wolves.

“You selling weed?” a guy with big brown eyes and cropped hair asks, his skin pale pink like an uncooked sausage.

“Nah, mate,” Isaac answers.

“Come on. Course you are.”

“I said no. I don’t have any.”

“Not what I heard.” The boy grabs Isaac’s collar, yanking him upwards.

Panic rises in my throat, hot and suffocating. I sit upright, scanning the group. I
do
recognize them. They’re in Year 11. Not menacing individually, but as a group…

“Thing is, mate, we fancy a smoke. And a reliable source tells me you’re the guy.”

Wrong brother.
But for some reason neither of us can get the words out.

Isaac stands up, tall and unflinching. “I don’t want to fight you. You’ll have to look elsewhere,” he insists.

“We’ll take your wallet then.” The pale-skinned guy looks at the others, communicating a secret command with his eyes. He moves close to Isaac, nose to nose.

Instantly, the boy flicks his leg behind Isaac as if dancing an Argentine Tango, hooks Isaac’s legs and pulls. Isaac falls backwards.

“Shit!” he cries. “Bastard.”

Back on his feet, Isaac grabs his attacker’s collar, sending them both falling to the ground. The boy rips at Isaac’s hair, his clothes.
Stop it, stop it!
In a flash, they’re all on him, thrashing, scuffling for his back pocket. I don’t know what to do!
What can I do?

A boy with dirty-looking stubble and a bad haircut pins Isaac’s arms back. Isaac whips his head around and gnashes his teeth at the boy like a hungry dog. Twisting his body at the hips, he kicks at the twelve grappling hands and twelve stamping feet, but under a mass of muscle and flailing limbs, he’s like the ball in a rugby scrum.

“Stop it!” I yell. “Get off him!”

With supernatural strength surprising even me, I grab the ringleader by the waist and yank him backwards. The boy gasps like I’ve given him the Heimlich and releases Isaac, a few strands of Isaac’s hair left in his palm. I suppress a wave of nausea.

Isaac lies on the ground, bruised and bloody-nosed. He could have beaten the shit out of one of them, but six? No chance.

The boy edges towards me, brow down, eyes narrowed. I stand frozen momentarily, a deer in headlights. I turn to run but he catches my arm, digging his nails into my wrist. My arm is almost wrenched from its socket and I shriek with pain. At this, Isaac is roused and jerks upright.

The boy squares up to me and pulls his fist back like a catapult. We stand motionless, staring at each other.

“If you touch her I’ll pull your balls through your mouth,” Isaac spits.

The others go to pin Isaac to the ground, but despite the battering, he’s too quick. He lunges between the leader and me, getting a chinful of fist. He drops to his knees. I catch him as he falls backwards.

“You should’ve just given me your wallet,” the ringleader says.

Isaac scrambles to his feet and grabs him by the collar and crotch. The boy howls while his mates look on, wincing.

“I suggest you shut up if you plan on having children any time in the future. And if you so much as breathe in her direction, you’ll be sucking food through a straw for the rest of your miserable little life,” Isaac’s voice thunders.
Wow,
I think.
Where did he come from?

“Aaaarrggh, all right.”

Isaac releases him. The boy crumples like a Coke can crushed underfoot.

I hook Isaac under the arms and pull him upright.

“Tossers,” he mumbles under his breath, wiping his bloody nose with the murky patch on his collar.

We stagger to the park toilets, ignoring gawping passers-by. He rests against the vile green concrete wall while I go into the ladies and grab a handful of damp pink toilet paper.
Ugh.

“Here,” I say, tilting his head upwards, “for your nose.”

“Thanks.”

I go and run some more paper under the tap. The water’s Arctic cold. Back with Isaac, I dab the wet tissue under his eye. He recoils, grimacing.

“It’s not that bad,” I say, trying to be positive. “Are you OK?”

“Just a scratch. Surface wounds.”

“They’ve scratched you all over; we’d better win the jackpot.” I check him top to toe. “Nope, two bells and a cherry. Not our day.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Bit sore. Nothing to worry about,” I say. “You knew they wanted Finn.”

“Yeah. But he’s my brother,” Isaac says.

He stumbles, then steadies himself, holding my shoulder and leaning in. Not on purpose, but still, he’s here. Close enough to…

My pulse quickens. Magnets depolarize and I want to pull him so close…

Thump, thump, thump…

I’m scared. Not ready.

Thump, thump, thump…

I try to look away but I’m drawn into his eyes, falling, falling, falling into the abyss… But … he has the same dark eyes,
Finn’s
eyes…
I can’t do this.

The moment passes and all I’m left with is disappointment pinching at my stomach.

On Saturday I board the coach heading to Sal’s in Wales. Somehow I’ve made it through post-break-up-hell week, but now on half-term, I feel anything but free.

I’m noticing things about Isaac I never saw before. I thought he hated me. Now, he makes a little joke, or looks at me with a twinkle and I see something else in him. Something exciting. I want to grab those moments by the bull horns and hang on. Do I like Isaac? I mean,
like
like? No, I can’t, must be residual Finn-feelings. I’m projecting. Anyway, it’s not as if I’ve got time to explore the possibility. Hello? EXAMS COMETH.

My shoulder aches from the fight as I lift my bag into the overhead compartment.

I’m looking forwards to seeing Sal and hearing about her adventures down under: wallabies, boomerangs, all that stuff. My knowledge of Oz is limited to watching
Neighbours
and
Muriel’s Wedding.
It needs some updating.

The air con’s set to cryogenic.

I stare out of the window at the traffic, people shopping on Oxford Street, the park blurring by, until we’re out of the city and onto the M4. I put on some music and try to fade away. This break will be good. I’ve got to get my head straight. I’ll be away from Finn, Isaac, drugs. That’s good, I guess.

Three hours and a huge bag of Maltesers later, I remove my earphones to hear an announcement scratch out of the coach speakers: “Next stop, Cardiff.”

I’m greeted with an enormous bear hug from a very tanned Sal.

“Good to see you, kid,” she says, voice muffled in the fuzz of my unbrushed hair.

“You too. Welcome home,” I say. “I’ve been banished.”

“So they sent you to the naughty corner, AKA, the Welsh countryside,” Sal says, in what sounds like an Aussie twang.