“I mean, I have to breathe.”
“Well, do it less loudly! Christ! Or I swear to god, I will smother you in the night.”
I sit up in my sleeping bag. “Nate, those are very harsh words. You speak of murder and hate.”
“I do,” he grumbles.
“But you should speak of love.”
“Shut. Up.”
“Don’t make me wrestle you, Nate!” I warn him.
“Yeah, you don’t want to be wrestled by Jack,” Elliot tells him.
“I just want to sleep now,” Nate says.
“You should never go to bed, or leave a room, on a cross word, Nate.”
“That’s pretty hard with you around.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Really. And what if … suppose you said such mean things, and that was the last time you saw me, or I died or something, and then all you would have would be your horrible words and all the guilt.”
“Whatever.”
“No, but, Nate, it’s true! People die all the time. Every second. In the time it’s taken me to say this, multiple fatalities have occurred.” I take a deep breath. “All I’m saying is, tell people you love them. Hold your loved ones tight. It may be your last chance. And, for the record, I love you, Nate.”
“Jesus,” Nate mutters.
I smile to myself. It’s so glorious winding him up like this.
Nate turns over in his sleeping bag. Huffs a bit. Turns again. Huffs some more.
“Grrrrgh,” he growls.
I wait for it.
More huffing.
More turning.
And then, eventually, in the smallest voice imaginable,
“Love you,” he mutters.
Finally! This is how it used to be. Gently winding each other up. Enjoying it. Laughing. It feels good to laugh with him again.
CHAPTER THIRTY
NATE
“Happy Sungay, Gaybies!”
I open one eye and see Jack standing in front of me, dressed in bright red cut-offs, a white T-shirt and rainbow braces. “Happy Sungay,” I croak. He’s an absolute gay vision and I love him for it. Proud. Confident. He’s him and he doesn’t care. Like he didn’t care about sticking it to Auntie Karen last night – just brilliant. Not sure my parents will think that, but I’ve been dying to say something for ages.
Elliot stirs next to me. “Morning, is there breakfast?”
“Well, great story,” Jack says, eyes sparkling. “I went to find our generous host, Karen, in the kitchen, to ask if there was a bag of feed or some turnips I could throw down for the other boys, thinking I was making a joke, but it turns out it’s much worse than that. She’s made some porridge.”
“I like porridge,” Elliot says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Jack smiles at him. “Mmm, me too, especially when it’s all creamy, with a nice dollop of honey or maple syrup, right? Or some fresh berries, or a splodge of jam, or loads of sugar sprinkled on top that just starts to caramelize?”
“Mmm!” Elliot agrees.
“Except she’s made it with water and salt, and that’s it. Literally, it’s like we’re in Oliver Twist. It’s grey. And there’s a great big vat of it congealing in the kitchen.”
I sigh. “We’ll ask my parents if we can stop at a service station on the way to White Water Lakes – maybe we can have a cooked breakfast.”
“Brunch! An excellent idea!” Jack says. “And in the meantime…” He pulls his hands out from behind his back. “I may have borrowed a box of Pop-Tarts from the cupboard while Karen was busy beating a small child for stealing a crumb of bread.” He slings us a Pop-Tart each, like a Frisbee, but it’s too early and my reflexes are too slow.
“Ow! Jack! That hit me on the cheek!”
“Buck up, buttercup, it’s just a Pop-Tart!” Jack smiles.
“Well, it really hurt.”
“Ohh, I think it’s grazed,” Elliot says, peering at my cheek.
“It’s grazed!” I look at Jack accusingly.
“Oh, I’m sorry! How was I to know you’d have such sluggish hand-eye coordination? I’m sure it’ll heal, and in the meantime, it gives you a sort of rugged, masculine quality.” He grins, waggles his eyebrows and flounces out of the barn. “Love you!” he sings.
I shake my head, then notice Jack has poked his head back round the door of the barn, waiting.
I scowl at him. I’m not going to say it back. He just hit me with a Pop-Tart!
He cocks his head. Waiting.
This is the thing with Jack, he’s got this way of making me feel things … like guilt that if I don’t say it back I’ll regret it, just like I regret all the things I didn’t say years ago, and the truth is, I do … love him, as in love like a friend, obviously, not … well, anyway.
He’s tapping his foot now, and even glances at an imaginary watch on his wrist.
“Love you!” I say. “OK?”
Jack nods and disappears.
I sigh, and dab a bit of Sudocrem from the pot in my rucksack on the graze, because I know it’s just a Pop-Tart, but it actually stings quite a bit? And then I smile, because for the first time in ages, I’ve woken up and my first thought wasn’t about Tariq and, you know what, that feels good.
*
“Teamwork! Coordination! Planning!”
Hunter has been standing in front of us for ten minutes now, barking away about what this horrific outward bound course is going to involve. When we arrived at White Water Lakes, Mum and Dad booked themselves and Rose on to a pedalo around the boating lake, whereas me, Jack and Elliot were booked, by my mother, on to what was terrifyingly described as a “Water Survival Course – intermediate level”.
Hunter is a tall, broad black man, whose opening gambit was to tell us that he “doesn’t suffer fools” and “has no time for losers” because “in the water, every second counts, every person counts, so ditch your ego, ditch your rivalry and fight to survive”.
Great.
To make matters worse, the other kids on this course all know each other – they’re from London and doing a scheme over the summer that gets them out of the city. “Is it because you’ve never seen grass?” Jack asked one
