《I Loved Him First》


 PROLOGUE - 53 Excerpts From A Love Letter & Suicide Note

    1


    The truth is, I don¡¯t know where to begin.


    We both know this has been coming for a long time, and tomorrow, it will become frighteningly real. I have always been afraid of forever¡ªof love, trust, and promises most of all. But more than that, I fear death; I fear dying before I have the chance to tell my story to just one person.


    I never knew how to say this before, but after years of deliberation, I think I¡¯ve finally found the words. But you¡¯re going to have to wait until the very end to hear what I want to say the most.


    2


    This part is never easy. In fact, it is the single hardest thing I have ever done. And after this, there¡¯s no going back, is there?


    3


    I¡¯ve lost count of how many times I rewrote this letter. But it really doesn¡¯t matter what happened before, does it? No, it only matters what is and what will be.


    When you read this, you will see that my hands were trembling. The first time, I wrote it in red ink. Then I decided it wasn¡¯t only hideous, but far too mawkish for the occasion. One might even call it cruel. Too dramatic, I thought, to make it seem as though I¡¯d spilled not only sweat and tears, but my own heart¡¯s blood on these pages.


    But it would¡¯ve been ironic, wouldn¡¯t it?


    4


    For months, I have lain awake at night, wondering how I would say this when the time came. And now it¡¯s finally here, and I find myself¡­ hesitating.


    I always knew what this would look like, but I never considered how I might feel. I thought it would happen on a summer morning and a seaside cliff, with a grenadine sunrise and waves crashing below. I thought it would happen years from now; that it would be sudden and spontaneous.


    There¡¯s no such thing as perfect timing for something like this. I cannot pretend that things are not about to change, nor life about to get a whole lot more complicated.


    You see, for them, there is tomorrow, but for me, there is only today.


    5


    I wish I could promise you that everything will be okay.


    6


    If you see the good in someone, promise me you won¡¯t give up on them. A good person is the rarest thing in the world. When I am gone, and you fall in love a second time, promise me you will tell them; that you will never let them forget it.


    7


    I cannot forgive myself for all the things I didn¡¯t say until it was too late. How can I forgive us for all we did not become?


    All my life, I pushed away the things I didn¡¯t understand, and I ran from the unimaginable. But this was once unimaginable, too.


    8


    The three saddest expressions ever uttered were: ¡°should have,¡± ¡°could have,¡± and ¡°would have.¡±


    I should have told you that I loved you. I could have told you the truth. Would we be standing here now, if only I had? Would it have catalysed or delayed the inevitable?


    9


    It¡¯s addictive from the minute you let yourself think you matter to someone. And because you don¡¯t know, you hope. You wish on every puddle, every star, every drop of rain, and that is what got us here.


    I feel as though I¡¯m walking in the clouds, and I will never come down to earth again.


    10


    Love is delusional sometimes, but reality is for people who lack imagination.


    11


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    I gave up every chance of happiness I ever had.


    12


    I am not asking you to make the decision that will make me happy.


    13


    Have you ever loved someone and not known how to stop? Because the more I try, the less it¡¯s working.


    14


    I made you laugh ¡®til you cried, but with him, there¡¯s a light in your smile I never even knew was there.


    15


    Don¡¯t make that last therapist appointment. The way I feel is no longer your burden.


    16


    I will always love you. But if you¡¯re in love with someone else, who am I to stand in the way?


    17


    Love is someone who saves you the last piece of chocolate.


    18


    Have you ever walked around the city at midnight, wondering where he is, and what he¡¯s doing?


    19


    I hope that one day you look down and realise you¡¯re still putting oat milk in your coffee, even though you¡¯re the one who teased me about it in the first place.


    20


    Have you ever thought of him and smiled for no reason at all? Have you ever watched them throw away the poinsettias on New Year¡¯s Eve, and remembered a fleeting glimpse of him?


    21


    Have you ever cried in a supermarket at 3 AM?


    22


    Beautiful things don¡¯t ask for attention. And behind every beautiful thing, there was first something tragic.


    23


    When you think about it, is there someone you¡¯re living for? If you couldn¡¯t live for yourself, could you do it for someone else?


    When I¡¯m gone, I hope everything in this world will remind you of me.


    24


    I don¡¯t know if I should be apologising for this. But I will apologise for the length of this letter. You know I¡¯ve always thought too much and felt too little.


    25


    I will apologise for everything else, but not for this.


    26


    I will never be ungrateful for every moment you have loved me.


    27


    You¡¯re the one good thing that ever happened to me.


    28


    Love¡¯s a dangerous game. How did I ever fall in love, when I don¡¯t even know what that is?


    29


    When you look at me, it¡¯s like my heart¡¯s exploding in my chest.


    30


    This is the end of life as we know it.


    31


    I never imagined what it would be like to die, or what Heaven will look like.


    32


    If I had to describe it, it would be like floating, or flying. And if singing were a feeling, it would be this.


    33


    This is the kind of thing you can¡¯t predict, nor understand unless it happens to you.


    34


    No one will ever know why.


    35


    So, what do you say in a moment like this?


    36


    I¡¯m guilty of so much when it comes to you¡ªof loving you, certainly, though I feel guiltiest for that. And if we¡¯re being honest, I live only to read your letters.


    37


    I need you to hold me tonight.


    38


    Do you remember the first time you said that you loved me, and I didn¡¯t believe you? No one had ever told me that before.


    39


    We¡¯ve been so strong; held on much longer than they thought we would.


    40


    Tell me a story, but not the truth.


    41


    Everything will culminate in a happy ending, and if it doesn¡¯t, that isn¡¯t the end.


    42


    You¡¯re the only person who saw that little bit of sadness inside of me.


    43


    What you don¡¯t understand is that I¡¯m an optimist.


    44


    If you were a season, you would be the summer. Somehow, you make the whole world bright.


    45


    I¡¯m glad this happened on a beautiful day.


    46


    A bad day doesn¡¯t have to turn into a bad life.


    47


    Some see endless hope, where others see a hopeless end.


    48


    The only constant thing in life is change.


    49


    I thought the winter would never end, and then, just when I least expected it, when I¡¯d nearly forgotten it, warmth came, and a different light.


    50


    It¡¯s no secret that the both of us are running out of time.


    51


    I don¡¯t believe in God, but I do believe in miracles. Living is a miracle. Laughing is a miracle. And because there was a miracle, I met you.


    52


    Everyone deserves a happy ending.


    53


    So, this isn¡¯t goodbye. This is ¡°until we find a way.¡±

 I - Fifteen

    AIX-EN-PROVENCE, FRANCE


    AUGUST 2011


    IT WAS THE morning of his very first day, and he was already going to be late. He ran down the dusty drive, to where the bus was waiting. His book bag fell off his shoulder and slammed against his thigh, making him gasp. There was a long, bloody scrape running up the back of it, from when he had crashed his bicycle in the woods. He caught it in one hand and kept running. Behind him, John was panting and red in the face. Will was in the lead, teasing and laughing brightly.


    There were three students in burgundy cardigans waiting at the end of the road, laughing and pointing. Will looked down at his bruised knees and cream-coloured skirt, which he¡¯d managed to escape from the house wearing, despite his parents¡¯ disapproval. It was pleated, and fell to just below his backside. He turned round, glittering in the summer sunlight, skirt lifting with the movement of his body.


    Boys were not allowed to wear skirts at St. Michel¡¯s, nor to have long hair, but Will¡¯s fell to his chin, and was bound back with a strip of leather at the base of his neck. He looked like a pirate, or a soldier from the eighteenth century. His fingernails were painted with chipped black varnish.


    He had taken one step out onto the gallery that morning, and decided it was too hot for trousers. It was a sweltering summer day, and he was feeling bright and buoyant. He was in the mood to be looked at.


    Thus far, mission accomplished.


    He leapt onto the bus and pulled himself up using the handrail. The driver, who had been waiting for three minutes, scowled at him as though it had been twenty, or as if he were personally responsible.


    If someone had asked him why John Hargreaves was his best friend, he would¡¯ve said it was an accident. Their mother would¡¯ve said that they had always been friends. And if you asked John as an adult, he would¡¯ve said that loving Will was his greatest mistake. But if you had asked him at seventeen, he would¡¯ve said: ¡°Because he made me smile.¡±


    The day before, they had been walking along the streets of Aix-en-Provence, fashionably sipping lavender lemonade, dressed in dark sunglasses, blinding white shorts, and unbuttoned shirts flapping in the breeze. Will was practically dancing down the street, wearing platform sandals with three-inch heels. John whispered along the pavement beside him, in plain flat ones. They had spent many summers this way, chasing after each other through the dazzling heat, sitting on the curb, flirting in the most atrocious, broken English with American tourists. They thought it was hilarious, given they were both of full English blood.


    It was, in many ways, the best summer.


    On the last day, they had gone to be fitted for new uniforms by their father¡¯s tailor, as they did every year. They were the only students at St. Michel¡¯s with custom-made uniforms. After that, they stopped for a light, but refreshing lunch of oysters and salads with lemon vinaigrette. Usually, Will didn¡¯t eat lunch, but this was no typical day, and with John, he wanted to.


    On their way back to the car, Will had stopped abruptly in the centre of the pavement. Something had caught his eye. John turned, to see him mooning over a little white dress in the shop window. He knew even without asking that Will wanted it for his own, and didn¡¯t hesitate to take him by the arm and pull him inside.


    He had known for a long time that there was something¡­ off about Will. John had always played rugby and bought flowers for his girlfriends, while his brother stood on the side-line, screaming at the top of his lungs. For Will, it had always been boys, and there was nothing wrong with that. They were closer than close. He never he could never find anyone as thoughtful or as kind. He didn¡¯t care what his friends, or his father thought¡ªhe wanted Will to be happy, because his smile was like a ray of sunshine. And if Will had chosen to wear a clown costume, John would still walk proudly at his side.


    They spent an hour trying on clothes. John wanted him to put on the dress, but Will ignored him. He drew the curtain aside and stepped out barefoot, turning tricks in a blue pastel suit, completely free for the first time in his life. He didn¡¯t know where Will had learned to dance like no one was watching, but he could¡¯ve been a ballerino for the Paris Opera, if that was his dream. John imagined him in toe shoes, leaping through the air. He came out of the dressing room like he was walking the runway, and struck a pose. He¡¯d never seen anyone so confident.


    The suit was one-of-a-kind, and so extravagant that there was no price label attached, but the Hargreaveses had more money than they knew what to do with. The dress was six hundred euros. Will wore it out of the shop, so happy that he took John by the hands and spun around. The skirt, lighter than air, lifted out like wings. People stared, but John didn¡¯t care. His brother was the prettiest boy on earth.


    ALTHOUGH HE HAD no reason to believe that John wouldn¡¯t sit with him, still he was relieved when he did. John Hargreaves could¡¯ve had anyone in the world, but he had chosen Will.


    ¡°What do you think people will say?¡± John said, sliding into the seat beside him, and settling his bookbag on his lap.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Because Will had decided to break the rules, John had joined him. On his feet were a pair of dusty sandals, which he had worn for three summers straight. They smiled, happy for no reason at all, except that there was something so wonderfully exhilarating about causing trouble.


    John leaned in close. ¡°You look pretty.¡±


    ¡°So do you,¡± he said, without thinking.


    John laughed and flicked him in the forehead, but said nothing.


    IF THERE WAS such a thing as Hell, Will imagined it would be something like St. Michel¡¯s. It was the first day of school, and he was trying to return to normal life, and the way it used to be, but it was impossible. The world changed, and so did he.


    He walked out, into the bright, end-of-summer sunshine, looking for John. A group of girls, seated on their cardigans, which were laid over the wet grass, snickered and pointed as he passed. He knew all their names, although he wished he didn¡¯t. They laughed and flinched back every time they saw him, as if a boy in a skirt was somehow hostile to them.


    Will didn¡¯t want to be a girl¡ªnot even sometimes. But he was jealous of their hair, and clothes, and makeup. He wanted to be as pretty as they were. He wanted boys to chase after him, too.


    When he found John, it was under the shade of an almond tree, with the new boy from Normandy. Almost all the students at St. Michel¡¯s had been there since year seven, and would be until they graduated and went off to university. But there were also a handful of transfer students, whose parents had sent them across the country and paid an exorbitant price to put them in a private school. They stayed in hostels, and with relatives. Some of them even stayed with local families. The Hargreaveses had hosted these students on more than one occasion, but not this year. It was strange in that first week, as everyone settled into their places¡ªuntil lines were drawn, and reputations established.


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    ¡°Will, over here!¡± John called out, waving to him. ¡°Ren¨¦ found us the best spot on this side of the Mediterranean.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen better,¡± he murmured, daintily crossing his legs on the grass. He pulled his skirt down over his thighs.


    For Ren¨¦, before this place, there had been a life and family in Rouen, although he was born in Greece. He had moved to Marseille during the summer, and lived in Le Panier, along the water. His cardigan was slowly slipping off one shoulder, and his trousers betrayed the slender shape of his legs. His forehead glistened in the early August heat.


    Sitting with him were ¨¦lo?se Roche and her boyfriend, Jean-Philippe, who they called JP, for short. They were kind, and quiet, and not particularly interesting in any sense of the word. They weren¡¯t frivolous risk-takers like John and Will, who had been that way all their lives. But they were devoted to each other, and falling head-over-heels, in the way only the young do.


    Nasreen Khurana was the cousin of Ramy Youssef, who wouldn¡¯t be caught dead with her, or with them. She was pretty in the way few people are, in that she was beautiful inside and out. She had bottomless eyes, so dark they were nearly black, and skin the colour of burnt honey, which glowed in darkness and light. She had a pudding face, and a bit of childish pudge round the middle, but it made her all the more adorable. She was like Ren¨¦¡ªsoft, and sweet, and desirable in every way, but so unlike him in every other.


    Nasreen had come to France when she was nine years old. Before that, she lived in Firozpur, with her parents, who were lonesome rice farmers that minded their own business and kept to themselves. She was an only child, and so was Ramy. They were both happy to have a sibling, although they would never admit it aloud. She was with John and Will because she had known them since she arrived in Marseille, and because she didn¡¯t fit in anywhere else.


    There was an unspoken understanding between them that they didn¡¯t acknowledge the past; that they didn¡¯t bring up the physical and sexual abuse the boys had known at the hands of their father. They didn¡¯t talk about Nasreen¡¯s, who had taken his life after a vicious summer monsoon destroyed their crops, or her mother, who followed after him six months later. They didn¡¯t bring up the things they could never understand.


    Will held up the powder compact he¡¯d stolen from his mother¡¯s dressing table, peering at his sunburnt face. He parted his lips, which were cracked and bleeding, but before he could speak, it was kicked out of his hand. It was projected into the air, sailing over John¡¯s head and landing in a clump of wildflowers. His head snapped up, wide, terrified eyes locking on the face of Ma?l Renault. He was wearing striped rugby shorts, and his cardigan was tied round his waist. Will had never seen anyone who was handsome, yet so undeniably hideous within that it bled through to the outside.


    John leapt to his feet, but Ma?l seized him by the shoulders and shoved him back. He landed heavily in the grass. Nasreen flinched forward, as if to retaliate, but then Ma?l glared down at her, and all her fragile courage dissolved. Ren¨¦ reached out to shield Will from the oncoming hit, but he was too late. Ma?l had already landed a swift kick to his face.


    The world slowed down after that. The planet ground to a halt. Will closed his eyes and leaned forward, clutching his nose. He coughed, and blood burst from his nostrils, spattering across the white of his skirt, raining down upon his naked thighs. For a single, horrible moment, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears.


    Then time moved forward again, and it was over¡ªor so he thought. Hands reached for him, but he slipped out of their grasp. He was struck once more in the face. Sound and light erupted through the darkness, sharp and blinding white. A small, strangled cry escaped from his throat.


    When he opened his eyes, a fistfight had broken out between John and Ma?l. He could no longer tell which was which, they were both moving so quickly, slamming into each other like colliding planets. One of them slid across the pavement, held down by a foot on his chest.


    Will was painfully aware that they were being watched, and laughed at. The calling of the crows was so loud that he didn¡¯t hear the sound of Ma?l¡¯s partners in crime running up behind him. He clutched the sides of his head as the birds descended, pecking at his skin, and his eyes. They were cannibalistic, bloodthirsty creatures who came to feast on his flesh. They came to take his soul down to Hell, where it belonged.


    The world was blinking in and out, and the crows were so loud he could no longer hear himself screaming. Before he knew it, there were hands on his waist, and his skirt was pooling round his ankles. Gooseflesh erupted across his skin. The summer sun had never been so cold. His legs were trembling, knees knocking together so quickly that the sound could easily be mistaken for that of chattering teeth.


    Then a crow landed on his head, and sank its beak into the soft skin of his scalp. A thin stream of blood trickled into his eye, half-blinding him.


    And then he was running.


    AT THE END of the day, he opened his locker, to put his books back on the shelf. He was feeling unexpectedly well, all things considered. When he looked in the mirror, there was even a little, playful smile on his lips.


    After the incident at lunch, he had gone to hide in the toilets. He had always been afraid of his hands, slick and hot, had made him vomit. When he opened his eyes, he was kneeling before the toilet, looking down at the strands of saliva floating on the surface of the water. He fell back against the wall, and began to cry.


    He sat for a long time, staring blankly ahead, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn¡¯t move if he tried.. In fact, he almost didn¡¯t believe that he was still breathing, and thought that if this was what it was like to be dead, it wasn¡¯t so terrible, after all. He reached into his satchel for the tiny blade he had removed from his pencil sharpener and pressed it to the inside of his wrist, slowly dragging it down. One, two, three.


    That was when a flash of yellow flitted past the door. A pair of sun-bright shoes, which were completely against the uniform policy, appeared soon after. A hand reached under the door, holding a note:


    OPEN THE DOOR. WE¡¯RE GOING TO THE INFIRMARY.


    He went abruptly still. He slowly lifted the blade, careful not to make a sound and dropped it, dripping wet, into his satchel. He was lucky that the blood from his nose¡ªa small puddle he was sitting in¡ªwas indistinguishable from that of his wrist, and that he¡¯d worn his cardigan that day. He pulled the sleeve down and pressed it against the wounds, blotting away the blood and wincing as he did.


    The hand appeared once more, this time over top the door, and another note fluttered to the ground.


    I SAW WHAT HAPPENED. I BROUGHT YOUR SKIRT.


    (P.S. ¨C YOU LOOK PRETTY)


    Those final words made him shiver. The garment, blood-stained though it was, slid across the floor, fetching up at his feet in a heap. He stood so quickly it made his head spin, and snatched it up, stepping in and pulling it over his hips. He looked as though he had just committed a triple homicide.


    Will hesitated with one hand on the lock, holding the door closed. He was afraid of who was waiting on the other side. But when they sighed, and one of the shoes tapped impatiently, he pushed it open.


    IN THE END, the nurse gave him a new set of trousers to wear for the rest of the day. He agreed with the boy who had brought him to the infirmary¡ªhe looked like he¡¯d just walked off the scene of a murder. She had cleaned and dressed the wounds on his face, as the boy sat beside him, watching every her move with intense concern, and perhaps even a bit of suspicion, somewhere deep below the surface, where only Will could see.


    He pushed his hand into his pocket, trying to find the tube of lip varnish he had found earlier that day, which someone must have dropped in the corridor. He unscrewed the cap and peered into the looking glass on the inside of his locker, pressing the wand against his lower lip. It came away with a click, stained pale red. His hands were shaking, so it looked like he was bleeding. Bruises stained his face, and the shallow cut on his nose was covered with a plaster and strip of gauze. He touched it gently. It was painful, but not obscenely so.


    Grinning widely, he put the varnish in his locker and shrugged on his coat. A tiny, folded slip of paper slipped out of his pocket and tapped against the floor. He unfolded it and squinted at the letters.


    WE SHOULD BE FRIENDS.


    And that was all it said.

 II - Here In the Darkness

    THE NEXT DAY, more students, young and old, appeared beneath the almond tree, which they had named Jean-Baptiste, after the patron saint of second chances. They came and went, as people do, but soon there was a permanent group. They talked and had lunch, because they had no one else. In fact, many of them had nothing at all but the friends they had made one lucky day at the end of a beautiful summer. By the end of that week, lifelong friendships were blossoming, while white petals fell upon their heads, like gentle rain from Heaven.


    Will had gotten butterflies the first time he looked at Ren¨¦. His beautiful, pale green eyes, like the tide, left him alone on a rocky shore, but always returned. He had a thin face and flushed skin, red even beneath his sunburn. His hair was dark and glossy, falling on his forehead in loose curls. He always carried a pair of glasses in his pocket, but only wore them when he was reading, or when something was very far away. And when he was with his friends, because he wanted to see them clearly, as they were.


    Ren¨¦ was bright, and funny, and brought light to the world through a radiant smile. He was older than Will, and taller, having already reached his full height of five eleven at the tender age of sixteen. Ren¨¦ led the others in their mischief and games, as Will, who had been hurt far worse since that first day, and not only by Ma?l, sat back and watched.


    He had worn trousers for the rest of the week, while the bloody skirt stayed in a shopping bag, thrown into the corner of his bedroom. It was his only one, and although it was ruined, he couldn¡¯t bear to throw it away. It was the only tangible evidence of who he really was.


    Then, that weekend, John had taken him back to the seamstress they bought it from, to buy a new one. Will smuggled it into the house under his coat, which he wore no matter the weather. He donned it not only to cover the mess that was his arms, but to disguise who thin he had become. Their house steward, who had raised him since he was six, and better than either of his fathers ever did, would be the one to hem his clothes if he saw how they hung off him like drapes. He knew Pierre would be worried about him, but couldn¡¯t admit what he had done to himself¡ªwhat he was doing every day.


    When he wore the skirt to school on Monday, Ma?l kicked him down the stairs, and now he was walking on crutches. He couldn¡¯t join them as they played rugby in the field, but it wasn¡¯t because he didn¡¯t want to. John slipped in the muck. Ren¨¦ threw his head back and laughed.


    Nasreen had a crush on him. She and Will captured Ren¨¦¡¯s attention in their own ways, individual and inimitable. Nasreen smiled and shoved his shoulder when he teased her. Will was quiet and self-contained, but also darkly enchanting, in the way death and destruction pull us in, or how black holes are bewitching, despite the end they bring to sound, and light, and beings of all kinds. His was the call of the void.


    Nasreen leapt up from beneath the tree and ran down the hill, to join in the rugby match. When they sat beside each other in Literature, Will smiled at him, glancing up from beneath his lashes and daydreaming about happy endings. Nasreen bought him dessert every day, then Ren¨¦ gave it to Will, because he was afraid to eat in front of other people. So was Will, but he didn¡¯t know that. It was undoubtedly a struggle, but not a violent one, for when it was over, she and Will still had to be friends.


    Although, there was one thing he didn¡¯t know, and that was whether Ren¨¦ liked boys or girls. So, one day, he asked him.


    ¡°Both, actually.¡± Will didn¡¯t know how or if to reply, and so looked down at the leaves skittering across the pavement, and lifted the cake Ren¨¦ had given him to his mouth. Then he felt a hand closing round his, and heard a soft voice say to him: ¡°But I like you the best.¡±


    And then he kissed him, licking the icing off his lips. When they parted, Will was silent for a moment, uncertain how to go on living, now that the impossible had already happened. He burst out laughing. He¡¯d never felt so happy¡ªit was a beautiful drug, and he wanted another hit. He held Ren¨¦¡¯s hand, pushing the last bite of cake into his mouth, quite literally biting back a smile. He had never been one to give away his feelings, but he¡¯d found himself doing many things for the first time since that August. His inner world had been turned upside down, but in the outer, conscious world he was only a boy sitting on a cardigan, grinning like a fool in love.


    His life changed that day. When he walked down the corridor, holding Ren¨¦¡¯s hand, John and Nasreen smiled brightly at him. They too were holding hands¡ªeach other¡¯s, to be exact. He¡¯d known them a long time, and yet never seen either looking half as happy. He¡¯d never felt that way either, but Ren¨¦ was beautifully, inexplicably different from everyone he¡¯d ever met. And now he was Will¡¯s.


    ONE DAY, HE opened his maths textbook and found a tiny piece of yellow paper, folded into the shape of a flower¡ªone he¡¯d never seen with his own eyes. He smiled, and unfolded it.


    HI, PRETTY BOY.


    He smiled slightly, almost imperceptibly, and slipped it into his pocket. He drew in a breath, holding it. He bent low over his paper, looking covertly round the classroom. It was the same people he¡¯d known all his life, laughing and joking, as they always did. He looked at Ren¨¦, sitting beside him, leaning back over his chair, talking to John. They were in the same module, even though John was three years older than he was. He listened to them for a moment, then looked away, focusing on something over Ren¨¦¡¯s shoulder, which he¡¯d never noticed before. It was the boy who sat next to him, and his shoes. They were yellow.


    He was asleep on his desk, arms folded, head down, turned so that Will couldn¡¯t see his face. On the desk was an exam from the week before, with one question filled in. It was marked with a red pen, but he couldn¡¯t read what it said. In the margins, there were sketches of children feeding birds. Odd choice of muse, he thought, returning to his book and beginning to solve the problems, which were far too simple, on a separate page. He¡¯d already done his homework during the lesson, while they were meant to be learning how to, and now he was finishing John¡¯s.


    The bell rang, and all chairs scraped across the floor. By the time he looked up, it was too late¡ªthe boy was gone. He sighed, pushing his books into his satchel, settling back into that old, familiar loneliness. He stood up on his crutches, wincing and wishing selfishly that, for once, someone had thought of him.


    Only that first note was left in his textbook. After that, they were pushed through the grate of his locker, where only he could find them. Whenever he found a note, it gave him chills. He glanced down the corridor, but no one was looking back at him, although it always felt as though he were being watched. He didn¡¯t know whether to be flattered or terrified. Perhaps a bit of both.


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    They were only slips of paper, with sweet questions written along the insides. Whoever had written them wanted to know what he did that summer, and what his favourite colour was, and if he liked croque mesdames. They made him laugh. He always read them the moment he found them. If it had been anyone else, he would¡¯ve thrown them away, thinking they were insane, but because he hoped it was the boy from the infirmary, he kept them.


    Nothing changed after the notes began. Every day, Ma?l hit him, or stole his lunch money, or pulled his crutches out from under him. But still they kept coming, and eventually the messages became longer. They were never signed.


    He knew it was foolish to hope, but he began to anticipate the notes, and each morning he opened his locker, looking for the next. It brought him a quiet sense of joy to read those letters. It was addictive from the minute he let himself think that someone might care about him.


    In the third week of school, there was a not saying: MEET ME AFTER SCHOOL, WHERE WE FIRST MET. Below it, there was a little, hand-drawn heart in red pen. His head was pounding. He read it again and again, until he could see the words imprinted on the backs of his eyes, even when he closed them.


    He spent the rest of the day wondering what to do. He thought of nothing else as he sat in lessons and at lunch, resting his head on Ren¨¦¡¯s shoulders, because he had a headache and couldn¡¯t eat if he tried.


    By the end of the day, he was so nervous his hands were trembling¡ªmore than they usually did from not eating for days on end. Even before the final bell rang, he was out of his seat and running for the toilets. He wondered silently to himself what he was doing, and how he could let himself do this, but neither did he stop.


    Will got there first. He stood for a moment, unsure if the note had meant to go in the stall, or just to wait in the room itself. He looked at it, and thought that it couldn¡¯t reasonably fit two people, hopping up on the sink instead, swinging his legs back and forth. He leaned his crutches against the wall, but they slid off and clattered against the floor. There was a window looking out on the courtyard along the top of the wall, and he clambered up onto the edge, to peer out. This part of the courtyard was partly shaded by the building, but beyond the shadows, the sun was shining, painting the world in shades of red and gold. He opened the window a sliver and breathed in the cool autumn air, which smelled of earthly death. Not long ago, the trees were just beginning to bloom, but now the leaves were changing colour, and some had even begun to fall. They rustled as the wind blew through them.


    Someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned back, to see the boy from the infirmary, wearing the same yellow hoodie and shoes from the day they met. In fact, he looked exactly the same. Will looked around for someone else, but they were alone. Then the boy smiled.


    ¡°Hi,¡± he said, extending a hand to help him down. Will took it and leapt down off the sink, landing gracefully, with both feet on the floor. ¡°My name is Ramy.¡±


    It hurt something fierce to be standing on his ankle, but he didn¡¯t care. Ramy was reasonably tall, with caramel-coloured skin and dark hair. He used to play rugby with John and Ma?l, but this year, he had been booted off the team for smoking cannabis in the fieldhouse. His hoodie was threadbare, and his trousers had holes in the knees. His pupils were dilated. He kept wiping his nose on the cuff of his sleeve. He was a bit too skinny, although nowhere near as thin as Will.


    But he did smell nice¡ªbright and sweet, like citrus candy.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d come,¡± Ramy said, laughing. ¡°I thought I scared you away with the notes.¡±


    He didn¡¯t know what to say, so he shook his head. They sat on the edge of the sink, side-by-side. For a moment, neither of them said a word, and then Ramy reached into his pocket and pulled out a deck of cigarettes. He put one between his lips, then extended the package to Will. He¡¯d never smoked before, but he took one, grasping it tightly, with three fingers. Ramy flicked a lighter and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing out a cloud of smoke with a sigh. He turned his head, looking at Will with tired eyes. He leaned in close, and for a moment, Will thought he was going to kiss him. But he only took the cigarette and held it to Will¡¯s mouth, gently placing the end between his lips. The lighter flared once more, and a thin plume of smoke rose between them.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you came,¡± he said, tone low and dark. He blinked slowly, with bleary eyes, then leaned back. He crossed one arm over his stomach and held himself tightly, closing his eyes and resting his head against the looking glass behind them. The world stopped there for a moment, smoke clotting the air, as they both were silent and motionless. Will¡¯s palms were damp, and his hands were trembling. It was undeniably warm, but still he felt cold.


    ¡°Have you ever smoked a Gauloise before?¡± Ramy asked, cracking one eye open and peering up at Will. He shook his head. Ramy laughed, and the eye slid closed once more. ¡°You know, all my life, I¡¯ve been spoiled with French cigarettes. All I¡¯ve thought about the past few weeks is whether you smoke, too. You¡¯re too perfect for something like that.¡± He paused, and took a drag, blowing out a billow of fog. ¡°So, I started writing those letters, hoping you¡¯d read them. I thought if I lured you here, I could offer you a cigarette and find out. But I didn¡¯t actually think you¡¯d come.¡± He opened his eyes and rubbed his nose on his sleeve, clearing his throat. ¡°I want to be friends,¡± he said, staring blankly ahead. He shrugged. ¡°But it¡¯s up to you.¡±


    He shifted slightly, closing his eyes once more, apparently intent on smoking and sitting in silence until he received an answer, even if it wasn¡¯t the one he was looking for.


    ¡°We can be friends,¡± Will murmured. He reached behind him to turn on the tap, and crushed the cigarette out in the rushing water. He watched a tide of black ashes circle the drain, then dropped the burnt-out stub and turned back to Ramy, who was still leaning back with his eyes closed. But now he was smiling¡ªa dopy, lethargic grin.


    ¡°Great,¡± he said. ¡°Want to come home with me, pretty boy? My mum¡¯s making butter chicken for dinner.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± His voice cracked, face burning hot. ¡°Are you high?¡± Will blurted, before he could stop himself. He clapped a hand to his mouth and looked down at him, terrified.


    Ramy opened his eyes and pressed his lips together, to keep from laughing. ¡°I am.¡± He reached into his pocket and held up a packet of blue pills. ¡°Want to join me?¡±


    And so, he did. It was the second time in less than a week that his life changed forever.


    IN THE FIRST week of September, Ramy created the Dead Daddy Club. Will became its very first member, along with a boy called Thomas Ramsay, who considered himself the co-founder, although he¡¯d done nothing but provide the tattoo pen. It was Ramy who led them, and who drew the horned goat skull on both their arms. Will loved it. It was the most deliciously fucked-up thing he¡¯d ever seen. Later that night, in a haze of hard alcohol and cannabis smoke, he asked Ramy to tattoo the word ¡°MANEATER¡± on his lower back, and he did.


    After that, he sat with Thomas and Ramy during lunch, which they called ¡°meetings,¡± but which was really only the three of them outside, sitting in a circle, laughing and throwing food at each other.


    They were incendiaries, the lot of them. Their fathers were dead, and now they all broke the rules in one way or another. For Will, it was the way he dressed and the length of his hair. For Ramy, it was cigarettes, and pork (usually croque mesdames or Pierre¡¯s judd mat gaardebounen), and the colour yellow. For Thomas, it was drugs, cut and dry. They were conforming in their own strange, but spectacular way, although they would never have admitted it aloud. What kept them together was the fact that they were different¡ªthe Muslim, the gay boy, the drug addict. Eventually, those lines became blurred, and they didn¡¯t know who they were anymore.


    Now that he had been to the other side, Will had no desire to go back to John¡¯s bright, shiny world of lemonade and endless summers, when he could be himself, here in the darkness. He had finally found people who wanted him. They pulled him in. But by the time he realised what he¡¯d done, it was too late.


    It was a good time, those first few weeks. It was the deceptive kind of happiness that fools us all into believing it will last forever.

 III - Alone In A Bathroom

    IF YOU WANTED to know Will¡¯s seventh-grade secret, it was this: a quiet retreat from the dinner table, the turn of a tap, and the sound of rushing water. It was thirty seconds, and the click of a lock. That night, he threw up three bites of chicken and a piece of chocolate cake.


    For six weeks, he heaved into toilet bowls and did not lose an ounce of weight. Instead, he denied himself dinner, wrapping it in plastic and hiding it under his bed, to devour in the dead of night. Soon, he had a heap of rotting food under his bed, which he didn¡¯t know how to dispose of. He cleared it out, buried it deep in the woods, and began creating a stockpile of sweets, instead. He ate until it felt as though his stomach were splitting open, and then, after wiping his tears, kept going, because no amount of food was ever enough to fill that emptiness inside of him.


    And even when that first pound dropped off¡ªeven when it was five, ten, fifteen¡ªno one knew not to trust Will alone in a bathroom. No one scolds a skinny boy for eating an entire box of blueberry waffles. No one tells him not to wash them down with two bottles of weight-loss tablets and a litre of chocolate milk. They never looked twice at Will, or considered that perhaps he wasn¡¯t eating, because no one thought of him as anything less than an inspiration.


    Ever since that first night, he lied. He lied about why he went out for a walk every evening, after dinner. He lied about eating the food he brought up to his room. He lied about the mornings spent on the bathroom floor, head spinning, hadn¡¯t eaten since the day before. He hid his scars, and starving stomach, which was beginning to eat itself from the inside out, beneath layered shirts and heavy coats. But even when he fainted on the bus, even when his form group teacher had to call the paramedics, and even when he was forced to eat his lunch in a classroom, confined to his desk like a prisoner, he did not expect anyone to believe him.


    HE LEANED OVER the toilet and spit out the last of his lunch, dragging a sleeve over his mouth. He flushed it and opened the door, turning on the tap and holding his hands under the steaming water. He stood there for a moment, letting it scald his palms, until a group of boys came in. He turned off the water and lifted his satchel off the floor, swinging it over his shoulder, when one of them called out: ¡°Hey! Where the hell do you think you¡¯re going?¡±


    The last bell had already rung. He was going to be late for his next lesson, which was starting in less than a minute, and across the campus. But he turned back, because he had no choice. He knew, somewhere deep within, that there was no outrunning this.


    Ma?l pulled him back by the shirt and threw him into an open stall, roughly seating him on the toilet he had just left, with a hand on either shoulder. He told Will that it was his birthday, and his mother had made him a chocolate torte. But it was an awful lot for just one person, and he was feeling particularly generous that day.


    He opened his satchel and took out a paper bag filled with chewed-up cake, sticky and glistening. He gave Will a plastic spoon and told him to eat it. They circled around him, taking out their camera phones to record his suffering.


    Ma?l Renault had always been the centre of attention; always basked in the limelight. He was the star of the rugby team, with a bewitching charm that drew people in before they could think twice and escape. Everyone wanted to be his friend¡ªmore because they were afraid of him, and less because he was truly desirable. When he talked, they hung on his every word, and laughed at every joke he made. No one could keep up with him and Will. After years of searching, they had finally met their match.


    He looked down into the bag, hesitating. When he shook his head, Ma?l took the fork away and held him down. The bag slid along the floor, and he was slapped across the face. His head clapped against the wall, mouth falling open, a long string of saliva dripping down.


    Ma?l reached behind him for a handful of cake, stuffing it into Will¡¯s mouth, so full he couldn¡¯t breathe. He choked, spraying crumbs across Ma?l¡¯s shirtfront, but he didn¡¯t even notice. He was already scooping it up off the floor and cramming it back. Will bit his finger, but it slipped away before he could snap it off. The cake was infuriatingly sweet, and viscous with someone else¡¯s saliva, closer to pudding in texture. He closed his eyes and focused on the movements of his jaw, thinking not of what was inside his mouth, but how to be rid of it. He swallowed it as quickly as possible.


    He was pinned against the wall like Christ on the cross, head hanging before him. His face was smeared with chocolate and cherries, and he felt horrifically ill.


    ¡°How about some wine?¡± someone said, bringing him a cup of foamy, amber liquid. He drank quickly and gratefully, realising too late that it was urine, thick and sugary, like milk sweetened by rot. The cake that had been caught between his teeth absorbed it like a sponge. He began to cough, and before he knew it, he was bent over, head between his knees, vomiting across the floor. Hot tears slid down his face, and vomit dripped from his mouth and nose.


    Ma?l ran from the sudden downpour upon his shoes. Without his support, Will dropped from the wall, slamming his tailbone against the toilet. He landed with his hands out before him, holding onto the seat. He kicked his satchel out of the way and bent forward, releasing the last of the cake onto the mess he¡¯d made.


    Then he lay there, exhausted, looking at the cherries he¡¯d thrown up¡­ like blood clots, or tiny, broken hearts pulsing on the ground.


    ¡°YOU KNOW, RAMY, you don¡¯t have many good ideas¡ªor many ideas, period¡ªbut this was one of the best,¡± Will said, as they crossed the threshold into the outside world. It had been a long, eventful day, and it was a special kind of pleasure to walk home on a cold autumn afternoon. ¡°Thomas is cute, isn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°Christ, Will,¡± he sighed. ¡°How many boyfriends are you going to have?¡±


    ¡°One.¡± He bit his lip, looking down at his feet, and the fallen leaves crushing beneath them. ¡°But I can have a boyfriend and still think someone is cute, can¡¯t I?¡±


    Ramy clutched the straps of his satchel tighter. ¡°You do know he¡¯d never¡­ well. All I¡¯m saying is that you deserve better than that, Will.¡±


    ¡°Says the one that screws him for drugs.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a difference between sleeping with someone and sleeping with someone you love. Love isn¡¯t about what you get out of it, or about giving them what they want.¡±


    ¡°But if it did happen¡­¡± He trailed off, eyes focused somewhere far away, and Ramy knew that he was gone. ¡°It would be¡ª¡±


    From then on, Ramy cut him off internally, not listening to a word he said, because there was no point. Sometimes, he wondered if Will was truly grounded in reality, and if he stood with both feet on the same earth as him. Most of the time, he thought so, but other times, it seemed as though he were in another time and place entirely¡ªone where shadows run and darkness reigns.


    After rambling on for what seemed like forever, Will said: ¡°I could dye my hair blond, like¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are you out of your fucking mind?¡± he sputtered.


    ¡°I¡¯m kidding!¡± he laughed, shoving Ramy¡¯s shoulder. He was feeling bubbly and bright, despite what happened earlier that day.


    Ramy mumbled a string of obscenities under his breath, taking Will¡¯s hand and dragging him forward. He was beyond outraged that Will was taking this so lightly, pretending that nothing had happened, when neither of them would ever be the same again.


    They stopped at the corner until the light turned, watching the cars rush by. This was the part where Will stepped into the woods, and Ramy continued on through the downtown traffic. Except this time, he couldn¡¯t bear to let him go, clutching his hand tighter than ever.


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    ¡°Come over for dinner,¡± he said, voice tight. ¡°I know what happened today. I know you don¡¯t want to go home.¡±


    Will nodded, suddenly deflated, and they walked the rest of the way in silence. ¡°I¡¯m not feeling well. I don¡¯t think I can stay over tonight.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I asked.¡± He paused. ¡°Do you want to tell me what happened, or shall I guess.¡±


    ¡°Nothing! I just¡ª¡± But he didn¡¯t finish, because he was backing away from Ramy, who hadn¡¯t let him go. Now they were standing there, hands raised between them, both pulling in opposite directions. He leaned back with all his weight, but Ramy stood his ground.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± he begged. ¡°Mum will make you a nice, hot cup of chai. You¡¯ll feel better right away.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    He finally gave in, and followed him, head pounding harder and quicker with each footfall, body slick with a cold sweat. By the time they made it to the house, his stomach was in so much pain that he had begun to cry. Ramy released him the second they stepped through the door, and he ran upstairs to the bathroom, where he heaved up bits of chocolate, and the apple the nurse had made him eat after cleaning him up.


    And when he was finished coughing up everything in his system, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands and face, and went to lie down on the sofa, not bothering to take off his coat. He was asleep from the moment he closed his eyes, and it seemed only a second more before Azra was leaning over him, touching his forehead with the back of her hand, checking for a fever.


    ¡°Is he all right?¡± she whispered to Ramy, who was standing behind her. He cracked open one eye to look at her. ¡°Will? Are you feeling okay?¡±


    ¡°Mm¡­¡± She put an arm round his back, lifting him into a sitting position. He held her close, breathing her in as she shucked his coat and handed it to Ramy. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I got sick in your toilet,¡± he croaked.


    ¡°What have you eaten today?¡±


    ¡°An apple.¡±


    ¡°Well, no wonder you¡¯re not feeling well.¡± She gently laid him back, covering him with a blanker. He was shivering so violently his teeth had begun to chatter. ¡°Ramy,¡± she ordered, slipping back into her native language, ¡°take off his shoes. I¡¯m going to make him a cup of tea.¡±


    He did as she asked, then found Will something to wear, careful not to stare at the fading bruises on his thighs and hips. He pulled out a pair of loose cotton trousers and a long-sleeve shirt, which would hide the scars laddering up every inch of Will¡¯s skin. Then he hurried back down the stairs and dressed him, before his mother returned with a steaming cup. There was a small smile pulling at her lips, despite the situation that lay before them. He thought she must enjoy having someone to take care of, as mothers do¡ªparticularly those who are also nurses. She held the cup to Will¡¯s lips, and he drank, despite the churning of his stomach, because he could not bear to waste a drop of her kindness. And when he had finished it, she returned to the kitchen, where she had been preparing dinner when they walked in. Ramy sat down beside him, holding his hand as he drifted off into a dark and painful sleep.


    ¡°I NEVER ASKED you, but why do you insist on wearing that skirt?¡± Ramy asked him that night, once he was awake, back in the world of the living and breathing. His tone was reminiscent of Ma?l¡¯s, when he had asked Will if he was a boy or girl, and it made something inside him shiver.


    ¡°Because I¡¯ll wear what I want to wear,¡± he snapped.


    In the end, he had stayed for dinner. They were setting the table with chipped plates and tarnished flatware, which had been in the family for generations. There was something oddly¡­ charming about their imperfection. His father would never stand for such a thing.


    ¡°Fine. It¡¯s not like you ever listen to a word I say.¡±


    Will glanced up at him. For once, he wasn¡¯t wearing his hoodie, but the button-down his mother had wrangled him into, although she hadn¡¯t managed to coax him out of his jeans, which were held together by raw, white threads. He was already in a foul, black mood, and Will knew he was jabbing at the beast, but still he didn¡¯t stop. He was walking around the table, setting plates down on the bare wood, while Will followed behind him with the silverware.


    ¡°Sorry. It¡¯s just¡­ I get asked that often enough at school. And something happened today because of it.¡±


    ¡°Then why do you keep wearing it?¡±


    ¡°Because I want to.¡± He looked down at his feet. ¡°Because you told me I looked pretty.¡±


    AFTER DINNER, AZRA let them try her baklava, which she had drizzled with honey and topped with clotted cream. He had seen her eating it on fresh fruit, and out the jar with a spoon on more than one occasion. Will found it strange, to say the least. He¡¯d never had clotted cream on anything but pastries before, but it was actually rather lovely. It was sweet, heavy, and made him sleepy. He knew he¡¯d have to be sick later, but in that moment, it was a small pleasure simply to eat, and to pretend he was a normal person, with normal habits.


    Azra spent a long time talking to Ramy about school, and marks. Will was silent, listening to him li, as he sat in a sugar-induced catatonia. It had been so long since he¡¯d had anything sweet, and now it was a shock to the system.


    The conversation turned to the topic of Ramadan, which was beginning the next day. This was the final meal they would be having until the sun set tomorrow night. Will didn¡¯t know a great deal about Islamic customs, but he did know that Ramy wasn¡¯t allowed to eat until it was dark outside, and that he spent all of September hiding in the library during lunch, where he wouldn¡¯t be caught eating food bought from the cafeteria. Thomas and Will kept him company as he hid from the Almighty, and brought him all the croque messieurs he could ever eat.


    Will wished he had a mother that cared about him even half as much as Ramy¡¯s did. He would¡¯ve listened to her; would¡¯ve obeyed everything she said. He wouldn¡¯t have thrown it all away on drugs, and sex, and¡­ whatever else Ramy did when his mother wasn¡¯t looking. All he ever wanted was someone who would hold him and tell him it was going to be okay. All he¡¯d ever wanted was someone who loved him.


    ¡°Will,¡± Azra said, breaking him from the darkness, ¡°does your father let you wear that?¡±


    He sat there, lips parted, but saying nothing. Ramy put down his fork, commanding silence at the table, and Will knew that she was talking about the skirt. He had grown so accustomed to wearing it that he no longer saw it as anything more than an article of clothing¡ªa sexless one. But he had made the mistake of believing that others did, too.


    Will drew in a sharp breath. ¡°No. But I wanted to look nice tonight.¡±


    She smiled at him, and took another bite of baklava, laden with clotted cream. It was a strange sort of smile¡ªa sad one. She had seen the bruises on his face, and knew who had put them there, just as she knew why Will didn¡¯t sleep when there was a man in the house.


    But then Nasreen broke the silence, and she turned her head. Slowly, the conversation resumed without him.


    Will pushed back his plate and excused himself, hurrying off to the bathroom. He closed the door and locked himself in.


    The walls were mounted with paintings of sunrises; soft shades of red and orange, which were startling against the white behind them. They brightened and closed in the already suffocating room. He tried not to look at the sunsets as he kneeled before the toilet and emptied his stomach. It was too much like looking into the eyes of God.


    After he was through, he disposed of the evidence and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the door and felling very much as though it were staring back at him. He heard crows tapping at the window, but ignored their call.


    Someone knocked, and he flinched. The key rattled in the lock, and the door opened slowly, revealing Ramy, who was standing there, looking down at him. He knew what Will did when he was alone in a bathroom, and hadn¡¯t hesitated to interrupt, although he was afraid of what he¡¯d find on the other side. But this time, it wasn¡¯t a rampart of bloody tissues, or a rusty razor blade, or a sink full of vomit. It was only Will, sitting there, looking back at him with tired eyes.


    ¡°Hi.¡± He glanced down at Will¡¯s thumb, from which he was slowly pulling away a strip of skin. ¡°My mum wanted me to check on you. You¡¯ve been in here a while.¡±


    ¡°Have I?¡± It felt like it had been only a few minutes since he left the table. The skin came away from his thumb, and he curled his hand into a fist, to hide the blood weeping from the wound.


    ¡°Will, it¡¯s been almost half an hour.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he whispered, but didn¡¯t move. He was waiting for Ramy to leave. But he didn¡¯t. He stayed there, clearly expecting him to come with. He stepped to the side and opened the medicine cabinet, taking out a box of plasters. He knelt on one knee, gently taking Will¡¯s hand and wrapping up his thumb. And just like that, it was over. They were together again, like nothing had ever happened. Will folded his hands in his lap, staring down at Ramy¡¯s shoes.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about what she said.¡±


    ¡°At least she lets me at the table. My father didn¡¯t.¡±


    Ramy¡¯s expression changed for a moment, and then it was as if the door had closed between them once more. ¡°At least you have a father.¡±


    Will looked at him, surprised. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean it like that.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t true.¡±


    ¡°Ramy, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Forget it,¡± he grumbled. ¡°Come down whenever you¡¯re ready. I¡¯ll drive you home.¡±


    The door closed. Will sat there a while longer. He thought about telling Ramy how he¡¯d been treated by his father¡ªhis real father¡ªand how badly he¡¯d been hurt; how it hadn¡¯t mattered to him, but he wished it mattered to someone. He imagined that Ramy was a different person. He wished that when he went downstairs, it was to watch a film on the sofa, wrapped up in the same blanket he¡¯d slept in earlier. He wished that John had come to fetch him at midnight, and that as they drove down the motorway, he¡¯d see that it was misty, and just beginning to rain.


    But none of those things were the truth, and so he rose to his feet, closed the lid of the toilet, and flicked off the light. The door whispered shut behind him.

 IV - Ocean Eyes

    AFTER SCHOOL, THE corridors were crowded with people of all shapes and colours and creeds, all rushing to get the hell out. He was walking with John to rugby practice. He had quite possibly said more in five minutes than Will had in the last six months. He felt as though he were slipping from this world into the next¡ªa shadow world, where time moved slower, and there was only one thing to think of, that being death.


    ¡°Don¡¯t listen to what Ramy says. You should do it,¡± John declared, with an air of finality. He gently brushed a lock of fiery hair behind Will¡¯s ear. ¡°You¡¯d look good as a blond.¡±


    ¡°Belle of the ball,¡± Will murmured.


    ¡°Right. But only if you wear that dress I bought you to the dance.¡±


    ¡°And what if Ren¨¦ doesn¡¯t want to go with a boy in a dress?¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯ll walk in with Nasreen on one arm and you on the other,¡± John said, without a moment¡¯s hesitation. He knew that Will had been having a hard time of it the past few weeks, what with their parents always fighting, and their mother¡¯s addiction to alcohol and sleeping pills, and all that had happened with Ma?l. It wasn¡¯t an easy life. But he knew that, even if Will didn¡¯t always want him, he had to at least try to be the best mate he always had been. He put an arm round his brother¡¯s shoulders and kept walking. ¡°Come home with me today. I¡¯ll help you dye your hair,¡± he offered.


    Will nodded and gave him a small smile, but that was all he could manage. Lately, it had felt as though he¡¯d been turned inside out, body and mind, so that he no longer recognised himself. He felt as though he were a stripped nerve, raw and exposed, so sensitive that it was excruciating even to be brushed up against. He took John¡¯s hand, as he had when he was six years old and afraid of the dark. He held onto it like it was the last air on earth.


    And that was when he saw him¡ªthe boy running down the corridor, toward them. He was a flash of light and colour in the shadows falling from above. He heard someone shouting his name, and a foot slamming against the floor. He turned to see a very angry Ramy screaming at Thomas, who was running down the corridor in his signature yellow hoodie. Ramy was standing in a short-sleeve shirt, arms bare for the first time, and even from a distance, Will could see the bruised track marks running up his arms¡ªand so could everyone else. Thomas turned his head and looked behind him, laughing as he shouted back. He wasn¡¯t looking ahead, and was about to collide with Will, who he had hoped would help him hide the hoodie from Ramy. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.


    He darted to the side, and Thomas crashed into the wall behind him. It jolted him back into reality. Time ticked audibly forward, but the silence was all-consuming as Ramy landed upon him and began to rip violently at him, tearing the hoodie away from his body. Will could almost feel those white-hot fingers burning through his shirt, pulling it away from his skin, leaving smoking holes behind. He heard voices, muffled, in the distance. But he could not understand what they were saying, for he could see only one thing: the blue pill that had fallen out of Ramy¡¯s pocket, and now was lying at his feet.


    Fentanyl.


    He couldn¡¯t believe it. That match inside of him, which had lain dormant all this time, finally struck, and he started forward, intending to tear Thomas limb from limb. John snatched him by the back of the shirt and pulled him back. How could he have given Ramy fentanyl? Where the hell had he even gotten it? At first, he didn¡¯t know what to do with this thought¡ªit couldn¡¯t have been his, could it? Murder. It was on the tip of his tongue, moments from spilling out into the open air. It was shimmering, and beautiful like nothing else on earth.


    It was new, this feeling. It was like a wildfire, out of control, burning everything inside of him¡ªevery thought, every memory, every feeling he ever had, apart from pure rage.


    He watched John reach down and pinch the pill between two fingers. He straightened, holding it in the palm of his hand. Will¡¯s hands shook as he took it from him. He closed his fist around it, this time for a very different reason: because everything in him was begging him to pop it in his mouth and swallow it.


    ¡°What is that, Will?¡± he heard, as though underwater.


    But he couldn¡¯t answer him, because the bloody scene of Thomas¡¯ death was reeling through his head, like frames of a film reel. He wasn¡¯t supposed to be capable of such things, but he was. He had already killed one person, and now he felt that same tingling in his bones and blood¡ªthat quiet sense of power that only comes from taking a life.


    He forced his feet forward, pulling John along behind him. If he didn¡¯t move, he was afraid of what he might do instead. Thomas and Ramy were still rolling on the floor, but now he realised that what he had mistaken for shouting was, in reality, laughing. Ramy wasn¡¯t upset¡ªhe was positively rapturous. He¡¯d never felt so good.


    And all because of a little blue pill.


    After a moment, they were back on their feet, and he heard them running down the corridor, away from him. They should be running, he thought. If they knew what I¡¯ve done, they would all be running from me.


    ¡°Are you all right, Will?¡±


    John¡¯s voice was loud and crystal-clear. Will looked at him, and felt the corners of his mouth tick upward. It felt as though he¡¯d never smiled in his life. John laughed good-naturedly, and started forward once more.


    And because he had no choice, Will followed after him.


    ¡°I SHOULDN¡¯T BE doing it myself,¡± Will said, as they sat on the edge of his bed. ¡°I¡¯ll give myself a third degree burn.¡±


    ¡°Will, you can¡¯t give yourself a third degree burn from bleaching your hair.¡±


    The debate had been going on ever since they sat down to breakfast on Sunday morning. Now it was nine o¡¯clock on Friday night.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure about this?¡± John asked. They were sitting side-by-side, staring at the box of hair colour standing upright on the bureau before them. He had said nothing when Will stopped sitting with him at lunch, or when he found bloody blades and a packet of cocaine in the bathroom, but he had to say something now, before it was too late. ¡°You¡¯re going to look like a different person.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ sort of the point,¡± he said, picking up the box and tracing his finger over the words on the back. ¡°What if I cut it, too? I don¡¯t want to have long hair anymore. It¡¯s like I¡¯m inviting them to call me a girl.¡±


    John pressed his lips together, and said nothing. He couldn¡¯t deny that it was true. ¡°But what if¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shut up, John,¡± he said, quite abruptly. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be helping me.¡±


    ¡°I-I am,¡± he stuttered. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ why do you think colouring your hair will change anything?¡± Will ripped open the box and began to line up the contents on the edge of his bed. John caught him by the wrist, finally voicing the question he had been meaning to ask for years: ¡°Will, did something happen?¡±


    ¡°How many times does someone have to get hurt before they realise they have to change?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he murmured, and he didn¡¯t. He had not known the same magnitude of pain that Will had¡ªhadn¡¯t been beaten, or made to eat his own vomit. But he did understand why he would want to do something like this, and so he took up the scissors and sat Will down in the chair at the dressing table. ¡°Well, let¡¯s do it, then.¡± Strands of hair fluttered to the floor, like auburn feathers. ¡°Can I ask you something?¡±


    Will opened his eyes, gazing up at him. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about Thomas and Ramy, is it? I don¡¯t want you to change yourself for¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not.¡± His eyes slid closed once more, and his head lolled to one side. He was imperturbably calm, like the surface of a still lake. ¡°I got the idea from Thomas, because of his blond hair, but I¡¯m not doing it to be like him. I just want to try something different.¡±


    ¡°Mm.¡± Will closed his eyes once more, as though he were falling asleep to the sound of John cutting his hair. ¡°Can I ask you something else¡± Will nodded. ¡°Will you ever come back to sit with us?¡±


    ¡°Probably not.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought.¡±


    He turned round to look at him. ¡°Hasn¡¯t anyone ever invited you to sit with them? Haven¡¯t you ever had friends before?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± he lied, laughing to cover the shock. ¡°But I couldn¡¯t leave you. You¡¯re the only one for me, Will Hargreaves,¡± he said, tapping him on the nose.


    He pulled on the plastic gloves and began to apply the colour of Will¡¯s hair. But he knew in that moment that this wasn¡¯t about the hair, or the clothes, or even what other people thought¡ªit was about Will; his life and sanity. And this was his first small victory.


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    IT WAS SURPRISINGLY easy to change oneself completely. His hair was platinum blond, and he was wearing an expensive skirt¡ªnot one he¡¯d bought at a charity shop and snuck into the house, because he was afraid of what his father would say. Now, he couldn¡¯t care less, and damn anyone who tried to tell him he couldn¡¯t. His hair was short, and shaved along the sides. He had pierced his ears and septum, and now there was a little golden ring in his nose. He wasn¡¯t wearing a great deal of makeup¡ªonly a bit of eyeliner, and a coat of lip varnish. Only enough to look nice.


    He still wore his button-down and cardigan, and had even deigned to wear the black leather loafers that were a part of the uniform at St. Michel¡¯s. He looked like a person who was old enough to make his old decisions, and who was no longer hiding. He looked sixteen, which he nearly was.


    Thomas drove Ramy to school, but they were always late, and so Will stood on the steps, waiting for them. People stared at him as they passed. It was strange to feel the heat of the spotlight for the first time in his life. Then someone smiled at him, and his heart burst in his chest. No one had ever smiled at him like that before.


    HE HURRIED DOWN the corridor, to his new form room. As he walked, he smiled at everyone, and most of them smiled back. He even noticed a few boys smiling at him first. This was how the world worked, apparently. He wondered, as he walked into his form room, if other people knew about this. It was simple: all you have to do is act like you¡¯re normal and all right, and people will treat you that way.


    He arrived late. There was a light clamour of conversation, but he could only hear the voices of Ma?l and his mates. The teacher asked him for his late pass, and Will waved him away like a bothersome fly.


    He scanned the room for an empty spot, slowly pacing the aisles. He saw Thomas sitting in the back of the room, wearing his striped shorts from his days on the rugby team¡ªhis golden days, before drugs. Most of the boys, and even some of the girls, at St. Michel¡¯s had been on the rugby team for at least a summer, and had the uniforms to prove it, but none had made it, in the end.


    There were no empty seats. He began to panic, as all eyes fixed on him, and trembled, for he was terrified that they would see, beneath the hair, clothes, and makeup, that he was still the same person, lonely and forgotten. He stood in the aisle, looking down at the floor, until a voice called out to him: ¡°Come sit over here!


    He looked up, to find that Thomas was clearing a stack of books off the desk beside his. He looked round the room, then walked toward him slowly, wondering if this was some kind of despicable plan to lure him back into his world of darkness and despair, but the rational part of his mind told him that it was quite the opposite¡ªthat it was a friendly hand reaching out to him. He sat down cautiously, making as little noise as possible as he took out his German textbook. He opened it to page seventeen and made a small note along the bottom margin: Just smile.


    He traced his pencil over the words, over and over, shooting out into sharp-ended fractals until they were scarcely visible. He considered taking out a fresh page and starting John¡¯s maths homework, but that would only upset him, and for once, he just wanted to be okay.


    Thomas leaned in closed, and whispered to him: ¡°Hi.¡±


    Will looked up, and that was when their eyes locked¡ªblue eyes, piercing and deep as the sea. He looked down at his book, and saw the words ¡°just smile,¡± staring up at him. So, he took their advice, and gave Thomas the smile he had been rehearsing in the looking glass for the last two days. The answering grin made his heart melt in his chest.


    ¡°Are you new?¡± he asked.


    ¡°New?¡± Will sputtered. ¡°Thomas, I saw with you at lunch two days ago. How could I be new?¡±


    He narrowed his eyes, as though he didn¡¯t quite believe him. And that was when Will realised that he was high off his arse. He had probably taken acid, or snorted cocaine in the bathroom with Ramy. He had no idea who he was talking to, or where he was. He didn¡¯t remember his own name, much less Will¡¯s. In that moment, it was as though he had never existed. And, unlike most people, he actually liked the way it felt to be forgotten, at least by one person. It meant that he didn¡¯t have to be who he was yesterday. He could be anyone, and no one would know the difference.


    Thomas gave him a sideways smile. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Will Hargreaves.¡±


    ¡°I like your hair, Will,¡± he slurred. Even in that scratchy voice, his name sounded better than ever, and Thomas was looking at him in a way no one ever had¡ªa way he supposed no one would again.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°My name is Thomas¡­ Ramsay,¡± he added, seemingly as an afterthought. So, he did at least remember his name. He reached across the aisle and ruffled Will¡¯s hair like he was a beloved pet. It was a strange gesture, but what about the last five weeks had not been? Thomas¡¯ skin was deliciously warm, just like his voice, and eyes, and laugh.


    The bell went off, and Will flinched, thrust abruptly back into the world above the deep blue ocean. It was like leaping off a cliff, in that it was both frightening and exhilarating, all at the same time. But it¡¯s never the fall that kills you¡ªit¡¯s the landing.


    IT WAS THE moment he reached the door of the manor that he realised he¡¯d left his keys on his bedside cabinet that morning. It was a Monday, and Pierre had taken his mother to see her therapist in Marseille. They wouldn¡¯t be home until five-thirty, and John had taken Nasreen to buy a dress for the dance. His father had a late meeting in Paris, and would be staying overnight.


    It was a nice day, hot and humid, and he could smell spices through the kitchen window. There was a pot of soup boiling on the back burner. He could easily have fit through the window, which had been carelessly left open, but he had been looking for any reason to go to Ramy¡¯s, and now he had it. He turned on his heel and ran into the woods, disappearing into a stand of olive trees.


    ¡°THERE¡¯S NO ONE home,¡± he said, as Ramy opened the door.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I went home, and there was no one there, so I came here.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Do you want to stay for dinner?¡± Will nodded. Ramy stepped aside, and waved him in.


    Will was wearing a pair of knee-high stockings, and the new skirt. Ramy was wearing the same old hoodie and jeans as always. He had taken off his shoes, because his mother didn¡¯t let him wear them in the house, and Will saw immediately that he was wearing the pale yellow socks he¡¯d given Nasreen last Christmas. There was no keeping Ramy off anything yellow, he supposed, but still.


    He followed him into the parlour. Ramy¡¯s house was neat, in a way that made it look as though it had never been lived in. It reminded Will of the house in Knightsbridge, when his mother had cleaned until his fingers bled. Ramy sat down on the sofa, and Will sat next to him. It was orange, and comfortable¡ªso much so that he wanted to lie down and fall asleep, cradled by its plush warmth. He wanted to sleep there forever, and never wake up.


    Ramy had heavy circles under his eyes, and wore the same worn-out clothes every day, rather than the new ones his mother bought him. His hair was dark and glossy, and his face was grey, as though he hadn¡¯t slept in weeks. Ramy never told anyone when he was hurting, or when he was feeling anything at all, but Will could see that if he were to curl up for a nap, Ramy would lie down beside him and fall asleep on his shoulder. They could stay like that, forever, and never wake up.


    The phone in the kitchen rang, and Ramy leapt off the sofa to answer it, leaving Will feeling cold and violated. He looked out the window at the rain, leaning back against the cushion and closing his eyes. He had never liked to see anything cry¡ªnot even the sky. When he was five, he had heard his mother sobbing in the bathroom, and had spent half the night lying outside the door, waiting. And when she finally came out, he followed her to bed. He hadn¡¯t known it then, but it was the night before she left forever. When he was nine, he had held John at their brother¡¯s funeral, because he could no longer stand on his own feet. They had slept in the same bed that night, and for many weeks after, because John was afraid he wouldn¡¯t wake up. Will had lain beside him, listening as he cried, and wondering if he shouldn¡¯t have pushed Ben off that bridge, after all. And then, as John¡¯s tears saturated the pillow beneath their heads, he had told himself that he did what had to be done.


    Ramy came back into the room, looking slightly worried. ¡°Your mum isn¡¯t coming home. She said you can stay here tonight.¡±


    ¡°But Pierre was supposed to make bouillabaisse tonight,¡± he said, like a small child, and before he could stop himself.


    Ramy shrugged. ¡°Then we¡¯ll make Malabar curry. It¡¯s all just fish stew in the end, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    THAT NIGHT, WILL was told that his mother had taken a bottle of sleeping pills with her nightly bottle of wine. Pierre had found her on the bathroom floor, and had taken her to hospital immediately. She would only be staying overnight, but Will did not want to go home to that cold, creaky house where shadows ran wild, and so he stayed with Ramy.


    Everyone had always told him, from that very first night he¡¯d spent at the end of her hospital bed, sleeping at her feet, that Charlotte would recover. But now the worst had happened yet again, and he found himself wondering why they had lied to him. But he could do nothing to help her, and so instead he laid there in the darkness, praying through the tears. It was already too late when Ramy put his feet out of bed and joined Will on the floor¡ªhe had finally cried himself to sleep.


    He and Ramy had never been allowed to sleep in the same bed. It was an unspoken rule that had passed between them and his mother ever since the first night he slept over. But Ramy broke the rules every day, and so, when he climbed into Will¡¯s sleeping blanket and held him close, he was not told to leave. The truth was, if Azra hadn¡¯t suggested it, it would never have occurred to Will that a fifteen and eighteen-year-old boy sleeping side-by-side was a cause for concern.


    At dawn, Azra came to wake them, standing in the doorway. She was in a long nightgown, silhouetted by the early morning light. She kneeled down beside them and gently shook her son awake.


    ¡°Ramy, what are you doing?¡± she asked him.


    ¡°Will was crying,¡± he whispered, turning over, so that he could look her full in the face. They both looked down at the boy still asleep between them¡ªat his violently red hair and skinny wrists, so small and fragile that if he were lying in the lavender, one could easily have mistaken him for a baby bird fallen from a tree. There was a long silence, as they gazed at him, thinking separately, and yet the same: I¡¯ve never seen anything so helpless.


    ¡°Breakfast will be ready in half an hour,¡± she said. ¡°Make sure he is showered and changed. I¡¯m taking him home after that, so that he can be with his mother. She needs him more than we do.¡±


    And so, he did. Will woke on his own five minutes later, and Ramy hurried him into the shower, leaving a stack of fresh clothes on the toilet seat. They came thundering down the stairs together, laughing joyously, and Azra gathered them both into her arms, her two beautiful sons. They sat across from each other at the table, stuffing themselves with kheer and egg bhurji.


    In the car, he told Ramy everything. He cried once more, and told him that he was terrified, because they wouldn¡¯t have kept his mother overnight unless they thought she was suicidal. He told him he was afraid that, one of these days, she would die before Pierre could find her. He told him that he was afraid of being locked up, too.


    But Ramy only held him, and said that he would always be there for him, no matter what. He told Will that when he died, he wanted sunflowers at his funeral. And if Will ever went to hospital, or if he died first, Rany would return the favour.


    But they never thought the day would really come.

 V - Wishing On the Lavender

    WILL HAD BEEN hiding in the library with Ramy for all of a week. He had nearly forgotten about that day in German, when Thomas had been so far from reality he might as well have been on the moon. He had forgotten what they said, and how it all began, but not those eyes, which had cut him to the bone.


    It was quiet and safe in these four walls, where the outside world was kept out and made impassable by pages of paper and ink. And if Heaven were real, he imagined it would look something like this.


    He realised quite quickly that he was entering a lifelong love affair with books. They brought him to another world; to a place where he could pretend that everything was all right, for just a little while. And when he was finished living in these stories, he could close them and put them back on the shelf, in their proper places, where they belonged. Because in the real world, there is always a right place to be.


    ¡°You¡¯re an incredibly hard person to find. You know that?¡± a voice said, from close at hand.


    He turned around, not believing his eyes. It was Ren¨¦ Picardi, live and in the flesh. Will hadn¡¯t seen him in going on nine days, which, to a fool in love, is nearly forever. Ren¨¦ leaned against the bookshelf, grinning cheekily. He had been too enchanted in those first few weeks to realise how irresistible this boy was, especially up close. And, for a moment, there was no one else in the world but them.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been looking for me?¡± he asked, all but batting his eyelashes.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve been saving my dessert, but you never show up.¡± His lips perked up in a little sideways smile. ¡°John told me you weren¡¯t coming back. Don¡¯t tell me he was right.¡±


    He felt his hold on a dusty paperback tighten, as his heart fluttered and skipped in time. ¡°I¡¯ve never been missed before.¡±


    Ren¨¦ laughed. ¡°Well, I miss you every day.¡±


    ¡°Mm,¡± he intoned. They stood there, staring at each other.


    ¡°Did I do something wrong?¡±


    ¡°No. Not at all. It¡¯s just¡­¡± He trailed off, looking down at the book and pressing his lips together. He turned it over, glancing at the summary, then placed it back on the shelf with a sigh.


    ¡°I was thinking¡­ maybe it¡¯s about time we went on a date.¡±


    ¡°A date?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not like I¡¯m conscripting you into some horrible life you never asked for.¡± He gestured with his chin to Thomas and Ramy, stirring up trouble in the corner. ¡°You could bring your friends. We could fill a travel bag with drugs, steal a few passports, and then head for the border.¡± He laughed as though he¡¯d never heard anything so hilarious. ¡°Or we could go by ourselves. I¡¯ve always wanted to have dinner at a fancy restaurant, but I¡¯ve never had anyone to go with.¡±


    Will looked down, grinning sheepishly. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Ren¨¦. I¡­¡±


    ¡°How about I take you to the dance?¡±


    His eyes went wide. He blushed lightly. ¡°Would you really? I¡¯ve been meaning to ask you, but I¡ª¡±


    But Ren¨¦ cut him off with a kiss. And that was all it was¡ªa pure, innocent kiss. They pulled away at the same time, breathless, laughing.


    As Will watched him walk away, he wished he hadn¡¯t hesitated¡ªthat he had just said yes. He ran forward, hoping to catch Ren¨¦ on his way out the door. Instead, he emerged from the aisle, coming face-to-face with Thomas and Ramy. They had been standing on the other side of the shelf, eavesdropping. The moment Will caught them, Ramy pulled a book from the nearest shelf, and they both stuck their noses in the pages, pretending they had been reading all this time. And even for all of the stupid, self-centred things that they did, Will couldn¡¯t help but laugh.


    SITTING IN THE swaying fields just above the vineyards, Will picked a sheaf of lavender, opening his hand and allowing the wind to blow the tiny purple flowers off his palm. They scattered in every direction, disappearing into the winter wheat.


    It was a nice day, all things considered. The wind was cold, but the sun was warm against his back, and made the bitterness of the air seem almost tolerable. It shone through his hair, making it dance like flames.


    ¡°What do you wish for when they go?¡± he heard someone call. He flinched back, shielding his eyes from the sun, and saw a boy in shorts and a white T-shirt standing knee-deep in the wild wheat, bathed in sunlight. On his feet were a pair of old leather sandals, worn for many years. As he stepped into the shade of the maple tree, the sun cut away from his face, and his features were visible. It was John.


    Will cleared his throat, sinking back upon the sun-warmed earth. He looked angelic in the morning light. ¡°What are you doing out here this early?¡±


    ¡°I could ask you the same.¡± He smiled, and dropped down beside him, uninvited. Will cocked an eyebrow at him. ¡°Looking for you. So, what are you wishing for?¡±


    John¡¯s face was flushed, his hair still slightly damp from having taken a shower only fifteen minutes earlier. His eyes were cloudy, as though he weren¡¯t fully awake yet. Will thought about his answer for a moment, as John laid down, stretching out his legs.


    ¡°I wish for true love.¡±


    John looked disappointed. He had said something wrong. He was supposed to invent some fantastical thing he could never have, like the moon on a string, and then John was supposed to bring it to him. But true love¡­ that was something only the divine meddled with.


    ¡°You already have that,¡± he choked. ¡°Wish for something else.¡±


    Will sat bolt upright, staring down at him. ¡°No.¡± Now John looked more than disappointed¡ªhe looked as though he were wishing on the lavender that he hadn¡¯t come out of the house, or even gotten out of bed. ¡°Fine,¡± he conceded. ¡°I wish you would go away. I wish you would leave me alone for once in your stupid life.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± John seethed. He leapt to his feet and stalked off, back toward the house.


    Once he was gone, Will crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. In the newly found silence, he listened to the sound of the wind rustling the fiery red leaves, and the birds singing to the morning sun, musing to himself what life would¡¯ve been like if only he had pushed John off the bridge, too.


    HE BARELY SLEPT that night, thinking of all the ways the coming evening could go wrong. But he did not imagine the one way it truly did.


    He rose early, before the dawn, and walked to school in the dark. His ankle had finally healed from his fall, and he was feeling bright and vivacious that morning. In fact, he was feeling so unspeakably alive that he decided to run the last mile¡ªand there were only two of them, mind.


    The building was empty when he arrived, except for the teachers, who had unlocked the doors for any early students. Terrible lack of security, he noted, although this time, he kept walking. After all, there wasn¡¯t a soul in sight to string up from the fluorescents. Instead, he went to the toilets near the main office, and hopped up onto the counter, cracking the window as he did. Ramy had given him a package of cigarettes and a lighter on Friday. He had been dying to give them a try.


    He was petrified by the very thought of going to the dance that night, and about what everyone would say when he turned up in a dress. He could scarcely think straight. He was shaking so hard, it felt as though his brain was rattling in his skull, which might¡¯ve had something to do with it. He thought about finding a way to break his own arm, or make himself ill.


    But as he began musing over all the horrific ways he could go about causing himself grievous bodily harm, he heard someone coming. He dropped his cigarette in the sink and leapt off the counter, darting into the nearest stall. He locked the door and stepped up onto the toilet seat, holding his breath. The door wailed on its hinges, and he heard a pair of shoes whisper across the floor. He slowly leaned to the side, peering through the crack between the door and the wall, completely silent. And that was when he saw the yellow hoodie. Holding a wide-tipped permanent marker, thicker than his thumb, the boy approached the bathroom wall. He pressed the tip against the plaster and wrote: WH = FW. And beneath that: (WILL HARGREAVES = FAGGOT WHORE.)


    He didn¡¯t believe his eyes. He covered his mouth, sealing off his breathing. Then the vandal left, and Will let him.


    ¡°Done,¡± a voice said, from outside the toilets¡ªone that sounded oddly familiar. ¡°Give me the money, before I change my mind.¡±


    ¡°One hundred,¡± said another voice, followed by the sound of paper notes slapping down into a palm.


    ¡°Good. Now fuck off, and don¡¯t ever ask me for anything again.¡±


    He did not know how much time had passed before he came back down to earth. Ramy had sold him out for drugs¡ªor, rather, the money to buy them. He crept down off the toilet and walked toward the wall, gently brushing his fingertips over those horrible words, which hardly seemed real. He clenched his fists, wanting, more than anything, to run after the person who did this and beat him senseless. The rational part of his mind told him that the voices had been those of John and Ramy, but the irrational part, which was highly attuned to the loyalties of his heart, begged him not to believe it.


    He wandered out into the hall, feeling very much as though he were floating on air. He was determined to find Ramy, who had taken money from his brother to write his name on the wall, but as he took that first step¡­ he found that he could go no farther. The corridor was filled with people, and with noise so loud it gave him a headache. Instead, he kept walking, as though nothing had happened, pretending that he was just another ignorant bystander. But he could not outrun the inevitable.


    Ramy mentioned it in the library, later that day:


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    ¡°Will,¡± he hissed. ¡°Come on. I have to show you something.¡± He let him pull him aside, but not before telling him that he already knew. ¡°Well, I went through all the toilets and blacked them out. I had hoped to get there before you did.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Ramy.¡± He laughed, bitterly. So, he regretted what he did. ¡°But you¡¯re too late. Everyone¡¯s already seen it.¡±


    ¡°Well, fuck them.¡±


    ¡°Ramy, I know you¡ª¡±


    But he caught him off. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Will.¡± He seemed terribly sad, as though it had been his name on the wall, and not Will¡¯s. ¡°Do you want to come over tonight? We can get high and eat crisps ¡®til we can¡¯t breathe.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t. I¡¯m going to the dance.¡±


    He balked. ¡°With who?¡±


    He looked around, lowering his voice. ¡°Ren¨¦ Picardi.¡±


    Ramy¡¯s face remained blank, expression unchanged. ¡°Oh,¡± he murmured. ¡°Well, have fun.¡±


    And then he was gone. It only occurred to Will after that perhaps Ramy had hoped he would choose differently, and that their two-sided betrayal was complete.


    THE BOYS ALL came to Maison d¡¯Auberne after school, to get ready. It was a relatively casual dance, compared to what prom would be later that year, but still they all wore suits¡ªthat was, all except for Will, who wore the dress he¡¯d bought with John on the last day of summer break. Initially, he had thought he would wait until prom to wear it, but now, he thought that when the time came, he would find something even grander, even more lavish, and extravagant.


    John wanted to do his makeup, and so he sat down at the dressing table, while the others watched. It was while he was applying a bloody varnish to Will¡¯s lips that he said:


    ¡°Will, I¡¯m not coming home tonight.¡±


    Ren¨¦ beat him to it. ¡°Why?¡±


    All of their overnight bags were gathered at the foot of his bed. John stopped patting foundation over the circles under Will¡¯s eyes and drew in a breath. ¡°Because Nasreen and I are going to spend it together.¡±


    There was a moment of dim silence, as the reality of what he had confessed descended upon them. ¡°You mean¡­¡± Jean-Philippe began, and John nodded, looking round the circle, before focusing once more on Will.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to her house after the dance. If mum asks, tell her that I¡¯m staying with overnight with another friend.¡± He paused, pressing his lips together. ¡°But she probably won¡¯t, so just don¡¯t scream when I come through the window in the middle of the night.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t long before they were off to pick up Nasreen, who was waiting for them on the curb in a puffy white gown, clutching a pearl-studded handbag. John drove, while Will, Ren¨¦, and Jean-Philippe crammed themselves into the back, so that Nasreen could have the passenger seat. ¨¦lo?se was meeting them there.


    But before they left, Azra came out and assembled them in the garden, under her apple tree, to take their picture. In it, Will was smiling, hanging off Ren¨¦¡¯s shoulders, and Nasreen was laughing as John¡¯s arm slipped round her waist. It was a happy moment¡ªone which would be framed and hung on the wall for the next fifty years.


    Will didn¡¯t quite know what he was expecting to see when they arrived, but it certainly wasn¡¯t every face he¡¯d ever seen in his time at St. Michel¡¯s, as well as many he had not. He couldn¡¯t believe how many people had gathered for what he thought to be such an insignificant event.


    That said, they were lost in the pandemonium on the floor. And because it was effectively a riot, with smoke and banners, no one stopped them when they clambered up onto the tables and danced. It didn¡¯t matter what they did, because no one was paying any attention. They danced until their lungs gave out, then went to the toilets, to pass round the bottle of vodka Thomas had handed off to Will at the door. Then they returned to the gymnasium, where the party was being held.


    During the first slow song, Ren¨¦ held out his hand to Will, and they took the floor, commanding the centre of the room, amidst cheers from everyone but Ma?l. By then, Will¡¯s heart was beating like mad, and he was so out of breath that he nearly collapsed against Ren¨¦. His head was reeling, and he threw it back, laughing brightly. It was the best night of his life.


    When the lights came up and the music died, he asked Nasreen to go to the bathroom with him¡ªwhich meant that Will went into the girls¡¯ toilets. He felt he had a pass for one night, as he was dressed as and coming in with one, and there was no one else there. And even if there had been, he wouldn¡¯t have bothered them. It wasn¡¯t his brand of violence.


    They stood at the looking glass, fixing each other¡¯s hair and makeup, laughing, and talking excitedly about how amazing the night had been¡ªand, as they could no longer avoid, about John.


    ¡°Are you scared?¡± he asked her.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t everyone scared their first time?¡±


    He nodded. ¡°It¡¯s so strange to think that tomorrow you won¡¯t be a virgin anymore. It doesn¡¯t seem real.¡±


    She blushed, holding a cupped hand over her mouth, to hide her smile without smudging her lipstick. ¡°I know.¡±


    They went back outside, hand in hand, where the others were waiting for them, leaning against the wall. They had gotten into a bit of trouble themselves, for spiking the punch with the last of the vodka, but had been allowed to stay, and now they were drunkenly reminiscing over what they had done, laughing so loud that people were beginning to stare.


    They piled into the car, and John drove them home, narrowly avoiding crashing head-first into a lorry on the dual carriageway, which only made them laugh even more. He dropped the three boys off at the end of their drive, and then peeled away, to take ¨¦lo?se home before he and Nasreen finished the night on their own.


    Before he knew it, Will was standing with Ren¨¦ in the empty, moonlit ballroom, looking up at the angels painted on the ceiling.


    ¡°We need music,¡± Ren¨¦ said, shuffling through the vinyl records beside the antique gramophone. ¡°What do you want to listen to?¡±


    Will giggled, completely and utterly blitzed. ¡°Anything.¡±


    Ren¨¦ selected a vinyl and put it on. It began quiet and slow. He took Will¡¯s hands and held them up in a partner position, gently leading him into a box-step.


    He studied his face, as he never had before. His nose was slightly crooked, and was slightly raised along the bridge, as though it had been broken once before. His eyes were usually pale green, but in the low light, they sparkled like the darkest emeralds. Everything inside of him began to panic as Ren¨¦ smiled, and spun him around. He would never have imagined that they would be here now, in his family¡¯s ballroom, dancing to a waltz at midnight. His breathing was strained as the fear tightened in his stomach. He looked down at their feet, his bare, for he had kicked off his shoes before they began dancing, and wondered if Ren¨¦¡¯s mind was racing, the same as his. Somehow, he thought not.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re not really a Hargreaves, are you?¡± Will pressed his lips together, but said nothing. ¡°How did you ever get so lucky?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°You know, I asked John about you, and that was all he could tell me. No one knows who you are, or where you came from. You¡¯re something of a mystery, Will Hargreaves.¡± He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. ¡°What, now you don¡¯t want to talk?¡±


    ¡°Not about my past.¡±


    He laughed silently, and leaned his forehead against Will¡¯s. ¡°Okay,¡± he whispered. He lifted his hand to cup Will¡¯s cheek, gently, and in that moment, his heart slowed, and so did his feet. ¡°Why did you stop?¡±


    He smiled, and stepped closer, taking his hands once more and beginning another box. But Ren¨¦ stopped him, leaning in. His eyes slid closed. It was too intense, too frightening to witness. Their lips brushed together. Will tried not to think of the last time his lips had met a man¡¯s¡ªit was his father, Harrison, when he had taken Will into his bedroom and closed the door.


    He forced himself to kiss back, with everything he had. He could do it. He could. And before his mind could catch up to the present, they were on the floor. Will was lying on his back, his dress pooling around him, and Ren¨¦ was bent over, kissing him slowly. Then he was sitting between Will¡¯s legs, and his ankles were crossed behind Ren¨¦¡¯s back. But just when Will began to think that this might truly be all right, and that this had the potential to be anything other than terrifying, a warm hand slid up his naked thigh.


    He went rigid. In that moment, he knew that, even with his soft lips and emerald eyes, Ren¨¦ could take him right there, and Will wouldn¡¯t be strong enough to stop him. If he did, no one would ever know, because it was midnight, and they were all alone, in the middle of an empty ballroom, and suddenly he realised that he had no idea how they had even come to be there in the first place. What was he thinking, taking that bottle from Thomas? Ren¨¦¡¯s hand closed round his hip. His dress slid up to his stomach. He wanted to push him off, and run until his heart or legs gave out, whichever came first. The blood was rushing in his head, heart slamming in his chest. Ren¨¦ gently pulled away, looking down at him with worried eyes. Will tried not to look terrified, but he couldn¡¯t help it.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± he asked, quietly.


    Will closed his eyes and leaned his head back, fumbling for words. But once he allowed himself back into the hot darkness of his mind, there he was, bent over the bed, his father¡¯s hands on his hips, holding him steady. And the more he tried to get away, the harder Harrison pinned him down. He was only a little boy the first time it happened, but still Will could not believe how strong the man was, and how weak he was himself.


    His eyes popped open. He was hardly breathing, and he did not know how much time had passed since he¡¯d last opened them. The silence in the ballroom was worse than death. He knew he had to say something, but what? Instead, he looked up at the ceiling and choked:


    ¡°Get out.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Get. Out.¡±


    ¡°Will, I¡ª¡± But Will abruptly pushed up with his hips and bucked him off. Ren¨¦ landed heavily on the floor beside him. He sat up quickly, gathering up his skirt and leaping to his feet. Ren¨¦ caught him by the wrist and pulled him back.


    ¡°Let go of me!¡± he screamed, voice piercing the air. But Ren¨¦ did not release him. He was preparing to bite through his arm if it meant getting away, when suddenly the pressure released, and he was free. He stepped back, coming up sharp against the wall.


    ¡°Will, I didn¡¯t mean it. I thought you wanted to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Thought I wanted to what?¡± he snapped, clutching his skirt to his chest. ¡°Thought I wanted to fuck you in my parents¡¯ ballroom?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m sorry,¡± he murmured, looking down ashamedly. ¡°Did I do something wrong? I mean, you¡¯re the one that brought me in here.¡±


    Will narrowed his eyes at him. His head was spinning. He did not know what he felt, or thought, or wanted. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I just¡­ can¡¯t do it.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he said, in a tone that communicated it truly was.


    They stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Ren¨¦ adjusted his tie. Will dropped his skirt, which he hadn¡¯t even realised he was holding, and gazed out the window, over his shoulder, at the endless night.


    ¡°I¡¯m going up to bed,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t wait up.¡±


    ¡°HI, JOHN. HOW was your night?¡± Ren¨¦ asked, as he pulled up to the drive the next morning, in his mother¡¯s white 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air.


    ¡°Perfect. How was yours?¡± he replied, as Ren¨¦ brushed his palm over the car¡¯s sleek, pearly surface.


    He looked back at Will, who was standing beside him. ¡°Great. Your brother is very charming when he wants to be.¡± He opened the door and hopped into the passenger seat, running his fingers over the warm leather. He beckoned Will to come forward with one finger, and he did, leaning down so that their faces were only inches apart. ¡°Shall I beg for your forgiveness?¡± he whispered, but certainly not in a rude way.


    ¡°Of course not.¡± He held a hand to his face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. ¡°I just got scared, is all.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Well, I was thinking¡­ since last night didn¡¯t go so well, there¡¯s this party after the rugby match tomorrow, and I thought¡­ maybe you¡¯d like to come with me?¡±


    He imagined the pointing, laughing, and whispering that would certainly greet him. ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    His eyebrows furrowed. This was, after all, a highly coveted invitation, and Will was turning him down. ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t¡­¡± He bit his lip, and leaned in closer. ¡°Because I¡¯m not ready to have sex, Ren¨¦.¡±


    He laughed¡ªa bright, beautiful sound, like the ringing of a bell. ¡°I¡¯m not asking you to have sex. If you aren¡¯t ready, that¡¯s fine. We have all the time in the world. But I am asking you to come with me to a party, to have fun.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired. I¡¯d rather stay home this weekend.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he replied, and that was it¡ªno argument, no bite-back. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Will¡¯s, softly. ¡°I¡¯ll see you Monday. Enjoy your weekend.¡± He turned back to John, who was watching the wind rustle through the leaves above. ¡°Ready?¡±


    ¡°Always.¡± He leaned over. ¡°Stand back, Will. You have flat enough feet as it is.¡±


    He nodded, and stepped back, the toe of his sandal crushing the chalky white stones beneath it. They left without another word. He watched as the car disappeared in a cloud of dust, two red taillights glowing through it. The sound of the roaring engine faded into the distance. He turned around, and began walking up the drive, not looking back once.

 VI - An Autumns Ghost

    FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15<sup>TH </sup>felt like nothing less than the end of an eternity. Will was being set free from school for just over two weeks, until the Wednesday after All Saints¡¯ Day.


    Halloween is not a traditional holiday in France, but luckily for the international students at St. Michel¡¯s, it coincides with La Toussaint¡ªa Catholic celebrations that falls on the first of November. On this day, the French people mourn their loved ones who have passed on, but the night before, their children joined the Americans and Brits in drinking, smoking, and stuffing themselves with all things pumpkin and chocolate.


    There was a great deal of celebration under Jean-Baptiste, the almond tree, that day. Even Nasreen had torn herself away from studying to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie with the others. John had brought it, and they placed it down in the centre of their circle, eating it with plastic cutlery. On that day, they put aside their differences, and invited Thomas and Ramy to join them, which they did, gladly. After all, Pierre¡¯s baking could make an Italian grandmother quiver in her boots.


    ¡°HAVE A GOOD break,¡± said the note he¡¯d found in his locker that morning. ¡°Don¡¯t miss me too much. Love always, R.¡±


    He pushed it back into his pocket and tried to banish the thought from his mind. It was the end of the day, and he was hiding in the toilets. Ramy had asked him not to read the note in front of anyone else, so he had pried himself away from the others before they walked home. He flushed the toilet with his foot, although he hadn¡¯t used it. Nasreen was standing outside the door, and the walls were perishingly thin.


    When he came out, she was standing with both hands against he stomach, staring down at her feet. Will tapped her shoulder, bringing her back down to earth. She felt as though she had fallen out of the sky, and hit stone-cold reality with full force.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± he asked.


    It took her a moment to answer. ¡°Of course,¡± she said, with a small smile, which was hardly even a lift of the lips.


    He didn¡¯t believe her. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    She nodded, but said nothing, taking his hand and leading him away.


    THEY LEANED AGAINST the stone-brick wall along the back of the house. They were sitting in the garden, watching the setting sun bleed through the trees. Will was half-asleep on Ren¨¦¡¯s shoulder, drawn by his heat like a moth to a flame. He wrapped his arm round Will¡¯s waist and held him close. It was the last truly warm day of the year. The summer sun was slowly disappearing beneath the horizon, and the moon rising in the east. A long, dark winter was coming, but in that moment, it seemed as though the red autumn light would never fade.


    Pierre called them in for dinner, and they sat down at the table, eating themselves to bursting point. They brought their dessert outside, but as Will went to take the first bite, he heard that old, familiar clink in the back of his mind. The spoon slid out of his hand and fell onto the dusty ground beneath the table.


    He looked up, to find that the others had gone, venturing into the dark woods, leaping down the terraces, to pick the last grapes of the season in the vineyard, which would undoubtedly be the sweetest. He realised with a start that he was the only one still sitting in the garden, and immediately leapt at the opportunity to do the unthinkable. He slipped through the kitchen door, scraped his bowl into the bin and placing it in the sink, then padded barefoot up the stairs, to the bathroom on the second floor.


    The door was closed. He rattled the knob, but it did not open. He pressed his ear against it, and heard crying on the other side. He knocked.


    ¡°Are you all right, Nas?¡± he asked. It went abruptly quiet, then the lock clicked, and the door opened a crack.


    ¡°Are you alone?¡±


    He nodded, and she held the door open to let him in, then shut it just as quickly. She was sitting on the toilet. Her eyes were red and bleary, and she was wearing John¡¯s coat over her clothes. She was clutching it tightly over her stomach, presumably to hide it. His blood ran cold.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± he asked, falling to his knees in front of her. He took her hands and held them with all his strength.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ pregnant,¡± she whispered. Her lower lip wobbled, and a tear slid down her cheek. Will¡¯s hands closed like steel traps. The sharp bones of his fingers put an incredible strain on hers, making them want to snap.


    ¡°With John?¡±


    She pulled her hands from his grasp and leaned forward, burying her face in them. ¡°It was just one night,¡± she gasped. ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡­¡±


    ¡°How long have you known?¡±


    ¡°Only a week.¡±


    ¡°Nas, it¡¯s going to be okay. I promise.¡± He gently peeled her hands away from her face. ¡°I¡¯m right here. We¡¯ll figure this out together.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell him,¡± she said, biting the bullet.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re going to have to, eventually.¡±


    ¡°I just want this all to go away. What should I do?¡±


    ¡°Nasreen,¡± he said, sternly, ¡°I have made a lot of choices in my life, both good and bad, and my morals are questionable in the best of times, but that is a line I will not cross. This decision is between you and¡ª¡±


    Someone knocked on the door. Nasreen bent over, throwing her arms round his neck, and began to cry violently against his shoulder.


    ¡°Will, what are you doing in there?¡± John asked, in a frightened voice. Ramy was not the only person who knew what Will did when he was alone in a bathroom.


    ¡°The devil, apparently,¡± he finished. ¡°Go away, John.¡±


    He dropped his shoulder, which had been muffling her wailing, and the sound broke free, ringing out in the tiny bathroom. John knocked again, more insistently this time.


    ¡°Nasreen? What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°Do you want to talk to him?¡± Will whispered. She pulled back, and nodded. He untangled himself from her and opened the door, so that they could trade places. He leaned in. ¡°She wants to talk to you.¡±


    John nodded and closed the door behind him. Will stood there for a moment, listening to their murmuring through the door, then went downstairs, back out into the gardens.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Ren¨¦ asked. ¡°Where¡¯s Nasreen?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you.¡± He closed the kitchen door, and walked out, sitting down across from him.


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s personal.¡±


    ¡°John¡¯s in there. Why does he get to know?¡±


    ¡°Because it involves him.¡±


    ¡°Are they breaking up?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said, before he could stop himself. And when he did, he clapped a hand over his mouth. ¡°No, they won¡¯t,¡± he amended.


    ¡°I hope not.¡± He reached across the table and took Will¡¯s hand. ¡°Promise nothing like this will ever happen to us?¡±


    Will burst out laughing. ¡°Ren¨¦, it can¡¯t.¡±


    Ren¨¦¡¯s brows met between his eyes, but he said nothing. They lapsed into silence. After a while, the couple came out, holding hands.


    ¡°Is everything okay?¡±


    They nodded simultaneously.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± John said, holding her hand tighter. ¡°I¡¯m going to drive her home, and we¡¯ll talk about it more.¡±


    They said their goodbyes, then disappeared back into the house. The Chevrolet¡¯s engine roared, and they were gone.


    The four of them sat at the table, barely talking. After all this time, they had finally exhausted the conversation between them. There was nothing left to say. After half an hour, they finished the coffee that Pierre brought out to them, and then Jean-Philippe and ¨¦lo?se began the long walk home, together. Ren¨¦ stayed behind with Will.


    And then there were two.


    THAT NIGHT, THEY snuck up to Will¡¯s bedroom, through the hidden stairwell behind the kitchen. It led up into an annex, secreted deep within the recesses of the house, with one door opening onto the second floor.


    After weeks of waiting, this was it: opening night. He couldn¡¯t stand the horrible anticipation of it another minute¡ªthat sickening feeling of being terrified every moment they were together, as though Ren¨¦ were truly capable of hurting him in any way.


    But tonight, he was hellbent on surviving. Something deep inside of him was trembling in fear, but he tamped it down, until he couldn¡¯t see it. He felt like he could vomit. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time that week, or even that day. But you knew that already.


    They stood at the foot of the bed. Will pulled away from the kiss, drawing in a shuddering breath. He peeled off his shirt. Ren¨¦ was staring at his stomach, hideously sunken-in above the waistband of his briefs, and at his ribs. He could count them all, and did, tracing his fingertip down Will¡¯s side. He had never seen anyone so thin in all his life.


    Will toed off his sandals and unbuttoned his shorts. He slid them over his hips, letting them fall round his ankles. He stepped out of them, trying to keep his breathing steady, and not to choke. He gritted his teeth. It was fine. He was fine.


    Ren¨¦ was still fully dressed, staring at him. He¡¯d never felt so insecure in all his life. He wondered if Ren¨¦ was disappointed by what he saw. He had always known he was repulsive, but he had allowed himself to hope, for a moment, that he was wrong. He folded his arms over his bare chest, sitting down on the foot of the bed and shrinking into himself.


    Ren¨¦ pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it atop the heap of clothes at their feet. He kicked his shoes into the corner. They slapped against the wall, disturbing the deathly quiet. He stepped between Will¡¯s legs, placing his hands on his hips. Will flinched back, like a frightened animal. His face was on fire. He wanted to crawl under the sheets and disappear.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he murmured, biting his lip.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± He nodded. Ren¨¦ held on to his shoulders. ¡°Listen, we don¡¯t have to, if¡ª¡±


    But he was cut off by Will leaning forward, calm and collected, and unbuttoning his trousers. He stopped breathing, because his briefs hit the floor, and so did Will¡¯s. They were lying on the bed, Ren¨¦ on top of him, caressing every inch of his skin. Will clutched the sheets, to hide the shaking of his hands. Ren¨¦ touched him lightly, almost afraid that he would break.


    ¡°You¡¯re so¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± he interrupted. ¡°Don¡¯t say it.¡±


    Whatever Ren¨¦ thought he was, it was wrong. His body was a crime scene, and his blood was on the hands of many. Even his own were dripping red. He didn¡¯t want to acknowledge the scars on his wrists and thighs, or the bruises on his hips, which were the shape of his father¡¯s hands. There was nothing to talk about. He wouldn¡¯t hear it¡ªhe couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°I was just going to say that you¡¯re¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know. Don¡¯t say it.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± His expression telegraphed that he¡¯d almost had enough.


    Will tried not to look down at his body, because it was terrifying. Ren¨¦¡¯s hands trembled against his skin, tracing outlines of muscle and bone. He pulled him down, so that their chests and stomachs met. Ren¨¦ kissed him carefully, but it was too gentle, and too sweet¡ªit was meant for someone else. For the person he used to be.


    He wanted Ren¨¦ to know everything. He wanted to push him off and tell him the story of his life, up until this moment, no matter how terrible. He should¡¯ve been innocent, but he wasn¡¯t.


    His heart was beating out of his chest. The world blurred, then came into focus again. The room was spinning around him, electricity humming through the air, like the quiet before a storm.


    In all his imaginings, the reality of the moment had escaped him. He had only been this terrified once before. Blood was singing in his veins. His heart was hammering. He looked out the window, at the linden branches scratching against the pane. He was trapped in that one moment of existence, beginning and ending right there on his rose-scented bedlinens. He heard Ren¨¦¡¯s breath leave him, before he put his head back and faded into the quiet of the stream.


    WHEN NEXT HE returned to consciousness, he realised that it was morning. It was over, and he was, despairingly, still alive.


    ¡° ¡®Morning,¡± Ren¨¦ whispered, softly.


    He turned over, looking him in the eyes. His fingers slid up and down Will¡¯s arm, stroking it. Will held the sheet tighter to his chest. He could feel himself being stared at, and knew that Ren¨¦ was waiting for him to say something.


    ¡° ¡®Morning,¡± he choked. He didn¡¯t know what else to say.


    Then there came the sound of Pierre¡¯s voice, and bare feet running down the hallway, just outside his door. He sat up quickly, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching down for his clothes. Ren¨¦ sat up too, and the bed creaked beneath him.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    ¡°Downstairs. Breakfast is ready.¡± He looked back at him, clutching his shirt to his stomach. ¡°Can you turn around?¡±


    Ren¨¦ couldn¡¯t help it. He burst out laughing. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I said: don¡¯t look at me!¡± he shouted, fumbling with his buttons.


    ¡°What are you on about? Will you wait for just one second?¡± He slapped Will¡¯s hands away and buttoned the shirt himself, trying not to look down. Will put both feet in his shorts, pulling them up round his waist.


    ¡°No.¡± He could taste the hatred in his words as they fell from his lips. He didn¡¯t know why he was being so awful. ¡°Just leave me alone, please. Come down to breakfast with me. Climb out the window. I really don¡¯t care.¡±


    Ren¨¦ crossed his arms, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. Will had split open his hardened shell. ¡°I don¡¯t understand what I did. Did I force you into this. Were you not ready?¡±


    Will whirled on him. ¡°I don¡¯t know, okay?!¡±


    ¡°Well, you better figure it out!¡± Ren¨¦ screamed. Will recoiled sharply, as though he¡¯d been slapped across the face. All of Ren¨¦¡¯s anger dissolved into thin air, replaced only by the horrible realisation that Will was afraid of him. ¡°No. Will, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear it.¡± He stopped down to pull the straps of sandals over his ankles, while Ren¨¦ stood before him, watching.


    ¡°Will¡ª¡±


    ¡°No.¡± He started toward the door, then turned around, feeling a strange pressure building in the pit of his throat¡ªwords that were dying to be said. ¡°I¡¯m going down to breakfast. Don¡¯t be here when I get back.¡±


    DURING THE FIRST week of break, Will finished all of his schoolwork, so that he had nothing left when it was in session again. He spent most of the day in his room, reading. He never went anywhere. When it was time to eat, Pierre called the boys down, and they ate together in silence, while his mother slept like the dead. And she was awake, she was drinking. It was almost time for the harvest, which meant that his father would be home soon. Most days, he only saw John and Pierre, when the boys came down to help him pick herbs and vegetables from the gardens, and make dinner.


    By the end of those two weeks, Will was beginning to feel like a piece of furniture in a locked room. It was strangely comforting, not being seen, for no one could reach him in that world of loneliness and solitude, and that meant that no one could hurt him, either.


    He imagined that, when he returned to school, Ma?l would have forgotten about him, and so had his father. He hoped that the imminent arrival of the future would bring with it no surprises. He wished that something would have happened to his father in Paris, and that when he returned, he would be a different person. He knew it was cruel to himself to be optimistic, but he couldn¡¯t deny the urge. He spent days on end lying in bed, hoping and praying.


    The longer he stayed in that house, with its stone walls and sealed windows, the more he felt that his story was only something that had happening to him, and not something he¡¯d had any part in creating.


    The sound of the rain tapping against the windows brought him to the outer reaches of the world. He listened to the raindrops with his eyes closed, sinking forever into the mattress, until there was nothing left of him but a hollow shell of a person. He surrendered to the abyss, falling through the floor, and the ceilings below, down into the ground, into the middle of the earth and out again.


    He wondered what Ramy was doing.


    THE HARGREAVES FAMILY spent the day before Halloween hosting an autumn festival for the people of Aix-en-Provence. Will and his friends wandered round the stalls and booths, laughing and causing trouble wherever they went.


    Thomas and Ramy had come, as well, mostly out of boredom and lack of anything better to do, but Will did not acknowledge them. The festival was rather small, compared to those of earlier years, and so they passed each other frequently. Will had known they would be there¡ªwell, he hadn¡¯t known, but he had hoped they would be¡ªbut every time he saw them, it was still as shocking as the first.


    They ate a late lunch of caramel apples and pumpkin cheesecake, courtesy of Pierre L¨¦vesque, and then the others went off in search of the haunted house, leaving John and Will behind. They began to walk through the autumn village, which was torn down and built up again each year on their property, gazing up at the fruit of their mother¡¯s labours. This was her final hurrah of the season, before she settled into a long, alcoholic hibernation until the spring. Sometimes, they couldn¡¯t help but wonder why she did all of this, and if she loved these children more than them.


    ¡°What are we going to do for your birthday this year, John?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I was thinking shopping in Vienne, and then dinner at La Pyramide.¡±


    ¡°John, your birthday is in December. It¡¯ll be freezing.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± He looked back over his shoulder. ¡°Wait. Will, look.¡± He hit him rapidly on the arm.


    He turned back, to see Ramy running toward them. ¡°Oh¡­ fuck,¡± he muttered, under his breath.


    ¡°Oh, shut up, will you?¡± John hissed, as Ramy entered earshot. He flipped a one-eighty and turned his smile up to a thousand. ¡°Hi!¡±


    And because he had Will by the arm, he was dragged round, as well, grimacing. ¡°Hi,¡± he mumbled, with significantly less enthusiasm. He didn¡¯t know how to react. Two adverse worlds were colliding, and he was trapped between them.


    ¡°Your name is¡­ Ramy Youssef. Am I right?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡± He smiled in the way he only did when he was about to cause unspeakable mischief. ¡°Forgive me, but I don¡¯t usually remember the names of assholes like you.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°I said: remembering your name isn¡¯t worth my time.¡±


    ¡°Right, of course,¡± he said, always infuriatingly polite. ¡°Well, my name is John Hargreaves, and if you call me an asshole in front of my brother again, I¡¯ll knock your teeth out.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me what to do, you snobby sack of shit. You lost that privilege last week, when you sold your brother out to me. I¡¯ll call you whatever the hell I want.¡±


    John¡¯s smile tightened. ¡°Right.¡± They both looked at Will, but he was unsure how to keep them apart, set as they were on ripping each other¡¯s throats out at the next available opportunity. When he said nothing, John stepped in. ¡°Well, if you can find it in yourself to shut the cock-hole you call a mouth, we were just talking about my birthday. Shall I save you a spot at the table, or will you spare us all your presence?¡±


    ¡°If you invite me to your birthday, you¡¯ll wish you were never born.¡±


    ¡°Great. Glad we cleared that up.¡± He pushed his hands into his pockets. ¡°Speaking of birthdays, did Will even tell you when his is?¡±


    ¡°No. It never came up. Just like it never came up that you¡¯d be here today, or I wouldn¡¯t be,¡± he said, in a way that conferred that he blamed Will for the situation at hand.


    ¡°You know, in all I¡¯ve heard about you, somehow, it never came up how melodramatic you are. Did you rehearse this little speech of yours in front of the mirror this morning? Stunning performance, truly.¡± John briefly applauded him, then dropped his hands. ¡°I¡¯ll leave you two alone. Excuse me.¡±


    ¡°Nice talking to you!¡± Ramy called after him. John raised his hand in acknowledgement, but said nothing. As he walked away, Ramy looked at Will, and began to laugh. ¡°Well, I think that went well, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± he seethed, ignoring him.


    ¡°Lose the attitude, before I slap it out of you. We need to talk.¡±


    Will bit back every insult that flashed through his brain. ¡°And you thought that the middle of a festival was the right place to do that?¡± he asked, taking note of the people who were watching them, eyes darting to the side, then back, hoping they hadn¡¯t noticed. But Will certainly did.


    Ramy seized his hand and pulled him away, slipping into an alleyway between two buildings. Will stood still as a statue, afraid that Ramy was about to leave him, and even more terrified, because he didn¡¯t know. His heart and thoughts were screaming past, bleeding together in a cacophony of sound and light.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± he repeated, the trembling of his voice betraying his fa?ade of cold indifference.


    ¡°To talk,¡± he said, sighing. He fell back against the wall, sinking down to the ground. He patted the earth beside him, looking up at Will with innocent eyes. ¡°Sit.¡±


    And he did, holding his breath. Ramy¡¯s lips parted, but Will interrupted before he could begin. ¡°What¡¯s going on? Are you leaving me? Was it something I did?¡±


    ¡°No. The opposite, really.¡± He looked away. ¡°Will, I have something to tell you, before you find out from someone else. I did something bad.¡±


    ¡°I tried to tell you before. I already know what you did in the¡ª¡±


    ¡°I hurt John,¡± he interrupted, clutching the sleeve of his shirt. Then, in a softer voice: ¡°We got in a fight, last week. And¡­ now I¡¯ve done it, and I don¡¯t know how to stop it happening again.¡±


    Will seized him by the shoulders, shaking him back and forth until his hands fell away from his face. ¡°Ramy, what did you do? Tell me! If you tried to kill him, I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    ¡°What?¡± he shrieked. ¡°Then you¡¯ll kill me, too? You¡¯ll cut me up and eat me, like Benedict? You killed an innocent person!¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­ No, you don¡¯t understand. He made me¡ª¡±


    ¡°No one made you like it!¡±


    He stopped, struck into silence. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°Stop lying, Will! Lie to yourself, but don¡¯t you dare lie to me!¡±


    ¡°I just¡­ wanted him gone. I couldn¡¯t watch John he happy with someone else. I couldn¡¯t watch him be happy with anyone but me.¡± He released his deathly grip on Ramy¡¯s shoulders. ¡°You¡¯re no better than I am.¡±


    ¡°Will, I didn¡¯t kill someone,¡± he said, slowly. ¡°You did.¡±


    And that made him pause, just for a moment. Looking down into those beautiful eyes, he couldn¡¯t lie, even to save his life. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡±


    ¡°What I did to John¡­ it isn¡¯t forever. I only hurt one person,¡± he murmured. ¡°But what you did hurt everyone around you. What your mother does is your fault. And when she dies because of it, that¡¯ll be your fault, too.¡±


    Will did not falter, but something inside of him certainly did. Why did he always lie? Why did he hurt everyone who ever loved him? But, more than anything, why did Ramy always have to be right?


    ¡°Everything is always¡­ my fault.¡± He collapsed into himself, and began to cry.


    Ramy stared at him, wishing that he could somehow make him understand. He wished Will understood how he felt, and thought, and acted. He wished he were different.


    But there are no fairy godmothers in this world, and so he leaned over and held him as tight as he could. There was far too much to be said than can be expressed by words, and so instead, he refused to let him go, when perhaps he should have. Because that¡¯s what best friends do: they push you to the edge, but they also keep you from spinning off the edge.


    ¡°Will¡­ it isn¡¯t your fault.¡±


    His breath caught in his throat. Obviously, this wasn¡¯t the answer he was expecting. But it was what he needed to hear¡ªand because he did, Ramy unknowingly sentenced seventy-five people to death. But he didn¡¯t know that then. No, then they were only two people, holding each other, hoping the world wouldn¡¯t fall apart, like it always did; that everything they knew wouldn¡¯t crumble in their hands.


    ¡°Why does it have to be like this?¡± Will murmured, clutching Ramy¡¯s shoulder impossibly tighter.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Everything just gets so complicated, and fucked up, and before you know it¡­¡± He paused. ¡°Boom.¡±


    Will pulled away from him, slowly. He laughed, albeit sadly. ¡°We¡¯re fucked up, aren¡¯t we?¡±


    And Ramy couldn¡¯t argue with that, so he folded his hands in his lap, looking down at the stalk of lavender before him, swaying in the autumn wind. It was the last of its kind¡ªperhaps in all the world. It was so completely fragile and innocent that at first he didn¡¯t know what to make of it. In the end, he made a wish, then leaned forward and crushed it. And when he lifted his foot, the lavender was gone, disappeared into the earth it came from. It was lost forever in the darkness, and so was he.


    ¡°Look, Will, I don¡¯t want to fight with you. It¡¯s just¡­ I care about you. Maybe a bit too much.¡± He hugged him again, and with his mouth beside Will¡¯s ear, whispered: ¡°I love you, and I want you to be okay. That¡¯s all I should¡¯ve said.¡±


    He knew he should say it back. He cared too¡ªso much he wanted to scream it. But when he tried, his voice came out in a barely audible whisper.


    ¡°Ramy, I¡­¡± He lifted his head, a glint of hope in his eyes. ¡°I can¡¯t do it. I can¡¯t be the person you need me to be.¡± His voice shuddered, as he strained to move his mouth at the same speed as his mind. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he broke out in a cold sweat. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came forth. Ramy looked confused, if not a bit relieved that Will was even capable of human emotion.


    ¡°Will, stop,¡± he said, dumbfounded. ¡°You don¡¯t have to say it back. I know. I promise.¡±


    He leaned over and rested his head on Will¡¯s shoulder. They collapsed against each other, uncaring of who saw them. He took Will¡¯s hand and held onto it like his last, dying breath. Everything that stood between them, and all that anger dissolved. For the first time in his life, but not the last, Will felt safe and seen.


    He felt so wonderful, in fact, that he decided now was a proper time for revenge.


    ¡°Hey¡­ do you want to come with John and I to Vienne? We¡¯re going shopping, and then having dinner at La Pyramide. We can piss him off together.¡±


    Ramy looked up at him, smiling. ¡°What did you have in mind?¡±


    THEY WAITED THROUGH the heat of the day under a cherry tree, lying in the shade. Then, when the cold wind blew, and the evening came, they walked back to the house, and that is where Ramy left him.


    ¡°Do you have to go?¡± Will asked. Ramy nodded, and embraced him tightly. ¡°I¡¯ll miss you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s only till tomorrow,¡± he laughed.


    ¡°You say that like it isn¡¯t twelve hours away.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s twelve hours between friends?¡± Ramy laughed. ¡°Call me later. I¡¯ll be waiting to hear from you.¡±


    Will flushed with pride, and smiled after him. But before he went himself, he waved at Ramy, who had looked back over his shoulder. Then Will walked away, whistling a happy tune.


    ¡°SO, WHAT DO you know about Thomas Ramsay?¡± John asked.


    Will licked the whipped cream off his pumpkin pie and pushed it into his mouth, glaring at him. It was five o¡¯clock in the evening, and they were sitting on the terrace of their house. John had come to sit with him, because Nasreen had left with Ramy. It was his first and only plate of pumpkin pie that day, but for Will, it was the second. His first was splattered across the foot of an olive tree in the woods, and this one soon to join it¡ªonce he could untangle himself from this conversation, that was.


    He hesitated before answering. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s just¡­ he came to sit with us the other day, and you didn¡¯t seem to like him very much. I wondered what you thought.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s¡­ a lot of things. He¡¯s disagreeable, and not the nicest person, but he can get us¡ª¡± Drugs, he almost said. ¡°Lunch.¡±


    ¡°Lunch?¡± John balked.


    ¡°Yeah. He always buys us lunch.¡± He looked down at his plate, silently debating whether to lick it clean. Best not, he decided. ¡°I don¡¯t really know him, to be honest.¡± They sat in silence for a moment, while John finished the last of his pie. Then Will asked: ¡°Do you not like Thomas?¡±


    ¡°Well, I like him more than Ramy. I¡¯ve never seen him with anyone else. And if we¡¯re being honest, I didn¡¯t know he even had friends except for you.¡±


    ¡°You know, you should really give him more credit. He¡¯s a great person when you actually spend time with him. But you wouldn¡¯t know anything about that, would you?¡±


    ¡°I consider myself lucky I don¡¯t,¡± he chuckled. ¡°I know you¡¯ve only known him since August, but I always thought you two would end up together in the end.¡±


    ¡°Shame that Thomas beat me to it, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    He held up his hands in surrender. ¡°You said it, not me.¡± He nudged him under the table with his foot. ¡°But it¡¯s never too late for second chances.¡±


    Will kicked his foot away. It took everything in him not to follow it with a sharp one to the shin. ¡°You know I have a boyfriend, right?¡±


    ¡°I know. You told me. You might be angry with me now, but you¡¯ve always told me everything. You just can¡¯t help yourself.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°That¡¯s what you think.¡±


    ¡°God, you two were made for each other.¡±


    ¡°Obviously not.¡± He pushed back his chair and stood up. ¡°Now, if you¡¯ll excuse me, I have places to be.¡±


    Whenever he thought of what it would be like if he and Ramy were together¡ªwell, actually that would be lying. The truth was, he¡¯d never thought about it. But if he had, he would have imagined that he hadn¡¯t had to become a drug addict to keep Ramy¡¯s attention. In those dreams, they were each other¡¯s first in everything. It was just the two of them, like it used to be, in those first, beautiful, gone days. In another world, they did their homework together, and went on dates on Friday night, and laid in bed all night, talking on the phone. They passed each other notes, instead of hiding them in lockers. They held hands on the train to Paris. They adored each other without question and without end.


    And John¡­ well, he would mind his own fucking business.


    ¡°And where is that? Puking under a tree?¡±


    He pointed at him and clicked his tongue. ¡°You said it, not me.¡±


    ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT, while everyone else was at the party in Marseille, getting drunk and stuffing themselves with sweets, Ramy and Will were lying on the floor of his bedroom, sharing a blunt and a packet of masala crisps, flipping through magazines meant for teenage girls.


    They were giving each other quizzes. According to whoever had written them, they were remarkably healthy and well-balanced people. That made them laugh, because nothing could be farther from the truth, and they knew it. They were the kind of insane where they realised it, and still went on living as they had before, making all those choices that inevitably led to sad, horrible ends.


    It was easy to know which choice was correct, and what the answer would be when the quiz was over. They had spent the night indulging in self-deception, choosing those answers, and being told to carry on as they were, because they didn¡¯t want to believe anything else, and because all they¡¯d ever needed was that final confirmation.


    ¡°If you answered mostly with the right: at your school, you don¡¯t follow trends, you start them, so you need a unique prom dress that no one¡¯s ever seen before. The eighties are back, and with them, they¡¯re bringing heaps of tulle in all the bright colours. You¡¯ll want to pair your va-va-voom dress with metallic heels and matching earrings. This look is trendy, but elegant.¡±


    ¡°Va-va-voom?¡± Will laughed. ¡°Am I going to prom, or a drag show?¡±


    Ramy threw the magazine at his head. It slapped against the wall behind and landed on the bed. ¡°What¡¯s the difference? It takes the same amount of effort, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°I guess you¡¯re right,¡± he conceded.


    They laid there, staring up at the ceiling, which was revolving slowly, until Ramy said: ¡°Thomas is coming back on Tuesday.¡±


    ¡°Where did he go, again?¡±


    ¡°Falkirk. In Scotland.¡±


    ¡°Bloody fucking Scotland. My mum is dragging us to Glasgow this summer. If I¡¯m lucky, she¡¯ll forget me at home.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯ve you got against Scotland?¡±


    ¡°Halloween,¡± he slurred, with no further explanation. Then his vision began to fade in and out, as though he were about to lose consciousness. ¡°What¡­ the hell did you give me?¡±


    He rolled over, and off the bed, landing beside Ramy on the floor. They both began to laugh hysterically, one in fear, the other in delight. Above him, the lights were flickering, and all around, the world was circling the drain. Will was terrified, but still laughed so hard he couldn¡¯t breathe. And when he finally managed to drag one in, he was out cold, drooling on the rug.


    When he woke up, it was Wednesday, and he was sitting on the bus, jolting down the road to Hell.

 VII - Call of the Void

    ON THE FIRST day of November, it was unseasonably warm. It was beginning to seem as though the summer would never end, for the days retained all the humidity, heat, and brutal sunlight of the dead of summer. Perhaps it would last all year, until a new summer took its place. Will thought that if Hell were to freeze over, it had best get on with it, because it was about bloody time.


    And then, the day after, snow fell relentlessly from the sky, burying the world in a blanket of white. As the wind whipped through the fields, Will lay in bed, with a raging fever. He was beginning to hallucinate more than ever, until everything he saw no longer felt real, for when he touched it, reality melted in his hands. His eyes stung as though they¡¯d been gouged with pencils, and he was coughing incessantly. Every breath seemed to be his last. By the end of that first day, he thought he was already dead.


    And it was the first time in a long time that he wished he was.


    Nothing had changed at St. Michel¡¯s. It was the same crowded corridors, and the same horrendous people, up to the same things they always were. Their voices melded into one. As he walked to his first period, he looked back over his shoulder, and came face-to-face with Ma?l Renault. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, there was saliva dripping down his nose. Ma?l had spit in his face.


    ¡°What, you¡¯re still alive?¡± he laughed. He flicked him in the forehead, bringing him back down to earth. ¡°How many guys have you slept with, anyway?¡±


    ¡°One,¡± he said, confused. No one needed to know about his father.


    ¡°Hm. The way people talk, I thought it¡¯d be way more.¡±


    ¡°Is this about that vandal in the toilets? My brother paid him to¡ª¡±


    But he was already gone.


    OVER THE BREAK, Will had been moved to the Year 12 literature module, with John and Ren¨¦, because of his exemplary performance in the base one. It was the second one he had with them, including maths. He reckoned he¡¯d have to take university courses by the time he was their age.


    Because it was a small group, and because they were usually well-behaved, they got away with murder. It was something new and wonderful, this freedom, which was limitless and without end, much like the darkness in Will¡¯s head. Something had changed after that night with Ramy¡ªhe had been depressed and self-injurious before, but this was an all-time low. He felt as though he were floating on a cold, black river, which would inevitably end in death, or a hospital room, wishing he were.


    He had begun to write notes in his notebooks¡ªout of boredom, he told himself, because he didn¡¯t want to believe it was in preparation for the unimaginable. Gazing down at that page, filled with words that made him want to rip his heart out, triggered dark emotions that he had never felt before. His letter to Ramy was different than all the others:


    Dear Ramy,


    Can you believe it snowed yesterday? I¡¯m glad I sit by the window, so I can watch it fall. I don¡¯t understand why people hate it so much¡ªwinter has always been my favourite season. My birthday is in the winter. I¡¯ll be sixteen on 6 January¡ªor I would have been, if it weren¡¯t for what comes after this.


    You know, maybe it¡¯s time we got to know each other better. There¡¯s so much I want to tell you, and not enough time. I¡¯ll be gone soon, but I wanted to say goodbye. So, I thought I¡¯d write you a letter. You¡¯ve left me so many notes, but I¡¯ve never written back. I know we see each other at school, and after, but it feels like we haven¡¯t truly talked since that night, when you made me laugh until I cried.


    You know, I¡¯ve spent these last few weeks thinking about you, and that day you found me in the toilets. It seems like so long ago, doesn¡¯t it? I know you probably don¡¯t hear this often, but I think you¡¯re a nice person¡ªthe best I¡¯ve ever met. But thinking of you know, knowing that we won¡¯t have the forever you promised me¡­ it hurts more than a knife to the heart, and that is the only way I can explain it.


    I don¡¯t know a great deal about friendship, and certainly nothing about love, but I do know that what I want, more than anything, is to see you again. I won¡¯t be there for Christmas, or to see the sunflowers in the summer, but one day the spring will come, and we¡¯ll be together again. The sun will shine on us, when the morning comes.


    I want to be around for you, but you came into my life too late. And maybe you¡¯re wondering if there¡¯s really anything left to talk about, but I promise, when we see each other again, I¡¯ll tell you stories until the end of time.


    If you¡¯re asking yourself why I did this, there¡¯s no simple reason, or answer. I wonder about other people¡ªat school, and at home, and out in this big, bright, beautiful world. You and I are victims, and not only of our circumstances¡ªbut what if they are, too? I wish they didn¡¯t laugh at us, or call us names, but you can¡¯t control other people. We all have free will, and the opportunity to take or to give. It may not always seem like it, but we all have a choice.


    If I told them what I¡¯m telling you, they wouldn¡¯t understand. I learned from what they did, and I think it¡¯s about time they learned from it, too. That is why I did this. My death was a culmination and a consequence. They can say whatever they like, but I will have the last word. I hope they¡¯ll learn about themselves from what they did to me. I hope you¡¯ll learn a bit about yourself, and if I could ask just one thing of you, it would be that you become a better person for me. That would be enough to justify my life.


    Wouldn¡¯t it?


    He had never written a letter that long before. He read it over, and over, and over again, before finally crushing it in one hand and tossing it into the bin. He tried to write another, better than the first, and found that he couldn¡¯t. Instead, he closed the notebook, hiding those blank lines from sight, and thought about Ramy. He thought about what it would be like to be dead, and when he was gone.


    After a while, he opened his satchel to read through all the notes Ramy had ever left him. They were all so short, yet beautiful in their simplicity. They were undoubtedly alive, as though Ramy were standing there beside him, speaking loud and clear. As he flipped through them, he began to wonder how the letter he left behind would sound, and what it would convey. When he sent it, it would be out of his hands. It would no longer be his, although he had written it.


    The bell rang, and he hurriedly pushed the notes back into his satchel, staring blankly ahead. He leaned back, and closed his eyes. It wasn¡¯t simply sadness that was pulsing through his blood¡ªit was something deeper, darker, and different entirely. It was profound and divine. He released a grip he hadn¡¯t even realised he was holding, and a folded paper slipped out of his hand. He opened it, reading those words a second time¡ªHI, PRETTY BOY¡ªstill unsure how he felt about them, and how he ought to respond. Reading them made him certain that he wanted to see Ramy before the end, but feeling the way he did, he was beginning to wonder if he should even leave a note, at all.


    He thought about that first day, when Ramy had taken pity on him and chosen kindness. He replayed that moment in his mind, and the weight lifted from his chest. The pain was pleasant, in a way¡ªalmost addictive. He couldn¡¯t move if he tried. He wanted something more from Ramy, which he could not give, but didn¡¯t quite know what that was. Something terrible was awakening inside of him.


    And so, he crossed his arms and put his head down on top of them, thinking of Ramy in that sombre darkness.


    ON FRIDAY, FOR no reason at all, Ren¨¦ brought him a rose. That night, they went to dinner in Marseille, and kissed in his car. For the first time, the worries of the world melted away, drifting up into the open air, and disappearing into the night.


    Ren¨¦ pulled away, and looked him in the eyes. His face was hardly visible in the darkness, but his eyes glinted with a light that came from deep within¡ªan inextinguishable flame, burning bright. Will was startled by the sudden cold that passed over his lips. His first thought was that he had done something wrong. It was his fault. It was always his fault.


    ¡°Shall I give you your present now?¡± Ren¨¦ asked, smiling. Will nodded, running his fingers through his hair. Ren¨¦ reached into his pocket, and Will felt a strange, otherworldly fear flood his body. He was handed a small white box, and stared down at it, absently. ¡°Go on.¡±


    His voice was eager, and Will promised himself then, that no matter what it was, Ren¨¦ would believe whole-heartedly that he loved it, because he deserved at least that much. He opened the box, and peered down at it. It was a silver pin in the shape of a raven, wings shooting out to either side. He took it up with trembling fingers, holding it close to his face.


    ¡°Why a raven?¡± he choked. A black bird tapped on the window. But he told himself it was only in his mind, no matter how real the voice seemed, as it screamed his name.


    ¡°They represent intelligence, creativity, and genius. And because it reminded me of you.¡±


    ¡°They also symbolise ill omens and death.¡± He laughed, because only he could possibly find his own death amusing. ¡°Bit on the nose, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°You know, Will, not everything has to be so hopeless all the time.¡±


    His throat tightened, and his eyes blurred. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He held Ren¨¦ close and rested his head on his shoulder. He wondered how he could believe all those things he¡¯d said¡ªintelligent, creative, genius. How did he never once doubt himself? How did he never fear that they weren¡¯t meant to be together? Ren¨¦ Picardi never feared or doubted anything, because he had lived a life defined by certainty.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he said, voice cracking. Somehow, tonight, it was easy to say. How could he lie in a moment like this? It would be cruel.


    He pressed his face into Ren¨¦¡¯s shirt, and began to cry. They stayed that way for a long time, until he could breathe again. And he thought to himself that this was it¡ªhe really did love him. They leaned their foreheads together, as the world came crashing down around them. The sky was falling, but it didn¡¯t matter, because Ren¨¦ was here, and he always would be.


    ON MONDAY, HE walked into his first period, and sat down at his desk without a word. Something was different, though he didn¡¯t know how he knew it. He looked down, and saw that his satchel was wide open. He leaned over and pushed his hand inside, realising with a start that it was filled with rubbish. The first thing he pulled out was a rotting wheel of Vieux Boulogne. Then came the decaying corpse of a skunk that had been run over, a cloth dripping with raw sewage, and broken shells of rotten eggs, together with a pair of sweaty, filthy underwear, a toilet brush, and a bottle of sour milk with a loose lid, which allowed the fluid inside to soak through the bottom of the bag, along with the gelatinous insides of the eggs. He leapt to his feet, lifted the satchel, and turned it over above the bin. Out came an untied shopping bag filled with used tampons and sanitary towels. The smell was unlike anything on earth.


    He stood there for a moment, looking down at the hellspawn that had just come out of his satchel. He slammed his shoulder against the door and ran down the corridor, toward the toilets. He threw his bag into the sink, keeping it as far away from his body as possible, and turned on the tap, letting the blood and rot circle the drain.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He didn¡¯t know how long he stood there, looking down at his satchel, which was slowly becoming a sopping mess of canvas and leather, but eventually he heard someone coming. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, and his heart raced. He felt high¡ªbut not the good kind. More like the manic kind.


    He went tense, but it was only a stranger. He took one breath and then took off running, clutching one hand to his face. Will did not move, still frozen in place. According to the clock above the door, it was two minutes to bell. He took his satchel from beneath the water, wrung it out, and then hurried back to the classroom. He snatched up the rubbish bag, forcing down the urge to vomit, knotted it to seal off the smell, and then locked it in the supply closet with the keys from the teacher¡¯s desk.


    Ma?l and company arrived shortly after, with a crowd of followers. Will was sitting at his desk, satchel tucked under the chair, bouncing his leg up and down. Someone knocked him over the head with a book, while another pulled his satchel out and put it over his head. He gagged violently, but they did not remove it.


    He heard, rather than saw Ma?l lean over and cough. ¡°What the hell is that smell?¡± He snatched the hood off Will¡¯s head and caught him by the chin. ¡°Is that where you¡¯ve been keeping that poor little kitten all these years? You know, that one you killed and tore apart? And I thought that dirty drug addict would be the one who made me sick?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk about him li¡ª¡±


    Ma?l slapped him across the face. ¡°No one asked you, you fucking queer. Now, either pull down your skirt and show us what you really are, or I¡¯ll kick your teeth out.¡± Will pressed his lips together, glaring up at him. He folded his arms over his chest, and did not obey. Ma?l leaned in, with a blood-chilling grin. ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. You just signed your death warrant, Will Hargreaves.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t really¡­¡± He trailed off, coming to the stone-cold realisation that perhaps Ma?l really was capable of taking a life. He certainly wasn¡¯t going to wait around to find out.


    ¡°Now, we have places to be, but I¡¯ll see you in the toilets after school. And if I don¡¯t, I¡¯ll hunt you down with my father¡¯s pheasant rifle, and that really will be the end. Understood?¡±


    He stared down at his hands, folded on the desk, in silence. The voices in his head were screaming at him not to give in. Slowly, he nodded.


    BEFORE HE KNEW it, the day was ending, and before he could stop it, the clock ticked down, and it was over. He was so deeply disturbed by the fear that he couldn¡¯t keep still for more than five seconds. He waited for the bell, then grabbed his bloody, stinking satchel, which he was carrying in a plastic shopping bag, and his books, which he held tightly to his chest with one arm. He looked back over his shoulder, searching the bodies flowing past for a familiar face, then pushed into the surge and disappeared. His stomach felt as though he¡¯d been shot. He wondered momentarily if it was all the damage he¡¯d done to it by vomiting up everything he ate, and then decided that if it was, it had chosen an inopportune moment to stir up trouble.


    He suppressed the urge to run, knowing it would only draw unwanted attention, and instead made his way toward the front entrance, meaning to escape while there was still the chance of doing so. There was no time to be anything but afraid for his life, or to worry about what would happen tomorrow, when he woke up from the beating, still alive.


    He hurried past the toilets, in the opposite direction. Then, turning the corner, he came abruptly face-to-face with Ma?l, who smiled and closed his fist round the collar of Will¡¯s shirt.


    ¡°You¡¯re going the wrong way, pretty boy.¡±


    He marched him back the way he came, pulling him into the toilets, which had already been cleared by his mates. The window was open, and he could hear the screeching of children in the courtyard. Ma?l closed the door, then shut the window, as well. They were sealed in. No one could hear him shouting.


    When he paused, Ma?l shoved him so hard that he collided face-first with the nearest wall. Will dropped his bags, and his books fell out of his grip, sliding across the floor. After that, something happened to the way sound echoed in the tiny room. It took on an ethereal weight, slamming into him, then out the other side.


    The door rattled, and they both went suddenly still, eyes converging on the handle as it clicked first up, then down. When it opened, a boy stepped inside. He was tall, and that was all Will noticed. He watched in terror as the boy slipped in and closed the door. He put one hand behind his back, and the lock grated as it turned. Ma?l smiled at him, but the boy, Tristan, did not react, strolling forward with his hands in the pockets of his cardigan. His gaze met Will¡¯s, but his eyes were black, bottomless, and utterly empty.


    And that was where it began. Tristan stripped Will¡¯s cardigan from his body and used it to bind his hands behind his back. He twisted his wrists, straining against the soft fabric, but it didn¡¯t give. Even if it had, he didn¡¯t know what he would¡¯ve done. If it had been only Ma?l, he could¡¯ve torn his cheek off with his teeth and walked away, but there were two of them. One would get a head-start, while he was preoccupied permanently disfiguring the other. A cold sweat coursed down every inch of his body.


    A pair of hands clapped over his eyes, blinding him. He snapped his head back and forth, snarling like a rapid animal, and began to thrash, but not before he was given a sharp blow to the shins. He fell to his knees, hands clenched into fists. He tried to regain his feet, but they knocked him onto his back. The hands over his eyes were gone, but he kept them tightly closed, screaming like a psychotic patient.


    Ma?l landed a swift kick to his teeth. A shockwave rippled through the floor, and a white light flashed in the darkness. With all his weight, he slapped against the floor, like a fish out of water. Pain pounded from his nose and mouth, and his vision stuttered in and out.


    He¡¯d never felt his heart beating so violently. He clenched his jaw until he felt the blood pulsing through every muscle of his face. Then it went numb. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and blood from his nose. His entire face was slick with heat. Blood ran into his eyes, and it was painfully bright.


    After a while, he felt the fabric round his wrists loosening, and through the red shade, saw the silhouettes of legs. He was lying in a pool of blood. He turned over onto his stomach. If he hadn¡¯t seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed he had this much to lose.


    Will sat up on his hands and knees, gently touching his nose. It was still there, but broken, collapsed horrifically to one side. He coughed, and blood spattered across the floor. He dragged in a breath, for he could no longer use his nose for its intended purpose. The blood staining his shirt was thin and oily, and his cardigan was wet with it.


    He lay down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He could see a reflection of himself hanging from it, or floating, like a ghost. The phantom¡¯s eyes were thick, like jelly sweets, and its clothes hanging off its sparely built frame. Its lips were moving, slowly. It was speaking to him, but its voice was so low that he couldn¡¯t understand it. It smiled sadly, with glistening red teeth, and then it was gone. Will turned onto his side and pressed his face against the tile.


    The door opened, but he did not move. Someone must have overheard, and come to check on him, or to use the toilet. In the end, it was neither. It was Ramy.


    He ran to Will, kneeling beside him. His hands found his shoulders, and gently turned him onto his back, guiding Will¡¯s head to his lap.


    ¡°There¡¯s blood everywhere. It looks like someone was murdered in here,¡± he said. ¡°I can¡¯t even tell where it¡¯s coming from anymore. I mean, you¡¯re drenched in it. Tell me where it hurts.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t know,¡± he gasped. ¡°It hurts everywhere.¡±


    ¡°I saw Ma?l bring you in here, but when I tried to come in, the door was locked. I watched them leave. They were laughing, and there was blood all over their legs, but it wasn¡¯t theirs. I didn¡¯t know how bad they hurt you.¡± He put his arms beneath Will¡¯s, and gently helped him into a sitting position. ¡°Can you stand?¡±


    He nodded, closing his eyes. He tried to smile, but his lips did not respond. He passed the back of his hand under his nose, and it came away dripping red. The pain was undoubtedly real, and only worse as time went on. He crawled onto his hands and knees and stood, head spinning. He found his cardigan and pulled it on, limping over to the sink. He turned on the tap, releasing a cool stream of water. He cupped his hands and washed the blood from his face and nose, before the adrenaline rush ended, and the pain came back in full force. He couldn¡¯t imagine it hurting much worse than this¡ªhis face felt like it was splitting open, and he had a hand on both sides, pulling it further apart. His nose dripped into the running water, diluting the blood before it ran down the drain, disappearing forever.


    ¡°I know what it¡¯s like,¡± Ramy said, as Will dried his face with a paper towel. ¡°Before he died, my father used to hit me when he was angry. He never meant to¡ªI mean, he never did it because he wanted to hurt me. He did it because I misbehaved¡­ but it doesn¡¯t change the fact that he did.¡± Will nodded, but said nothing. Ramy looked exhausted, as though he hadn¡¯t slept in months, and perhaps he hadn¡¯t. ¡°What are we going to do about your clothes?¡±


    Without looking at him, Will murmured: ¡°Thank you. You didn¡¯t have to do this.¡±


    He felt Ramy staring at his nose and mouth, and couldn¡¯t imagine what he saw. ¡°You don¡¯t have to thank me. What are we going to do about your clothes? You can¡¯t go home like this.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll figure it out. It¡¯ll be okay,¡± he said, holding on to Ramy¡¯s arm as they stepped out the door, closing it behind them. ¡°I reckon I ought to be going to A&E. I mean, just look at the state of my nose. Be a miracle if I ever breathe through it again.¡±


    ¡°Come on. I¡¯ll drive you,¡± he offered, leading him away.


    THAT NIGHT, THEY lay in Will¡¯s bed, tucked up in his down comforter. Ramy was out cold, but Will was not. His body was heavy, and battered. He felt that he was going to be sick, but closing his eyes only made him more nauseous. His throat felt as though he were being strangled, hot and burning. It hurt just to breathe.


    He had told Pierre, who was stunned by the bloodstains on his shirt, that he was hit by a man on a bicycle while they were walking home. Ramy had taken him to hospital, where they had cleaned and set his nose, stitched the cuts on his face, and bandaged the shallow ones. His nose throbbed, though the pain was nothing compared to what it had been at the beginning.


    He went up to his room, to sleep it off. He didn¡¯t want to talk anymore. He stripped off his bloody clothes, and went to throw them in the wash, but Pierre told him they were ruined, and so he surrendered them without further protest.


    ¡°At least it was a cyclist,¡± he sighed. ¡°Can you imagine if it had been a car?¡±


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯d have been lucky enough to die,¡± Will muttered.


    Pierre ignored him, and said he¡¯d take him to see the doctor in the morning, before school. But Will argued, and managed to convince him that it would be best if they went after, instead. Pierre went downstairs to ring the doctor¡¯s office, leaving them alone.


    As he lay in bed, a paltry heat rose in his stomach. It flooded his face, and then his mind. His nose was packed with rolled gauze, held together with long plaster strips across his cheeks. The surgeons had said it was a clean break¡ªthat the cartilage had been ripped halfway off the bone, but was still intact, and the bridge had broken in two along the fissure.


    ¡°We should get them back for this,¡± Ramy had said, before he fell asleep. ¡°You could get them back. What¡¯s stopping you?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯d crack me in half if I tried to stand up to them.¡±


    ¡°Then let Thomas and I do it. We¡¯ll kill them for you. Just say the word. We¡¯re not scared of anything.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not why I let them do it¡ªand I do let it happen. The way I act is¡­ Well, it¡¯s the only way to respond to something like that.¡±


    Ramy gritted his teeth. ¡°But they shouldn¡¯t have done it to begin with. It¡¯s not fair, Will.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair, but it¡¯s right,¡± he whispered, and then turned over. He placed his hand to Ramy¡¯s cheek, and found that it was slick with tears. ¡°No, Ramy, don¡¯t cry. Please.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not.¡± He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, and then began to laugh. ¡°All right, maybe I am. You know why they did this to you, don¡¯t you? It¡¯s because they¡¯re afraid¡ªof you, of me. People hate the things they can¡¯t understand.¡± He leaned over, and brushed his thumb along Will¡¯s bruised cheekbone. ¡°But I like you just the way you are.¡±


    HE WOKE BEFORE the dawn. Ramy was still asleep, splayed across the bed. He had stolen the blanket. As he put his feet out of bed, there was a new and strange sensation in the back of his head, and then blood trickled down his throat. He rushed to the bathroom, leaning over to spit it in the sink. He bent his head over the basin, and tried not to vomit as the trickle became a surge. He opened his mouth and let the blood run out, until it finally slowed. He waited a moment, letting the last of it drip from his lower lip, then pressed a tissue to his mouth. His hand was trembling.


    He thought he heard rustling coming down the hallway, but when he popped his head out the door, there was no one there. Still holding the tissue to his face, he retreated into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. He thought about what it would be like if he could tell Pierre the truth¡ªor, better yet, if he never had to leave the house again.


    But he couldn¡¯t stay, and he knew it. Ramy was out there, and he needed him. As he walked back to his room, he tried to remember what it was that Ramy had said to him the night before. It was all a blur of darkness and tears, but those words had a weight unlike anything on Earth, or in Heaven. He has so easily lost sight of what words could do, but they had taken him back in time, to where he had been before the fight.


    Ramy had told him once that Will¡¯s eyes were the most beautiful he¡¯d ever seen. How could anyone look at him and be afraid?


    And then he realised that not everyone was as thick in the head as Ramy Youssef. He had said that it wasn¡¯t fair what happened to him, and Will had insisted that it was right, because it was. He¡¯d done the unspeakable, and caused the unimaginable. No matter how bad it got, he deserved this, because he wasn¡¯t innocent.


    He was in a place unreachable by the light of solace and hope¡ªthat feeling that only came when he read Ramy¡¯s notes, or walked home with him, or thought of him.


    Closing his mind around that thought, he continued up the hallway, realising dimly that he had stopped in the middle. He stepped forward, then back to where he had been before. He stood there in his bare feet, which sank ever so slightly into the rug. He tried to breath, and found that it caught in his throat. That old, familiar pain bloomed in his nose as he continued on, this time turning the corner and walking out onto the gallery.


    He turned his head up to the heavens, and looked at the sky. It was lavender at the top, and pale gold at the bottom, near the horizon. The clouds were bright along the bottoms. Whatever was left of the summer had faded, and he was standing in a winter world. He thought it all would disappear, but it didn¡¯t.


    Then the leaves shivered in the distance, and he smiled, because he knew at once what the rustling sound had been.


    It was nature, calling out to him.