Chapter 4 – Simo
Since last week, I’ve been hyper-conscious of myself around him.
The noticeboard rumours follow me wherever I go, and trying to get rid of them is about as simple as cutting off my own shadow.
Instead, I weigh my words and swallow them more often than not.
I take note of every time we touch. I watch him constantly but pretend not to.
I go to all these lengths and act like nothing’s changed.
It’s exhausting, mostly because I fear the cracks will start to show.
I decide to drop my whole body on to his sleeping self.
It’s what I would normally do without thinking twice.
I’m faking thoughtlessness like my life depends on it, and maybe it does.
Luca is all bones and sharp lines, but the duvet softens the fall.
He barely shifts below me, so I begin to poke his ribs, and when that doesn’t do it, I crawl on top of his back.
It’s an act devoid of tenderness, of that I make sure.
‘Monster,’ he groans into his pillow.
‘Get up, get up, we’re going for a run!’
‘Can’t get up,’ he huffs, ‘with you on top.’
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Luca in our years of friendship, it’s that it takes a village, nay, an army to get this boy out of bed.
Mostly I’m happy to tag along and go wherever Luca takes me.
The only time I have to take the lead is in the mornings. Especially today. We’re on a mission.
I move off the bed and rip away the duvet, revealing a very ruffled Luca. In the dim room, the hills and dips of his spine catch the light like waves on a dark ocean, the moon fracturing on a crest.
‘Give a boy a minute, will you?’ Luca grumbles, and I realise that I’m staring.
‘I’ll give you three, but if you’re still not up . . .’ I leave the room, glad to no longer be confronted with so much exposed skin.
Luca shuffles into the lounge, sleep still clinging to his every move, but he’s managed to throw on running gear.
A few minutes later, he’s brushed his teeth, and we find ourselves on the promenade.
The sun hasn’t yet broken through the fog, and the shutters of Paul’s kiosk remain shut, but the first dog walkers are making their way up the beach.
We fall into a jog, then slowly pick up speed.
Running is the only thing that’s been keeping me sane.
When Lombard hasn’t yet woken up, and all I can hear are the waves and the steady rhythm of our feet hitting the tarmac, I can relax.
Tall Victorian seafront homes give way to squat brick cottages, smoke rising from chimneys the only sign of life.
The cottages are soon replaced by beach huts in varying shades of pastel, until we reach the edge of town and break free.
Running reminds me to breathe. It’s a paradox, because Luca is right beside me and he’s kind of the root of my problems.
It’s not like it’s his fault. A whole week has passed and we still don’t know who put the notice up.
At the risk of stating the obvious, it’s been a miserable one.
Seven days of pointing fingers, of being avoided by my parents, of flinching away from my best friend, of full-blown denial.
No, I’m not in love with Luca. No, we’re not together.
The town council has been ghosting us. When we asked for an appointment, every councillor’s schedule was full until the end of the month.
When we turned up to open meetings, they were cancelled at the last minute.
But today, they can’t evade us. Because every Monday at 7.
15 a.m., they meet to pick that week’s message to go on the noticeboard.
It’s an unshakeable tradition, as old as Lombard itself.
I’ll get my answers and make sure that this week’s board makes no mention of us.
We head north, and while I’d usually loop us back through town, I keep going until we reach the causeway.
The tide is in, cutting off access to Clifford Island.
I spot the manor’s turrets in the distance, slicing through the fog and the crowns of the surrounding trees.
Usually I try to avoid the old estate, with its many dark windows, half-hidden beneath layers of ivy and steeped in ghost stories, but today I want to run till I reach it and keep running on.
But I’ve already pushed Luca further than usual, and he’s not uttered a word of complaint.
I won’t get away with it much longer. Also, I don’t want to miss our one chance to ambush the town council.
We turn back, our feet running hot. The first rays of sun pierce the mist and make the waves shine as we reach town. On a different day, in a different mood, we might throw off our shoes and run straight into the ocean. But there’s none of that playfulness today.
In front of the noticeboard, we come to a stop.
I ignore the message that’s still there as much as possible, but I can feel the words looming above me.
The initial shock has passed, replaced by slow-bubbling anger.
That I don’t know where to direct that anger only makes it worse, and so everyone gets a taste of it.
Luca, because as mean as it is, I wouldn’t be in this mess without him.
Mum for ignoring what’s happened, and ignoring me in the process.
Dad for his inability to even broach the subject, when I can tell that there are things he wants to say.
Every single person throwing looks and comments my way when they should be minding their own business. And the town council.
Luca is bent over, hands on his knees and breathing hard.
His skin is flushed, his neck glistens. I watch a bead of sweat trace its way from a spot behind his ear down to his Adam’s apple.
It clings to him until it detaches and drops to the ground.
I tear my gaze away and march to the door of the town hall.
Inside, a corridor takes me to the assembly room.
Luca calls after me, but I barge in without waiting for him.
Voices halt mid-conversation, and six pairs of eyes stare at me, mouths agape.
‘Simo Lorca,’ Mayor Pickering observes, the first to catch himself. ‘And Luca Dean, naturally,’ he adds, when Luca appears at my side. He’s a little man with a loud voice who wears turtlenecks pretty much every day of the year. ‘That’s an unexpectedly sweaty sight for my sore eyes.’
‘Are you quite all right? You seem upset,’ Heloise asks. She leans against a blackboard that’s seen better days, a piece of chalk between her fingers.
‘I am upset,’ I say, taking in the rest of the room.
Curtained windows frame a view of the ocean, but my attention is on the members of council huddled in its centre.
Besides Mayor Pickering and Heloise, there’s Betsy, the owner of Pott’s flower shop where Dad gets his plants, Linda, the mailwoman, and Justine Ribbons, whose daughter shares some of my classes.
Maybe it’s just me, but they all have a sheepish look about them. ‘I have good reason to be upset.’
‘And we totally understand,’ Betsy says, but the apologetic smile doesn’t help.
‘I don’t think you do,’ Luca joins in, and I’m glad to hear the heat in his voice. I feel more united with him now than I’ve felt all week. ‘I thought you were a political body, not a gossip column. Since when are you in the business of spreading lies about people?’
Heloise tuts, clearly affronted by the accusation.
‘Just to be clear,’ the mayor begins, ‘you’re not in love, then?’
‘No,’ Luca and I reply, one syllable like a hammer to a wall.
‘Then we owe you an apology,’ he says, and sounds surprisingly sincere. ‘We had no intention of spreading misinformation. We merely sought to declare our support, share the joy, but it seems the gesture was . . . rushed.’
‘What I don’t understand is how you even came to think . . .?’ I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
‘You’ve been inseparable since primary school,’ Linda pipes up. ‘And when you returned from Spain this summer, you seemed very . . . together.’
‘That’s a little too much speculation for us to end up on the noticeboard,’ I retort. ‘Who made the decision?’
‘We all did,’ Betsy replies.
‘But who came up with the idea?’
‘None of us,’ she says.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It was a submission. Online. On the council web portal,’ Mayor Pickering explains.
I look to Luca, who shakes his head. ‘Anyone can submit a message for the noticeboard. We take all suggestions into account, weed out everything that’s irrelevant or rude – you can’t imagine the number of flagrantly vulgar entries – and take it to a vote.
The winning submission then goes up for the week. ’
He points to the blackboard, on which Heloise has written out this week’s options. The top one – WELCOME HOME, DANIEL! – is circled.
‘And these submissions, they’re completely anonymous?’ Luca asks.
‘Correct.’
His shoulders sag, and I share in his disappointment. There’s no way we can trace it back to the culprit. I’m not exactly a tech geek, and Luca’s hacking skills are equally non-existent.
‘It was a genuine mistake. We were happy for you and your, erm, supposed attachment. And we meant no harm,’ Justine offers, speaking up for the first time.
She’s one of Lombard’s biggest volunteers and organises most town festivals, but she never lords her charity over people.
Still, I can’t muster any warmth towards her today.
The intention is pointless when it results in harm.
Luca looks like he’s run out of steam, but I’m still fuming, and judging by the worried look on her face, Betsy can tell. ‘We could set things straight for you? Use the noticeboard to say something like “Simo and Luca are not in love!”’
‘Absolutely not,’ Luca shoots back.
‘That’s the worst thing you could do,’ I add. ‘I suggest you keep our names off that board from now on.’ With nothing left to say and zero patience for any more empty apologies, I turn my back.
‘You know, boys,’ Mayor Pickering calls after us, ‘council meetings are open to the public. You’re welcome to join any time, not just to complain.’
There are few moments in life when I’m tempted to flip someone off, but now my hand trembles with the urge. Only the respect for my elders that my parents have drilled into me holds me back – that and Luca, who pushes me out of the building and on to the square.
‘Who is Daniel, anyway?’ he mutters.
‘What?’
‘Daniel. The next poor guy on the noticeboard.’
‘I almost couldn’t care less.’ Now Luca looks sheepish too, and I feel worse. ‘Sorry. I don’t know – somehow you and I have switched roles. Usually you’re the impulsive one.’
‘Thanks for the assessment,’ he replies drily. ‘Not that I disagree.’
‘Why aren’t you more bothered? There’s no way we’ll find out who did this now.’
Heloise shuffles out behind us, with a huge box on a trolley that makes a loud noise as it clatters over the cobblestones. She propels the trolley towards the noticeboard to switch out the letters. Having seen enough of her and anything to do with the council, I direct Luca back to the promenade.
‘It’s not that I’m not bothered. I’ve just accepted that the mess is made, and we have to muddle through it.
Doesn’t mean I like it.’ A sandy tennis ball lands by his feet, quickly followed by a delighted terrier.
Luca throws the ball back towards the beach and the dog zooms after it.
‘It’s like bombing your final exams. Or crashing your car.
It’s happened, and it’s awful, but you can’t change it. ’
‘Except that we didn’t cause this! That changes the situation, surely?’
‘Does it? And what if we found out? You might get the satisfaction, but it’s too late to stop the rumour mill.’
I ponder his words and come to the annoying conclusion that he’s right.
We have to deal. And I can’t even explain how much it pisses me off.
Not just that someone turned us into fodder for their tea party, but the general expectation that because Luca and I are close, we’ll inevitably turn into a couple.
Like people have nothing better to do than talk about us.
The stupid noticeboard is only a symptom of a much bigger problem.
Suddenly, Luca’s hands cup my face. The second he touches me, my eyelids flutter, and I want to fall into him. I want to pour all of myself into his gentle hands, let him brush away my worries. But that’s not how it works. I force my eyes open and try not to let my thoughts show.
‘Relax,’ he says, ‘stop grinding your teeth to dust.’
He holds my gaze, and with it my entire body. Luca fills my vision, eyes bright as the morning and familiar as the pillow that lulls me to sleep at night. Beneath his touch the tension begins to melt. I breathe in and out until only a dull ache remains.
When I realise what we’re doing, standing so close where everyone can see, I step back. Luca’s arms fall to his sides. A corner of his mouth lifts, but I detect concern in the slant of his smile. The ocean rushes in my ears along with my own beating heart, pierced only by the shriek of seagulls.
‘We could skip school. Just for a day.’
I shake my head at Luca’s suggestion. The temptation is real, but so is Mum’s wrath if she found out. ‘We have to muddle through, right?’
‘Doesn’t mean we can’t cheat now and then. Exceptional circumstances allow for unusual measures,’ Luca replies.
‘Did you read that somewhere?’
He laughs, and his eyes are framed by a dozen little lines.
‘Nope. I’m a big boy who knows big words.
’ He skips ahead, in the direction of his home.
‘See you in school, then?’ He strips off his shirt as he walks away, his back coated in a sheen of sweat.
Light ripples across his spine and fractures with every step, each lift of a bare shoulder.
Even hours later, it’s still on my mind, hushing every other thought. The shoulder lift and the sunrays flitting across his skin like a swarm of honey-coloured butterflies.
If you could catch light, I write into my notebook that night, how would you do it? Trap it in a butterfly net or gather it like dew from a leaf?
And if you could drink light, what would it taste of? What would it feel like?