Chapter 6
SIX
DION
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO - DECEMBER
It’s hard work being a grinch when you secretly love Christmas.
But the greens and reds and golds hardly match my black and black aesthetic so I keep my enjoyment of all things festive to my time at home.
The making gingerbread houses with my younger siblings, Lyla and Devon.
The decorating the tree under Dad’s direction from the sofa.
The making as much of Christmas lunch in advance so Mum doesn’t have to worry about it all on the big day, if she has it off, which she does this year, a Christmas miracle all of its own.
And then there’s all the time we spend at the nursing home, the one Mum manages, singing carols, making Christmas cards and passing around mince pies.
If Dad’s well enough, he joins us, sitting in his wheelchair in a corner with Lyla on his lap.
I can never tell if he really enjoys coming or if he spends the whole time feeling like he has more in common with the residents who are twice his age but often have a lot more mobility and stability.
But that’s MS for you. That’s any chronic illness, I guess. It doesn’t discriminate. Old, young. Rich, poor. Parents or not. It doesn’t care what your responsibilities are, or your hopes and dreams. It just is and it will just be.
“Oh my God, look over there.” Raquelle grabs my arm. With her other hand she points across the school playing field at one of the makeshift market stalls, which in essence is just a fold-up wallpaper table with a paper tablecloth thrown over it. “Miles and Ben Smith are doing a kissing booth.”
That spikes my attention. “A what?”
“You know,” Raquelle explains. “They sell kisses.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh shit, they really are doing it,” Raquelle says and her voice has dropped, probably because we’re both watching Miles lean over the table and give a girl I vaguely recognise from Year 11 a long, slow kiss.
“Jesus Christ.” I roll my eyes. “I thought the whole point of this Christmas Market was to sell handmade goods. You know, crappy paper maché decorations, knitted gloves with six fingers and homemade sugar cookies that will make us all chuck our guts up before the night’s done.”
“I guess technically their kisses are homemade,” Raquelle concedes, her tone a little lighter now Miles has detangled his tongue from the Year 11’s. “And it’s all for charity, isn’t it?”
I don’t notice how Raquelle has led us in the direction of the kissing booth until it’s too late and we’re standing in front of the table.
Ben and Miles are dressed almost identically.
Big, black puffer jackets over tracksuits.
Ben has a Bristol City FC hat on while Miles is going for a more international option, Real Madrid FC.
Their hands are shoved Deep into their pockets and they both bounce their legs as they chat together. It is a freezing evening.
“So, how much is a kiss?” Raquelle asks and I have to physically restrain myself from dragging her away. This boy has made her cry twenty too many times over the last six months. I am not in the mood for a repeat performance tonight.
“For you, a quid,” Miles says. Next to him, Ben’s eyes bounce from Miles to Raquelle to me, where they stay.
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell him. “Charity or no charity, it’s not happening.”
He shrugs with a smile that doesn’t look forced. Not that I wanted him to be upset.
“It says here it’s a quid for everyone.” Raquelle points at a shoddily made sign that lies flat on the table.
“Ah, well, I’ll give you two kisses for a pound.” He winks at her, and I swear the jam sandwich I had before I left lurches up to my throat.
“Fine.” She throws a pound in the old ice cream tub in front of them and grabs a fistful of Miles’ jacket. She hauls him around the side of the table and then wraps her arms around his neck. Their lips meet, and I look away. I don’t actually want to vomit in public
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter.
“You’re not selling anything?” Ben asks, and I’m actually grateful for him giving me a new focus even if it is a conversation with him.
“Nah,” I say. “I didn’t have time to get anything ready.”
It’s true. Between all the extra hours I’ve poured into my art coursework, on top of my French homework and reading for English Lit, plus everything I do at home — making dinners, doing laundry, helping Dad with physical and occupational therapy — there was no way I would have had time to make some paintings to sell, although I did think about it.
I thought about it more than I would ever admit.
“Shame,” he says, and I notice he has turned his body away from where Miles and Raquelle are still going to town on each other’s tonsils. “I was hoping to have a D— Ravel original. It will be worth something one day.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “Are you taking the piss?”
He looks horrified. “No, of course not, no. I’m serious. I think you’re talented and—”
“I’m still not kissing you,” I interrupt. I am uncomfortable accepting fake-ass compliments from the best of people, and I’m certainly not going to take them from Ben Smith.
I expect my comment to silence him and it does, but a smirk of a smile on his face surprises me. “What about if it’s free?”
And suddenly I’m the one rendered speechless. Is Ben Smith flirting with me? Does Ben Smith like me? Does he think I like him?
Not that I do. Sure, I have started to think he’s handsome in a skinny-white-boy kind of way, and his blue eyes seem to snag more of my attention than I’d like whenever he fixes them on me, but he’s Ben Smith. Football-playing, tracksuit-wearing, enjoying-an-easy-ride-in-French Ben Smith.
“Never gonna happen,” I tell him. And possibly also myself.