No time to argue. He finds some old pizza buns in the fridge – if there’s no mould, then they’re OK, right? – and stuffs them into her lunch box.
As he’s scooting them out of the door, he catches a glimpse of his face in the hall mirror. The swelling has gone down, but the handprint is pretty unmistakable. No one at school will care, of course – kids show up with broken arms and stitches all the time. Fights. Angry parents. Bike accidents. They live in that part of town. The school doesn’t care if dozens of students have bruises or stitches or hollow eyes. It’s too much and the teachers don’t get paid enough for this.
But August will care.
Why does it matter?
Why is he even rushing to walk to school with her?
Because the last time they were together, he carried her home and he felt helpful and kind. And she thanked him. And it was good.
Beck locks the front door – he doesn’t know or care where the Maestro is – and Joey sprints across the dewy grass to August.
‘WE’RE GOING TO SCHOOL!’ says Captain Obvious.
Beck suddenly remembers a million reasons why it’s not OK to be around August. What is he doing? He feels like nine left elbows and a stomach full of butterflies. And his face.
But he deserved it. He failed. Just a simple task, play a Chopin piece, do it well, and he flunked it on purpose. Right? Did he even try? Did he?
He can’t get rid of the pure elation of his own music flooding that hall. Or how thunderous the applause was. Or how beautiful it was, like a thousand stars exploding in his hands. It was even better than the rubbish he writes between classes.
But it was wrong – wrong – wrong.
August pops out two earbuds and stuffs her iPod in her pocket. She gives Joey a high five and then turns to – stare.
‘Hi, Beck,’ she says softly.
Beck wishes he could disappear or become someone else entirely.
He grabs Joey’s hand and starts walking without a word, mostly because his brain is blank. He has no explanation why he wanted to see her. But now he’s seen her and it’s a mistake.
If August notices the ignored greeting, it doesn’t show. She falls into step beside him, wearing tattered Converse on her feet for once, and bouncing a little with each step like there’s music in her soles.
Is her foot OK now? Did her parents roast her for being violent at school? Did she really hang around his house waiting every morning? What does she want from him? What? What?
‘So,’ August says, dragging the word out to cover the galaxy of silence between them. ‘You haven’t been at school for a while.’
‘I’ve been sick.’ Of everyone and everything.
‘What happened to your face?’ Only a mouse could hear that whisper.
‘I practised smiling,’ Beck says. ‘The mirror punched me for my efforts so, good news, you were right. I suck at it.’
He stares at the ground while he says this, counting the cracks, the times he steps over a broken bottle, how often Joey trips on the uneven cement.
‘Oh, that’s the thing about me,’ August says, calm. ‘I’m always right. You get used to it, especially if you practise saying “you were right, August! I was wrong” about fifty times before bed.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘Me too,’ Joey says, squishing to walk between them.
They walk in silence, the weight of a joke and a lie as heavy as holding the world. Joey jumps cracks, yanking on Beck’s arm at each leap, which only reminds him how much he aches.
It’s only when Joey pauses to steal a handful of daisies from an unsuspecting garden, that August says, ‘So what happened really?’
Joey sneezes into the flowers.
‘I told you.’ Beck knows the difference between caring and curiosity. Knowing someone for less than a week equals curiosity, not caring. ‘And you know what they say in German.’
‘Not really,’ August says.
‘Halt die Klappe, du Schwein!’ Joey shrieks.
August blinks. ‘Still not working for me.’
‘Joey said to shut up, you pig,’ Beck says. He shoves Joey into a puddle and she shrieks. ‘But I was going to say: das geht dich nichts an.’ He glances at her. ‘Mind your own business.’
‘I seriously don’t know which of you is ruder at this point,’ August says.
Joey points to Beck. ‘He’s grosser. Because he’s a boy and boys are stinky.’
Beck swats at her but she runs ahead with a maniacal laugh.
August smirks.
What is with her? How come she refuses to get offended?
As if to prove how insults aren’t going to deter her, August waits while he drops Joey at preschool and gets stampeded by a teacher wanting to know if she was sick, where the absentee note is, why she can’t get hold of his mother by phone. Beck shrugs and mumbles and stumbles out to make a mad dash across the road as the last bell rings.
They fall into the tardy crowd as they make for the concrete stairwell to first period. A couple of guys are laughing way too loudly, and someone shoves into August and makes her trip up the last steps.
Beck could grab her arm, just to steady her.
He doesn’t.
August clutches the rail and gives a fiery scowl. ‘Get over yourself.’
A tall kid, with greenish blonde hair like he’s been swimming in a pool of algae, sneers at her. ‘Aw, sorry I tripped you. Did I hurt your feelings, tree hugger?’
August’s face is pinched. Beck considers squeezing through the gap between her and Algae Hair and just going to class, but – but—
‘I can give you a hug to make it up.’ Algae Hair grabs for August’s arm and she snaps away from him.
Beck does move through the gap between them, but he shoves Algae Hair hard on his way past. It gives August a second to get to the top of the stairs. But Algae Hair and his cluster of lowlifes are on their heels.
‘What was that, then?’ Algae Hair demands, lilting mockery gone. Because when a boy shoves a boy, it means blood and war, apparently.
Beck has no time for this. He rolls his eyes at August and pushes towards the hall.
Algae Hair gets in front of him. ‘Did mummy give you a pat on the cheek?’ he croons in a baby voice. ‘Or is daddy too much of a pansy to use his fist?’
Anger ripples down Beck’s spine. He’s never been bothered by jerks, never even focused on them. And now? He wants to smash someone’s living daylights out.
What’s he becoming?
‘Beck.’
He turns to August.
‘This is, um,’ she clears her throat, ‘this is the butthead who I had a disagreement with last week. About the frog. I might’ve kicked him.’
‘You didn’t kick him hard enough.’ Beck shoves past, his shoulder ramming into Algae’s hard enough to emit a surprised grunt. Then, August beside him, they stride down the hall.
Algae Hair gives shouts at their backs, but they’re all late. There are detentions to look forward to. A teacher is in the hall. It’s not an auspicious day to be expelled.
They’re about to separate, August to classes where people work, Beck to where they sleep – but she swings in front of him.
‘I get that you won’t do the paper,’ she says, in a rush. ‘So I’m just going to make up your part.’