‘Or you could report me?’
‘I might,’ she says, ‘or you’ll tell me about your face and we’ll call it even.’
Even? He’ll get points for a paper he hasn’t helped with?
‘Or,’ she says, ‘I might just hang around anyway, until you tell me.’
‘I’m not your friend.’ It comes out jagged. ‘My crap doesn’t matter to—’
‘I’ll stick around,’ she says fiercely.
Beck hesitates.
But he can’t.
‘I punched someone,’ he says. ‘They punched back. I’m actually a violent creep and you should go back to your real friends.’
August doesn’t blink. ‘You’re a sucky liar. Guess I’m sticking around you.’ She turns with a flip of her hair, and runs down the hall, only turning long enough to make a fist and point to her knuckles. ‘Your hands. You didn’t hit anyone.’ Then she’s gone.
Beck glances at his knuckles – not split or bruised. No. He never fights back, no matter how much he dreams about it.
He drifts into class and sinks into a desk like he’s been there the whole time. No one notices. No one asks where he was the last few days or where the bruises came from. No one cares.
Why does August? There’s something incredibly off about the way she bounces and how she insists on wearing colour – even if it is just some blue ribbon twisted around a lock of hair, or Sharpie scribbles on her arms. She’s too happy for real life. That’s it.
Life is rubbish. It’s cruel and unfair and it always kicks the feet out from under you. It mangles dreams and spits in your face. When a kid turns fifteen, it’s like understanding the bitterness isn’t going to go away and life is destined to taste like sawdust. Fifteen is when kids get angry.
But August isn’t.
It’s not fair. His throat is hot and his eyes prick with crushing misery. It’s not fair she gets to be happy.
Beck sits by the football oval – far away from clusters of sociable teens – and regrets forgetting to grab a pizza roll for himself. August. She’s to blame. She’s a problem, any way he looks at it.
She’s particularly a problem when she flops on the grass beside him with an apricot muesli bar, her satchel and an insufferable smile.
‘I’ve tried to be nice about this,’ Beck says, ‘but I really can’t stand your face.’
August peels her muesli wrapper. ‘You break my heart. It’s a pity I find your face so adorable. Well, the half that isn’t purple.’ She lies on her back and takes a bite of the muesli bar with a deep sigh.
Is she … flirting?
‘Don’t you have friends?’ Beck says. ‘Or walls to kick?’
‘I have friends.’ August closes her eyes, like the muesli bar is such bliss. ‘But what about you? How come I never see you chasing a footie with the other aggressive and hormonal boys who think grunting and kicking a ball is fun?’
‘I’d rather stab myself in the face.’
August cracks an eye open. ‘Aw. Somebody’s had a bad experience with friends. Did no one share their toy cars with wittle baby Beck? Want to talk about it?’
‘Hmm, let me see. No.’
August crooks her arm behind her head for a cushion and takes another bite of her muesli bar. ‘You’re so confusing, Keverich. One day you carry me home, the next you bite my head off. I used to have a dog like you. Completely psycho and always bit me and attacked anyone who even looked at it.’
‘Let me guess. You cuddled it into submission?’
‘Actually, Dad shot it.’
Beck chokes, like someone just punched his throat. He leans forward and hacks so violently, August has to pound his back.
‘I’m joking!’ She laughs.
‘Ha,’ Beck manages. ‘Ha, ha.’
August shoves him lightly. ‘My parents run a veterinary and animal rescue. They’re all about cuddling vicious dogs and feeding them treats.’
She finishes up the muesli bar and lets the crumbs drop to the grass. Beck hates how that bothers him. Such a waste. He’d give a lot to scoff a crumb by now, since dinner last night was nonexistent, breakfast a holy terror and lunch a blank slate.
‘Are you going to feed me treats?’ Beck inquires.
‘If I thought it would work – absolutely.’ August raises an eyebrow. She has ridiculously thick and wild eyebrows that quirk with every expression.
Beck gives a long-suffering sigh. ‘Is there a reason you’re still here?’ At least he could drink to fill the black hole in his stomach. Water or water. Life is so full of fun options like that.
‘Actually, yes.’ August stuffs her wrapper back into her bag and rummages through the chaos of folders and papers. ‘I’ve decided to contrast our music tastes for the paper.’
Music.
Why
would
she
choose
music?
Beck’s mouth is dry. ‘How is that political or moral?’
August has a sly look. ‘And here I thought you weren’t paying attention. But! Since you asked, it’s religious. I’m going from the angle that some people worship musicians and bands get cult followings and I’ll outline the difference between enjoying music and being obsessed with it.’
Sounds complicated. ‘Well, great. I have a five-year-old sister who is addicted to bawling the Hokey Cokey all hours of the day. You can contrast that with – what do you listen to? They-kiss-they-break-up-they-kiss-again kind of stuff?
August fishes a notebook from her bag, flips to a clean page – most of them are covered with doodles – and taps a purple pen against the spine. ‘I listen to indie rock, actually. Ever heard of Lemon Craze or Twice Burgundy?’
‘What kind of name is Twice Burgundy?’
‘I don’t know. Once Burgundy was taken? It has a nice ring to it. Tell me you’ve at least heard their song “Falling Into Technicolour”?’
They sound like idiots who compose lyrics out of weed and vodka. ‘No.’
August slaps the notebook against her forehead. ‘You’re such a disappointment, Keverich.’
He ignores the knot in his throat.
‘They’re glorious.’ August raises her arms like she’s going to hug the sky. ‘They’re weird and most of their lyrics sound like they’re high –’ ha! He knew it! ‘– but they have soul, and I’m in love with one or both of them.’
Beck manages a strained smile. When will the bell ring and save him?
‘So –’ she’s back to tapping the pen against the notebook ‘– names of your crappy rock bands that scream and howl?’
Wait while he just rolls out a list of Liszt, Grieg, Chopin and Bach. Wait while he explains how much better Steinway pianos sound over Yamahas. Wait while he explains that playing Rachmaninoff makes him feel powerful.
‘Um, yeah.’ Beck racks his brain for a name, any name. ‘All of them really. So long as it’s – um, loud.’ If she presses for details, he’ll just make a run for it.
August looks at him long and hard, then shrugs as if he’s such a loser and scribbles notes. She’s actually silent for a minute and Beck finds his fingers tapping a string of Chopin’s notes absently. He stops and balls his hand into a fist. Can he explode from being such an idiot?