‘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.’
‘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.