The class giggles.
‘You will find something,’ Mr Boyne says, ‘and keep in mind hobbies and interests are not allowed. You will be contrasting political, moral, or religious views. Present me a convincing point of view. Be respectful to your partners. Be intelligent.’ He pauses and rubs his bow tie again. ‘Be intelligent if you can.’
Mr Boyne seems to think that covers it. ‘Now, we have ten minutes before the end of this period, so get to know your partner and start discussing topics for your contrast essay.’ He plops behind his desk, apparently done with everyone and everything. For ever.
Beck has questions. Firstly, how is he going to find time to do this? After school? Come on! And secondly, contrast political opinions? He has no opinions. He has nothing but a piano and aching fingers.
August sweeps her hair over her shoulder and shoves her desk closer to his. She then sits on it, and rests her chin on her fist. The rest of the class has erupted into loud conversation – probably unproductive – but August seems curtained off in a bubble of quiet focus.
Focus directed at Beck.
This is so bad.
‘Hi,’ August says.
‘Beck,’ he says, then feels stupid because Mr Boyne bawled everyone’s names across the class. She’s going to know.
‘What’s that short for? Beckett?’
‘Something like that.’ His full name is a topic he’ll never touch with anyone. Ever.
Did he mention not ever?
August’s grin is like a sly wood nymph. Beck can’t stop looking at her hand-printed T-shirt. How can she get away with that while he gets detention for tardiness?
‘Wow, calm down,’ August says. ‘I’m overwhelmed with all the information you’re throwing at me.’
Beck feels trapped. What does he say? ‘This whole assignment is stupid.’ Wait. Did he say that out loud?
‘I won’t disagree.’ August tilts forward on the desk top. Her hands are covered in blue Sharpie doodles and her eyes are as complicated as the ocean. Beck decides to avoid looking at them. She whips out an orange Sharpie and she taps it on his desk. ‘How do you feel about tattoos?’
‘How is that political?’ Beck says.
‘Moral.’ August uncaps the lid and adds a swirl. The orange is nearly lost against her deeply tanned skin. ‘Some places won’t hire you if you’re tattooed.’
‘That seems – wrong.’
August sighs. ‘Agreed. And we’re not supposed to agree. So your turn – suggest something, music boy.’
Beck freezes. How did she – she couldn’t. He’s never breathed a word about the piano to anyone and no one would even catch him with headphones. She couldn’t possibly know about the piano. Unless … He looks at his worksheet, doodled with music notes. He flips it over and flattens his blood-crusted hand over it.
‘Did you punch someone on the way over?’ August says.
If only.
‘I’m not a music boy,’ he says stiffly.
From the sounds the rest of the class is emitting, everyone else considers this a get-to-know-you party. Only half the kids have their phones out already.
‘We could contrast our music tastes – that can be moral too.’ August sprouts a green Sharpie. ‘You know, how people think heavy metal is evil? Well, my dad does.’ She gives a little snort. ‘He was in a rock band when he was my age and now he does yoga to Brahms. What do you listen to?’
‘Nothing.’ He’d rather strangle himself with a piano string than tell her he’s into classical. What kind of fifteen-year-old boy admits to being obsessed – by force or choice, it doesn’t matter when it’s his whole life – with classical music?
The bell roars and the class folds up in one motion, everyone grabbing bags and yelling out times to meet up on the weekend.
‘Great,’ August says. ‘I practically know everything about you.’
Looking at her round face and sparkling eyes, Beck wouldn’t have picked her for the caustic type. But he’s hardly a judge of character.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice comes out way too high, strangled. ‘I can’t – meet up, I mean. It’s not going to work—’
‘It’s not optional.’ August leans forward, bared Sharpie all too threatening. ‘We have two weeks and I’m not failing an assignment because you’re lazy.’
Lazy.
It must be true if the entire world agrees on it.
Beck tries to keep his face neutral. ‘I have to walk my sister home. Then I –’ play the piano until my fingers bleed.
August’s eyes light up. ‘I’ll walk with you. I’m on Gully Avenue. Number eleven.’
And she lives so close. Seriously? Could the universe not cut him a break? He doesn’t ask much.
‘Thirty-two Dormer,’ he mumbles.
‘Awesome, we’re practically neighbours. Well, give or take three blocks. You can pick whose house we invade—’
‘I can’t.’
August looks at him long, hard. It’s like being frowned at by an entire ocean. But what choice does he have? The Maestro would—
He chooses not to envision her reaction to a classmate strolling into her house with an impish grin and bright eyes. August’s eyes say she’s never been let down in her entire life. Lucky her.
‘Can I ask a question?’ August’s pen tap-taps on his desk.
The class empties around them.
He squirms, but it must look like a nod, because she says, ‘Why do you smell like coffee?’
‘I love it so much I wear it.’
August pokes his sticky cheek. He nearly flinches, nearly. Great, she has no personal boundaries.
‘Fascinating. And you know what I love? Good grades. I love them so much I wear them – no, really. I’m going to make a dress for the prom out of all my A plus report cards.’ She clips the lid back on her Sharpie – relief, the weapon is shielded. ‘And I’m willing to enable your fetish. I’ll treat you to a cinnamon latte once this is done.’
‘Bribes?’ He’s not sure he’ll ever feel like a coffee after this morning. There’s nothing like that sick dread of wondering if you’re going to burn.
‘You can even pour it over your head and I won’t comment.’ August smiles and Beck can’t decide if it’s sinister or friendly. Probably both. Simultaneously?
‘Maybe during lunch,’ Beck says. ‘Or walking to and from school. But not after school because – I have a little sister. A preschooler.’
‘You keep saying that,’ August muses. ‘Must be a high maintenance kid. Can’t she watch TV while we type up an argument?’
‘I smell an only child.’
August raises her hands in mock surrender. ‘Caught me. I was such a perfect kid, my parents decided not to risk a secondary disaster.’
Beck has a sly comment about her being so awful they quit reproducing, but Mr Boyne looms over his desk, banana bow tie inches from Beck’s nose. ‘Don’t you have lunchtime detention to get to, Mr Keverich?’
Beck gathers his papers and August snatches her backpack off the floor.
‘Meet you at the preschool,’ August says, and scoots out the door.
Beck’s left with his mouth slightly open, his head spinning, and the realisation that she’s not going to take rudeness as a no. He’d better try harder. Surely he can channel his inner Maestro and—
No.
He’s always promised himself he’ll be polite to anyone, everyone, to avoid being like the Maestro.
Mr Boyne claps a hand on Beck’s shoulder. ‘I think you two are going to have an interesting time.’ He grins and then shoves Beck towards the door.
Interesting? Try disaster.
If Beck gets to the preschool early –
If August forgets –
If the world ends –
But Beck has never been lucky, and, even after his bolting for the preschool at breakneck speed and hustling Joey out in record time, August Frey is waiting for them at the gate. ‘Hey, Beck!’ She waves broadly in case Beck forgot or something.
He wishes.
Joey spies August’s lanky arms knotted over the fence and gives Beck’s hand a sharp tug. ‘How did you get a girlfriend, Beck?’
Beck is microscopically offended. ‘What do you mean “how”?’