Dance With Me In the Pouring Rain

The next day, at exactly the same time, I was back at the park. This time, I wasn't angry. No, I was enraged.

It wasn't raining today. Instead, the sun was shining and it was easily twenty five degrees Celsius out there. The fickleness of the British weather.

I ran all the way round the park twice, and by the time I reached the fountain, I was hot, sweaty and out of breath. But I was purged of the anger that threatened to spill out of my veins, and that was all that mattered.

So it was with some shock that I realised the girl from yesterday was sitting on the same bench as before, licking an ice cream and swinging her legs gently. Today, she was wearing black skinny jeans and a checked t-shirt that was rolled up at the elbows.

I didn't watch her. I just turned and ran back the way I'd come. It was on my third lap that I collided with someone, knocking them to the floor.

“Sorry,” I muttered, mentally cursing my clumsiness.

My eyes widened as I realised it was the girl. I reached out a hand to help her up, which she accepted with a grateful smile. Her skin was cool and soft, and I could smell something sweet coming from her direction. This close, I realised I was quite a bit taller than her, and she had to look up at me with her deep, chocolaty brown eyes. Her nose was slightly too big, her smile a tad crooked, but these imperfections didn't make her look ugly or anything. On the contrary, it only made her look more beautiful.

“It's okay,” she said, smiling at me. “I'd nearly finished it anyway.”

“Huh?” What was she talking about? But then I noticed the ice cream, splat on the pavement. “Oh. Sorry.”

She smiled, and something in my chest fluttered. It couldn't have been my heart.

“Its fine,” she assured me. “You could buy me another one to make up for it.”

“Sorry, I haven't got any money on me,” I apologised with a stab of guilt.

She laughed; it sounded like tinkling bells. “I was joking.”

“Oh,” I said awkwardly, feeling stupid.

She bent down and picked up the ice cream cone, depositing it in the bin. I had to tear my
eyes away from her butt. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she stuck out her hand and, after hesitating, I shook it. She had a surprisingly firm handshake.

“I'm Tory Pearson. It's short for Victoria. I don't bat Conservative,” she quipped. “I'm an independent girl.”

My face cracked into an involuntary smile. “Fletcher Sutherland. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Now, Fletch,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “Let’s go get ice creams!”

I frowned, confused. “What?”

“Since you don't have any cash, I'm going to buy us both an ice cream,” she said simply.

“You don't have to do that,” I said hastily.

“I want to.”

I searched her face for an ulterior motive, but I could find none. Everything about this girl screamed sincerity. Beyond that, I didn't know. She was harder to read than most people.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

She beamed at me and bounced down the path to the ice cream van. Her bubbly persona was almost infectious. Almost.

“Hi,” she greeted the man in the van. “Can I have a ninety-nine with two flakes and lots of chocolate sauce?” she turned to me. “What do you want, Fletch?”

I started at her use of my nickname. “Uh, same.”

“Make that two, Alan,” she informed the man. Somehow, it didn't surprise me that she was
on first-name terms with him.

“Here you go, Tory,” he said, handing her the two ice creams.

“Thank you!” she said happily. She handed me my ice cream and we set off.

Licking it, I held the glob of ice cream in my mouth for as long as I dared before letting it
slide down my throat. It was an old game I used to play when I was younger.

But that was before everything went wrong. I stuffed the rest of it in my mouth and stole a glance at Tory. She was still licking hers delicately.

“So, Fletch,” she said, “do you live round here?”

“Uh, yeah,” I replied, shoving my hands deep in the pockets of my jeans. “Just down Brent Road.”

“Oh, I know where that is,” she nodded. “I live in the opposite direction; by Damson Lane.”

The posh area, I thought with a grimace. Well, it wasn't exactly posh, but it was posher than where Iived.

“I've never seen you before,” I said curiously.

She shrugged. “I've seen you. You run at least three times round the park every day in mid-afternoon to evening.”

I didn't even try to hide my shock. “How do you know that?”

“I come here a lot too,” she stated simply. “I like to think.”

“So,” I said casually, feeling bolder than usual, “what school do you go to?”

She blushed, before mumbling, “Fiveash.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What? The grammar school?”

She nodded seriously. “Yeah. But say anything derogatory about smart people and I'll dump
the rest of my ice cream on you.”

For the second time that day, I smiled. “I wasn't going to. I go to St. Martin’s, by the way.”

“Oh?” she said interestedly. “My brother goes there. He's in Year 9; you might know him. Eddie Pearson?”

“Oh yeah, I know him. I'm in Year 10, by the way,” I informed her.

“I'm in Year 10 too,” she replied.

“GCSEs are a bitch, aren’t they?” I said. To my delight, she smiled and nodded. Or maybe
she wasn’t smiling at me. The corners of her mouth seemed to be permanently upturned.

“I don’t suppose you have much trouble with them, being a grammar school geek,” I teased.

“Oi!” she protested. “I thought I said no wisecracks about smart people!”

I grinned. Three times in less than half an hour. That was more than I had done in years.

“You’ve got some ice cream on you,” she said, concerned.

“Where?”

“Just here,” she said evilly, poking me in the chin with her ice cream. “I warned you!”

I wiped it off with my finger and smeared it on her cheek. She raised an eyebrow challengingly and brandished her ice cream cone threateningly.

“Oh no you didn't,” she exclaimed.

“You started it,” I pointed out.

“A minor detail.” She waved the ice cream as if to emphasise the insignificance. “You will be
punished, Fletcher Sutherland!”

I laughed at her immaturity. It sounded strange coming from me. I couldn’t believe it; I had
known the girl for less than half an hour and I already felt comfortable around her. I guess it was because conversation just seemed to flow so easily between us.

A harsh ring tone shrilled through the peaceful afternoon air. Tory smiled apologetically at me and fished out a cool-looking phone, sliding it up to answer it.

“Hello? Hi Mum. Yeah, I’m still at the park.” She made a face. “Right now? Okay, I’ll be back in a bit. Bye!”

She hung up and turned to me. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get back.”

“It’s okay,” I assured her, my heart sinking.

“I’ll be here tomorrow, same time, same place,” she told me. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah,” I said, as she waved at me, turned, and walked away.

I watched her retreating figure before turning around. I jogged out of the park and back to the place I currently resided, but could never call home. Not anymore.

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I shut the front door behind me and dumped my keys in the pot. Instantly, I was hit by a rank, musty odour; a harsh, unwelcome contrast to the fresh spring air outside. I nudged an empty bottle of vodka aside to clear myself a path to the kitchen. The units were covered with a thick layer of grime which no one could be bothered to clean, and there was a stack of dirty dishes in the sink.

Rummaging around in the cupboards for a relatively clean bowl, I poured myself some Cheerios. As I spooned the tiny circles of mixed whole grain goodness into my mouth, I listened for any sign of life in the house. I could hear none, so that meant Dad was still at the pub. Mum had long since cleared off, so I was alone in the house. Oh joy. At least if he wasn’t here, I wouldn’t have to cook.

I gave a start as I heard the front door slam and heavy footsteps slapping against the wooden floor. He cursed loudly in pain, likely because he’d stubbed his toe on one of the bottles he kept leaving around. On edge, I waited in the kitchen for what he’d do next.

Predictably, the door swung open and my father lumbered in, his grey eyes, so similar to my own, bloodshot. He was the ghost of a man, hunched over, his spirit broken by too many bottles of alcohol. He was sporting five o'clock shadow on his jaw, which meant he hadn’t shaved in a while. Even from here, I could smell his foul, rotting breath.

“Fletcher, make me some grub,” he slurred. Damn. And I thought I’d gotten away with it. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

I nodded resentfully, resisting the urge to tell him where to stick it. Swaying unsteadily, Dad trudged out of the kitchen and into the living room, where I could hear him turn on the TV. I rustled up a microwave pizza and tipped it onto a plate. Hardly gourmet, but it would have to do. I couldn't be arsed with anything proper.

I dumped it on the table beside him and waited for a response. Even a muttered ‘thanks’. But he merely grunted, not taking his eyes off his obviously riveting programme. I shouldn't have expected anything else.

Snorting, I stomped up to my room, slamming the door behind me. I wanted to blare my music at full volume, but I knew I would end up the worse for it. Instead, I settled for listening to my iPod.

Eying the pile of books on my desk that signified the homework I needed to do, I sighed. May as well get it done now, I thought reluctantly.

But as I struggled to get my head around the algebraic equations I had been set, all I could think about was Tory. I could still smell her sweet scent, which I had yet to identify. And she wanted to see me again, which was the weirdest part. Usually five minutes with me was enough to put someone off.

I started with surprise as I noticed I had been doodling her name over and over on my exercise book. I rubbed it out quickly. Cradling my head in my hands, I sighed. Clearly, I wasn’t going to get much done tonight. Too bad. I would just copy it off someone tomorrow at school.

As I replaced my books on the shelf above my desk, something fell to the floor. Bending down to pick it up, I realised it was my old sketch book. Smiling involuntarily, I sat down and opened it, flicking briefly through the pages. I hadn’t used this in years; I hadn’t picked up a drawing pencil in ages.

And you wonder why, I thought to myself, grimacing at the terrible caricatures I had drawn. Of my teachers. Of my friends. Of my family.

I shut the book abruptly and slammed it down on the desk. Breathing heavily, I relaxed as the red spots in front of my eyes receded, and the fury pulsed out of my veins.