'Cause the Hardest Part of This is Leaving You.

The afternoon goes quickly. The table’s cleared and the TV’s turned on. We all watch the TV, then Mikey does a few magic tricks. Lindsey spends the afternoon on the sofa with Linda and Mom, going through every detail of her doomed love affair with her EX.
She even asks for their advice on childbirth. " Tell me, " she says, " Does it hurt as much as they say? "

Dad’s engrossed in his new book, Eating Organic. He occasionally reads out statistics about chemicals and pesticides to anyone who’s interested.
Frank mostly talks to Mikey. He shows him how to spin the clubs; he teaches him a new coin trick. I keep changing my mind about him. Not if I like him or not, but if he likes me. Every now and then his eyes catch mine across the room, but he always looks away before I do.

" He wants you, " Lindsey mouths at me at one point. But if it’s true, I don’t know how to make it happen.
I’ve spent the afternoon flicking through the book Mikey got me, A Hundred Weird Ways to Meet Your Maker. It’s quite funny, but it doesn’t stop me feeling as if there’s a space inside me that’s shrinking. I’ve sat in this chair in the corner for two hours, and I’ve separated myself. I know I do it and I know it isn’t right, but I don’t know how else to be.

By four o’clock it’s dark and Mom’s switched on all the lights. He brings out bowls of sweets and nuts. Dad suggests a game of cards. I sidle out to the hallway while they rearrange the chairs. I’ve had enough of stagnant walls and bookshelves. I’ve had enough of central heating and party games. I get my coat from its hook and go out into the garden. The cold is shocking. It ignites my lungs, turns my breath to smoke.

I put my hood up, pull the drawstring tight under my chin and wait.
Slowly, as if arriving out of mist, everything in the garden comes into focus – the small bush scratching the shed, a bird on the fence, its feathers fluffing in the wind.
Indoors they’ll be dealing out the cards and passing round the peanuts, but out here, each blade of grass glistens, spiked by frost. Out here, the sky’s packed full of stars, like something from a fairytale. Even the moon looks stunned.

Mikey says that humans are made from the nuclear ash of dead stars. He says that when I die, I’ll return to dust, glitter, rain. If that’s true, I want to be buried right here under our tree near the back garden. Its roots will reach into the soft mess of my body and suck me dry. I’ll be reformed as something reformed and constructive. I’ll drift down in the spring like confetti and cling to my family’s shoes. They’ll carry me in their pockets, scatter the subtle silk of me across their pillows to help them sleep. What dreams will they have then?
In the summer they’ll eat me. Frank will climb over the fence to steal me, maddened by my scent, by my roundness. He’ll get his Mom to cook me up in a crumble or a strudel like a spice and then he’ll gorge on me.

I lie on the ground and try to imagine it. Really, really. I’m dead. I might turning into an apple tree. It’s a bit difficult though. I wonder about the bird I saw earlier, if it’s flown away. I wonder what they’re doing indoors, if they miss me yet.
I turn over and press my face right into the grass; it pushes coldly back at me. I rake my hands through it, bring up my fingers to smell the earth. It smells of leaf mould.

" What are you doing? "

I turn round very slowly. Frank’s face is upside down. " I thought I’d come and look for you. Are you all right? "

I sit up and brush the dirt from my trousers. " I’m fine. I was hot."

He nods, as if this explains why I have wet leaves stuck to my coat. I look like an idiot, I know I do. I also have my hood tied under my chin like an old woman. I undo it quickly.

His jacket creaks as he sits down next to me. " Want a smoke? "

I take the cigarette he offers and let him light it. He lights his own and we blow silent smoke across the garden. I can feel him watching me. My thoughts are so clear that I wouldn’t be surprised if he could see them blazing above my head like a neon sign outside a fish and chip shop. I like you. I like you. Flash. Flash. Flash. With a neon red heart glowing beside the words.
I lie back on the grass to get away from his gaze. Cold seeps through my trousers like water.

He lies down next to me, right next to me. It hurts and hurts to have him this close. I feel sick with it.
‘That’s Orion’s Belt,’ he says.

" What is? "

He points up to the sky. " See those three stars in a line? Mintaka, Alnilam, Alnitak. " They bloom at the end of his finger as he names them.

" How do you know that? "

" When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me stories about the constellations. If you point binoculars below Orion, you’ll see a giant gas cloud where all new stars are born."

" New stars? I thought the universe was dying."

" It depends which way you look at it. It’s also expanding. "
He rolls over onto his side and props himself up with one elbow. " I’ve been hearing from your brother about you being famous. "

" And did he tell you it was a complete disaster? "

He laughs. " No, but now you have to. "

I like making him laugh. He has a beautiful mouth and it gives me the chance to look at him. So I tell him about the whole radio station ridiculousness and I make it much funnier than it really was. I sound heroic, an anarchist of the airwaves. Then, because it’s going so well, I tell him about taking Dad’s car and driving around. We lie on the damp grass with the sky massive above us, the moon low and bright, and I tell him about the wardrobe, and how my name has gone from the world. I even tell him about my habit of writing on walls. It’s easy to talk in the dark – I never knew that before.

When I’ve finished, he says, " You shouldn’t worry about being forgotten, Gee. " Then he says, " Do you reckon they’ll miss us if we go next door for ten minutes? "

We both smile.
Flash, flash, goes the sign above my head.

As we go through the broken bit of fence and up the path to his back door, his arm brushes mine. We hardly touch at all, but it’s startling.

I follow him into the kitchen. " I’ll just be a minute, " he says.
" I’ve got a present for you, " and he disappears into the hallway and runs up the stairs.
I miss him as soon as he goes. When he isn’t with me, I think I made him up.

" Frank? " It’s the first time I’ve ever called his name. It sounds strange on my tongue, and powerful, as if something will happen if I say it often enough. I go into the hallway and look up the stairs. " Frank? "

" Up here. Come up if you want."

So I do.
His room’s the same as mine, but backwards. He’s sitting on his bed. He looks different, awkward. He has a small silver parcel in his hand.

" I don’t even know if you’re going to like this."
I sit next to him. Every night we sleep with only a wall between us.
I’m going to knock a hole in the wall behind my wardrobe and make a secret entrance to his world.

" Here, " he says. " Suppose you better open it. "
Inside the wrapping paper is a bag. Inside the bag is a box. Inside the box is a bracelet – seven stones, all different colors, bound with a silver chain.

" I know you’re trying not to acquire new things, but I thought you might like it. "

I’m so startled I can’t speak.

He says, " Shall I help you put it on?"

I hold out my hand and he wraps the chain around my wrist and does up the clasp. Then he threads his fingers with mine. We look down at our hands, together on the bed between us. Mine look different, entangled with his, the new bracelet on my wrist. And his hands are completely new to me.

" Gerard? " he says.
This is his room. With only a wall between my bed and his. We’re holding hands. He bought me a bracelet.

" Gerard?" he says again.

When I look at him, it feels like fear. His eyes are green and full of shadows. His mouth is beautiful. He leans towards me and I know. I know.

It hasn’t happened yet, but it’s going to.

Number eight is love