Blades

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

If there is one word that could sum up Charlie, and his family, and his house, it is definitely sunny. They all have the same red-gold hair and sparkling green eyes and sunny smiles and they fire quips at each other over dinner and they have a yellow car and a yellow kitchen and a yellow dog. If sunny is their word, that that's their colour. Yellow. Where it drains most people, it only seems to enhance the Leaver family's eternal optimism.

      I sit on one of their kitchen barstools, surrounded by this living sunshine, while Goldie rests her furry head on my knee. Friday Breakfast is a central pillar to their week, and one I have been included in for as long as I can remember. Charlie's mum, Sally, is a nurse, and her shifts means that the only mornings she's around for are Friday and the weekend. Therefore, every Friday, she insists on making some sort of special breakfast, to which everyone must sit down, and then drives us all to school. As I'm practically Charlie's twin, I've been part of the tradition for as long as it's been running. Once upon a time, their dad did this every morning. But no one mentions their dad since he left six years ago.

      Sal manages to simultaneously slide this morning's bacon and eggs to Charlie, his sister, Abby, and I and dump a pile of black socks on Charlie's lap (for some reason, Charlie will only wear black socks) with the bright efficiency you'd expect from her profession. She turns to serve up the last two plates and chides, "You're late," as Mark swoops into the room and snatches a piece of toast from over my shoulder. Mark is the eldest of the three siblings and the sunniest of the lot. He's basically just an up-scaled version of Charlie: taller, thicker set, bigger smile. He's also captain of our school's Senior Football Team. I don't think it will come as a surprise that I had a crush on him when I was seven.

      "Morning, Freddie," he says, plonking himself down on the stool beside me with sufficient momentum to spin himself round.

      "Your mouth is full, Mark." Sally is just about the only adult I know who can say this sort of thing to an eighteen year old without sounding condescending. Mark dutifully swallows his mouthful of toast.

      "Sorry, Mum," and, despite his grin, he sounds genuine. "So, Fred," he continues, turning back to me, "how's the boyfriend?"

      I try to give an exasperated sigh but end up laughing at the way he's waggling his blonde eyebrows suggestively.

      "Mark, for the last time," I tell him, "Sandy's my skating partner, not my boyfriend."

      "Right," Mark nods, with a tone which suggests he doesn't think I'm right at all, "which is why you go red every time I mention him." If they weren't before, my cheeks are certainly flaming now. Mark grins at me through another mouthful of toast and sends an over-exaggerated wink at Charlie across my back. Oh, no, that's the cue for them both to –

      "You can't deny it, Fred-Astaire," joins Charlie. He leans towards me, green eyes round and lids batting, "Oh, Sandy," he mimics, "you're so...Scottish."

      "Shut up." But I'm laughing.

      "You know," coos Mark from my other side, "you can be my partner any day of the - "

      "Oh, leave me alone you two!" I playfully bat their faces away and Abby and I burst into a fit of laughter as Charlie nearly falls off his stool.

      High-fiving me, Abby giggles, "I think Freddie won that round."

      "Humph," says Charlie, and steals a piece of my bacon. Without even a hint of irritation, Sally reaches across the counter and scoops one of his own pieces onto my plate.

      "But it's going well, Freddie?" she asks, eyebrows slightly knitted, "The partnership's working well?"

      "Yeah, we don't have to hate this one, do we?" chips in Mark, "I'd like to know now if I'm supposed to hate him."

      "Well Freddie certainly doesn't hate him." I catch the wicked twist to Charlie's lips out of the corner of my eye as he says it.

      "It's going really well thanks, Sally," I say, before the boys can run away with the topic again, "We train well together and we get on. I don't think I could ask for much more." It's accompanied by a sly look at Charlie that's says 'That's all you're getting, mate'.

      Sally smiles, "I'm glad to hear it. You deserve a break like this after all the work you've put in." I smile back. Sally has always understood how important skating is to me.

      Thankfully, the topic shifts away from me to Mark's football match tomorrow afternoon. Charlie listens until we've both finished, then asks,

      "Mum, can I go and pack my schoolbag?"

      Sally glances at the clock to ensure that we've spent the proper amount of time at the counter for a Friday Breakfast, then nods. The two of us clear our places and head upstairs to his room, Charlie with an armful of black socks. Goldie hangs back at the kitchen door, tail sinking with the realisation that she has to choose between the promise of scraps and the company of her two best friends. She chooses food.

      I walk into Charlie's room and collapse into his beanbag. He follows a step behind, dumping the socks in a pile by his bed before flopping onto the mattress. Absentmindedly, he picks up one of this guitars and nurses it in his lap. His fingers skim over the strings, not properly playing them but lost without them there. I've often wished to have this particular skill of his.

      "How are you so skinny when you're mum's food is so good?" I groan, feeling pleasantly full and sleepy. I stare at his wall and Ringo Starr stares back.

      Charlie snorts and picks out the tune of what sounds like the Thunderbirds' theme.

      "So, you're going to Sandy's tonight, then?" he asks. Trust Charlie to change topic like that.

      "Yup. We have to choose our music."

      "Hmm," he considers. His fingers still as he looks at me. "You nervous?"

      "Yes," I admit, feeling a release as soon as I tell him, "I'm not good with first impressions. What if his family hate me?"

      "If you let on how much you love their son, I'm sure - "

      "Charlie!" He laughs at my outrage, then lets his expression sombre.

      "You'll be fine, Fred-Astaire. You're not nearly as grumpy as you think you are."

      Sally's voice echoes up the stairs to signal it's time to leave.

      "Come on, then, Charleston. Time to go to Hell." I offer him a hand to pull him up and realise he's staring at my face with an odd expression.

      "What?" I ask. He shakes his head ("Nothing") but continues to glance at me strangely as he puts his guitar down.

      "What?"

      "Nothing! It's just..." he squints at me, "are you wearing makeup?"

      He wasn't supposed to notice that.

      I open my mouth but am saved by Goldie charging through the door to fetch us, tail nearly knocking Charlie's precious guitar off its perch. While he's distracted I slip out of the door, cheeks red again. There's no way I can admit that I've started wearing makeup to school – or, more importantly, the rink – to Charlie. Because he knows what it means as well as I do.

      And I am not about to prove him right.