The Almost Summer

Chapter 8: Scribbles♥

I’ve got a bad habit.

I don’t bite my nails like Halle or drum the desk like Matty does, but it’s still pretty bad. I’ll find a book, or TV series, or a new website and become obsessed until suddenly it’s five hours later and I’ve completely ignored that assessment I was meant to do.

It’s one of those times now. Yesterday I borrowed the first book in a series - a fantasy adventure, a million miles from what I would usually read - from my brother, and started reading it around tea time. I finished it at midnight, and then debated going to find the second one in the series.

After some Mission Impossible style sneaking across the hallway (watch out for that creaky floorboard, is the door always this loud?) and into my brothers room, I extricated the book and have only just finished.

I close the paperback, savouring that sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing a good book. The first few hints of daylight are streaming through my thin curtains, and I check the clock on my bedside table. I’m surprised to see that it’s almost six am. I’m far too awake to fall asleep, so decide to head downstairs for a drink.

But once I’m downstairs, I know I’m not going back to my room. Someone left the kitchen window open, and the cool breeze is seeping through. I spy the third in the series on the shelf and grab it, deciding to head outside to read.

My plan is to sit on one of the chairs, but quickly scrap it. I know where I really want to sit.

In the middle of the fence separating my garden from Lucas’s there is a tall, thick oak tree. The kind right out of a story book, twisting up so high when I was younger I thought it was the beanstalk from that fairy tale.  Nestled in the clutches of the branches is a small tree house made from scrap pieces of mismatched wood and a corrugated metal sheet. I can remember begging my dad to build it, and was extremely happy when he did.

There is no ladder, but I can climb my way up this tree like it’s a staircase. I haul myself through the tiny doorway, glancing around at the familiar little hut. It’s a rough cube shape, about a metre tall and missing a side seeing as my dad got bored halfway through making it.

Nothing’s changed. It’s exactly the same as when I last climbed up here, except for the boy sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the unfinished fourth wall strumming his guitar.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I say, and startle Lucas so much he almost falls out the tree. Once he’s steadied himself, he turns round to face me.

“Not really, you?” He replies.

“I was reading.” I cast a glance at his guitar, taking note of the scribbled designs and motifs stencilled in sharpie across the cream-coloured wood. “Did you get a new guitar?” He laughs, fingers absentmindedly strumming a few chords.

“Nah, just got bored.” I examine the instrument closer. What I thought were just patterns turn out to be quotes and designs, a few of which I recognize. Tiny cartoon drawings are interspersed in the mix, and I'm surprised to find that they're quite good. I realise that I've never imagined Lucas to be anything but the boy next door who plays in my brother's band. But I never really paid much attention to Lucas before. He’s more Charlie’s friend than mine, and we’re not in the same classes at school.

He goes back to strumming his guitar, and I go and sit beside him, legs hanging over the edge.  I’m sat facing the horizon, where the pink-tinted sky is framed by the oak branches. The wood is smooth from years of people sat in this exact same spot. He's plucking out the tune of an old song that he informs me is by The Civil Wars. I nod, even though I've never heard of it before. But, when Lucas plays it, it's the best, most aching song in the world.

I spy a notebook in between us. I can tell it’s his from the scrawly, unreadable writing and the fact that it’s not mine (good detective work there Autumn).

“You write songs?” I ask, guessing that this is what’s in the book. He blushes, picking it up and moving it away from me.

“It’s nothing,” he starts to say, but I lean over and swipe it from his hands. Ignoring his attempts to get it back I block him with my shoulder and start to read.

I don’t know a lot about song-writing, but I can see the effort he’s put into it. Each word looks like it’s been chosen carefully, and each line is followed by at least half a page of scribbled-outs. The words flow in a way that’s almost poetic.

“These are really good,” I murmur, and he stops trying to snatch it back.

“You think so?” he asks, cheeks bright pink.

“Yeah.” I hand him back the book, which he gladly takes. “Can I hear one?”

“No!” he half-yells, before looking away sheepishly. “I mean, maybe when they’re finished.” I forgot about Lucas’s shyness, and immediately feel bad. He’s probably just embarrassed about sharing what he does. I wouldn’t know: I’m not arty or creative, like my friends are.

“Oh, okay. Sorry for being so nosy. But, if you don’t perform, why are you in a band?” I ask.

“Well, we’ve had several gig offers. But every time I just, I don’t know, wimp out or something. But we’ve entered this competition that’s going on, a sort of battle of the bands type thing.” He says, and I realise he’s actually confiding something to me. It makes me feel good about myself, that he trusts me enough to tell me about his problems and hopes. I give him a friendly dig in the stomach.

“If you want, I’ll come watch you guys. Charlie will probably make me carry stuff for him anyway. But I’ll be cheering you on.” I grin. He looks down at his guitar, then at his notebook, to me, out to the sun and then back at me again. A slow smile spreads across his face.

“I’d like that.” He says quietly.

“It’s a date then.” I declare, and catch his suddenly confused expression. “Oh, not like that. Now shut up and let me read.” I crack open the spine of my book and Lucas carries on with his strumming and scribbling. I don’t know how long we sit like this, but by the time I go back into the house the sun has well risen into the clear, blue sky.