The Pearl Inside of Anything

July 29th, 1:20 p.m., walking home from Yammy's

"Patrick? What's wrong?"

Patrick is making sort of a piratey "Arggh" sound and is rubbing his eye so hard now that I'm afraid he'll grind off all his lashes. He's got Joe in his fist, of course, so Joe is thrashing wildly like a propeller while Patrick rubs. He pauses to look up at me, and now I see the eye is very red and weepy.

"I dunno! It's itchy and it's bugging me!"

"Your eye?" I say stupidly.

"Uh huh," says Patrick, and goes back to rubbing. One of Joe's sandals goes flying into a rose bush.

"Okay, first things, gimme Joe before he kicks you in the face."

Patrick stops for a second and hands Joe over before scrunching his fist into his eye again. I have to do something fast, or he's not going to have any of those amazing eyelashes left.

"Bud? You need to stop that so I can have a better look. Did you get something in it, maybe?"

"Sand! I've got sand in my eye! It's sandy!"

"Sand? Are you sure?" We didn't go to the beach this morning.

"Okay, I mean it, knock off that rubbing and let me see." I grab his arm and he blinks and looks at me. His left eye is now boiling red and puffy.

"Bud, I don't see any sand."

"But it's SANDY! I feel it!"

I'm stumped. Patrick looks hopelessly up at me and it's a face that would break your heart. My stomach scrunches in on the leftover cucumber sandwiches I ate before we left Yammy's. There is nothing worse than seeing Patrick suffer. I try to think what Mum would do. "Listen, let's just get home and we'll rinse it out with water."

Patrick nods and we start walking again—right in time to meet Benny and Bjorn tearing around the corner. I try to fend them off with my bag but they go straight for Patrick, whose shortness, food-stained clothing and chronically bad face-wiping make him the natural target. They jump up and wipe their wet paws on his "Where's the Beef?" t-shirt, licking his face and practically toppling him over. I reach for Bjorn's collar to pull him off first, but then I hear Patrick giggle so I back off.

Benny and Bjorn are more than just your average canine thugs. No sooner have they slobbered all over Patrick's cheeks than they discover the leftover shortbread in his pockets. They take off once they've completely fleeced my kid brother, crumbs flying from their muzzles as they run as fast as their stumpy legs will go.

On inspection, Patrick has dog slobber streaks on his face and is covered in cookie dust. Even so, he's beaming. "Those are the BEST dogs ever! Aren't they Wen? They LOVE me!" he looks up happily, forgetting for a moment his itchy eye.

"They are something else, I'll give you that." I stoop to grab my bag and am half-aware of a car whizzing past us, turning around and swinging back. Even behind a pair of Ray Ban aviators, I recognize Ben behind the wheel of his mini. Patrick blinks and stares at Ben as he hops out of the car and comes around to us.

"Wendy? Everything okay?"

All of a sudden I am really nervous. What must Ben be thinking? My demon-eyed little brother looks like he has been pelted with cookies and goo. Ben doesn't seem to notice that. Instead, he crouches in front of Patrick and takes off his sunglasses to look him closely in the eye. "Gidday. I'm Ben."

"I'm Patrick. Wendy's my sister. We were at a wedding!"

"Really?" says Ben, giving me a dubious look. We do not look dressed for a wedding, I'm in shorts and t-shirt and Patrick is, well, covered in crap that is not confetti.

"A TV wedding!" says Patrick, "I stayed up all night!" I shake my head and mouth so not true as I can see how this looks like a scene where someone is just about to volunteer to call child protection services.

"Right," says Ben, looking back from me to Patrick. "Hey, is that eye of yours bugging you?"

"I got sand in it! It's all sandy!" says Patrick, who, reminded of his affliction, starts in with a furious attack of fist-on-eye again.

"Here, take these," says Ben, handing his aviators to Patrick, who stops immediately to put on the glasses. They are too big. They slip off his nose but Patrick doesn't care. "Wow! I'm cool!" he says to me excitedly. Now he can't rub any more eyelashes off, I think, gratefully. Good one, Ben Taylor.

Ben stands up and says to me quietly. "You know, I think maybe somebody at Good Samaritan should have a look at his eye."

I look at Patrick again, holding the glasses in place with one finger between his brows. Ben's right, of course. "Really? I mean, right! In fact, we were on our way there!"

"It's a long walk for a little kid," says Ben. We look at each other, and I know he knows that I know exactly where Good Samaritan is – about 10 miles in the opposite direction. "I could give you a ride, it's no problem. It's where I'm going, anyway."

All of a sudden, I bristle. I mean, who does Ben Taylor think he is to be driving us around in his neat little car, lending my brother his movie star sunglasses? I have not seen him for exactly one month, to the day, not that I am counting...but we are Rileys are independent! I have my own bus pass! Patrick rides for free! We don't need anyone, especially not Ben Taylor. But I slide a glance to his Mini, and curiosity gets the better of me.

"Legally?" I challenge him.

"What?"

"I mean, do you actually have your license?" It sounds rude, what I say, and I instantly wish I could take it back.

Ben pauses. "I'm sixteen. And I've been driving since I was ten."

I just look at him.

"It's a long story," Ben says, but he doesn't offer anymore than that.

Driving since he was 10? Heading to the hospital on a Wednesday afternoon? And what is with the accent anyway? Do I trust this guy? Do I want a ride in his car?

Oh, do I ever.