CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | ✓

51: SHREDDED COMFORT ZONES

          'You stopped coming round,' Cash says, not without accusation.

I drop my gaze, fingernails digging into a scrape in the wood counter of the bar. I try to shrug. 'Got moved elsewhere.'

'Somewhere nicer, I hope.'

'Yeah, somewhere nicer.'

Lailah Paracha were certainly nicer than Brookes Boys' Home, even if Sakda came along, fully trained in how to strike and how to poison from the older boys he'd shadowed. If I'd been wiser, maybe I'd've known to do that too, to become part of the colony rather than an enemy, a leach on resources.

Cash and Teddy don't need to know I only lived with Lailah for a few months. They don't need to know about drowning. Or the dark or wasps or churches or doctors.

When I look back up, Cash is grinning so wide I know it hurts. 'What brings you about on this fine afternoon?'

'I were wondering if my mate could use your drum set.'

I gesture at Diwa and, as if materialised out of thin air, they finally notice her. She's been too occupied with the photographs of bands and artists who've played here over the years to miss me but with the spotlight of our attention, turns to us with the distinct air of a sparrow caught in a thunderstorm.

'Just during quiet hours,' I say, turning back to Teddy. 'Maybe Rel could teach her a bit.'

'You came here after three years of no one hearing nowt about you to talk to Rel?' A scoff hisses in Cash's mouth, like a wet pot placed on a hot burner. 'Nah mate, that's brutal.'

'Cece,' Diwa whispers, having tiptoed to the bar, 'who are these people?'

'Teddy and Cash. This is Diwa.' When her eyes flash with familiar amber, I continue. 'It's fine, they're cool. Taught me the best board tricks I know.'

'You still skate?' Teddy asks, finally starting to unload the crate of Brewdog IPAs into a fridge below the counter.

'To get from point A to point B but not really. I don't...' my fingernails instinctively rise to my teeth '–do well with crowds.'

My stare screws into the countertop, spine slouching, but neither Cash nor Teddy use the confession to tear bones out of my skin.

'Well, any mate of Beetles is a mate of ours.' Cash reaches over the bar to shake Diwa's hand and introduce himself officially. 'Course you can use the drums. Can't be more shit than the wankers that have a go on open mic night. I'll get Rel. Bastard's probably locked himself in the walk-in again.'

He turns around and shouts Rel's name at the top of his lungs, then disappears into the back.

'Can I get ya owt?' Teddy asks, stacking the empty crate on a tower well taller than her.

'Yeah, I'll do with a–'

'We're sixteen,' Diwa cuts me off.

This narc! Why are even friends? It's like she's allergic to fun.

'A Fanta Exotic.'

Teddy chuckles. 'You really grew into that scowl, Cecilio,' she teases. 'And you, Diwa? What would you like?'

'I'll take an orange Fanta, thank you.'

She makes a show of it, pouring us each a glass at the same time from at least a metre's height. She adds mint and lime slices too. 'On the house.'

            At six, Teddy sits Diwa and me down with full plates of bangers and mash that she insists are also on the house. The pub fills up while we eat. Cash turns on Against Me! at a volume that threatens to burst eardrums and we don't talk much, both of us content to people watch. All sorts of wonderfully weird people gather in Molotov.

Diwa may not be grounded but she can't be out too late so, once our plates are cleared, we thank Teddy, Cash, and Rel and head.

The wind has settled almost entirely, now only a gust that tugs at Diwa's hair and the loose fabric of my trousers.

'This were... amazing, Cece. I had so much fun and I've always wanted to learn the drums. Thank you.'

Before I can say owt, she has stepped closer and wrapped her arms around me. She decides to hang from my neck like some sort of sloth. I'm as stiff as a tree would be.

'What're you doing?'

'Hugging you. Do it back.'

I lift a hand to kind of... pat her head. But when she clings on, eventually my spine relaxes and I lean in. Flowers bloom at the back of my head as I inhale her perfume, a burst of pastel pink and powder blue behind shut my eyelids.

I don't really get what she's thanking me for when it's not my drum kit nor am I the one teaching her, but rather that I protest, I lean closer. 'You're welcome.'

Diwa sniffs when she pulls away but the glint in her eye has nowt to do with tears. A smirk emerges. 'It's my turn to make you do summat now.'

'What? Said who?'

'Said me.'

Protests pour out of my mouth, tied together like an endless magician's handkerchief, but Diwa could as well've gone temporarily deaf for all the interest the grants to them. Sliding her backpack from her shoulder, she digs around in it and pulls out a plastic bottle.

'These are... soap bubbles.'

'Yep.' She thrusts it at me, the bead in the maze on the cap rattling. It's got a fucking Peppa Pig label on it. 'C'mon, have a little fun. You can't be broody all the time.'

'Watch me.'

She shakes the bubbles. 'I dare you...'

I snatch the bottle, screwing the cap open. I swear, if anyone sees this, I'll kill her.

After jabbing the wand in the soap aggressively enough for it to spill all over my hand, I hold it in front of me but when I go to blow, only laughter tumbles out. It's proper impossible to blow soap bubbles while scowling, and the more I try to stitch it on, the more it frays.

A snigger burst past her lips. I try to glare at her but Diwa has to look away, shoving me playfully as she does.

Finally, I manage to relax my face enough to blow. The bubble emerges from the point of the wand but, determined to make it as large as I can, I ease my breath into it until it detaches and almost immediately bursts.

'Oh, it's just winding me up now.'

I re-dip and have another go. This bubble grows even larger than the first. 'Look, look!' I grab Diwa's arm so she sees it before it lands on the tarmac and pops.

She digs out a second bottle for herself, fills up her lungs, and blows as hard as she can to produce a string of dozens of bubbles. I give up on my patience and follow her lead only for the wind to pick up and blow the bubbles right into my face.

Diwa laughs as I try to spit the soap out of my mouth.

Handing things over to the wind, I hold the wand at my side and watch the bubbles shove each other out of the plastic ring. I redip and jog down the street, bubbles drawing my path into the air. Diwa runs too.

We're wound in the bubbles, iridescent even against the grey evening sky. It's only when a car honks that we realise we're in the middle of the road and we stumble, laughing, back to the sidewalk.

Notes

Bangers and mash: Sausages and mashed potatoes.