Blades

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

If I could move right now then I would, because the position I'm in is less than comfortable. This isn't an option, however, because I am pinned in place by Charlie's golden retriever, who is unimaginatively named Goldie. Much as I love her, the bruises along my tailbone and thighs that I got this morning are screaming at having such a weight crushing them and it's reached the stage where I've lost all feeling in my left hand, so I poke Harry for some help. It takes both of the boys to half drag, half bribe the animal off of me, and in the fuss we end up missing the end of the DVD and having to rewind. I think we've all watched The Hangover enough times to just leave it, but I can tell that Charlie wants to watch it properly and, since it's his birthday, I let him.

      If I'm honest, I haven't concentrated on any of the film, anyway. Physically I may have been sandwiched between the boys in Charlie's room, surrounded by pizza boxes, guitars and posters of the Beatles for over three hours, but mentally I've spent the entire evening at the rink. This isn't necessarily uncommon because I spend most lessons at school going over choreography in my head, but it hasn't been my dances that I've been thinking about. Sandy's Waltz has replaced all of my own routines, the image of him reeling round and round as breath-taking in my mind as in life.

      Why did he defend me? He didn't have to; I don't know him, so I wouldn't have thought worse of him if he hadn't.

      Why did he even bother talking to me, after he'd apologised?

      I suppose he was new, and nervous, and he hadn't spoken to anyone else, so once the opportunity for a conversation arose – you making a fool of yourself, Freddie – it's unsurprising that he leapt on it. And it's not so surprising that he wanted help, either. Better to go into the class with some preparation. All of that makes sense. What gets me is the way he stood up for me to Samuel within minutes of meeting me, and the way that later, during our Pride session, he stuck by my side even when other people were talking to him. I think he could tell that I wasn't used to chatting to them, but he drew me into the conversation all the same; and he avoided Samuel like wildfire.

      People don't generally do that kind of thing for me. I can list the people who defend me on one hand, and it's Charlie, Harry and Seth. Possibly Sherrie, if she has cause to. The same goes for including me. I spend plenty of time discluding myself, consciously or not, and resist all attempts by anyone to reverse that, unless that person happens to be Charlie.

      So why did you let him include you?

      My mind drifts to the liquid chocolate of his eyes, his mussed-up hair, the solid, steady grip of his hand, his melodic Scottish accent and, most of all, that Waltz. And I know exactly why I let him include me.

      Oh no you don't, Freddie Carter. We are not going down that road over Sandy McConnell. In a week's time he'll be pretending you don't exist like everyone else there, so put that idea right out of your mind. Now.

      "Erm, Earth to Freddie?" Harry's voice drags me back to the present, sounding amused at my distracted state. "I'm leaving now."

      "Already?" I ask, then check the clock and see that it's actually ten thirty. Where did all that time go? Harry just laughs.

      "Not everyone only lives a few doors down like you, you know. My mum's here to pick me up; I'll see you on Monday when you've slept a bit."

      "No, no, I'll come to the door," I say, starting to struggle up, though my bruises protest. Charlie stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

      "No, you won't. I'll be back up in a minute, just...sit."

      I do as I'm told, listening as they say goodbye downstairs and the front door shuts. Charlie's up again straight away, and settles down beside me in silence to watch the trashy TV that's on. It's only a minute or so before he says,

      "Come on then, Fred-Astaire." I look at him, confused because he hasn't moved.

      "Come on where?" He snorts a laugh at my confusion, then softens.

      "What's up?" Whatever I've done this evening – or haven't done – has clearly concerned him for some reason, but I answer automatically,

      "Nothing." Charlie raises his eyebrows, unimpressed with my reply.

      "Nothing? Harry may just think you're tired, but I reckon I know you well enough to say that it's more than that. So, what's up?" I shrug. "Was Samuel getting at you again this morning?" That makes me smile.

      "He tried to," I say, coyly.

      "Doesn't he normally succeed?"

      I sigh, "There was a new boy at the rink this morning, Sandy. He stood up for me." One of Charlie's eyebrows shifts higher on his forehead.

      "Did he now?"

      "Yes," I say, and change the subject to his birthday presents. More than anything, I don't want to talk about Sandy with Charlie; not at the moment, anyway. It's not that I don't trust him, or even that I think he'll be stupid about it because he's jealous. Charlie's never done jealous in all the years I've known him. He does do protective, though, and teasing, and irrational. I know that he shares the common, irritating - and completely untrue - assumption that all male figure skaters are gay, which I'd rather not argue with him over. Neither of us have a problem with homosexuality, but the generalisation angers because it means labelling people before you've given them a chance. Sandy isn't gay.

      Most importantly, if I start telling Charlie everything I've been thinking since I first saw Sandy dance this morning, it will somehow make it real. Knowing my Charleston, he won't let it go, and right at this minute I need to sort through this for myself and, hopefully, eradicate it.

      So, I leave his house without either of us mentioning Sandy again, although I'm fairly sure that we've both thought about nothing else ever since the subject was first broached. I give Charlie a hug goodbye and wish him a happy birthday for about the hundredth time, promising myself that by Monday I will have forgotten that Waltz and those melting brown eyes and will never have to talk to Charlie about any of it again.

      Somehow, I know even as I make it that that promise can never possibly be kept.

An (idea) picture of Charlie for you and video of Virtue and Moir doing The Golden Waltz.