One (Sarah Crossan)

Remnants Of him

Bastards,’ Jon says

when he hears about the note

on the locker.

Tippi tickles her own armpits

and oo-oo-oos

like a monkey

until we laugh

and the malice of the message

has been boiled away

a bit.

We should be in study hall again

but are at The Church

sharing a bag of salted pistachios

and a bottle of cider.

I give Tippi narrow-eyed evils

when she takes a big swig straight

from the bottle

and fold my arms

over my chest to show my disapproval.

The smell of the booze

makes me think of Dad unsteady and angry

and I don’t want any

part of that.

But then Jon takes a turn

and passes it to me.

I can’t resist.

I put my lips to the rim

and taste the remnants of him on it,

the closest I’ve ever come to being kissed.

And I sip until

my head swims

while everyone else

blows smoke rings

into the air.

Then we do animal impressions,

mewing and cooing and oo-oo-ooing,

turning The Church into

our very own zoo.

‘Seriously, the note was stupid,’ Jon says.

He takes the bottle from my hands

and guzzles down the last dribbles.

I shrug, try to look

unruffled.

‘Hatred’s better than sympathy,’ I say,

and play with the ends

of my hair,

willing Jon

to keep

his pity-free eyes

on me.