Drib Drabs (boyxboy) (girlxgirl)

Disappointing

I blew on my fingers, willing the warm breaths to warm them up, before rubbing them together roughly.

When I’d come outside this morning to wait for the bus to my local secondary-school, I’d barely been able to keep my eyes open. The frigid temperature had soon changed that.

“Ow!” I hissed as my chest jerked painfully against the seat-belt. Stupid country-side roads.

Attempting to ignore the rickety rollercoaster ride that pretended to be my journey to school, I sighed, leaning into my uncomfortable old chair and eavesdropping on some of the conversations around me, out of pure boredom.

“So, he said...”

“She did what?”

“Why don’t you just...?”

But the conversation going on right behind me was the most attention-grabbing.

By which I mean, the loudest.

“I’ll fight you!”

“No, thanks. I don’t hit people smaller than me.”

“I might be short, but you’re ugly!”

“That’s fixable. No surgery will ever make you smarter.”

Peering between my seat and the identically boring, but empty one beside me, I could just about see the guys having the argument. The one who’d made the last comment was tanned, with dirty-blonde hair and dark brown eyes. Sitting across the aisle from him was a short boy with a shaved scalp. He had narrow, angry eyes and was wearing a sour expression. It seemed to be a permanent fixture.

I recognised them both, of course. Living in a small, rural area, full of nosy, small-minded people meant knowing everything about everyone. ‘Secret’ and ‘stranger’ weren’t parts of our vocabulary. My neighbours knew more about me than I did.

That’s how I knew that the lanky, fair-haired boy was in the year above me and good at football. His name was Oisín. The guy across from him was Fionn, a year younger than me and a bully. His dad was the bus-driver though, so he usually got away with it.

“If you looked up stupid in the dictionary, it’d have a picture of your face,” Fionn growled menacingly. As menacing as it was possible to be when you were as short as him, I suppose.

Oisín snorted, rolling his eyes. “Original, Fifi.” Dangerous territory. Everyone knew Fionn hated that nick-name. Almost as much as he hated being called Blondie. “I don’t need to look up stupid in the dictionary. And mine doesn’t have pictures in it,” he retorted, smirking.

“Ohhh,” Kieran – Oisín’s best friend – mocked, laughing at Fionn.

“Piss off, Rich-boy,” the younger boy snarled.

I frowned, confused. Sports were revered in Ireland. In Offaly, it was hurling, in other places rugby. Where I come from, it’s football. People are obsessed with it. GAA all the way. They love watching it, playing it, talking about it – no matter what the gender. If you can play, and play well, you’re adored.

Oisín could play well.

So, what was Fionn mouthing off to him for? What could he possibly have done that would be bad enough to make someone hate him?

“What’re you looking at, Gaybo?”

I blinked, Kieran’s voice tearing me away from my thoughts. Daring to take a glance at him, I saw his familiar freckles, cold blue eyes and dark red hair. I turned away instantly, facing the window, thanking all the gods I don’t believe in, that blushing is apparently a physical impossibility where I’m concerned.