Old Porters

Chapter Eight

Eight

It was the dim time just before the street lights went on, but after the sun had started to set.

The swelling around Roger’s nose had gone down two days after he was hit in the face by that Death Bird guy. Another day after that, and the teenager was now sure his nose had not been broken.

Walking home by himself, wearing his green and black school uniform, his grey coat, and with his backpack over one shoulder, Roger did not noticed much of the scenery around him. The estate was the same greys and greens as always.

     “Hey stranger.”

     The student turned towards the familiar voice. He had not realised that he was walking past Kate’s house, but there it was, and there she was. The blonde was pulling a wheelie bin through the garden gate, wearing a bright red vest top and pair of black denim shorts. Her golden hair slipped across her light skin, and for more than a moment, Roger forgot his troubles.

“S’up,” he said, then felt the need to expand. “Up to much?”

Kate looked slowly at the wheelie bin in her hands as she parked it on the kerb. “Can you guess what I’m up to?” she asked.

 “Right…” he said slowly, telling himself over and over that he was an idiot. The golden rule around girls you liked was play it cool. He was not playing it cool. “Your shoe lace is untied,” he added. Brilliant, much cooler.

 “So it is,” she mumbled. She crouched to tie trainers and as Roger could not help but look at the smooth skin which ran from her ankle to just below her hips. His temperature rose and his uniform felt very stuffy.

“You up to much tonight?” he asked, hands in the pockets of his coat, not sure if his face was as red as he thought it might be. He looked up, staring at the few remaining leaves on the trees that lined the pavement.

“Wednesday is self defence day,” Kate said as she stood.

Roger looked a little flustered as he nodded and mumbled that he remembered she Heather and Lisa did their class on Wednesdays. Kate wondered what was up with him. His cheeks looked all red.

“Can you do me a favour?” she asked.

“Anything,” he said rather too quickly. “Is this about Shakespeare again?”

She shook her head. It was never going to be about Shakespeare again because that dream never happened. She started to feel flush as she remembered the electric sensation from her dream. She cleared her throat and turned away from the street. “Follow me,” she beckoned.

They walked up the driveway towards the gate at the side of the Howe house. Her gate, like her front door, was white. Roger’s was blue. Neither the garden gate, or the front door, were original at the Watson home. The teenager did not know why.