11
When I get home from school, Dan Carney is leaning against the lamp post just across from the flat, eating chips.
‘Hey, Anya,’ he grins.
I remember this morning, the way Dan’s laughing eyes looked straight through me and turned my heart to ice, and I walk past him as if I didn’t hear. With shaking fingers, I fit my key into the lock and step inside. I run up the stairs, creep into my bedroom and peer out from behind the threadbare curtains.
He’s still there.
I let the curtain drop. Today Dan Carney ignored me at school, but now he’s eating chips just across the road from where I live, grinning.
There are some things I just don’t understand about Britain, and the weirdo language is only one of them. Words, they’re not so complicated… but there’s a whole raft of other stuff going on that is a mystery to me.
Like how come Kurt is so smart and funny, yet can’t sort himself out a decent pair of trousers. How come Frankie moans that she’s fat and then scoffs chips each lunchtime, with crisps and pudding and Coke as well. And how come Dan Carney kissed me in the rain, as if he really meant it, then changed his mind and cut me dead at school today, left me stranded in the corridor with an ache where my heart should be.
Maybe I’m trying so hard to work out what people are saying that I am missing the little things, the clues other people pick up on to read between the lines? I met a boy in angel wings and forgot that he was the kind of boy who tears up school books and sets things on fire, the kind of boy you don’t mess with unless you want to get your fingers burnt.
And now he’s turned into a stalker too.
Mum and Kazia come in. ‘There’s a boy sitting on the steps,’ Kazia tells me. ‘He’s says he’s a friend of yours.’
‘He isn’t,’ I say.
Mum raises an eyebrow. She looks tired. Cleaning hotel rooms is not the nicest way to make a living, but she never complains. She makes soup for supper, mixes up some sourdough to make rye bread that will be fresh and warm when Dad gets home. By the time he arrives, the bread is cooling on the rack, and it’s been dark for an hour.
‘Anya,’ he says, ‘there’s a boy outside who says he’s waiting for you. What’s going on?’
‘He’s just a boy from school,’ I say. ‘Nobody.’
We eat bowls of rich beetroot soup and hunks of warm, tangy bread that tastes like home, and Kazia peers out of the window again.
‘He’s still there,’ she reports. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’
‘No, he is not! I wish he’d go away!’
‘Do you want me to go out and tell him?’ Dad asks.
I shake my head, defeated. ‘I’ll do it.’
I drag a comb through my hair, pull on boots and a thick jumper. I run downstairs and open the door.
Dan Carney is sitting on the step.
‘Finally,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘I thought you’d never come down. I’ve eaten two bags of chips, a portion of curry sauce and four onion rings, but it’s freezing cold and I’m down to my last few pennies. And I think I’ve got indigestion.’
Those soft brown eyes could melt an iceberg. ‘Why are you here?’ I ask.
‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’ Dan says brightly. ‘And you’re new to Liverpool… I thought I might give you a guided tour.’
‘No, thank you,’ I say.
Dan looks hurt. ‘Why not?’ he asks.
‘I cannot trust you,’ I tell him. ‘One minute, you try to burn up the school. Then angel wings and cake. Then… nothing!’
‘I’m complicated,’ Dan says. ‘Is that a problem?’
Well, just a bit. I turn to go back inside, but Dan catches my arm.
‘Don’t go,’ he says. ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK? Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Sorry about today. Don’t be mad at me!’
I look up into his melted chocolate eyes, and somehow I forget to be angry.
‘Can we talk? Please, Anya?’ he says.
The two of us sit on the doorstep. Little kids are riding their bikes up and down the street, steering with one hand or no hands at all, swooping out into the lamplight, then skidding back into the darkness.
‘I’m all the things you said,’ Dan admits. ‘I just – well, I don’t much like school. And I get angry, sometimes.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
Dan shrugs. ‘Just… stuff. I’ll tell you, some day. I’m not all bad, honest.’
‘I know that.’
‘You can trust me,’ he says.
‘Maybe.’
‘So, am I forgiven?’ Dan smiles, and every last bit of resistance melts away. I grin at him.
‘C’mon,’ he says, dragging me to my feet. A curtain twitches in my bedroom, and I catch a glimpse of Kazia, peeking out. ‘A guided tour of Liverpool,’ Dan is saying. ‘Let’s go!’
‘No, Dan,’ I laugh. ‘Not tonight. It is late, and dark. I have homework –’
‘Homework?’ Dan frowns, as if he’s never heard of such a thing.
‘I have lots of work to do,’ I tell him. ‘I must practise my English, catch up with lessons…’
‘Seriously?’ Dan asks. ‘You’re not coming out?’
I shake my head.
‘Tomorrow then?’ he tries instead. ‘We’ll start tomorrow! I want to show you that Liverpool can be fun!’
‘Dan, I…’
I want to tell him that this is a bad idea. We are too different to be friends, the bad boy and the quiet girl who can’t even string a few sentences together. And I don’t want to risk being hurt again, which means that going anywhere with Dan Carney would be a bad, bad idea. My head aches, trying to put together the verbs and adjectives, and when my mouth opens, everything goes wrong.
‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘This sounds… good!’
‘Cool!’ His soft brown eyes twinkle. ‘See you then,’ he says.
Never trust a boy, isn’t that what Frankie said? I guess I should have listened.
Dan Carney is not in school the next day, and although I’m half expecting to find him camped out on my doorstep after 3.30, there’s no sign of him.
I start some maths homework, then some art. Still no Dan.
‘Why d’you keep looking out of the window?’ Kazia wants to know. ‘Are you looking for that weird boy?’
‘No,’ I snap. ‘I’m not looking for anyone!’
I don’t have any more homework, but I remember Miss Matthews’s advice. I open my exercise book and write a couple of pages about Krakow. Still no Dan.
Dad is even later home tonight, so we don’t eat supper till eight. Kazia and I wash up, then I iron some clothes for school and go to bed, wishing I had never heard of Dan Carney.