Blood Moon Read online

  And we drift apart a little bit

  as we circle the rink,

  and before I know it,

  we’re chatting,

  and it’s so easy.

  “Do you normally come here

  on a Saturday night?”

  “No!” I say, laughing.

  “I work at the planetarium,

  then usually I go home

  and Dad makes me

  and Mum pizza

  and we have a

  movie night.”

  “Nice.”

  “What about you?

  What do you

  normally do?”

  “Not this!” he admits,

  slipping again

  and tightening his grip

  on my hand.

  “I play rugby on

  a Sunday morning

  so I just get

  an early night.”

  “Wild,” I say, smiling

  while trying to stop

  picturing me and him

  having a quiet night in.

  “If I don’t have rugby,

  and I’m feeling really crazy,

  I sometimes stay up

  until, like, midnight,

  watching science videos online.”

  “What kind of

  stuff do you like?”

  “Space stuff,” he says.

  “Mostly. Some of it

  is so amazing.”

  I want to whisper

  You’re amazing,

  but instead I say,

  “Yeah, amazing.”

  DARK

  It’s as

  dark

  as night

  in here.

  And in the darkness,

  no one can see

  what you’re doing,

  or thinking.

  And that

  makes me

  bold.

  I slide along beside him,

  our fingers touching,

  and just like that

  we’re holding hands.

  I glance around,

  quickly checking

  if anyone is watching,

  but Harriet is with Jackson,

  pushing Dev into Marie,

  being so obvious it’s cringey.

  She doesn’t see me.

  The disco ball

  rotates above us.

  His face is speckled

  with the silver flecks

  of the turning light.

  I want to say,

  “I like your face,”

  but instead I just blush

  and breathe in

  his leather jacket

  and something sweet

  like

  “Cherry chapstick?”

  “Huh?” he says.

  “Are you wearing

  lip balm?”

  Benjamin chuckles,

  and takes my arm

  to draw me closer.

  “Yes,” he whispers.

  “But don’t tell anyone.

  It’s my sister’s.”

  “Why are you

  wearing it then?”

  I tease.

  “Because it’s cold

  and I’ve got chapped lips

  and she left it

  in my pocket.”

  “You share clothes with

  your sister?”

  He laughs. “We’re close,”

  he says and shrugs.

  “And it’s a great jacket.”

  “It is,” I agree,

  laughing as we

  lap the rink,

  our arms going slack and taut

  pulling one another closer and

  drifting away because of

  centrifugal force.

  “Huh?” he shouts.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  I shake my head.

  My hair flies out behind me.

  I feel like Beyoncé.

  “You did!” he says,

  pulling me close again.

  “You said centrifugal.”

  “Well, it is,” I laugh,

  although strictly speaking

  centrifugal is a fictitious force,

  a mere explanation of a sensation.

  But the music’s too loud

  to go into that now.

  He laughs and suddenly

  brakes with his skates,

  swinging me around him,

  demonstrating he

  knows exactly

  what I mean

  by centrifugal.

  I take his other hand

  and twirl around him.

  We stay like that

  for what feels like

  an eternity,

  staring at each other,

  until he pulls me in

  and—

  in my mind

  the word

  K I S S I N G

  explodes like a supernova

  leaving a black hole,

  sucking everything in.

  Then suddenly

  the disco ball halts.

  The music stops.

  Our hands drop.

  Midnight strikes.

  The magic disperses.

  And in the flight to escape

  the bright electric light,

  I lose Benjamin.

  SMELLY FEET

  We’re just about to leave,

  when Benjamin

  comes up to me.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say, hoping the smell

  from my un-booted feet

  isn’t wafting his way.

  (I’ve been at work all day.)

  “I’ve got to go,

  but it was fun

  skating with you.

  Thanks for helping me.”

  I want to say something

  smart or witty,

  but I don’t know what.

  “Yeah,” I say, “it was, um…”

  “Centrifugal?” he offers.

  I laugh, impressed,

  and a bit annoyed

  I didn’t get there first.

  “You’re great on skates,

  by the way,”

  he adds, then grins

  and walks away.

  Leaving Harriet,

  Marie, Bethany and Leylah

  gawping at me.

  BENJAMIN LIKES ME?

  We say goodbye to the girls.

  I walk out next to Harriet,

  with smelly feet,

  on cloud nine.

  As we weave under

  the acid-bright car park trees

  to meet my dad,

  Harriet goes on and on

  about who likes who

  and how Jackson

  is so much nicer

  when you talk to him

  one on one.

  Then she starts going on

  about how Marie and Dev

  would make a cute pair

  if only they weren’t both

  so shy and how she’s

  going to try

  to help Marie by getting

  her to send Dev a

  flirty selfie.

  “Maybe I should do it for her?”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t.

  Just leave her.”

  “All right, all right,” she says,

  while I’m thinking,

  Don’t ask about Benjamin.

  I don’t want her interfering.

  I want to keep it for me.

  “So,” she says.

  “Benjamin Jones?

  Would you?”

  “No,” I reply quickly.

  Harriet

  wrinkles her nose and goes,

  “Well, I reckon he’s into you.

  Do you want me to help you?”

  “No!”

  “He’s quite good-looking,

  don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” I agree.

  #Understatement

 
; But I can’t help

  smiling as I think

  about him.

  Harriet gazes at me,

  then pauses and

  cocks her head.

  “You look so pretty.

  Smile like that again.

  I’ll take a picture of you.”

  So I do.

  GOSSIP

  Dad picks Harriet and me up

  around the back of the car wash

  at five past twelve,

  like he promised.

  “Very cloak and dagger,”

  he says, as I climb in the front.

  Harriet tries to squeeze in the back,

  but it’s covered in Dad’s biking crap.

  “Sorry!” he says, reaching around

  and shoving his stuff out of the way.

  “I’ve been mountain biking today.”

  “Cool, where did you go?” Harriet asks,

  like a massive suck-up,

  giving Dad the cue to go into

  way more detail than

  anyone wanted him to.

  “How was work?” Dad asks me.

  “Did you talk about the form

  for the summer placement?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I nod.

  “What’s that?” Harriet says.

  “Oh, just that summer thing

  at the planetarium.

  It’s kind of nerdy.”

  “Ooh, will you get one for me?

  I’ve always thought

  it sounded cool,” she says,

  more to Dad than me.

  “You can just apply online,” I say.

  “I only picked a form up

  because I was there today.

  It’s loads of work, you know?

  You have to get a reference

  from someone in astronomy.

  And you need to be free

  all summer.”

  “Imagine if we both got it!

  It could be amazing.

  You and me! Doing astronomy!”

  “Yeah,” I say, glancing

  at Harriet in the back.

  “That would be amazing.”

  “So, what about your night, girls?”

  asks Dad. “Anyone snog?”

  “Dad!” I groan.

  “What?” he says. “I just want

  a bit of gossip. Call it my fare.

  Come on … who snogged who?”

  “Ugh. No one calls it

  snogging any more,” I say.

  “What do they call it?”

  “They don’t call it anything.

  And you don’t talk about it.

  Don’t even think about it.

  We’d rather give you money

  than gossip.”

  We’re waiting

  at a red light

  when Harriet leans

  into the middle,

  and I glance at her face

  glowing red

  in the reflected light,

  all confessional,

  and she goes,

  “I didn’t snog anyone,

  but Jackson did ask

  if he could message me.”

  “Gossip!” Dad squeals, clapping,

  like he thinks he’s one of us.

  “You have always been

  my favourite, Hairy.”

  “Traitor,” I mutter.

  Harriet ignores me.

  THE TREE HOUSE

  Mine and Harriet’s telescope

  lives in the tree house

  between our gardens

  where we used to

  have tea parties

  and make mud pies

  and rose perfume

  out of decomposing petals

  and mulchy leaves.

  Now we stay up late, chatting

  and stargazing

  and taking photos of

  stars and

  planets and

  the moon.

  Then we sneak to the baker’s

  to buy the first pastries,

  before finally going

  to sleep at dawn.

  I’m knackered from

  standing up talking all day

  but Harriet wants

  to go to the tree house,

  and our parents say it’s OK.

  I move the telescope

  to the waxing crescent moon:

  a perfect sliver of possibility.

  “It’s clear,” I say to Harriet.

  “You should come and see.”

  But Harriet lies

  on her back,

  dangling her legs

  over the edge,

  making the canopy rustle

  in the night breeze.

  “I’m busy,” she sighs,

  her eyes on her phone

  missing the stars

  shining bright

  right above us.

  TOP THREE

  “Busy doing what?”

  “Thinking about

  Mr Number One,”

  she says,

  rolling onto her tummy

  to face me.

  Me and Harriet always

  play Top Three.

  The top three things we’re

  thinking about,

  or worrying about,

  or obsessing about,

  on any given week

  or night

  or hour.

  Harriet’s top three recently?

  Boys, boys, boys.

  “Come on, then.

  Who is he?”

  “Actually,

  there’s a new entry…”

  She sits up,

  pulls her knees into her belly,

  and performs a drum roll

  on the floorboards

  with her feet.

  “At number one …

  Professor Brian Fox.”

  “Ew!” I groan.

  “Brian Cox is not a fox.”

  “Yes, he is. He is fit AF.

  And he’s clever.

  I’m talking

  major

  fanny

  flutters.”

  (Ugh.)

  “I’ve been listening to

  loads of his stuff recently.”

  “And me, for my application,”

  I add, then immediately regret

  mentioning it.

  “Ooh! What do we have

  to do for those again?”

  “Write a long essay.

  And get a glowing reference

  from someone with evidence

  of your passion for astronomy.”

  I know I’m making it sound hard.

  “I was thinking of asking Mr B

  to write one for me.

  And to check my application.”

  “Oh, Mr B!

  He’s still top three.”

  “Please, Harry.

  We’ve talked about this.

  He’s too old!

  And he’s a teacher.”

  “Oi! No judgement,

  remember?”

  “OK. Sorry.

  Go on, then.

  Let’s have it.

  Top three.”

  She puts down her phone

  for a moment,

  using her fingers

  to check off her crushes.

  “One, Prof Brian Fox.

  Two, probably still Lee.

  Three, Mr B …

  and his thighs.”

  Harriet lies back again,

  picks up her phone,

  and sighs.

  “His thighs?” I cry.

  “WTF?”

  “Shh,” she says, jabbing me.

  “You’re interrupting my fantasy.

  He was taking PE on Friday.

  Tiny shorts.

  His thighs are

  unbelievably

  meaty.”

  “MEATY?” I shout.

  Then gag.

  “Don’t say meaty.”

  “Mmm,” she sighs,

&n
bsp; rubbing her thighs,

  “meaty meaty meaty.”

  “What was he doing

  taking PE?”

  “I think he was subbing,”

  she says to her phone.

  “I’d sub for him any day.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “No idea,”

  she says, giggling,

  lifting her head up

  and twisting to look at me.

  “But he is dreamy.”

  She grins then

  lies back again,

  and I look down at her,

  legs swinging

  in the dark of the night,

  stirring up the oily

  scent of the tree.

  “What about Jackson?”

  I ask, to get away

  from thinking about Mr B

  in tiny shorts

  and to stop her saying

  the m-word again.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Kind of,”

  she says, shrugging.

  “We’re messaging right now.

  Shall I send him this?”

  She turns her phone

  to show me

  a pouty,

  booby

  selfie.

  “Oh my God!” I scream.

  “You have no shame.”

  “Why should I?” she says.

  “Come on, he’s asking me

  for a selfie.”

  “He’ll show everyone.

  Like he did with those girls.”

  “It’s only a bit of bra.

  You know, you can be

  such a nun.”

  “Only compared to you,” I snort.

  “You’ve got the hots

  for everyone.”

  “And you for no one.”

  I think about mentioning

  Benjamin,

  but she’s still on about

  her selfie, anyway.

  “Maybe I won’t send it.

  It’s not that flattering.

  What do you really think?”

  “Don’t send it,” I snap.

  “Don’t be so reckless.”

  “You’re no fun any more!”

  she grumbles,

  and slaps her phone down

  and flips over to look at me.

  “What about you, O queen

  of the parched vag?

  What’s your top three?”

  Benjamin,

  Benjamin,

  Benjamin,

  I think.