His face seemed to fold in on itself. All he could do was nod.
I started washing up, and that must have given Jonah enough time to compose himself, because he grabbed a tea towel and started talking as he dried.
‘Ellis has this thing we do before going to sleep. We never had books at home, until we started going to the library.’ He paused in acknowledgement of the library card. ‘But there’s a tiny one that some social worker gave her once. It’s far too babyish now. Falling apart at the spine and covered in scribbles. She keeps it under her pillow. But it’s our thing. No matter what’s gone on in the day, or the state of Mum and Warren, we wait for Billy to fall asleep – he crashes the second his head hits the pillow – and then read the book together, out loud, doing the same silly voices. Then we say a prayer.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘I mean, I stopped believing God answered our prayers years ago, but she wouldn’t go to sleep without saying it.’
‘What did she pray for?’ I asked, after a brief silence.
‘That someone would rescue us. Take us away to a beautiful house where Warren can’t find us. With food, toys, a bath and a puppy.’ He stopped, screwed his eyes shut. ‘And someone to kissme goodnight, because I kissed her and Billy and I didn’t have anyone to kiss me.’
There was nothing to say, nothing I could do except wipe my soapy hand on my jeans and then wrap it around his. We stood there, him gently resting his side against mine, until the front door banged open.
I spun over to the kettle and flicked it on, grabbing two mugs as Mum walked in laden with carrier bags.
‘Oh, hello, you two.’
‘Hi.’ To my relief, she looked more pleased than suspicious at finding us together. Obviously. There was nothing suspicious about two people living in the same house both being in the kitchen.
‘Something smells delicious!’
‘Yeah.’ I took a teaspoon from the drawer and carried on making two mugs of coffee. I didn’t even really like coffee. ‘Jonah helped.’
‘Ooh, that’s lovely. Thanks, Jonah.’ She beamed as he relieved her of the bags and put them on the table. ‘Is this a revision aid?’ She nodded at where I was now sploshing in milk.
‘We thought we’d do some history together, seeing as we’re in the same class,’ Jonah said, with the practised ease of someone for whom lying was a survival skill. He then turned and reached behind me to take the sugar pot from its shelf, his arm brushing the back of my head.
‘Perfect!’ Mum couldn’t have been happier. ‘You can use the conservatory or the dining room. Oh, and there’s chocolate fingers in one of these bags. If you can find them, they’re yours.’
I watched as Jonah carefully scooped four heaped teaspoons of sugar into his mug, holding my breath as he stretched behind me again, his sweatshirt riding up to reveal a strip of olive skin.
Beyond flustered, I picked up my mug and turned around at the same time he must have turned towards me with his.Our mugs collided, sloshing boiling hot liquid over both of our hands.
I yelped, he swore, and Mum rushed over as we hurriedly dumped the mugs back on the worktop. She dragged us over to the sink where she stuck our hands under the cold tap and ordered us not to move while she put the shopping away.
We’d ended up with Jonah half behind me, pressed up to my back. Standing there, water cascading over our hands, I could feel his heart pounding against my shoulder. Slowly, carefully, his free hand moved up and rested just below the waistband of my jeans, out of sight of Mum bustling about on the other side of the breakfast bar.
I could barely breathe. Every nerve alert as I stood there, frozen. When Mum finally left the room, I dared to close my eyes, almost imperceptibly leaning back into his solid chest.
I don’t know what it was about this boy that made me so bold. I guess it must have been that relentless hope again.
‘Do you think that’s long enough?’ I asked, in a whisper.
I knew it was long enough. My hand was numb.
‘Another minute.’ His words were a low rasp, the breath tickling the top of my head.
We stood there, our lungs rising and falling in sync, watching the stream of water, until Mum returned. Jonah swiftly moved his body away in one fluid motion.
‘Here, let’s have a look.’ Mum inspected first my hand and then Jonah’s. ‘I think we caught it in time, nothing serious. If it’s sore, then let me know and I’ll get you some painkillers. Okay?’
I nodded, drying my hand on the towel Jonah had used for the pots.
‘Okay, Jonah? You will let me know if it starts to bother you?’
Jonah must have nodded. I daren’t look at him.
She carried on chattering on about nothing while I cleared up the spilt coffee and made fresh drinks, since the first ones werenow lukewarm. We fetched our revision books, sat side by side at the dining-room table and, after a hesitant start, spent the next two hours alternating between quizzing each other on history facts – Jonah knew far more than I expected considering how little attention he paid in lessons – and chatting about music and films, school and stupid things we’d seen on the Internet. Nothing serious, nothing to do with his family or life prior to this one. It was the longest conversation I’d ever had with a boy my own age. The intense atmosphere of the kitchen had been replaced with playfulness, what felt like friendship. But a few times, our eyes caught as we laughed about something, and I’d blush and he’d maybe nudge my knee with his or poke my arm with his pen. I didn’t know what this was, yet. But it was the best thing ever and, by the time Dad came in to ask us to pack up our things as dinner was ready, I was yearning for more.
17
