Читать книгу The Night Flyer's Handbook 2-Book Bundle - Philippa Dowding - Страница 30

Parties aren’t what I expected.

I walk to Martin’s house, and when I get there, Martin doesn’t even say hello to me. His mom does, though, like a person who hasn’t seen you in a long time then realizes that they completely forgot that you existed. She actually says “Oh!” when she sees me, then continues with a brave face by saying my name really slowly, as it comes to her.

I’m polite, though, and do a little bow, which seems to make her more nervous.

I say “Hi, Mrs. Evells, remember me? I used to play here with Martin every day … when we were little….” She is looking at me and I can’t quite place the look. Is it confusion? Amnesia? Horror? I’m not sure, so eventually I just walk away because there doesn’t seem to be anything more I can do for her. I do catch a glimpse of her as she hurries back inside her house. She looks upset for some reason.

I wander around to the backyard. A lot of kids are there when I arrive. Most of my class. Most of the grade nine class. There are a few kids I don’t recognize, who must be Martin’s friends from out of town, because it’s impossible not to know everyone in a small town like ours. Shelley Norman and the other giant grade nine girls all laugh when I walk in, but they might have been laughing at a joke, not exactly at me per se. It might have just been bad timing on my part, to walk in during the punchline of a joke. All the same, Shelley makes sure she gives me a good shove with her shoulder when she walks past me to get to the drinks table a little while later.

Could a fight break out between girls at a party? I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t be very ladylike, but I really doubt that Shelley cares at all about that.

Noted: avoid Shelley Norman.

After that, I mostly stand around and watch the boys try to get up the nerve to ask the girls to dance.

Jeffrey Parks is there and gives me a wide berth. Sparrow Andrews, another boy from my class, comes up to me. His first name isn’t Sparrow, of course, it’s David, but Sparrow is a nickname that kind of exactly describes his scrawny build. He comes up to me and, like a little sparrow, hops around in front of me on one foot in the dirt of Martin’s backyard. I’m holding a cola at the time. He hops until he bangs into me, and my cola goes all over my new shirt.

“Gosh, m’awful sorry, Gwennie. Djuwanna dance?”

He helps to mop the drink off my shirt, but somehow I just don’t have the inclination to dance with him after that. I sure hope my mom can wash the mess out. A few girls come up to me and ask where Jez is. It’s a universal truth that my best friend is a lot more popular than me. I shrug, “Barbecue,” I say a few times, as casually as I can. I keep looking around for Martin, but I can’t find him.

The truth is, I find the strangeness of the event truly mesmerizing. I stand off to one side of the yard, a yard that I have intimate knowledge of, by the way. I ran around in the kiddie pool, floundered through the sprinkler, hid in the hedges, played in the garden playhouse, found secret spots in my little kid world, in that backyard. True, I haven’t been here for a while, the trees and bushes are a little bigger maybe, but it is still the backyard of my little kid life. It’s mine in a way that it isn’t anyone else’s.

The fence is covered by pretty lights, and the big tree has a spotlight nailed to it. Martin’s parents set up a picnic table with food and drinks, and there is a portable stereo playing music nearby.

Kids are dancing in the spotlight. It’s a slow dance, and I’m watching and kind of swaying along with the music, when I feel someone behind me.

I turn around and it’s Martin. He smiles his crooked smile and says, “Sorry I didn’t say hi before, Gwennie, my mom made me change my shirt. I spilled cola on it.”

I laugh and tell him “Yeah, me too.”

We both laugh, just like old times.

Then Martin Evells asks me to dance.

Dancing with a boy three inches shorter than you is a little awkward, I have to admit. You really have no choice but to breathe all over his face, and pretty much directly into his nose. You can only hope that your tooth-brushing from several hours before is still holding up.

Still, the niceness is there. Martin is nice. There’s just no other word to describe him. Even all these years later, he still smells like lemons. His mom either really loves lemon-scented laundry detergent, or that’s just Martin’s natural smell.

Either way, it’s a good smell. We dance a little in the spotlight, and I’m pretty sure I see a few girls look angrily in my general direction. Mrs. Evells even pops her head out the back door a few times to watch us. I get the feeling she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.

I don’t care.

I’m Gwennie Golden, I’m a Night Flyer, and I’m dancing with a boy. My favourite boy of all time. Martin Evells.

Ten o’clock rolls around before I even know it.