He shrugs.
‘I know something that will cheer you up.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to show you how to make good money.’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re going to sell the most brilliant scarf at the market and it’s going to pay for your festival ticket.’
‘I’m going to sell a scarf,’ he repeats slowly. He stares at me, then shakes his head as I grin at him. ‘No. No,’ he says. ‘You’re not teaching me how to knit.’
‘I am,’ I say.
‘You’re not.’
‘I am. Come on, mister, come with me.’ I reach down and grab his hand, and my pulse speeds up at the feeling of his palm pressed against mine, even as I put all my weight into my heels and try to pull him up.
He laughs and obliges me. I let go of his hand reluctantly and we set off back to the house, my heart jumping like a jackrabbit in my chest.
* * *
All week, I’m distracted. By Friday, I’ve accepted that I have a crush on George. Despite threatening a ‘patchy return’, Becky has only missed a couple of days of school since coming back. One of those days was yesterday, and the thrill I got sitting next to George on the bus was ridiculous.
We’ve spent at least a small part of every evening this week sitting side by side in front of the fire on the living room floor. I’ve been teaching him how to knit, and even though he’s been rolling his eyes and complaining, I know it’s a front. I know he likes being with me. His low laughter is literally my favourite sound on earth at the moment. I could live to amuse him.
Last night, our knees were touching and neither of us moved away. I was so aware of the heat of him – I felt like my skin was on fire, as though the warmth was travelling right into my bloodstream and making me feel light-headed. And then Mum came into the room and we both jerked our legs away from each other. He wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t felt something, if he hadn’t felt guilty.
That’s the thing. Even if he does like me, nothing can happen. I can’t have a relationship with someone who’s in my parents’ care. If Mum and Dad found out, they’d probably have to move George on, and the thought of him having to leave us – let alone because of me – is completely unfathomable.
But unfortunately, my crush feels more powerful because it’s forbidden.
I haven’t told Becky that I like him. And despite the fact that we’ve hung out with Theo and George most lunchtimes, she hasn’t guessed.
I’ve decided to keep my cards close to my chest for now. I kind of enjoy having a secret that no one else in the world knows. And I don’t fully trust that Becky wouldn’t stir things up, even if only a little. That’s something I can’t risk, not when George’s place in my home is at stake.
* * *
‘Why were you laughing?’ Theo asks me in honeyed tones on our way into Art.
I chuckle and give his shoulder a shove, in higher spirits than usual because this is our last lesson before we break for half term. ‘I’ll never tell,’ I reply.
One day I’ll crack. I don’t care anymore if he thinks I’m a weirdo – he knows me, he can think what he likes. But I am quite amused by this game we’re playing. I can’t believe we’re still at it, all these weeks on.
Theo throws his arm around my shoulder and says in my ear, ‘I’m going to win this one.’
‘You’re so competitive.’ I pat his chest good-naturedly.
He winks at me and trails off to go to his table. It’s only then that I realise George is right behind me.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi,’ he replies shortly, not quite meeting my eyes.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
‘Fine.’
He doesn’t sound fine.
He drops into the seat next to Theo, while I go and take mine beside Becky. The room is set up in a semi-circle of tables, all facing a central table which is usually cluttered with still life stuff. Theo and George sit a couple of tables away from Becky and me, but we’re partially facing each other.
The lesson begins. Mr Edwards is talking about the portrait homework that we handed in on Monday, walking amongst our tables and handing back our marked work. I’m still distracted by George, wondering why he seemed offhand when he came into the lesson. Could he be jealous? Does he mind that Theo and I are so easy together, that Theo can throw his arm around my shoulders?
I can’t imagine George ever being that casual with his gestures.
I’m looking at him as I’m thinking all this, so when he flicks his eyes to mine, the sudden contact feels like an electric shock. He immediately averts his gaze, and I do too, but then I find myself being drawn back towards him, and he must feel the same way because our eyes meet again. This time the contact lasts for one, two, three long, incredibly intense seconds – enough to make me feel shivery and hot – and then Mr Edwards reaches their table and we both jolt to our senses.
‘This,’ he says, looking down at Theo with a proud smile, ‘is one of the best student portraits I have ever seen.’ He glances over at me and gives me a meaningful nod as he places Theo’s portrait on the table in front of him.
Our classmates crane their necks, some getting out of their seats to look. There are murmurs of appreciation and a few people look over at me.
I squirm in my seat, and, for the first time since I’ve known him, Theo blushes.
George leans over towards Theo and stares down at the piece of paper. There’s something about the set of his shoulders that makes him look stiff.
He slides back to his previous position, facing straight ahead.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ Mr Edwards says, returning to retrieve Theo’s portrait. ‘I’ll show you.’
He walks amongst the tables, proudly displaying the piece of work.
‘Whoa,’ Becky says aloud, her eyes wide with astonishment. She turns to look at me as Mr Edwards moves on. ‘You must be Theo’s muse.’
I pull a face at her, squirming under the spotlight. A couple of classmates overheard her and now they’re sniggering. George seems to be steadfastly avoiding looking at our table. Mr Edwards continues handing out the remaining portraits, not saying much. He places George’s drawing of me down in front of him, and as soon as he moves on, George flips the page over. Theo doesn’t seem to notice, too overwhelmed and discomfited by the praise from his teacher and classmates to pay attention, but my stomach twists at the sight.
* * *
‘Do you think Theo fancies you?’ Becky asks me on the bus.
‘No!’ I hiss, sinking down into my seat. ‘Don’t, you’ll make it awkward.’
‘All right, I’m just saying,’ she replies slyly. ‘Do you fancy him?’
‘What? No!’
‘Why not? He’s hot.’ She waits a while before asking, ‘Don’t you think?’
‘He’s good-looking, but I don’t fancy him.’
‘I might ask him to draw me,’ she says with a snigger.
‘Go ahead,’ I mumble.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’
‘I thought you liked Martin.’