‘Wait, Devon wasn’t a part of the group of popular kids who bullied you in high school was he, Scarlett?’ Hope suddenly pipes up. It’s nearing ten o’clock now and the fact that Hope is still talking makes this morning all around unsettling in every way.
‘Oh God no,’ is all I can manage. No, Devon wasn’t anything like the kids who bullied me. He was the exact opposite and would never hurt me. Well up until the point where he did hurt me, big time, I think to myself.
‘OK good,’ Hope replies. ‘Because gorgeous celebrity superhero or not, if he ever hurt you, I’d kick his ass.’
4
I’m hoping there were no grammar mistakes or missing articles when I sent the magazine to print only ten minutes ago. I’ve spent the morning and the whole walk over to the village pub contemplating which headline would be more exciting and sell the most copies. The one that reads: ‘Superhero Devon Wood is no match for tiny villager who attacked him standing up for her best friend’ or whatever happy headline about Devon’s homecoming Hope is thinking about for the first January issue.
I choose the latter and think better of divulging my entire childhood to Hope right at this moment. It’s for the best. All we have to do is go in, ask a few questions and come out, and then my world can return to normal. I shuffle behind Hope into the pub. It looks stunning this time of year with its beautiful stone fireplace, pine-cone-decorated large plump Christmas tree off in the corner, and tinsel dangling from every beam, except the man in a black suit bearing sunglasses and an earpiece throws off the feng shui a tad. He’s standing guard to the party room at the back of the pub.
*
‘Oh, now this is sad. I thought you had some friends, but it turns out it really was just Devon who put up with your weirdo vibes,’ Ruby says with a cackle as she waves a delicate hand up and down my frame, to the delight of her posse. Devon has been gone for two days and I can’t say Ruby’s wrong; I don’t know how to speak to people without him taking the lead in his nerdy chatterbox way.
‘Whatever, Ruby,’ I mumble, pushing past her with my head down.
‘What is that smell?’ she exclaims, holding her nose, which her gang copy through their sniggers. She spins on her heel to face me as I try and walk down the corridor to get away from her. ‘You might need to get that cast cleaned; you smell like a sweaty farm animal,’ she calls after me. Their howling reverberates off the cold school walls.
She’s not wrong there either. It’s hard to maintain cleanliness when your armpit down to your fingertips is covered in plaster and the anxiety over coming to school each day for the next six months without your body armour is making you sweat.
*
I nervously pat down my beanie and stray hairs and casually try to check if I smell funky or if I’m sweating through my too-tight dress when a smart lady in a black pant suit ushers us over to the door of the party room. I nod at the suit-wearing man, but he keeps his position looking straight ahead. The usual long oak table that takes centre stage in the middle of the room is pushed up to one side and has been replaced by spotlights and cameras dotted around, in addition to a wall of green screens.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. On my third blink I register the posters dangling from the ceiling. There’s the same one Mrs Rolph had up at the bakery, but twice the size, as well as different prints that are pinned to the walls – walls that once held pictures of Devon and I for our tenth birthday party – but on these posters I am nowhere to be seen. It’s just Devon’s face staring back at me. Something flutters in my belly.
Hope nudges me forwards but I struggle to take my eyes off the colourful prints and with one step trip over a cable taped to the floor and promptly fly into a life-size cut-out of my former best friend. Is it just me or is the air getting thin in here? I can feel my forehead sweating under my beanie but I’m too frozen stiff to remove it.
I feel like the sweat is leaking out of me in buckets. Before I can plan my escape route another lady in a straight black dress, like mine, though I’m positive she chose to wear it, unlike me, and a man in cargo shorts holding a clipboard come over.
‘Can we have you both sign these forms please? We’re doing a documentary on Devon Wood, so we’re going to be filming segments of the interviews today. We will credit your magazine for any footage of you we use,’ the lady informs us authoritatively, while the man passes us the clipboards.
My ears are ringing, and I fear that everyone is going to hear the mad flapping of wings with the number of butterflies I have in my stomach. Hope is grinning broadly. I can see the cogs ticking in her brain over how much of a big deal this is for our small-time magazine. I bite my tongue and steady my breathing. I can do this, for Hope.
Once the forms are signed. I place my bag down and tell myself that it’s like any other day at the office, just another man and his enormous courgette, as we are signalled towards the spotlight, where there are four cameras all facing the back wall. I walk behind Hope who turns around just before we reach the neon platform, gives me an evil glare and swipes my beanie off my head, throwing it off to the side. Distracted by the sweep of hair that falls in my face in a mess of static, mixed with the blinding, uncomfortable light, I trip up for the second time over more of the cables that litter the floor and perform a spectacular dive that results in me headbutting my ex BFF in the chest, when he leaps out of the chair to catch me.
Hope lets out a gasp. I take a sharp intake of breath. When did Devon’s chest get so hard? I’m bent over now gazing at his lower half and immediately regret telling myself to think of courgettes. I blink and toy with the idea of looking up. Do I have to? But my forehead is throbbing.
When I go to rub my bruised noggin, I realise Devon’s hands are gripping my shoulders. My arms freeze in a way that makes it look like I’m about to perform the robot. I sense he’s trying to keep me from further damaging him, myself or any one of the very expensive-looking cameras that surround me. It takes me a minute before I finally surrender to the fact that I must look up. It takes me a further minute to meet Devon’s gaze – I don’t remember Devon being this tall – but when I do I feel as though I have been transported back ten years, looking into the eyes of my sidekick, my partner in crime, my best friend who was supposed to be with me through it all, but wasn’t.
Emotion bubbles up inside of me. I feel like a kid again. I feel joy mixed with anger and pain and it’s a dangerous combination.
Suddenly Hope springs from her chair. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks. The question isn’t aimed at me but at Devon. It breaks the spell and I stand up straight, brush my hair from my face, smooth down my dress, hold my head high and elegantly take a seat in the chair next to Hope’s. Devon’s eyes shoot to Hope as he clears his throat and gives her a disarming smile with a small nod. He waves our little incident off and encourages her to sit back down, but I notice his cheeks are flushed and then he gives me a strange look.
‘Is everyone OK?’ the lady from earlier asks, the cameramen are all staring, opened-mouthed in shock.
‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine,’ Devon announces with a chuckle, keeping his eyes trained on mine. Hope is breathing rather heavily beside me, but I can’t bring myself to look at her, fearing the whole “if looks could kill” scenario. That and it’s hard to take my eyes off Devon. He has the same deep brown eyes as my former best friend, the same lips and goofy smile, but he seems different and his gaze is intense.