‘I’m not. But, as Mrs Leppla reminds me every lesson, I can’t always depend on you to provide everything I’m too lazy to obtain myself. Which is plain wrong, but I’m gonna borrow that next book just to shut her up.’ He heads for the stairs, swiftly followed by Orlando, but stops on the landing. ‘What was it called again?Lottie?’
I sigh. ‘Emma.’
‘Gotcha.’
Luca and Orlando disappear to the ground floor, and I make a stroll around the gallery. Up here, Joni shelvesromance, horror and true crime. I’ve long stopped questioning her system. The horror section holds celebrity memoirs and a total of five YA novels about teen pregnancy. I can tell that she went all out in the romance section, where V.E. Schwab’sViciousshares the space with George R.R. Martin’s history of the Targaryens. And on a true-crime shelf, I spot a brick of a book on Yazidi persecution next to a novella by Adania Shibli that I’ve been meaning to read. Joni never misses an opportunity to radicalise her readers.
My gaze snags on a copy ofGiovanni’s Room. It’s not Joni’s twisted sense of humour that makes me halt, but the small carving in the spot where the book’s spine meets the wood of the shelf. Two letters surrounded by a heart.
The library loses focus and the heart fills my vision. Splinters graze my skin as I touch the carving, trace its outline, a fresh scar in the wood. My mind remains blank, but my body is in turmoil. Heat surfaces in a fever rush. I itch all over, but I could scratch every inch of me and I know it wouldn’t stop.
I go for the letters, dig in deep. Wood chips pierce the flesh beneath my nails. I don’t relent, not until the varnish comes off, until there’s a frayed wound in the wood where the letters used to be. When every trace of them is gone, the heat recedes, leaving a sheen of sweat on my forehead. My surroundings come back into focus. The space no longerfeels like a sanctuary; it’s too open. When I look over my shoulder, I’m the only one around. Low chatter reaches my ears, and I remember Joni and Luca on the floor below. Did Joni do this? I can’t imagine her going around carving hearts in her bookshelves. Something tells me she hasn’t even seen the vandalisation, or she’d be fuming. First the noticeboard, now this. I have no proof that the two are connected, but deep down I feel certain they must be.
I’m starting to feel sick, and it’s not the toastie that’s making my stomach churn. The air in here is stale; it smells of grease and wet dog. My legs carry me down and straight out of the library. Cold air hits my skin, followed by stray raindrops or sea spray. The clouds remain dense and heavy, preparing for the next downpour. It only takes Luca seconds to catch up.
‘Hey, what was that about?’
I shake my head, unable to explain the carving and the state I’m in. He grabs my wrist, forcing me to a stop.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he says, and lifts my hand to inspect it. His eyes widen as he takes in the ragged skin, the torn nails. ‘Fuck, Simo, what did you do?’
I shake him off, but his grip lingers. ‘I need to get home.’
‘First we need to get that looked at,’ Luca protests, but I’m already walking away.
‘Simo!’ he shouts, and the mix of hurt and anger in his voice stops me.
I turn to see his slender figure against an iron sky, puzzlement shadowing his eyes. He clutches a couple of books and looks as vulnerable as I feel. I want to close the distance, let him take my hand. But there are people on thebeach and windows looking out towards us. I truly hate that this friendship isn’t mine any more. It’s been taken out of my hands and turned into someone else’s idea of us. Between gross gestures in school hallways or the constant vomit-inducing shipping, I can’t decide what’s worse. Luca approaches, but the discomfort must show on my face, because he doesn’t try to touch me again. I still don’t move, caught between the urge to back away and the desire to pull him close.
‘Let me at least clean it up before you go home, OK?’ Luca’s voice is gentle, but it finds a gap in the coil of anger and disgust wrapped tightly around my chest.
I feel myself nodding. Luca musters a smile that fails to hide his concern. He walks ahead, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
I remain a step behind him. My fingers throb, and I think of the carved heart and the many outside forces trying to push themselves between me and my best friend. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to shut them out, they keep coming back, and I’m getting tired. Tired of fighting them.
CHAPTER 15 – LUCA
The book lands on the table with a thud. The only reason it stays dry is because Jacob grabs his iced latte before it spills. He has good hair and good reflexes. In my defence, I didn’t mean to drop it as bluntly as I did, but 300 pages of portrait photography weighs heavy, especially when the book is the size of a toddler.
‘Sorry,’ I say, embarrassed. The cafe is busy as ever, and it’s only fifteen minutes until my grandparents will walk through the door with the chipped paint and sit down on our wonky chairs to share a lunch with me and Dad. The image is so strange it refuses to form in my head.
‘It’s all right,’ Jacob says, setting the coffee down at a safe distance from the book. ‘I’m just grateful you’re letting me borrow this. It’ll help with my project.’
I feel a few inches taller, proud to own a book worth lending. Not that it contains a lot of words, but that’s kind of the point; it’s a collection of rediscovered photographs of gay couples dating back to the 1850s. Simo has never shown an interest in it, and I’ve never tried to show him. It’s a nice change, being able to share this with someone who isn’t Dad, but someone my age.
‘What’s the project?’
‘I want to create a series about queer small-town life. Take portraits of people from Lombard, capture their story.’
I snort, and immediately feel bad when Jacob shifts awkwardly on his chair. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean it that way. I think it’s an amazing idea. In fact, I love it.’ I might be overcompensating, but as I say the words, I realise that I do love it.
‘But?’ Jacob asks, looking as if he might not want to hear the answer.
‘I’ve lived here my whole life, and my dad and I are literally the only gay people here.’ It never bothered me, because Dad was,is, the person I look up to most, shocking family revelations aside. But saying it out loud leaves me with a hollow feeling inside.
‘Just because your dad’s the only gay person you know, doesn’t mean he’s the only other queer person in town. Sometimes we can get so used to a place and the people in it that we forget to look past the obvious. We think we know everything and everyone and stop asking questions.’
‘I admit that’s deep,’ I say, ‘but you’re going to struggle finding anyone.’
