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I blink at the lightly luminescent fabric of my comforter over me. My ceiling globe creates a glow behind it.
What the fuck was that shit?
My lips are still humming, so I lift my fingers and stroke them gently, feeling the skin he just invaded, took, and licked without a care in the world. My heart whips around inside me, caught in a vortex of confusion and annoyance. Am I annoyed?
I picture his eyes on me, examining me in an indecent and primal way. Completely cool and cocky, and who the fuck looks at a stranger like that anyway? I feel a wave of something moving through me, down my body, and settling between my thighs. I squeeze my legs shut. This is not happening. I am not interested in a bad-mouthed, over-privileged Australian with a silver spoon up his arse and a chip on his shoulder. No way. I part my lips to help myself breathe adequately, feeling dizziness and annoyance duel in my mind.
The commotion outside is a welcome interruption to the unwelcome thoughts swarming through my head like a plague of wasps.
Bottles smash somewhere.
Boys yell at each other.
I roll onto my side and face away from the window. A picture of my father and mother in Cairo for their anniversary captures my gaze. They left us here. I was only nine. Akila, thirteen.
As I study the photo of my mother wrapped in a traditional kaftan and my father looking dapper in his, I’m reminded of how proud they were to bring us to Australia. How many times I heard that everything they did was to give us the best opportunities. The sacrifices they made to give me and Akila a new life. I’ve felt humbled my entire childhood.
In debt to them.
If our dad had any idea that Akila was throwing parties every time he left, he would have us both deported back. She is already not getting the grades she needs to get into a pre-medicine course, and so the weight has shifted to my shoulders, moved so easily, and fitted so tightly I didn’t even see or feel the confines of it until it was too late.
The smile on my mother’s face stiffens my brows as I wonder what she had to be so happy about. Wonder how it’s possible she could smile with such candour when two months after this photo was snapped, she left my father.
Left us too.
Another howl from a boy radiates through the glass of my window.
I throw the blanket off and step from the bed. Wandering over to the window, I draw back the thin sheath of purple fabric and stare through the glass at a brawl taking place around the pool.
Two boys are holding back two other boys. Smaller boys. . .Max and Xander.
My heart hits the back of my throat.
I search for Bronson through the dense crowd. Everyone is hovering around, watching the chaos unfold, blocking my view. I can see Max taking swings at people, but the boys holding him back are older and larger, restraining him most of the time. I wince when an older boy throws a fist into Max’s stomach. Suddenly, my eyes dart to catch Xander as he wriggles free from his captors and makes a break for it.
The poor kid is so young; he must be scared shitless.
At the sight of Bronson, I nearly swallow my tongue. He is submerged in the water; his head being held under by someone. The stranger’s bicep vibrates as they fight Bronson’s resistance. Fight his desperate need to break the surface, to draw in air, fight his body as it gyrates around on the side of the pool edge.
I can’t breathe.
Can’t think.
Just as his body goes lax, giving up its fight for life, and I think I’m going to hurl through a scream, I see Clay Butcher bursting through the crowd, tailed by little Xander.
Clay brandishes a bat over his shoulder, a crazed look in his eyes. Without hesitation, he swings the bat into the boy holding Bronson underwater. The impact throws the boy backwards. His body flies through the air. Blood sprays the crowd. The sound of his howl is so loud I want to cover my ears. My eyes dart back to Max and Xander, who are now dragging a lifeless Bronson from the pool.
No.
I spin around and race from my room.
As I shoulder my way through the crowd, observing Max and Xander as they lay Bronson’s sluggish body down on the concrete, I chant the sequence of CPR in my head. By the time I drop to my knees beside his body, his face is ashen, making his brown hair a dark contrast against his cheeks. The lips I kissed only a few minutes ago are now pale.
I mean, he kissed me.
I didn’t kiss him.
I reach for him, my attention solely focused on the lifeless young man on the pavers. Someone grabs my wrist before I can check his pulse, gripping my flesh tightly, warningly.
