THE NEXT DAY, more students, young and old, appeared beneath the almond tree, which they had named Jean-Baptiste, after the patron saint of second chances. They came and went, as people do, but soon there was a permanent group. They talked and had lunch, because they had no one else. In fact, many of them had nothing at all but the friends they had made one lucky day at the end of a beautiful summer. By the end of that week, lifelong friendships were blossoming, while white petals fell upon their heads, like gentle rain from Heaven.

Will had gotten butterflies the first time he looked at René. His beautiful, pale green eyes, like the tide, left him alone on a rocky shore, but always returned. He had a thin face and flushed skin, red even beneath his sunburn. His hair was dark and glossy, falling on his forehead in loose curls. He always carried a pair of glasses in his pocket, but only wore them when he was reading, or when something was very far away. And when he was with his friends, because he wanted to see them clearly, as they were.

René was bright, and funny, and brought light to the world through a radiant smile. He was older than Will, and taller, having already reached his full height of five eleven at the tender age of sixteen. René led the others in their mischief and games, as Will, who had been hurt far worse since that first day, and not only by Maël, sat back and watched.

He had worn trousers for the rest of the week, while the bloody skirt stayed in a shopping bag, thrown into the corner of his bedroom. It was his only one, and although it was ruined, he couldn’t bear to throw it away. It was the only tangible evidence of who he really was.

Then, that weekend, John had taken him back to the seamstress they bought it from, to buy a new one. Will smuggled it into the house under his coat, which he wore no matter the weather. He donned it not only to cover the mess that was his arms, but to disguise who thin he had become. Their house steward, who had raised him since he was six, and better than either of his fathers ever did, would be the one to hem his clothes if he saw how they hung off him like drapes. He knew Pierre would be worried about him, but couldn’t admit what he had done to himself—what he was doing every day.

When he wore the skirt to school on Monday, Maël kicked him down the stairs, and now he was walking on crutches. He couldn’t join them as they played rugby in the field, but it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. John slipped in the muck. René threw his head back and laughed.

Nasreen had a crush on him. She and Will captured René’s attention in their own ways, individual and inimitable. Nasreen smiled and shoved his shoulder when he teased her. Will was quiet and self-contained, but also darkly enchanting, in the way death and destruction pull us in, or how black holes are bewitching, despite the end they bring to sound, and light, and beings of all kinds. His was the call of the void.

Nasreen leapt up from beneath the tree and ran down the hill, to join in the rugby match. When they sat beside each other in Literature, Will smiled at him, glancing up from beneath his lashes and daydreaming about happy endings. Nasreen bought him dessert every day, then René gave it to Will, because he was afraid to eat in front of other people. So was Will, but he didn’t know that. It was undoubtedly a struggle, but not a violent one, for when it was over, she and Will still had to be friends.

Although, there was one thing he didn’t know, and that was whether René liked boys or girls. So, one day, he asked him.

“Both, actually.” Will didn’t know how or if to reply, and so looked down at the leaves skittering across the pavement, and lifted the cake René had given him to his mouth. Then he felt a hand closing round his, and heard a soft voice say to him: “But I like you the best.”

And then he kissed him, licking the icing off his lips. When they parted, Will was silent for a moment, uncertain how to go on living, now that the impossible had already happened. He burst out laughing. He’d never felt so happy—it was a beautiful drug, and he wanted another hit. He held René’s hand, pushing the last bite of cake into his mouth, quite literally biting back a smile. He had never been one to give away his feelings, but he’d found himself doing many things for the first time since that August. His inner world had been turned upside down, but in the outer, conscious world he was only a boy sitting on a cardigan, grinning like a fool in love.

His life changed that day. When he walked down the corridor, holding René’s hand, John and Nasreen smiled brightly at him. They too were holding hands—each other’s, to be exact. He’d known them a long time, and yet never seen either looking half as happy. He’d never felt that way either, but René was beautifully, inexplicably different from everyone he’d ever met. And now he was Will’s.

ONE DAY, HE opened his maths textbook and found a tiny piece of yellow paper, folded into the shape of a flower—one he’d never seen with his own eyes. He smiled, and unfolded it.

HI, PRETTY BOY.

He smiled slightly, almost imperceptibly, and slipped it into his pocket. He drew in a breath, holding it. He bent low over his paper, looking covertly round the classroom. It was the same people he’d known all his life, laughing and joking, as they always did. He looked at René, sitting beside him, leaning back over his chair, talking to John. They were in the same module, even though John was three years older than he was. He listened to them for a moment, then looked away, focusing on something over René’s shoulder, which he’d never noticed before. It was the boy who sat next to him, and his shoes. They were yellow.

He was asleep on his desk, arms folded, head down, turned so that Will couldn’t see his face. On the desk was an exam from the week before, with one question filled in. It was marked with a red pen, but he couldn’t read what it said. In the margins, there were sketches of children feeding birds. Odd choice of muse, he thought, returning to his book and beginning to solve the problems, which were far too simple, on a separate page. He’d already done his homework during the lesson, while they were meant to be learning how to, and now he was finishing John’s.

The bell rang, and all chairs scraped across the floor. By the time he looked up, it was too late—the boy was gone. He sighed, pushing his books into his satchel, settling back into that old, familiar loneliness. He stood up on his crutches, wincing and wishing selfishly that, for once, someone had thought of him.

Only that first note was left in his textbook. After that, they were pushed through the grate of his locker, where only he could find them. Whenever he found a note, it gave him chills. He glanced down the corridor, but no one was looking back at him, although it always felt as though he were being watched. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified. Perhaps a bit of both.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

They were only slips of paper, with sweet questions written along the insides. Whoever had written them wanted to know what he did that summer, and what his favourite colour was, and if he liked croque mesdames. They made him laugh. He always read them the moment he found them. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve thrown them away, thinking they were insane, but because he hoped it was the boy from the infirmary, he kept them.

Nothing changed after the notes began. Every day, Maël hit him, or stole his lunch money, or pulled his crutches out from under him. But still they kept coming, and eventually the messages became longer. They were never signed.

He knew it was foolish to hope, but he began to anticipate the notes, and each morning he opened his locker, looking for the next. It brought him a quiet sense of joy to read those letters. It was addictive from the minute he let himself think that someone might care about him.

In the third week of school, there was a not saying: MEET ME AFTER SCHOOL, WHERE WE FIRST MET. Below it, there was a little, hand-drawn heart in red pen. His head was pounding. He read it again and again, until he could see the words imprinted on the backs of his eyes, even when he closed them.

He spent the rest of the day wondering what to do. He thought of nothing else as he sat in lessons and at lunch, resting his head on René’s shoulders, because he had a headache and couldn’t eat if he tried.

By the end of the day, he was so nervous his hands were trembling—more than they usually did from not eating for days on end. Even before the final bell rang, he was out of his seat and running for the toilets. He wondered silently to himself what he was doing, and how he could let himself do this, but neither did he stop.

Will got there first. He stood for a moment, unsure if the note had meant to go in the stall, or just to wait in the room itself. He looked at it, and thought that it couldn’t reasonably fit two people, hopping up on the sink instead, swinging his legs back and forth. He leaned his crutches against the wall, but they slid off and clattered against the floor. There was a window looking out on the courtyard along the top of the wall, and he clambered up onto the edge, to peer out. This part of the courtyard was partly shaded by the building, but beyond the shadows, the sun was shining, painting the world in shades of red and gold. He opened the window a sliver and breathed in the cool autumn air, which smelled of earthly death. Not long ago, the trees were just beginning to bloom, but now the leaves were changing colour, and some had even begun to fall. They rustled as the wind blew through them.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned back, to see the boy from the infirmary, wearing the same yellow hoodie and shoes from the day they met. In fact, he looked exactly the same. Will looked around for someone else, but they were alone. Then the boy smiled.

“Hi,” he said, extending a hand to help him down. Will took it and leapt down off the sink, landing gracefully, with both feet on the floor. “My name is Ramy.”

It hurt something fierce to be standing on his ankle, but he didn’t care. Ramy was reasonably tall, with caramel-coloured skin and dark hair. He used to play rugby with John and Maël, but this year, he had been booted off the team for smoking cannabis in the fieldhouse. His hoodie was threadbare, and his trousers had holes in the knees. His pupils were dilated. He kept wiping his nose on the cuff of his sleeve. He was a bit too skinny, although nowhere near as thin as Will.

But he did smell nice—bright and sweet, like citrus candy.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Ramy said, laughing. “I thought I scared you away with the notes.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he shook his head. They sat on the edge of the sink, side-by-side. For a moment, neither of them said a word, and then Ramy reached into his pocket and pulled out a deck of cigarettes. He put one between his lips, then extended the package to Will. He’d never smoked before, but he took one, grasping it tightly, with three fingers. Ramy flicked a lighter and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing out a cloud of smoke with a sigh. He turned his head, looking at Will with tired eyes. He leaned in close, and for a moment, Will thought he was going to kiss him. But he only took the cigarette and held it to Will’s mouth, gently placing the end between his lips. The lighter flared once more, and a thin plume of smoke rose between them.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, tone low and dark. He blinked slowly, with bleary eyes, then leaned back. He crossed one arm over his stomach and held himself tightly, closing his eyes and resting his head against the looking glass behind them. The world stopped there for a moment, smoke clotting the air, as they both were silent and motionless. Will’s palms were damp, and his hands were trembling. It was undeniably warm, but still he felt cold.

“Have you ever smoked a Gauloise before?” Ramy asked, cracking one eye open and peering up at Will. He shook his head. Ramy laughed, and the eye slid closed once more. “You know, all my life, I’ve been spoiled with French cigarettes. All I’ve thought about the past few weeks is whether you smoke, too. You’re too perfect for something like that.” He paused, and took a drag, blowing out a billow of fog. “So, I started writing those letters, hoping you’d read them. I thought if I lured you here, I could offer you a cigarette and find out. But I didn’t actually think you’d come.” He opened his eyes and rubbed his nose on his sleeve, clearing his throat. “I want to be friends,” he said, staring blankly ahead. He shrugged. “But it’s up to you.”

He shifted slightly, closing his eyes once more, apparently intent on smoking and sitting in silence until he received an answer, even if it wasn’t the one he was looking for.

“We can be friends,” Will murmured. He reached behind him to turn on the tap, and crushed the cigarette out in the rushing water. He watched a tide of black ashes circle the drain, then dropped the burnt-out stub and turned back to Ramy, who was still leaning back with his eyes closed. But now he was smiling—a dopy, lethargic grin.

“Great,” he said. “Want to come home with me, pretty boy? My mum’s making butter chicken for dinner.”

“Sure.” His voice cracked, face burning hot. “Are you high?” Will blurted, before he could stop himself. He clapped a hand to his mouth and looked down at him, terrified.

Ramy opened his eyes and pressed his lips together, to keep from laughing. “I am.” He reached into his pocket and held up a packet of blue pills. “Want to join me?”

And so, he did. It was the second time in less than a week that his life changed forever.

IN THE FIRST week of September, Ramy created the Dead Daddy Club. Will became its very first member, along with a boy called Thomas Ramsay, who considered himself the co-founder, although he’d done nothing but provide the tattoo pen. It was Ramy who led them, and who drew the horned goat skull on both their arms. Will loved it. It was the most deliciously fucked-up thing he’d ever seen. Later that night, in a haze of hard alcohol and cannabis smoke, he asked Ramy to tattoo the word “MANEATER” on his lower back, and he did.

After that, he sat with Thomas and Ramy during lunch, which they called “meetings,” but which was really only the three of them outside, sitting in a circle, laughing and throwing food at each other.

They were incendiaries, the lot of them. Their fathers were dead, and now they all broke the rules in one way or another. For Will, it was the way he dressed and the length of his hair. For Ramy, it was cigarettes, and pork (usually croque mesdames or Pierre’s judd mat gaardebounen), and the colour yellow. For Thomas, it was drugs, cut and dry. They were conforming in their own strange, but spectacular way, although they would never have admitted it aloud. What kept them together was the fact that they were different—the Muslim, the gay boy, the drug addict. Eventually, those lines became blurred, and they didn’t know who they were anymore.

Now that he had been to the other side, Will had no desire to go back to John’s bright, shiny world of lemonade and endless summers, when he could be himself, here in the darkness. He had finally found people who wanted him. They pulled him in. But by the time he realised what he’d done, it was too late.

It was a good time, those first few weeks. It was the deceptive kind of happiness that fools us all into believing it will last forever.