Free Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma Page B

been kissed . . . What about you – have you ever—?’ I break off abruptly, suddenly realizing the absurdity of my question. I try to think of a way of turning it around, but it’s too late: Lochan is already picking at the ground with his fingernails, the colour high in his cheeks.
    ‘Yeah, right!’ He gives a derisive snort, avoiding my gaze, intent on the smal hole he is digging in the earth. ‘Like – like that’s ever going to happen!’ With a short laugh, he glances at me as if imploring me to join in, and through the embarrassment I see the pain in his eyes. Instinctively I move closer, stopping myself from reaching out and squeezing his hand, hating myself for my moment of thoughtlessness. ‘Loch, it’s not always going to be like this,’ I tel him gently.
    ‘One day—’
    ‘Yeah, one day.’ He smiles with forced nonchalance and gives a brief, dismissive shrug. ‘I know.’
    A long silence stretches out between us. I look up at him in the scattered light of the afternoon, now nearing its end. ‘Do you ever think about it?’
    He hesitates, the blood stil hot in his cheeks, and for a moment I think he isn’t going to reply. He continues picking at the earth, stil studiously avoiding my gaze. ‘Course.’ It’s so quiet that for a moment I think I might have imagined it.
    I look at him sharply. ‘Who?’
    ‘There’s never realy been anyone . . .’ He stil refuses to look up, but even though he’s increasingly uncomfortable, he isn’t trying to get out of the conversation. ‘I just think that somewhere there must be—’ He shakes his head, as if suddenly aware he has said too much.
    ‘Hey, me too!’ I exclaim. ‘Somewhere in my head I have this idea of a perfect guy. But I don’t think he even exists.’
    ‘Sometimes—’ Lochan begins, then breaks off.
    I wait for him to continue. ‘Sometimes . . . ?’ I prompt gently.
    ‘I wish things were different.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I wish everything wasn’t so damn hard.’
    ‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘Me too.’

CHAPTER SEVEN
Lochan
    Summer gives way to autumn. The air turns sharper, the days grow shorter, grey clouds and persistent drizzle alternating with cold blue skies and bracing winds. Wila loses her third tooth, Tiffin attempts to cut his own hair when a supply teacher mistakes him for a girl, Kit is suspended for three days for smoking weed. Mum starts spending her days off with Dave and, even when she’s working, frequently stays over at his flat above the restaurant to avoid the daily commute. On the few occasions she’s home, she’s rarely sober for long, and Tiffin and Wila have given up asking her to play with them or tuck them in. I make regular trips to the bottle bank after dark.
    The school term grinds on. There is too much to do and too little time to do it in: the coursework keeps piling up, I forget to go shopping, Tiffin needs new trousers, Wila needs new shoes, bils are waiting to be paid, Mum loses her chequebook again. As she continues to fade stil further from family life, Maya and I tacitly divide up the chores: she cleans, helps with homework, does the bedtime routine; I shop, cook, sort out bils, colect Tiffin and Wila from school. One thing neither of us can manage, however, is Kit. He has started smoking openly now – albeit banished to the doorstep or the street. Maya calmly talks to him about the health risks and he laughs in her face. I try a firmer approach and earn myself a string of expletives. At the weekends he goes out with a gang of troublemakers from school: I persuade Mum to give me the money to buy him a second-hand mobile but he refuses to answer it when I cal. I implore her to impose a curfew but she’s rarely around to enforce it, or when she is, she stays out later than he does. I instal a curfew myself and Kit immediately starts staying out even later, as if returning home within the alotted time is a sign of weakness, of capitulation. And then the inevitable happens: one