A Quiet Kind of Thunder(29)

Rhys cuts the cake and begins dividing it carefully into equal pieces. The waiter sets a stack of small plates next to him. ‘Eighteen!’ he says. ‘Welcome to adulthood.’ But he’s standing slightly behind Rhys, so he doesn’t get a response.

‘Thank you,’ Rhys’s mother says smoothly, smiling. ‘I can’t quite believe he’s a man.’

Rhys’s dad claps him on the shoulder, beaming, and Rhys looks up with the smile of someone who knows he’s missed the conversation but doesn’t mind. He lifts the first plate of cake and passes it across the table to me. When our eyes meet, his smile broadens, just slightly; his nose crinkles, a dimple appears. My heart fizzes.

He likes me, I think. I smile back. He likes me.

Can I walk you home?

Rhys and I are standing outside the restaurant and I am still in the act of pulling my arms through my coat sleeves. Meg has already gone home so it is just us and his family left. I hesitate, thinking about my plan to call Dad so he could pick me up. Are you sure? It’s about half an hour.

I don’t mind. Unless . . . unless you mind?

I shake my head quickly.

For a second we both look at each other. OK, he says eventually, smiling a little nervously. He does a little hop-step over to his mother, has a quick conversation and comes back over to me, smiling. Lead the way. He makes a sign I don’t recognize.

What was that?

Rhys pauses, looking caught. Is he blushing? It’s your name.

My name?

He makes the sign again, his hands coming together like owl eyes then springing apart, his hands separating. His eyes meet mine and he smiles, then fingerspells the word. B – R – O – N – Z – E. Bronze.

A balloon swells in my chest. It lifts me right off the ground. You chose a BSL name for me?

Is that OK?

Before I can think about what I’m doing, I reach over and take his hand. I take his hand. It’s great.

He beams, relieved and pleased and shy, and gives my hand a little squeeze before releasing it so we can carry on talking. How was your food?

Good. You?

It was good.

It’s hard to talk while we’re walking, particularly as it’s already getting darker. I feel a kick of frustration – there’s so much I want to say to him. So much I want to hear. But we are who we are.

How does it feel being eighteen?

He shrugs. The same so far. Thanks for coming tonight.

Thanks for inviting me!

My parents are so happy I’ve made a friend like you. They’re really pleased you came.

Friend.

I look at him, trying to read his face in the dark. One of the things with BSL is that it’s pretty hard to say something you didn’t mean to say. There are no slips of the tongue when you talk with your hands. So did he mean ‘friend’ to tell me something? Was Meg wrong?

I’m pleased we’re friends too, I sign carefully. His eyes flick from my hands to my face, a slight crinkle in his forehead.

Can I ask you something?

Of course. I try to cover my terror with a smile. The pact.

What did you and Meg talk about? When you went to the bathroom? You were gone a while.

How can I answer that? How? I decide to be playful. Girl stuff.

Girl stuff?

I nod. We walk in silence for a while. I slide my hands into my pockets to keep them warm and try not to breathe too loudly. This is the loudest silence in the world. I can hear our footsteps.

After a while, Rhys makes a noise I can’t translate and signs something I can’t read. I squint at him. What?

He tries again. This time, I can just make out you and like and tonight. Well, that sounds promising.

One more time?

He lets out a half-laugh of frustration and takes my arm, pulling me a few steps down the road until we are both standing directly under a streetlight.

Did you like meeting Meg tonight?

Really?!

I look at him directly for a few seconds, letting him register the expression on my face. Then I sign, slowly and deliberately, Do you really want to talk about Meg?

Another long pause. He shakes his head. But . . .

But?

Did she tell you?

Tell me what?

Rhys raises his hands to his head and tugs on the ends of his hair, his face agonized. And then, finally, he says it. Meg isn’t my girlfriend.

I feel a ridiculous, inappropriate beam break out across my face. Isn’t she?

No.

That’s interesting.

He looks torn between laughter and panic. For a moment we just stare at each other. The glare from the streetlight makes his face look orange. She told you that, didn’t she?

Yes.

Did she tell you anything else?

God, this boy. He’s just as much of a wuss as I am. So you know what? I decide to just go for it. Let me be the bold one for once in my tiny, scared little life. She told me you like me.

He hesitates. He looks like a little boy. I do.

Not as a friend, I amend. As . . . more.

He nods. Yes.

I’m still beaming. My face is starting to hurt. Rhys is looking at me with such hopeful fear on his face it’s making me want to leap into the air and punch the stars. Cartwheel down the street. Burst into song. Say ‘hello!’ to everyone I see.

I see him bite his lip. Do you. Pause. Maybe. Pause. Like me too?

I nod. My smile might break my face.