A Quiet Kind of Thunder(6)

‘So tell me everything,’ Tem says, leading me into the children’s playground – deserted as always – and taking her usual seat in the middle of the merry-go-round. She arranges the two Starbucks cups in front of her and opens the paper bag, pulling out some kind of cake and splitting it in two with her hands. She looks up and throws me a quick grin.

‘Millie Gerdavey cheated on Jack Cole again,’ I say, taking a sip from my cup and smiling. She’s delivered me a caramel mocha. Extra sugar, extra caffeine. She must be worried about me.

‘Good for her,’ Tem says, shrugging. ‘Anything actually interesting?’

I laugh. Tem is basically immune to gossip, which is one of her best and worst traits.

‘OK, well, not really.’

‘Oh, no way!’ Her face drops. ‘All these years looking at the sixth formers and wishing we were them and now you’re telling me it’s not actually interesting?’

‘It’s not. It’s like the rest of school, except we don’t have to wear uniform. Which is a bonus, obviously. But still. Today was mainly intro stuff, anyway. Like, getting reading lists and timetables and stuff.’

‘How many words did you say today?’

I think about it. ‘Less than twenty, more than ten.’

‘Hmmm.’ Tem makes a face. ‘I guess that’s OK for your first day without me. I thought it might be less. Or, like, none.’

‘I met a boy,’ I say.

She is instantly alert. I swear her whole body snaps to attention. ‘What?’

‘I met a boy,’ I repeat, just to annoy her.

‘Stefanie!’ She flaps her hands at me. ‘Tell me everything. And I mean everything. Immediately. And – God – I hope some of those less-than-twenty-more-than-ten words were said to him.’

‘Actually, they weren’t,’ I say, enjoying the opportunity to wind her up for once. ‘I was entirely silent. So was he.’ I consider, then add, ‘Almost.’

She squints her face into a frown, like she’s trying to see inside my head. Finally, suspiciously, she says, ‘But you met him?’

‘He’s deaf,’ I say, and her face unfolds.

‘Oh.’ Understanding lights in her eyes. ‘Cool! So you were signing? That’s so great, Steffi. I always thought you should’ve carried that on.’

I ignore this, because the whole should-Steffi-sign-or-not issue was bad enough the first time round, and take a bite of the cake she’s brought. It’s some odd mix of doughnut and apple turnover, and it tastes like joy. ‘His name’s Rhys,’ I say. ‘Mr Stafford introduced us because I know some BSL.’

‘That makes sense. So? What’s he like? You know I want the details.’

‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Friendly. Really friendly, actually.’

‘I meant visually,’ Tem says, waving her hand. ‘Obviously.’

I smile. ‘Also nice to look at.’

‘Give me something to go on! Eyes? Hair? Teeth?’

‘Brown eyes. Short hair. Very nice teeth.’ I think of Rhys, smiling at me from across the table. ‘His skin is a light brown – I think he’s mixed race?’

‘I like the sound of him,’ Tem says, nodding. ‘I approve.’

I smile. ‘You don’t need to approve anything. He’s just a new guy at school.’

‘Sure he is,’ Tem says, drawling the words. ‘And you “just” wanted to tell me about him. And describe him. And make those doe eyes.’

‘I wasn’t making doe eyes!’

She raises one perfect eyebrow at me and takes a sip from her cup, a smirk on her face. ‘I think it should be your mission to kiss him. I’ll give you until . . . Bonfire Night.’

I laugh, half amused, half panicked. ‘Tem, I literally just met him today. We’re not even friends yet. Slow down.’

‘Why should I?’ she asks, shaking her head. ‘Why wouldn’t a handsome young fellow want to kiss you? That’s the question you need to be asking yourself.’

I open my mouth and her hand shoots out to cover it. ‘That was a rhetorical question, Brons. I wasn’t asking for a list.’

I wait till she removes her hand and answer her anyway. ‘Guys like to kiss girls who can talk.’

‘Um, so clearly not true. You’ve seen The Little Mermaid. There’s a whole song about it.’

I roll my eyes. ‘That song is about trying to get them to kiss, but they don’t.’

‘Whatever.’ She waves her hand. ‘My point is you’re obsessing way too much over a tiny little detail. So you don’t talk much – who cares? You can talk with your hands.’ Her face lights up with a mischievous grin. ‘Talk. With your hands.’ She splays out her hands around her face and mimes kissing, eyes closed, mouth agape. This is presumably meant to represent some kind of kissing-related sign language from someone who has never spoken any sign language in their life.

‘Oh, stop it,’ I say, laughing despite myself.

‘Fine, fine. Hey, do you want to come for a run with me tonight?’ she asks. She grins. ‘I promise I’ll go slow.’

‘How slow?’ I ask, suspicious.

Tem is a runner. Technically long distance, but she has a habit of lulling me into a false sense of security by jogging for thirty seconds and then sprinting off into the distance, just because she can.