A Thousand Perfect Notes(11)

Beck drops Joey on her feet and dumps his packs on the sidewalk. He’s a jerk, yes, but he’s not the kind of jerk that’s going to let someone bleed to death.

‘Do you have a phone?’ August says weakly. ‘I could call my dad to pick me up.’

Beck hesitates. ‘Um, no. You don’t have one?’ Because he sure doesn’t.

August shrugs. ‘My family doesn’t really believe in them. I mean, we’re not living in a cave.’ She lets out a half-hearted laugh. ‘I have an iPod and we’ve got houselines and – sorry, I’m totally rambling.’

Beck tries to think if he has something in his bag he could wrap it in. His maths homework?

Joey creeps closer and squats in front of the battered foot. ‘What did you kick?’

‘Who, not what,’ August says. ‘Some idiot killing frogs in the guys’ toilets.’

‘You went into the boy toilets?’ Joey draws back, as if this kind of idiocy is contagious.

August shrugs and sits down in the middle of the sidewalk. She cradles her bloody foot – it looks like a complete toenail is missing. ‘You shouldn’t kill things. Not dreams or happiness or animals. I’m really anti-killing. So the disagreement got a little physical and some guy had a stupid steel-toe boot and—’ She bites her lip. ‘I think I might’ve deflected off him into the wall.’

‘You could wear shoes, you know.’ Beck is desperately trying to think of a way he won’t have to whip off his shirt and offer it as a bandage. Because – please no.

August grits her teeth. ‘I knew you’d say that. But you know what? I shouldn’t have to wear shoes to kick someone because they’re killing harmless frogs.’ Her face has gone red with the injustice.

‘OK, whatever.’ Beck turns around and squats down. He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Get on my back.’

‘What?’

Joey lets out a squeak of delight. ‘Oh, Beck’s gonna give you a piggyback!’

August eyes widen. ‘Beck, I’m way too heavy …’

‘Nope.’ Beck shrugs his shoulders again. ‘Get on. I lift weights, you know.’ He does not. ‘I’m not leaving you to bleed to death on the sidewalk.’

‘And here I was thinking that’d make you happy.’ She peels herself off the footpath and hops towards Beck. ‘I can call my dad from your house.’

And the Maestro won’t be in till late – what a relief.

August touches his shoulders tentatively and then, with an ‘I’m probably going to kill you,’ she’s on. Beck stumbles upright, stretches, and then hooks his arms under her thighs for balance. He’s holding a girl. Her arms lie loosely around his throat. The smell of her is all over him – part sweat and coppery blood and coconut. She’s no featherweight Joey, obviously, but he won’t drop her.

He’s got this.

He takes a step and then another.

Joey has picked up his backpack and has a look of severe concentration on her face as she trots doggedly after them.

‘Aren’t I great?’ August says dully. ‘A damsel in distress.’

‘Well,’ Beck says, unwilling to admit to her – or himself – that he doesn’t mind at all. ‘When I kick a wall, you can carry me home.’

‘Deal.’

Joey breaks into a jog to catch up, panting. ‘I’m gonna kick a wall too!’

Beck groans. ‘Oh, Joey, you Schwachkopf. I’ll carry you tomorrow, I swear.’

Although August doesn’t feel like an elephant on his back, Beck’s knees still go slightly weak when he reaches his driveway. She slides off and, hanging off his elbow, she hops to the front door. Beck tackles it open with the key and holds his breath for a second, praying desperately that the house is empty.

Because what if it’s not?

Hey, Mutter, here’s a bleeding girl I found who’s possibly a friend? But I don’t know. Jury’s out. Don’t kill me when she’s gone.

‘Um, come in, I guess?’ Beck holds the door open. He’s never done this, not once in his life.

‘I’ll try not to bleed all over your house.’ August limps inside after Joey.

Beck is having a small heart attack. So what does he do first? Does he give her the phone? Offer to bandage her foot? Give her some water? There’s no food to offer, unless she wants cereal, and –

She’s going to see how bare the house is. How cold. How bleak. They don’t own much, just useful furniture and filing cabinets of music. No decorations. His family collects bruises and German insults instead of crockery and photo frames.

‘This is the kitchen.’ Joey guides August down the hall and into the tiny yellow kitchen. She pulls up a chair – at least the preschooler has manners, sort of … when she’s not swearing at someone – and then she stands back and stares at August seriously. ‘Do you need a Band-Aid?’

August raises her foot and surveys it. ‘Probably a big Band-Aid.’ Her soles are black with dirt and the blood has mixed with the grime so it’s impossible to see the extent of the injury.

Beck gives her their house phone. His hands are shaking – stupid, stupid. But he can’t quell the urge to do a quick dash around the house and check each room, each corner, to be sure the Maestro isn’t here.