A Thousand Perfect Notes(36)

‘You’re angry,’ she says.

‘No.’

‘Ah, of course. This is how you treat all your friends.’

Beck gestures to the empty footpath around them. ‘Ja. This is why I have so many friends.’

It’s bitter, sharp enough that they fall into silence again. August’s shoes make a flapping-slap sound, like her soles need gluing. Since he recreationally stares at the ground, he focuses on her broken shoes, not her face, and notices she’s doodled over her legs today. Compasses and lists of cities. Paris. Rio. Kuala Lumpur.

Maybe she would visit him in Germany …

Stop.

Don’t think like that. It’s not worth it.

‘This is about what I said the other day.’ August’s voice is unusually quiet, but not timid.

‘What?’ Beck knows exactly what.

‘About kissing you.’ She looks up, unabashed, unashamed. ‘I meant it, but I can also get over it if girls aren’t your thing.’

His face burns.

‘No.’ His tongue is in nineteen knots. ‘It’s not – that’s not it. It’s – I mean. I like girls but not—’

‘Don’t say “but not you”,’ August says. ‘You’ll break my heart.’

‘I wasn’t going to say that.’ Yes he was! Why is he still talking? Shut up, you idiot! ‘Doesn’t matter. Forget it.’ He walks faster.

‘I won’t.’ August keeps up easily. ‘We’ve got to get this sorted before my birthday.’

‘Your birthday? But it’s only July.’

‘Yes, you genius. My birthday is in July.’

‘But isn’t your birthday in, um, August?’

August groans to the heavens. ‘No! My parents aren’t that bad.’

‘So who are you named after? Augustus Caesar Salad?’

‘Firstly,’ August says, holding up a finger to tick off her points, ‘Augustus Caesar is not a salad, and secondly, I’m not named after anyone, my mum liked the name, and thirdly—’

‘Please let there only be three points.’

‘There are nine points, but you’re so deplorable I’ll stop after three.’ She sniffs, put out. ‘Thirdly. “August” means majestic, and my parents want me to sit on a throne eventually.’ She elbows him in the ribs. ‘Why are you called “Beck”? Your mum wanted a Rebecca?’

Beck doesn’t talk about his full name. No one does. It’s the most off-limits conversation in the entire universe. But knowing August? She’s not going to leave this alone. In fact, while his silence stretches, she rips up a piece of long grass as they walk and tickles him behind the ear.

He snatches it off her.

‘Beck is my nickname.’ That’s all he’s giving.

‘Short for Beckett? Or Beckham? Becker?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t make me threaten you,’ August warns. ‘Because I have so much blackmail material and I can also kick really hard and – oh! Remember when I gave you cake? You owe me.’

Beck’s voice folds into a whisper. ‘Beethoven.’

‘Sorry? What was that?’ August cups a hand to her ear. ‘I could’ve sworn you said—’

‘BEETHOVEN BLOODY KEVERICH.’ He yells it straight in her ear so she winces and nearly falls into the gutter. He gets a small amount of satisfaction from that.

August stops, her mouth drops, and she just stares at him. He hesitates, fingering his backpack straps. She wouldn’t – no, because August is nice, she’s not going to—

She doubles up and cracks up laughing.

Beck takes everything back. She is not nice.

‘Are you serious?’ she squawks. ‘Beethoven? Your name is literally Beethoven? And you’re a pianist? Did your parents hate you or plan this or—’

‘Shut up.’ He takes off, walking fast.

She’s laughing too hard to even walk straight, so she stumbles along behind him, wiping her eyes. Finally, the snorts subsiding, she dances to his side.

‘Well, Beethoven –’ she pauses to giggle, so he shoves her, harder this time, and she ducks away ‘– you’ve gotten me so off track. I was talking about my birthday before that beautiful reveal.’

‘If you call me Beethoven ever again,’ he growls, ‘I’ll throttle you.’

‘You do have large hands,’ she agrees. ‘But no friends to help you bury a body.’ She fakes a pout. ‘So sad, little Beethoven. You’re destined to put up with me.’

This sends her into another howl of laughter, and it’s nearly a minute before she’s composed enough to whip an envelope out of her satchel and smack it in his face.

‘This is for you,’ she says. ‘You have to come, by the way, because I’m turning sixteen and that’s a huge deal.’

Isn’t sixteen for kissing boys and driving cars and deciding on your future of possibilities? It would be for August. For him? The only possibility is a lifetime of diminished sevenths. His birthday isn’t until October, which is far enough away to make him feel miserably young next to August.

‘Is this a party invitation?’ Beck says warily.

‘Yes.’ August smiles dreamily. ‘Only a small crowd, very small, since everyone is terrified of my dogs. Or my parents. Who knows.’ She pauses to roll her eyes. ‘And my mum’s making a vegan cake—’