The Italian Word for Kisses Read online

  Tav rolled his eyes. Daniel and Hayley went on and off like a light switch. They’d be on again by Sunday, but he still whacked Luca in the arm for laughing. Have to at least look like you’re sticking up for your mates, yeah?

  “Arse,” Luca complained, rubbing the spot. “What’d I ever do to you?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Daniel advised.

  “I want a lawyer present,” Tav agreed, and Luca snorted as he paused at his locker.

  “Good luck,” he said. “If you ever actually need a lawyer, your mam’ll kill you. Oh, hey, look, love letter.”

  A note had been poked through the hinge of the locker door, and Luca eased it out gently as he stuffed his PE kit into the chaotic nest of old notebooks, leaky pens and mostly-forgotten-apart-from-the-odd-smell lunches that had been steadily abandoned since the start of the school year. The note was just a strip of lined paper, folded in half, with nothing written on the outside.

  “Bet it’s Lucy in your French class,” Daniel said.

  “Bet it’s Aaron,” Luca retorted, and Tav pulled a face.

  “I’m gonna veto that if you don’t stop joking about it.”

  “Aww, am I making you paranoid?”

  Daniel made a gagging noise.

  “Naff off, Drizzy, not like you’re getting any here.”

  “Thank fuck for that!”

  Luca chuckled as he flipped open the note—and then his expression paused so fleetingly that Tav knew he wouldn’t have caught it if not for how long he had been watching Luca’s facial expressions. For a split second, or even less, he simply froze. And then he was snorting and screwing up the note in one hand.

  Tav was faster. He twisted Luca’s wrist and caught the note when it dropped free. “Hey!”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s shit, it’s nothing.”

  Tav smoothed it out. Luca simply huffed and slammed the locker door.

  “It’s just bollocks, Tav.”

  Tav swallowed.

  “Gimme that. And breathe, seriously, it’s not worth blowing your lid over.”

  Daniel edged between them to have a look. It was just a pencilled note in wobbly capitals. QUIT NOW QUEER BEFORE I MAKE YOU.

  “Quit what?” Daniel asked.

  “I dunno.”

  “And queer, seriously? Use your fucking imagination.”

  “Whatever happened to the inventive ones? Like pillow-biter. That’s a great one. Piss off, pillow-biter, that’s much better.”

  Tav scrunched the note up again, and heard Luca’s heavy sigh over the angry pulse hammering in his ears.

  “Stop it.”

  “Report it,” Tav ground out.

  “What, tell a teacher? As if. It’s some cocky Year Eleven thinking he’s big. Or one of Angelo’s stupid mates playing like he’s a brave boy now. Give it here,” Luca added, sliding the note out of Tav’s fingers.

  “If I find out…” Tav started, and Luca snorted.

  “Stop flapping,” he said briskly, and tore the note into little pieces. They rained down on the floor in rough-shaped confetti. “There,” Luca said. “Now get out of your snit and go away. Sam texted last night saying he’s going to try sneaking his sister’s tarantula in, and I have to get a look at this.”

  Tav watched him go, and eyed the confetti. He felt uneasy—and when they returned from their final classes that afternoon to find the locker door smashed, and the word faggot scrawled in blue on the busted lock, Tav knew that unease was dead on.

  * * * *

  “What is it with hospitals and loud clocks?”

  Antonio looked up over the top of his newspaper. “You what?”

  Luca pointed at the clock. It was ticking. Loudly. Hence the question. Duh, Antonio.

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  “I’m bored.”

  “I can tell,” Antonio grunted. The consultant had stepped out ten minutes ago to discuss Luca’s test results with one of his colleagues, and Luca was bored of waiting. He was fine. No stupid pains, no coughing, no dying in the middle of the night. He wanted to go already.

  “Surely other people need to see the doctor more than I do?” he complained.

  “Basta!”

  “But―”

  “For the love of God, shut up. You’re enough to drive Mamma mad.”

  “You don’t have to be here,” Luca groused.

  “Yes, I do,” Antonio grumbled, and put down the paper with a sigh. “Will you stop twitching? The quack won’t be long and then I’ll drop you back off at home and you can get on with whatever’s clearly so stupidly important.”

  Luca rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling. “What’s taking so long?”

  “You’ve probably got cancer.”

  “Shut up, ‘Tonio.”

  The door clicked, and Luca sat upright as the doctor wandered leisurely across the office and back behind his unnecessarily large desk.

  “Well?” Luca asked, and Antonio hit him with the newspaper. “Hey!”

  “Rude,” Antonio grunted, and the doctor chuckled.

  “All clear.”

  Luca punched the air and smirked. Fucking knew it, man. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket.

  “Your scan was clear, your physical was fine, and your blood tests came back normal,” the doctor said, flipping idly through his notes. “Finish your course of antibiotics, and any problems―” His eyes flicked to Antonio. “―take him to the GP.”

  “Cool,” Luca said. He texted Tav a cheery sex is back on the cards bitch!!! “Let’s go, then.”

  Antonio snagged his jacket sleeve in an iron fist and Luca groaned, sagging. He needed to go! “Mamma says he keeps coughing in the night.”

  “Provided it wears off over the next week, I wouldn’t worry about it,” the doctor said. “His lungs were fine on the scan images. They just need to work that out for themselves.”

  “Antonio, let’s go.”

  “And the bruising on his face?”

  “Will heal in time. He had no fractures—remarkably, to be honest with you. If he suffers any fits, blackouts, dizziness or headaches then take him to the GP, but he’s shown nothing since he came in, so I wouldn’t expect it now.”

  “Can,” Luca said slowly, “we…go.”

  “Alright, Jesus,” Antonio snorted, and let go of his shoulder. The doctor smirked. “Cheers, doc.”

  Luca bounced up out of his seat and was out of the consultation room before Antonio had even stood up. He heard those heavy boots catching up, but didn’t care. Priorities. Serious priorities, and the all-clear wasn’t top of the list.

  “Hey!”

  Luca spun when Antonio caught his shoulder again, and snarled. “I need to go!”

  “Go where?” Antonio demanded. “Slow down, Jesus, it’s not that important. And Mamma’s given strict orders I run you home first, so wherever―”

  “Not that kind of go!” Luca interrupted, shaking Antonio off and diving into the gents’. As the door swung shut, he heard Antonio’s barking laugh, and he’d barely unzipped before the door swung again and Antonio, smirking, leaned against the wall by the urinals.

  “You could’ve said.”

  “I did.”

  “No wonder you were twitching.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Luca drawled, rolling his head back to sigh at the ceiling in relief. “Jesus. I am never drinking anything while waiting for a hospital appointment ever again.”

  Antonio chuckled.

  “At least Mamma’ll stop fussing now,” Luca mumbled.

  “Nah, she’s got at least two more weeks in her,” Antonio said. “Dad might though.”

  “Dad never fusses.”

  “Luc, he managed that hour-long drive from work in twenty minutes, and then Mamma started shouting at him for driving when he clearly wasn’t fit. I thought he was going to faint by the time he got here.”

  Luca rolled his eyes. Dad was all strong-and-silent, stiff-upper-lip shit. He didn’t even hug. Mamma hugged total strang
ers and stray cats, but Dad’s idea of…dadding, or whatever, was to grunt in your direction before school every morning. And if you were flavour of the month, at dinner, too.

  “Don’t pull that face.”

  “I’ll pull whatever face I like,” Luca grumbled as he zipped up again.

  “Yeah, well, you freaked everybody out. Let ‘em fuss. What you complaining about anyway, if Mamma’s fussing over you, you can dob Angelo in it next time he’s being a pissy bitch.”

  “True,” Luca mused.

  “Swear he should’ve been the poufter, not you.”

  “Angelo? Please. He’s been boob-obsessed since he was six.”

  “That late?”

  Luca sniggered as he dried his hands off, and allowed Antonio to swing an arm around his neck and yank him in sideways for a brief hug. Antonio was right, even if Luca didn’t have to like it. He’d scared people with the accident, and even if Luca felt fine, he suspected it’d take until his face stopped looking like tarmac for other people to chill out.

  “Wanna stop on the way home? You might be still in blazer and tie five days a week, but some of us are legal.”

  “Not if you’re going to make me drink fucking pop,” Luca grumbled. “I’m not ten, you know. Even Mamma lets me have alcohol at the table.”

  “Yeah, at Christmas,” Antonio teased. “Nah, pint of lager, packet of crisps, game of pool at The Psalter? Mamma’s not home for another hour yet anyway, and then you’ll be in her clutches all evening, face like that.”

  “Oh shut up,” Luca groused, then grinned. “For that, I’m gonna kick your arse at the pool table.”

  “You wish, dweeb.”

  Chapter 7: “I was hoping Christopher had grown out of his…volatile phase.”

  Tav wasn’t stupid.

  School wasn’t exactly the friendliest place on earth, you know, but it forgot shit easy. It got over stuff. There’d been a lot of name-calling and crap when people had first figured it out about him and Luca—not much more, ‘cause of Luca’s scary-as-shit eldest brother, and Tav’s tendency to solve arguments with his fists, but still.

  Point was, school forgot stuff. Him and Luca, they were old news now. Everyone knew about them, and everyone had either got used to it, or learned to shut the fuck up about it.

  Which meant, really, there was one clear suspect for the fucknut that’d stuffed that note in Luca’s locker.

  Thanks to trying to thank Jack for his actions the other day, Tav knew where his locker was. He had a suspect, he had a location, and he had a hot fist of anger clenching around his stomach. So first thing Friday morning, he made his excuses to Luca and escaped a good fifteen minutes before the first bell. If he had to lay in wait—as he had no idea what the rest of Jack’s day consisted of—then he would.

  Because he’d turned his conclusion over and over again in his head since yesterday, and kept coming right back here. Everyone else knew. Ever since Luca had come out—or been outed, depending how you looked at it—to his parents, they hadn’t bothered to keep it a secret. And that was years ago, back when they’d just started dating. It was too late to give Luca stick for it. Their year and the one above knew Antonio and wouldn’t dare fuck too much with Luca anyway. And the younger years weren’t allowed into the sixth form block. They wouldn’t even know where his locker was to trash it.

  But Jack would. And for Jack, the new kid, it wasn’t too late or too dangerous.

  “Hey!”

  Jack was already at his locker, looking an odd mix of aggressive and awkward with a heavy leather jacket slung over his blazer and his face still flushed from the icy wind outside. He scowled at Tav, his default expression, and slammed his locker door shut; Tav ignored him, and folded his arms.

  “What d’you want?” Jack grunted.

  “Luca’s locker got trashed yesterday.”

  Jack didn’t bat an eyelid. “Yeah? And?”

  “And I’m guessing you know something about that.”

  Jack snorted. It was an ugly, derisive sound. “Why would I?”

  “You know what someone wrote on the door?”

  “You deaf? Why would I?”

  “‘Cause whoever did it called Luca a faggot,” Tav said slowly, “and the only person around here that that’s news to is you.”

  Jack’s lip curled, showing a row of sharp, crooked teeth. “Just ‘cause people know doesn’t mean they hafta like it. Doesn’t mean shit.”

  “Never happened before.”

  “Still doesn’t mean shit. Maybe someone finally got the balls to say it, then.”

  “Say what.”

  “The truth. I’m all for equality and that gay shit, but parading it around? That’s different, that. Nobody wants to see that.”

  “Parading what around.” Tav’s voice was very quiet, and very flat. He wasn’t asking questions. He was demanding answers.

  And he wasn’t getting them. “Whatever,” Jack sneered, and turned on his heel. Tav lashed out with an arm and slammed him back against the locker. “Oi! Don’t fucking touch me, poufter!”

  “What’d you call me?”

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” Jack snarled, shoving Tav away. He was wiry. Swimmer’s physique, just like Luca. And Tav knew that swimmers could be strong, but usually weren’t. They had the tools, and no knowledge of how to use them. Easy losers in a fight. Easier than a lot of less fit guys. So—

  “What’d you fucking call me?!” he demanded.

  “Piss off back to your gender-bent girlfriend and get out of my space.”

  “Did you touch Luca’s locker?”

  “I ain’t touched nothing of Jensen’s, and I won’t neither. Fuck off.”

  “Did you do it?” Tav repeated tensely.

  The sneer rose a fraction of an inch, and Tav was shoved in the shoulder again. Fucktard was gonna lose his arm if he did that again.

  “Whoever did it,” Jack spat, “was fucking right. Not saying it were me, but that guy, he was right. Rest of us shouldn’t have to go around with that dirty wop perving on us all the fucking time.”

  The words were barely audible over the roar of blood in Tav’s ears. His heart jumped. His guts seized. He felt his nails digging into his palms. He felt his muscles bunching under his blazer. He could see the corridor dimming, the bright blue of the lockers dulling, and the damp feel of blood on his knuckles. Pain smudged blearily across his cheek, and he realised that not only had he lashed out, with dirty wop ringing in his ears, but Jack had retaliated.

  So Tav did the only logical thing, and hit him again. As hard as he possibly could—which was damn fucking hard.

  When Coach Evans came running, some girl screaming on the stairs, Tav had to be physically removed from Jack’s chest. He was dragged away by the coach and one of the PE assistants, their hands like iron bars when he fought back. His knuckles hurt. His lungs hurt, too, from the shouting he hadn’t heard himself doing. And the racist little shit, with a bloody nose and a bruised eye, was still fucking sneering.

  * * * *

  The classroom door opened with a dull schnick.

  “Christopher. Your father’s here.”

  Tav put his pen down. His knuckles hurt, and now his fingers did, too. Lines. Seriously. Who even gave that out as a punishment anymore? And they were lying lines. I will not resort to violence to solve differences with other pupils. It wasn’t a difference, it had been a racist pop at Luca, and fuck school if they thought Jack didn’t deserve everything he got.

  But Tav knew better than to say that to the bull troll that was Mrs. Henderson, Head of Year Twelve. So he said, “Stepdad,” instead.

  “Headmaster’s office,” she rumbled.

  Tav grunted and gingerly eased his bag over his shoulder. Jack wasn’t a pushover, Tav had to give him that. His face ached. But Jack had come off worse—Tav was sure he’d broken the tosser’s nose—so he didn’t mind. And Luca liked battle scars, he’d said so the summer Tav had broken his wrist brawling with Davey Michaels in the year
above. He might be mad about why Tav had gotten into it, but the aftermath…Luca never minded the aftermath.

  Ian was waiting in the headmaster’s office, still in his gardening overalls. He simply sighed at the state of Tav’s face, and handed him a clean handkerchief. Tav stuck it under his nose, and scowled at the headmaster. Mr. Aspinall—or Arsin’-All, as Daniel had dubbed him in Year Eight—looked down that long, thin nose, and steepled his fingers like a villain on a power trip.

  “Mr. Pretty―”

  It took Tav a moment to realise that meant Ian.

  “―two of my staff had to separate Christopher and John―”

  It took Tav another moment to realise that meant Jack. Did doing lines make you stupid? He felt kind of stupid right now.

  “―from fighting in the PE corridor before morning registration.”

  There was a long pause before Ian said, “Er. Right.”

  Mr. Arsin’-All sighed through his nose and said, “We do not accept physical violence between our students, Mr. Pretty. And quite frankly, I was hoping your son―”

  “Stepson,” Tav interrupted. Ian wasn’t his fucking dad. Okay, he was nicer than Tav’s actual dad, but still, he wasn’t a dad. He was Mam’s hubby. Different thing. And Tav didn’t need a fucking dad.

  Mr. Arsin’-All apparently didn’t agree, and Tav was treated to an acidic look that might have been withering, if his face hadn’t been aching too much for him to care. And anyway, what was he meant to do? Tell a teacher Jack was being racist? Get a life.

  “Quite frankly,” Mr. Arsin’-All said slowly, “I was hoping Christopher had grown out of his…volatile phase.”

  Tav scowled. Ian patted his knee and shook his head, and Tav jerked his leg away. “What was I meant to do?” he demanded hotly. “Jack called Luca a wop!” Jokes between mates were one thing—hell, Tav had called Luca worse—but that was jokes, that were fine. Jack hadn’t been fucking joking.

  Mr. Arsin’-All’s mouth thinned. “I will be having my own words with John,” he said gravely, “and I will make it quite clear that racist and homophobic language is equally unacceptable within the confines of this school—but regardless of what he said, Christopher, brawling in the corridor is not an acceptable response.”