THURSDAY
13 DECEMBER, 1990
ISAIAH

               Dorian watches me comb leave-in conditioner through my wet afro. I took my braids out weeks ago but since I've been going to Muma's as little as possible, I haven't had the chance to ask Auntie Tamila to redo them and my hair is left free. I think he prefers it like this. It makes my hair routine last longer than a simple washing and oiling of the scalp between braids and he is given the privilege of following every step.

He sits on the bed in his boxers. His housecoat, which he's taken to wearing between shower and sleep since December proved too cold even for him, lays over his legs like a blanket.

'I might let my hair grow out a little.'

'Yeah?' I cast him a smile and my heart flutters when he doesn't pretend that he wasn't looking. 'I think that's a good idea.'

'I'm not sure it'll suit me though.' He palms his own short afro up and down. 'Not like you.'

My body realises something's wrong before my brain does. Dorian's silence harrows goosebumps on my arms and I rake my fingers through the last section of wet curls only once before abandoning the task.

'My parents won't like it.' He starts to jab Chopin's first piano concerto into his thighs only to cut himself off. His fingers remain clawed; if he didn't file them so short, his nails would pierce skin. 'But who cares? I certainly don't.'

'You ever consider becoming an actor? Cause that there were Oscar-worthy. I am totally convinced.'

Dorian doesn't even look at me. The candle holder between my lungs is empty; its needle pokes my heart when I breathe.

Holding my towel around my waist, I move to the bed.

'It's just confidence, cuz. I love my hair so it suits me.' I place my hand on the duvet beside him. I'd place it on his knee but he doesn't always like being touched when he's anxious and this communicates the intended comfort just as well. 'You'll learn to love your hair too.'

Dorian crumbles into sobs.

'They'll kill me. My parents, they're going to kill me.'

The change is so abrupt it takes a moment for me to manage to do anything but stare. I shift closer, keeping my hands wrung in my lap. 'They–'

'They will.'

Dorian grabs his head and pulls it down, forcing his spine to curl more than it should. The position shoves out his shoulder blades until they threaten to rupture his skin. Sobs quickly accelerate his breathing; I doubt he's getting in any oxygen.

'I've spoiled their honour. You don't understand, Shay — honour is everything.'

I want to argue that I, if anyone, understand: I'm a trophy of spoiled honour and it was no consolation prize. I'm so low I'm not even worth killing. But that won't comfort him.

'Listen, cuz, you're eighteen in eight months. We'll be off to Oxford in autumn. Everyting gonna be criss.' I bend low to catch his eyes. 'If they wanna kill you, they'll have to get through me first.' It's such a ridiculous thing to say, it pauses his tears, which is all the encouragement I need to continue. 'Your parents ain't gon kill you. You're gonna be murdered by a toaster on Y2K.'

His expression is torn between smiling and grimacing. 'It's not real.'

'I know it's not real.' It takes conscious effort to keep relief from disrupting my poker face but I manage to keep my mission of distracting him incognito. 'But if it is, you rich people are gonna die first. My house ain't even got no internet or telly or nuttin.'

'Well, neither does mine. My parents say it's forbidden.' If the way his face screws up is anything to judge by, he immediately regrets humouring me. We've had this playfight a dozen times, yet he never learns. 'It's still not real.'

'I know it's not real. But if it is, is all I'm saying, cuz. The planes are gonna fall down from the sky and I ain't gon be on one of em cause I can't afford a ticket. Nor can I afford a toaster, so.'

Dorian sits up, surplus tears still streaming from his eyes. I dry his cheeks and he leans into my hands. It means thank you and I'm safe here.

How lucky we are to be friends. Romantic love easily becomes possessive, but critically, it easily becomes shortsighted. It takes only a few wrong turns for it to warp you into an object of love rather than a companion for it. But we've been friends far too long to insist the other crams into a mould.

'If it is real, it'll impact computers and computer systems, not toasters.'

'Same difference.'

He shakes his head which is still clasped in my hands so his cheeks squish in a way that makes butterflies flutter in my head. 'The planes won't fall from the sky on Christian New Year just because they don't know to write two thousand on a computer.'

'What did you say?' When Dorian only stares at me, perplexed, I specify, 'Christian New Year? What's Christian New Year?'

His eyebrows pinch. 'What do you mean? It's Christian New Year. December thirty-first.'

'That's not Christian New Year. Ain't got nuttin to do with Jesus. It's just New Year.'

He looks at me like you would at a foolish but well-meaning child. 'No. They have Christmas and then New Year, like we have Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.' When I continue to shake my head, he straightens his spine and challenges with full confidence, 'When's Christian New Year then?'

My hands flop onto my lap. Without you, I have nothing to hold.

'They don't have one...' Leaning back, my gaze floats to the ceiling as I think. 'Well I guess technically Christmas is their new year. Cause they count time "before Christ", "after Christ" and that. So that would make Jesus's birth the start of the count.'

Dorian remains silent and I look at him to find an expression similar to the kind he wears when he sees aubergine. A laugh simmers in my stomach.

'Can we talk about something else? This is making my brain uncomfortable.'

I shoot him a look that means: you started it, only to grin. 'Yeah, we can chat more about how you're gonna die before I do on Y2K.'

'Good...' His eyes meet mine, so gentle they can only reflect God. 'I wouldn't want to live a minute without you anyway.'

My heart swells so rapidly, I fear it might break. Can a heart break from too much love? I want to shove him for saying something so sweet with no warning but hug him instead.

I love that our hugs are just as comfortable as they've always been. I love that they're different enough that, when he falls backwards on the bed so I collapse on top of him, bare chest to bare chest, I don't need to scramble away to conceal my blush. I get to rest on him, gazing down at him, as my cheeks burn.

I stroke his hairline which is already fuzzy with curls longer than they've been in years. 'You're my best friend, Doron. I know I can't replace your family, but I'll always love you.' The only thing I can guarantee is that I'll always love you. I pray it's enough.

Dorian smiles and I press a kiss onto it.

'Have you listened to your cassette yet?'

'No. You know I always listen back on Saturday evening. Why?'

'No reason,' I say though immediately contradict it. 'I left something for you on there but I'll tell you in person.' I clear my throat with grand exaggeration and Dorian giggles under me. 'You know I love you. You're my best friend.'

'Yes. You're my best friend too.'

'Yeah, you're my best friend. And I love you. But...' My humorous pretence wilts. I sit up, fix the towel around my hips, and toy with my Star of David the way he so often does. 'I was hoping I could love you... also... as... my boyfriend.'

The humour drains from his face.

I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth before pulling it off with a click. 'So...?'

Dorian lifts himself onto his elbows. 'You want to be my boyfriend?'

'Yeah, I mean, ideally, if you're my... boyfriend, I would also be... your boyfriend. But...' My hands flail around with my speech until I raise them in surrender. 'If you don't want to! That's criss.'

'Of course, I want to.'

'For real?'

'Yes.'

Sitting up properly, Dorian strokes damp curls out of my eyes, cups my face, and leans in only to pull back to check. I kiss him before he can ask. I'm sure I imagine it, but there's a sweetness on his lips that wasn't there before.

He's grinning when we pull back. 'Do you want to stay over the weekend?'

I squint at him. 'But it's... the weekend. And it's the middle of Chanukah. You're supposed to spend that with your family.'

'You're my family. I can tell them I want to stay because it's my last year and I want to honour the school.' Kissing my cheek, he mimics me: 'So?'

A laugh spills from my mouth and down his shoulder. 'Yeah. I'll stay.'

Joy kindles readily in my chest. It glows all the way to my fingers, sweet and gold as honey which daubs my tongue when I kiss him. We've never spent a weekend together. We're spending the weekend together. I am spending the weekend with my boyfriend.