Scott Kellerman

My best mate Jimi's never had much of a sense of boundaries. At times, it's one of my favourite things about him; we wouldn't even have become friends if he didn't decide to invite himself over to my house that first day we met at Scouts. At other times though...

"Kellie," Jimi hollers as he waltzes into my room from the kitchen; although, with a mouth full of biscuits of assorted sizes and flavours, the noise he makes sounds less like my name, and more like an indistinct, garbled 'k' sound.

"What happened to those ginger butter biscuits you made? I was looking through your pantry for ages, and all I could find was these flapjack ones! I'll eat them, because I'm not a picky lad, but I've gotta be honest, K," he takes a sip from my water bottle on my desk before flumping stomach-down into the settee and delivering his final critique,

"They're a tad dry."

...At other times, my best mate Jimi could use a boundary or two. But he's got a good heart – that's what counts.

"D'you want one?" He offers as a token gesture, not quite extending the biscuit far enough for me to reach it.

"One of my dry flapjacks? Nah, I think I'm alright, J," I laugh, turning back around to face my desk and the mountain of homework I've barely tackled since Jimi's arrival. I let out a hefty sigh, and put my pen down resignedly. If you can't beat 'em...

"Pass one here then," I concede, and as he hands me a biscuit, Jimi smiles with the smugness of having finally distracted me.

He's preoccupied as he scrolls through his Instagram feed, so we chew in silence for a while, and as I dig my tongue into my teeth, I realize he's right: the flapjacks are a bit on the dry side.

I'm pretty sure my dad taught me the recipe, back when he had time for petty pastimes like baking and fatherhood. Back then, all I cared about was spending time with my father – the greatest man alive. That was kind of our thing. I didn't care how many times he cancelled on me because of meetings, or how many ingredients he forgot to pick up. All that mattered was that I'd spend an hour or two baking with my dad before he went back to being the glorious Archie Kellerman, filmmaker extraordinaire.

And now, 10 years later, I can't even stand being in the same room as the prick. I let out a dry laugh at the thought, even though it's not funny.

"Whatcha thinkin' bout?" Jimi interjects, and I'd almost forgotten he was there.

"Girls," I lie, taking another crunch of the crisp flapjack so that I don't have to elaborate any further.

Jimi knows me too well to buy it, and his snort is accordingly bold and dubious.

"Bullshit," he laughs. "But since you don't want to tell me what's actually on your mind, I'll bite... The fuck's going on with you and Bonnie Wyatt?"

"Me and Bonnnie?" I frown, not sure of what to say when there's nothing to be said.

"Nothing. What d'you mean?"

"Oh, piss off about 'nothing'," Jimi dismisses, sitting upright so that he can look me in the face.

"She flirts with you like crazy every time she sees you in the corridor! Touching your arms, calling you 'Scottie'..."

"Yeah...?"

"And you don't exactly discourage her..."

I shrug and shake my head as I look for an answer, but there really isn't one.

"Yeah but... that's 'cause she's Bonnie. I mean, that's just what she does. It's what she's done since we broke up in bloody Year 10. She's just like that."

Jimi tilts his head, considering what I've said with slightly raised brows.

"Wait, so, you aren't thinking about getting back together with her?"

"Fuck no," I say so quickly that I feel bad almost instantly, and rush to qualify it.

"I mean, I don't think either of us wants that, really."

To be honest, I've never even considered it. When Bonnie comes around me and the guys, all flirty and forward, I brush it off as a sort of performance. She'll flip her jet-black hair and pucker her lips while she flaunts her 'bawdy bad girl' persona, but once the bell rings for the end of break, it's out of sight, out of mind. Sure, she shoots me the odd shameless text every now and then, but that's just Bonnie being Bonnie – playing to the crowd.

"She's cool sometimes, I guess," I say with as much fair-mindedness as I can muster, "but... nah, man. I mean, we're not... I guess, she's just not-"

"She's not E.F.C.," Jimi finishes my sentence, and I can hear his smirk before I see it.

"Fuck off, man," I laugh, swiveling around to face my desk chair so he doesn't catch me grinning like an idiot. But I can't help it.

She's not E.F.C. anymore, she's just Evangeline – my friend Evangeline who texts me when she's bored, and hugs me goodbye at the end of lunch, and whose knees touch mine comfortably when we sit side-by-side.

Calling her my 'friend' isn't exactly what I've always dreamt of but damnit it's close, and now the thought of her in my mind is real – so real that I can hear her silvery laugh, and smell the jasmine and vanilla, and God, how can I not grin like an idiot?

Jimi leaps up like the childish prick he is, jabbing me in the sides while he croons his inane song.

"Scott and Angie sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!

First comes love,

Then co-"

I don't let him get any further before I pick a Physics textbook from behind me and launch it at his midsection in one swift, red-faced motion.

"Ouch, man! You know that shit weighs, like, 50 kilos!"

"Then best not to piss me off, hey?" I laugh.

"Alright, alright, so what's the plan?"

"Plan?"

"Uh, yeah?" Jimi stares at me plainly, as though whatever he's saying couldn't be any clearer.

"When are you gonna ask Angie out and getting out of the goddamn friend zone?"

"Wh- I- I'm not in the friend zone! Don't bloody look at me like that, I'm not!" I insist.

Although I'm not quite sure I'm convinced myself, and Jimi's skeptically cocked brow says he feels the same.

I run a hand over my hair in contemplation.

"I mean, yeah, we're friends, and we talk about most things, including her breakup; and she's always saying what a good 'friend' I am; and I'm pretty sure she's got me re-saved in her phone as Bestie... but that's not... that doesn't mean I'm in the friend zone. It just means..."

I gape like a fish, trying to find the words but there's no escaping it.

Damn it. It means that Jimi might be right.

"No fear, my man," Jimi cheeses, gripping my shoulders in a rough clasp probably intended to have be reassuring. So far, it's having the opposite effect.

"All you've got to do is show her that you're more than just 'her mate Scottie'."

My face scrunches up, cringing at the nickname, but I let him go on – he's having his fun.

"Show her that you're versatile – you can be a best mate and a bad boy; you can listen to her when she pours her heart out, but you can also make that same heart race," he says, and I can hear it is in voice when he chuckles at this somewhat witty wordplay.

Amused, I laugh and fold my hands behind my head as Jimi begins to parade about the room like some sort of car salesman.

"Alright, Shakespeare – how do you propose I do that?"

"Oh – easy peasy. You create the perfect opportunity to help her see that A, you're her dream lad, and B, there's a future for you two as more than friends. Graduation. Imagine it: you roll through, all tuxedo'd up, lookin' suave and successful after the ceremony, and then bam. You see her across the hall – fiery hair flying in the wind, and you swagger up and say- wait, why do you look like your dog just died?"

Jimi pauses his performance when he stops to glance at me, and sees how my face has dropped.

"No, sorry, man, it's just," I fumble, trying to laugh off the anxiety that I can't get away from. "Just... maybe let's focus on getting to graduation before making any grand plans, yeah?"

My shaky laugh doesn't convince him any better than it does me, and he takes a seat opposite me and stares me somberly in the face.

"Kellerman, come on. Don't be daft; of course you're graduating."

"Shit, hopefully. I know I'll get there, it's just the bit that comes afterwards that's freaking me out," I admit in a moment of total honesty. My shoulders ease.

"What am I doing with my life after that? Everything's led up to right now, applying to schools and moving on to the next grand phase... but I can't even figure out what I want. What if I'm not built for university, man? What if I get there - America, Ireland, Oxford; wherever I end up – and I'm just in over my head?"

Jimi rubs his palms together with a heavy sigh as he looks for answer. There isn't one and we both know it. There isn't one because there isn't a real problem. It's me that needs to feel drawn to one version of my future more than the others. I need to feel sure.

"Hey," he tries, his tone high with hope, "didn't you say you were thinking about doing an internship at your dad's studio? You know, learning the ropes of the film industry and stuff?"

It's my turn to sigh. He's right: part of me held out hope about going to New York to work with my dad, and just... being around him again. But that's not the future that excites me. In fact, the thought of living with my dad again makes me a bit mad. I shake my head.

"Yeah, but I'm hardly eager to be around him. Plus, the last thing I want is to leave my mum just to hang around in my dad's shadow. Fuck that."

Jimi nods solemnly, understanding more than I've even said.

Suddenly, he punches my shoulder – hard.

"Oh shit, wait – aren't you meant to be hearing back from one of the universities today? Which one is it again?"

I shrug in my best attempt to feign nonchalance.

"Oh, yeah, I guess that is today. I don't remember which one though," I lie through my teeth.

"Maybe one of the American ones?"

In a totally characteristic dramatic gesture, Jimi lets out a high-pitched wail and grips me in a headlock.

"Jimi, fuck off!" I laugh.

"Let me grieve, man," Jimi cries falsetto, "my best mate's gonna leave me to travel halfway across the world somewhere!"

I smack at his hands and wriggle my way out of his hold, panting.

"Don't you start," I groan, "Mum's already cried about it like 4 times this week, and I don't even know what bloody university I'm going to yet."

My phone pings as Jimi sniffles and his alligator tears dry up.

"Speaking of Mum..." I say, squinting to read the incoherent text message that's lit up my home screen.

"Looks like you'll have to save your grieving for another time, J. She needs me to pick her up from some PTA party. I think."

From: Mum

hi drling!

plcan you piack up me + friend from pta fnction? dont think either can dr.iev ansd can u drop her offf toopls?

love u darlng! xxxx

***

Evangeline Channing

"I don't bloody know, August," I say for what feels like the 100th time as I stir a fresh mug of coffee, watching the creamy milk swirl around in the brown and disappear.

"The connection was shit. All I know is that Mum called, told me she was on her way home now, and that she had a bit to drink so her friend's son was dropping her off," I shrug as best I can with my phone still precariously held between my ear and shoulder.

August's slim reddish brows make a ridge when she frowns.

"But it's past 12, and she's been there since like 6! Since when does Mum willingly stay at PTA functions for more than an hour?"

"I know, right?" My eyes widen in agreement.

"Usually she signs the register and slinks out before all the posh high-heeled housewives can corner her."

While I'm tapping a finger against my lip in thought, the doorbell chimes, sending a light ringing throughout the house.

"There she is now," I smile, grabbing my warm mug from the counter as I head down the corridor.

"Yeah, finally," August grumbles, "at bloody half past midnight."

I laugh as I begin to unlatch the door.

"Don't be such a mum, Auggie!" I shout to her in the kitchen. "It'll be you having the late nights out on the town soon!"

The door hits the back wall as it swings open, and Mum's laugh enters the house before she does. She's sat in the backseat of a rather modern-looking Buick, alongside no one other than Fleur Kellerman.

I can't believe my eyes, of course. As far as I knew, Mum had always hated women like Fleur, and thought of Fleur herself as a Wealthy Wicked Witch of her obnoxiously large McMansion. And now here they are, giggling together like girls.

It's a surprising sight, sure. But not half as surprising as Scott, who's stood on my doorstep, with his hands in his back pockets, and cheeky glee painted across his chiseled features.

"Hey there, Evangeline," he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fancy seeing you here."