Page 13 of We Could Be Heroes

Little bitch, Will thought proudly. Ever since declaring over a game of Monopoly that they were exploring their nonbinary identity, Dylan had stepped up their shade game. Will liked to think he could take some credit for that, but every now and then Dylan would remind him just how ruthless a disaffected teen could be.

“My skin is more snatched than the Lindbergh baby,” Will replied.

“What’s that?” Dylan asked, tilting their head. “How old are you again?”

“Dylan, be nice to your uncle,” said Margo. “He doesn’t live with us anymore, his natural immunity to your barbs is diminishing.” She kissed Will on the temple and held up a basket of tomatoes. “Do these piccolos look like they’ll last the week?”

“They look so ready to go the distance I might buy a ring.”

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I am. I fought my hangover and I won. Also, you are going to freak when I tell you who I met last night.”

He trailed behind his sister, launching into the tale. Margo barely looked up from the aubergines she was examining when he mentioned Patrick Lake. Will wondered at first if she was really listening, or if last night did not make as good a story as he thought.

Margo, it turned out, was listening; she just wasn’t impressed. Which was in keeping with her entire personality.

“The first Kismet movie was awful,” she said. “Me and Dylan watched it on our last film night.”

“Aww, you guys still have film night?” Will teased.

“Barely ever!” Dylan protested, clearly mortified by the idea that anyone would know they still spent Sunday nights curled up on the sofa under a blanket with their mother.

“I never saw it.” Will shrugged.

“He was quite good in that other thing, though,” said Margo, holding up a punnet of mushrooms in each hand for scrutiny. “I forget what it’s called. You know, the action thing.”

“You could quite literally be describing anything.”

“She means the spy thriller,” said Dylan, tone exhausted. “The Bullet Journal.”

“Do you have dinner plans?” Margo asked, handing Dylan her tote bag, which was now brimming with fresh produce.

Will thought of his empty fridge and his near-empty bank account.

“I was thinking I might grab myself some sushi,” he said.

“Nice. Ten Ichi?”

“Tesco.”

“Absolutely not.” Margo gagged. “Supermarket sushi is the pits, Will. You don’t get to eat like a poor student when you never actually went to uni.”

“The reduced-to-clear aisle is actually a very happening spot this time of day,” said Will. “Lots of eligible divorced dads. Come with me. You never know, you might meet someone.”

Just as he had hoped, Margo grabbed Will by the shoulder and steered him toward the indoor fish market. “There’s a great place here where you eat at the counter,” she said. “We’ll all go. My treat. I’ve decided I can’t be arsed to cook.”

“Yes!” Dylan pumped their fist, then immediately acted like they hadn’t. Will smiled.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, not even bothering to try to sound genuine.

Margo just shook her head. “Supermarket sushi. Honestly, Will. You need to want more for yourself.”

Will allowed himself to be led into the hall, stomach already rumbling at the thought of a dragon roll. Maybe some seaweed. Ooh, and that tasty fried-pumpkin thing he liked. Perhaps afterward, he would go back outside to the rag market and eye up some fabric for his next costume.

Who needs movie stars, he thought, when you’ve got a sister who’ll pay for dinner?

Chapter 8

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