Page 13 of A Flash of Neon
“They could? That sounds messy.”
Neon is one thing – he looks like any other teenager – but monsters or mythological creatures would have a much harder time blending in.
“Tell me about it,” Neon says. “Fanfic has made things complicated too. People make up stories about celebrities, but it’s not who they really are, only their idea of them. Last year, there was a girl in Wales who actually managed to manifest a fictionalised version of her favourite singer. Luckily it was passed off as a very good lookalike, but it was a close call – a lot of people were asking why Jung Kook was looking at kitchen tongs in a supermarket in Llandudno.”
I blink at him. “OK. Well, let’s try to avoid any other … unexpected visitors.”
“Unexpected visitors? You keep forgetting thatyouinvitedmehere.In my world, that was real. I didn’t think it would be such an inconvenience for you.” He laughs but the hurt in his voice makes guilt nip at my skin.
“It’s not that I’m not happy you’re here,” I say quickly. “Of course I am. But it’s not as simple as that.”
“It could be.” He puts his arm round my shoulders and shakes them lightly. “No one is going to find out that you made me up, I promise. Who would even believe it if they did?”
A few people stare at Neon as we walk through the gates. I’d feel intimidated by that, especially never having been to school before, but Neon seems unfazed: he kicks a stray ball back towards a group of first years when it rolls our way, and shouts a loud hello to three girls in the year above me who are looking at him and whispering. I lead him to reception and ask Mr Jamieson if it’s OK if Neon joins me in class today.
“I have a letter from his mum to say it’s fine,” I add quickly. I knew we’d be asked for that, so before we left this morning Neon and I wrote a letter on Joel’s laptop, printed it out and signed it Karma Hart. Mr Jamieson grumbles a bit – apparently I should have asked weeks ago – but he eventually asks Neon to sign the guest entrance register and hands over a visitor’s badge. Neon clips it on to his school jumper proudly.
“Can you take a photo of me?” he asks.
He pulls a bunch of cheesy poses outside reception while I take photos on my phone. The kids around us are making no effort to hide their stares. When he smiles back at a group of first-year girls, they all burst into giggles and hurry away like flustered ducklings.
The corridor is filling up now. I lead Neon towards the spot where I always meet Caitlin and Hannah before registration. It feels a bit like shepherding a toddler – Neon wanders into the Art classroom to take a look at a row of self-portraits pinned to the wall, and I have to steer him away from the canteen when he smells the bacon sandwiches left over from breakfast.
Caitlin and Hannah are in the upstairs corridor talking to Hari and Russell, who are in 3C with us. The boys both do a double take when they see Neon.
“You’re Laurie’s American friend!” Hari points at Neon. “We all thought she made you up!”
“See!” Caitlin shouts, beaming. “I told you he was real.”
“I thought he was a catfish.” Russell gawps at Neon for a long moment. “You don’tlooklike you’re fifty.”
My cheeks go bright red. “Of course he’s not fifty. Don’t be gross, Russell.”
“Definitely fourteen. Definitely real.” Neon waves as Hannah introduces them both. “Hi. I’m visiting for the week.”
“He’s from New York City,” Caitlin tells the boys. She sounds quite proud to have a friend from there, which bugs me – forty-eight hours ago, she didn’t even think he was real, and now she’s acting like they’re old pals. “Is this your first time in a real school, Neon? You’re home-schooled, right?”
Neon tells them about how he’s always been taught by his mum, making them laugh with stories of some of her more eccentric lessons – for a while, she had him doing an online course in an artificial language called Esperanto, which she was sure was going to make a big comeback. (That’s actually something Carrie said once. I think she might have been trying to wind Mutti up, though.)
Across the corridor, Tilly is sitting on a bench with her group. Jamie and Elsie have their books open and are doing some last-minute homework, but Tilly is staring right at Neon. Her mouth is open and her face has gone pale, a perfect reflection of the shock that I felt on Saturday. She looks at me, and a jolt of fear moves through me. It’s as if Tilly knows this shouldn’t be possible. Like she knows that I lied.
I take a breath to steady my nerves. There’s no way Tilly could have guessed the truth. Most likely she thought I was getting catfished, same as Russell and Hari. I give her a small, smug smile before turning away. I shouldn’t care what Tilly thinks, not after she ditched me two years ago. But it feels good to have proved her wrong too.
Neon does a star jump of delight when I tell him that our first class after registration is Music. As soon as we get to Mr Ross’s room, he makes a beeline for the guitars, banjos and ukuleles hung up on hooks on the back wall. Neon is one of those people who can pick up an instrument for the first time and know instinctively how to play it – it’s the talent I wish I had most in the world.
“Sit down,” I whisper. “Mr Ross doesn’t like us getting the guitars down without permission.”
But Neon can’t help himself. He takes a guitar – the nicest one, the one with relatively new strings – from the wall and begins turning the silver pegs to tune it. For a few seconds, everyone stares at him.
Matt Lewis scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Thinks he’s Jim Henson, this guy.”
Hannah laughs. “I think you mean Jimi Hendrix. Jim Henson’s the guy who created the Muppets.”
Mr Ross comes in while Neon is tuning the guitar. He’s one of my favourite teachers: he’s quite young and really into music, but not in a snobby way like Joel and his friends. He’s always asking us what we’re listening to, and he never looks down on the more commercial stuff. Even so, his eyebrows knit into a frown when he sees a strange kid playing around with one of his guitars.
“This is my friend, Neon,” I say, my cheeks flushing. “He’s visiting from New York City for a few days.”
“Neon?” Mr Ross echoes. I’m starting to wish I’d named the kid Ben or Fraser, something that would blend in better. “Do you play, Neon?”
