Page 63 of Maybe
One nebuliser, a packet of chocolate digestives split between us, and a marathon gaming session later, three things became clearer. One: Sackboy’s adventures through the Manglewood were like crack cocaine; I hadn’t thought about work or exams once. Two: in a short space of a morning, Jonty had purloined his dad’s knack of wrapping me around his little finger. Three, he was an attention pickpocket. My pile of surgical textbooks lay untouched.
Ezra came back after his lunchtime busking set. My pulse quickened at the steady rhythm of his busy, bright footsteps, tilting my world toward a better place. Plopping himself between us, he planted a wet sloppy kiss on Jonty’s cheek, which Jonty brushed off with a ‘yuck’, and a more tender one on mine. Jonty wasn’t watching, too busy catching Dreamer Orbs, but I blushed like a teenager caught canoodling in front of his parents. One of Ezra’s long arms snaked around Jonty. His other hand, cool from the outside air, rested lightly on my thigh. “My two favourite boys look like they’ve had a constructive morning.”
“I’ll have you know I built a pen to round up the Banana Bandits,” I answered indignantly. “And herded fifteen of them into it.”
“Yeah, but then he ran out of Knight Energy and they all escaped again, Daddy! Uncle Isaac’s even worse at Sackboy than you!”
“What?” The absolute fibber! “That’s not what you said when I collected that Orb.”
Jonty giggled. “I was being nice, so you’d carry on playing.”
Ezra squeezed my thigh. “You’ve been suckered, Isaac, babe.”
The abandoned pile of shortlisted names sat on the low coffee table. Ezra picked a few CV’s from the top. Then smirked.
“Yes, I know,” I said, before he came up with a sharp witticism. “I haven’t decided what to do about it yet.”
Ezra tapped the top sheet, the first page of Dr Rupert Kavanagh’s CV, before executing an excellent impression of Mustard Michael. “Schooled in the Surrey countryside, whereupon he captained the first team at rugby, followed by Cambridge, followed by a stint at the professorial unit at King’s.”
“Some people would sell a kidney for that gig,” I commented.
“Whereas others just know the right people.” Ezra tossed the CV back on the pile. “At risk of sounding like a stuck record, dear Daddy isn’t alive anymore. You can ditch this prize and he’ll never know. Poor Rupes and his cronies will have to soldier on without the Fitz-Henry medal opening even more doors for them.” He pulled a face. “I daresay they’ll survive.”
I shook my head. “Can’t, I’m afraid. The money is in a trust. I checked with David Trethowan. One bursary to be awarded every year, of £10,000 adjusted in line with inflation, to be put towards the cost of exams, courses, conferences et cetera. Those are the rules. Mustard Michael will be baying for my blood if I don’t follow them.”
Ezra shrugged. “Bend them a bit, then. Or add some extra conditions, such as the successful candidate can’t own a Barbour jacket, have an understanding of the rules of lacrosse, or be friends with people called Tiggy and Bunny.”
“Give the money to the person best at Sackboy,” piped up Jonty. “You two losers would never win it.”
He got a cushion thrown at him for that, by his dad. “You should have kept quiet, buddy, instead of drawing attention to the fact you’ve been on that thing for hours. Won’t do your asthma any good, you know, sitting in front of all these computer games.”
At that, Jonty rolled his eyes. “He’s lying, isn’t he, Uncle Isaac?”
“Um…yes.”
That got me my own cushion in the face.
“But it’s time we called it a day,” I amended. “It might not be bad for your asthma, but my ego is on the floor. You’ve thrashed me.”
In a firm daddy voice that had me hiding a chuckle, Ezra warned Jonty not to ask me to play another game with him and that, after he finished this one, to find something more productive. Like looking up the answers to the volcano worksheet so he didn’t fall behind with his geography schoolwork, or to draw a nice picture for when the new baby arrived. Jonty made aduhsound at that one.
“Won’t you play a game with me?”
“Nah, mate. I’ve got to phone the council about getting us another flat. Or getting ours refitted. The one’s up by the middle school are nice—closer to Mummy, too. But there’s a waiting list.” He turned to me. “Might be worth seeing if I can jump the queue a bit if I get support from the GP.”
“Do they all need a month’s rent deposit?”
Ezra sighed. “Yes. And no, don’t even begin to?—“
“Calm down. I was only asking.”
Banned from Sackboy, Jonty trailed after me into the bedroom. Seemed I’d made myself a friend. Sitting on the end of the bed, he examined my furniture with interest.
“Where did you sleep last night?” he asked.
“Um…”
I froze. Why couldn’t he have directed this question to Ezra when they were rolling around in Isaac’s own bed together earlier this morning whilst I’d sat at the kitchen table cramming for a mock revision paper? As I busied myself folding up clothesthat never normally got folded, Jonty patiently waited for me to answer.
