Page 98 of Fallen Thorns
“I didn’t like the course!” I shouted back.
“Isn’t English Literature English Literatureeverywhere?” Mars added, playing devil’s advocate.
I stared at them. “I’m not going to answer that.”
“Mars, milk and sugar?” my mum called.
“Just two sugars please, black!” Mars answered, crossing their legs.
Bess had settled into a bizarre routine of weaving around the chairs, sitting down briefly then wandering off. She would normally be all over me, but as I sat myself down and attempted to encourage her up beside me, she ignored me and pattered off into the kitchen.
“She’ll be able to smell the shift in your scent,” Mars said in a hushed tone, having just observed what transpired.
“Hmm.”
“She’ll get used to it, don’t worry. It’s not what she’s used to. She’s never met me before so wouldn’t know what to expect.”
I nodded but said nothing.
“Your mum won’t suspect a thing. I promise.”
I continued nodding slowly, melting back into the fabric of the chair and propping an ankle over my other restless leg.
My mother shuffled in, expertly carrying three mugs. I jumped up to save her from the struggle, and she ruffled my hair, joining me on the same chair.
The conversation flowed exceptionally well; Mars, ever so confident, asked all the right questions and listened for the appropriate amount of time. In between thoughts, I would glance to my side to stare at my mother. Think about how I’d missed her and how sorry I was that I would forever have to hide so much from her, despite everything she had done to protect me.
I was going to make a difference in this world now though. She’d be safe.Indeed.
Mars caught on to my wandering mind and brought me back into conversation. “So, Arlo is a budding poet it seems.”
Theywerereading my notes.
My mum rubbed my leg, clearly forgetting my unease with abrupt contact, but I kept my mouth shut and relaxed as much as I could. “Oh, he always wanted to be. Have you read his stuff?”
“I don’t really like—” I was cut off.
“He’s got a real talent for it.” My mum stood and told us to wait whilst she went to dig out ‘The Arlo Archives.’
Mars’ smile stretched from ear to ear, and I begged for the ground to swallow me up. This wasn’t how I wanted the evening to go, or any evening for that matter.
“The Arlo Archives. I’m going to cry. She’s so cute.”
“I didn’t realise she kept stuff.” I honestly didn’t.
“Mummy’s boy,” Mars teased. I slapped them on the leg with the scarf that I’d left draped over the arm of the chair.
A few minutes later, my mum returned with a battered, cardboard shoe box filled with—oh no—photos.
She joined Mars’s chair this time, Mars looking more than happy to slide along to offer her ample space. I stood quickly to join them in my own horror.
The box contained letters and school projects and hand knitted baby shoes, and she rummaged through it proudly.
“Sorry, son. I’m allowed to embarrass you.” She glanced at me briefly, scratching my chin with her warm hands. Mars exaggerated a nod of agreement and pressed their hands between their thighs in anticipation.
“Ahh, there it is! Arlo’s entry for his first poetry competition!”
I remember that day vividly. Out of the entire primary school there were only 3 applicants. I was ten, and my teacher encouraged me to enter since I spent every play time in her room either reading or writing. I had a few friends, but I didn’t like the intensity of the school yard and never understood why no oneelsepreferred staying indoors.
