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February Three weeks later. I burst through the door and run up the stairs and into my room and shut the door. I sit on the edge of my bed, survey the chaos that I have made my own, and begin to cry. It is the first time since finding out that my dad had been killed in a road accident that I have been able to let my emotions out. Most of the people have gone now from downstairs. What had started out as a somber occasion did, eventually, lighten up into a bit of a family and friends get-together, as these things inevitably do. I undo the black tie that is threatening to cut off the circulation to my head. Slowly, I undo the buttons of my white shirt and shrug it off, throwing it and the hideous tie onto the ever-growing pile of clothes already on the floor. My emotions are all over the place. I need to get out of these clothes. The clothes I’ve just worn to my dad’s funeral. But all I can do is sit. Shirtless and snivelling. I wipe my snotty nose on my cuff, and realise I’m not actually wearing a shirt. A snail-trail of snot clumps the fine, dark hairs on my forearm. There’s a tentative knock on my door. Thinking it will be my mum, wondering where I’ve gotten to, I mumble an acknowledgement. The door opens and I stare at my shoes, sparkling from the over-zealous polishing my uncle gave them yesterday. I hear a barely audible cough. “Adam? Sorry.” I look up, a bit taken aback not to be hearing isvecbahis my mum’s voice. Instead of her standing there, there is a boy. A boy awkwardly poking his tousled head round my door. “Oh,” is about all that I manage. “Simon,” the tousled head says back, quietly. “Simon?” I ask, incredulous. Who is this lad, standing in my room? Watching my half-naked snivelling? “I’m Patrick’s son,” says the head, running a nervous hand through his unruly, pale ginger hair. “He used to work with, um…” he trails off. It is as if he sensed what I was thinking. Or maybe my questioning glare gives it away. “My dad,” I manage to blurt out, before completely dissolving into great, heaving sobs. “Crap. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says. He seems genuinely worried. “It’s not your fault,” I reply, grudgingly. “This is the first time I’ve cried… since it happened,” I manage to say, between racking sobs. Simon looks on nervously from behind the half open door. “Are you just going to stand there?” I ask, a bit too fiercely. “Sorry.” “Stop saying that!” “What?” he asks. “Sorry! It makes no difference. Just come in and shut the door.” I am, by now, just about in control of my emotions. Enough to be able to string a sentence together. Simon comes further in through the door and closes it behind him. Like I was, he is dressed for a funeral, so I suppose his parents must have brought him. I don’t remember isveçbahis giriş seeing him though, before this peculiar introduction. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude but what do you want? This isn’t panning out to be the best day of my life. We haven’t met before, have we?” “No, we haven’t. I can go if you want?” He runs his hand through his hair again and looks around for somewhere to sit down. Of course, this being a teenage boy’s bedroom, every available surface – other than the bed – is covered with junk and crap. Sensing this may be a scheme cooked up by my mum to see if I am OK, I sigh deeply. “No, it’s fine. You can stay. I’m guessing my mum sent you up here,” I say sullenly. “To see if I’m OK?” “Actually, my mum sent me up here. She’s downstairs, talking with your mum. She thought it might be a good idea if I said ‘hi’ and stuff.” Simon spoke quietly, almost whispering the words. Half-afraid that I was going to jump down his throat again, I expect. He finishes off by saying, “We’re the same age.” “OK. Right.” He looks younger than me though. Must be the paler skin, but that goes with the ginger hair I suppose. Suddenly remembering my manners: “Do you want to sit down? You’re freaking me out hovering about.” “Sure.” He seems relieved. With that, he comes and plonks himself right next to me on the bed. I mean, right next to me! Our hips and knees, touching. Like me, he is wearing isveçbahis yeni giriş dark grey trousers. His school trousers, as mine are on a ‘normal’ day. What the hell is going on? This lad that I had met barely three minutes ago is suddenly sitting, more or less, on my lap. Cool as a cucumber. Well, he seems to be anyway. I turn my head to have a look at him again and, as he is so close I am kind of inspecting his eardrum. He pulls away, startled. Now it’s my turn to apologise. “Sorry.” “Sorry,” he repeats. “Ugh. Shut up!” I say, and my sullen, harsh voice dissolves into a laugh. Thankfully, he laughs too. His face which, up until now, is a picture of concern and worry, transforms into an open and bright vista. He has the most perfect, white teeth that I have ever seen, and tiny freckles that cross the bridge of his nose and peter out on the tops of his cheeks. He throws his head back, and then flops it back down again, in obvious relief that the tension that I had created has now gone. I can’t help but notice the distinct bulge of his Adam’s apple in his pale, smooth neck. Maybe he is my age then. Mind you, no stubble on that smooth skin of his. Simon turns his boyish, pale face toward mine and we sit there, looking at each other. “So, Simon.” Considering I am generally a well-mannered, if atypical, teenager, I try to be polite in my tone this time. “Adam. Look. I don’t really know what to say to you. My parents thought you might need a…” his soft voice trails off. Unfortunately, the unexpected laughter, just a few seconds earlier triggers another hormonal, emotional bomb to explode somewhere deep inside me.