Page 19 of Charlie Sunshine
His face lit up, and as he nodded eagerly, I knew I’d found a friend.
And that was it for us. He carried on reading, and I carried on trying to draw him into escapades that got progressively naughtier. I stuck up for him when kids tried to take the piss about his dad, and he smoothed the way every time we got into trouble. One look at his angelic countenance and most adults caved. We were never really apart. We walked to school and back every day, and I was over his fence and in his garden before we’d even been home for half an hour. We practically lived in each other’s houses.
I’ve always had a gift for making friends, but there’s never been anybody like Charlie for me. He eases me in some strange way and makes me happy. And we fit together and balance each other. He adds his sweetness to my salty personality, and I like to think there’s a particular snap in his humour that’s totally down to me. Men come and go—boyfriends in his case, hook-ups in mine. But at the heart of my world is him, and I hope that never changes.
I smile at him. “Where’s the housebreaking mole?” I ask.
He washes his hands at the sink. “We put him at the bottom of the garden. Poor little sod was absolutely petrified.”
“Oh no,” I say mockingly. “Oh, how I hope that he’ll recover his equilibrium and then he can go back to making those ginormous bloody holes that fuck the lawnmower up.”
“Misha,”Teddy says reprovingly as she comes into the kitchen. “Poor little mole. Don’t be mean.”
“You look serious,” Charlie says, bending down to get a hug from my mum.
“Anya has been suspended,” I say grimly.
“Shit,” he says.
I smirk. “How very wordy and literate of you, Charlie. I can tell you’re a librarian.”
“Why was she suspended?” he asks, ignoring me.
“Climate change,” I say shortly. His eyes brighten immediately, and I shake my head as he opens his mouth to undoubtedly give me a lecture on the environment. “Don’t bother,” I say sourly. “She’ll be down soon and you can join your eco voices in harmonious concert. Just give me a chance to put my earplugs in first.”
I grab the sad-looking soft toy and put him in the centre of thetable. “Okay, Peter the Puppy Dog is in position and the billionth meeting of Dad’s Do-Over is in session. Teddy, please call Anya to the table.”
She blanches and dashes off, and we sit listening to her feet thundering upstairs and the indistinct muttering of the girls’ conversation.
Dad Do-Overs are our family board meetings. My father was always very keen on them, saying he was from a country whose people were ruled harshly and he didn’t intend to conduct his family like that. They started small, but the one rule was always total honesty, and whoever held the wooden spoon had the floor and couldn’t be interrupted. When he died, we swapped the wooden spoon for Peter Puppy Dog, a soft toy he’d bought the girls, but they understood that the total honesty rule still applied.
Even now, it works. It’s what he would have expected of us and none of us want to ever disappoint him. It also serves in some small way to keep him with us.
Charlie looks at me. “Shall I wait in the lounge?”
“No,” I say quickly, grabbing his hand. “Stay.”
I see my mum shoot us a dewy sort of glance and mentally sigh. She’s been shipping Charlie and me ever since we both announced that we were gay.
“These meetings are personal,” Charlie says, looking at my mum. “Anya might not want me to hear her business.”
Mum pats him on the arm affectionately. “Stay. Anya thinks of you as a brother.”
“How lucky for you, Charlie. Maybe we could compare ulcer remedies,” I say dryly, but they ignore me as usual.
“She knows Misha will just tell you everything anyway,” my mum says to Charlie. She shrugs. “Plus, you keep Misha calm. It’s either you or Valium.”
“Or crack,” I observe.
“That’s banned from a Dad Do-Over, and well you know it,” my mum says serenely. “Or I’d have smoked it years ago.”
There’s a clatter of footsteps on the stairs. “Showtime,” my mum says happily.
I sit back on my chair as Anya blows into the room. And blow is theright word. She’s glowering and stomping while muttering under her breath. Her previously long black hair has been dyed a bright red, and it’s a tangled mess. She also seems to be allergic to the colour wheel as she’s dressed entirely in black.
She looks surly and like a typical teenager, but I still have to repress a smile, as no matter how crabby she seems, she won’t go against the family meeting. It’s like our superpower.
“Are you okay, Anya? Is your asthma playing up?” I ask silkily.
