Page 8 of Unspoken Words
“Good.” She smiled but her emerald eyes narrowed like blades of grass before they glanced in Connor’s direction. “He’s an interesting boy, isn’t he?”
I shrugged. “I guess so. We chatted by the river. He seems nice enough.”
Mum’s eyes widened. “He chatted to you?”
“Sure.”
“Huh.” She pressed her lips together and carried on arranging plastic plates and bowls in a storage container. “That’s good. I’m glad.”
“Whyyyyy?”
“It’s just that Raelene and Curtis mentioned Connor’s been througha lotrecently, and he isn’t talking to anyone, even them. They said he’s barely spoken two words since—”
Mum cut herself short, and guilt swept over me like a rush of wind from a passing train.
I lowered my voice. “You mean since his best friend died?”
She nodded and cast a sympathetic frown in Connor’s direction. “Brain cancer. It was high grade and very invasive. The poor little angel lasted just under six months.”
Oh no!My eyes found Connor once again, my heart heavy, my guilt heavier. “He didn’t tell me any details,” I mumbled. “But that’s … that’ssohorrible. I couldn’t imagine if any of my friends died.”
Mum reached out and pulled me to her chest, hugging me tight.
“Beth, would you like me to get the fire started?” Dad called out.
We both turned our heads to find him holding up a shovel as if he were wielding a sword ready for battle.
Mum giggled. “Yes, please. Roger that, Roger.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes; my parents were dorks.
“What was that groan for?” A knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth as she leaned forward, kissed my forehead, then released me from her hold.
“You’re bothsoembarrassing. No one else’s parents say stupid stuff like that.”
“Sure they do.”
“Sure. They. Don’t.”
We proceeded to have a stare-off when my brother slumped with a thud into a foldout chair beside us. “That Connor kid sucks,” he grouched.
I scowled at him. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yeah, he does.”
“What would you know?”
“Everything.” Chris waggled his eyebrows then tossed his footy in the air, his eyes following each rotation it made before it fell back into his hands. “The guy doesn’t like football.”
“So!” I placed my hands on my hips. “Not everyone does.”
“Everyboydoes.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Pussies don’t.”
Chris and I both flinched at the loud, sudden, bang that sounded from behind. I spun around to see what caused it, finding Mum, her hand tightly clenched around a plastic cutlery container she was pressing firmly against the tabletop.
