Lolito. Ben Brooks

her nose and raises an eyebrow. I try to smile but my face fails to make the right shape.

      ‘Aslam, that means bumming someone.’

      ‘I thought it meant punching the back of their head.’

      ‘Why would it mean that?’

      ‘I don’t know. Just go. I’ve got your back.’

      ‘I’m scared.’

      ‘Just drink.’

      ‘Fine.’

      We take turns downing as much of the rum and coke as we can. It makes my belly pinch itself a little but I get more brave. When we are drinking I feel like my body becomes more solid and I am less likely to float into the sky or sink into the ground or disappear into nothing.

      More people arrive and the house shrinks. It gets loud. Someone tells James that there’s nitrous upstairs and he takes Hattie and they go.

      ‘Ready?’ Aslam says. We’ve been watching two people flirt with insults by the TV.

      ‘Yeah.’

      I stand up and fall to one side slightly.

      ‘No,’ I say.

      ‘Yeah,’ he says.

      I right myself. My chest feels wobbly. I dig my fingernails into my hands until it feels like they’re going to go through the skin. It takes twelve steps to reach the staircase. Twelve tiny steps. When I arrive, I panic. I stare at Aaron Mathews’ shoes. They are white-and-blue Nikes. They are big. They are bigger feet than anyone I know has. I should make new friends. I should make new friends with atypically large feet and intimidating physiques.

      ‘Hi there,’ I say. I don’t understand why I said ‘hi there’. I have never said ‘hi there’ before in my life.

      ‘Hi there,’ Aaron Mathews says. He’s smiling. He looks at his friends and his friends look at him and they all do little laughs. I think about my bed and how I don’t understand why I’m not in it.

      ‘Hi there,’ I say again. I have no idea why I’m saying ‘hi there’. He should hit me. I would hit me. ‘Nice shoes,’ I say. ‘Very cool shoes.’ A reason I don’t like talking to strangers is because I find it difficult to simulate casual chat with them. Sometimes I memorise sporting news for use while standing next to men at urinals, checkouts and bus stops. Or quotes from films to fill in silences. But nothing seems relevant to now.

      ‘Are you taking the piss?’

      ‘No way, hoselay.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Um.’

      ‘Is there something you want?’

      ‘Are you Aaron Mathews?’ I say. I look up at his face and his face is scary so I look back at his shoes. His nice shoes. His massive, nice shoes. I wish his face was a pair of nice shoes that I could put my feet into and jump up and down in until he apologised for what he did.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Great,’ I say. ‘That’s great. Do you know Alice Calloway?’

      He laughs. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

      ‘Did you rape her with kisses at all?’

      ‘Did I what?’

      ‘Did you force yourself on her?’

      He laughs more. ‘Forced her off me. Little slut.’ He winks at one of his friends.

      ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Thank you loads.’ I turn and shut my eyes as hard as I can. I want them to stitch themselves shut. I try to walk back to Aslam with my eyes still closed. Laughing happens behind me. Someone shouts at me to fuck off. I think, fuck off telling me to fuck off. I think, where do I fuck off to? My body is as heavy as one hundred bodies. I feel like a magician who has accidentally sawed his assistant in half. I want to disappear.

      ‘What the fuck happened?’ Aslam says.

      ‘He says she forced herself on him. I’m going to go.’

      ‘Fuck that,’ he says. ‘He wouldn’t admit to raping her. It’s not cool any more. Go back and punch him.’

      ‘I think I’m going home.’

      ‘Fucking go back to him.’ He stands up and pulls me up and pushes me forward. I hold my sleeve against my eyes. I look behind me. Aslam’s leaning on the mantelpiece with his arms crossed, nodding wildly. I step forward. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m a suicide bomber. I don’t believe in anything.

      I walk back to the stairs and stare at Aaron Mathews and lift up my hand. It has become extremely heavy. It doesn’t feel or look like my hand. Is it my hand? Probably, yes. I wonder where I should put my hand on his face. In films, people punch other people in their eyes. I don’t want him to go blind, though. That would be terrible. He would sue me and I would have to give him all of the money I got after Nan died. I should punch him in the forehead. I should say something intimidating and then knock him out.

      ‘You better get ready,’ I say. ‘Because at three o’clock today, I’m going to rape you.’

      I blink.

      Aaron Mathews punches me in the face.

      I can’t tell where exactly, but it is definitely the face. I fall over. Aslam jumps over me and lunges at Aaron Mathews. He grabs Aaron Mathews’ hair. I don’t think pulling hair is a very good fighting move. Jackie Chan never pulled anyone’s hair. I start to stand up and The Tiger knees me in the chest. That is a good fighting move. It hurts. Fireworks explode inside my ribcage. I lie on the floor and roll to the side and look upwards. The Aubergine is going through Aslam’s pockets. The Tiger tries to put his hands into mine. I grab hold of his collar and throw my head against his nose. It isn’t my head any more. It isn’t anything. I take Aslam’s arm and pull him towards the door and we fall through the door and we run up the hill, looking backwards. Nobody follows. Hard air collects inside me and burns. I imagine my legs falling off and my arms falling off and my dismembered head floating slowly up into the sky like a hot air balloon, clouds gripping the sides of my head, flashing planes reflecting in my eyes.

      We collapse onto the grass at the park and lie on our backs, panting.

      When our breaths are smaller, I say, ‘Thanks for trying.’

      ‘Are you okay?’

      ‘No,’ I say.

      ‘You made the purple one’s nose bleed.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘What was that rape thing from?’

      ‘Welcome to the Dollhouse.’

      ‘You have to stop doing that.’

      ‘People say things better in films.’

      He leans back on his elbows and tips his head. ‘I think he was lying.’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘What will you do?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ I tug handfuls of grass out of the earth. In the film version of right now, I would sprint back to the house, hoist Aaron Mathews up by his Adam’s apple and shake him violently until he confessed to lying. Then I would helicopter to Antigua and kiss Alice on the nose. ‘I’m sleepy.’

      3

      When I was eight, Mum and I climbed onto a train, fidgeted and napped for six hours, then climbed off again in a place with sky the colour of huskies and a long edge of sea. It was Scotland. Mum said that I had to stay with Nan for the summer. I was too young for clear memories of her before this one. Before this one she only existed as a collection of smells and feelings. Piss, tea, sugar. Presents, hard hugs, boredom.

      ‘Someone’s grown,’ Nan said,