Driftwood, page 13
‘Party time,’ says Paul, resting an arm across my shoulder lazily, the way only best mates can.
‘Your hair’s different!’ I exclaim as we mooch up to the bonfire. ‘It’s not green any more!’
‘Lots of things are different,’ he grins, and I see that his eyes are shining, not shadowed, and the sadness he carried around with him like an invisible cloud has faded.
Paul’s fingers trace the shape of my cheek softly like velvet, and I can’t work out if that’s something friends do too. Maybe just friends like Paul? I get brave, reaching up to stroke the toffee-coloured waves back from his face. He’s kept the plaits, skinny ones, braided in with some kind of frayed blue material. Tiny, whorled seashells are stitched in here and there along each plait, and two perfect gull feathers dangle from one, American Indian style. Beach magic.
Maybe it works after all.
Driftwood (epub), Driftwood
