A Crack in Everything (Cracks Book 1)

  I looked to Sam. “I guess if we’re really doing this I should get changed.”

  “Oh no, pyjama pants and stained T-shirts are the go-to outfit for discos these days,” he said sarcastically.

  I threw a pillow at him and got up to shuffle into my room. In the end, I went with a tight black mini dress, lace-patterned tights, ankle boots, and a denim jacket. Sam was already wearing jeans and a shirt, so he didn’t need to change. Sometimes I envied how little effort boys had to put in to look good. Glob of hair gel, spritz of Lynx, and they were good to go.

  I linked my arm through his as we headed for the stairs leading out of the flats. It was at the back of the building, but we preferred using it because it was typically empty. At the front of the flats you were guaranteed to run into arseholes looking for trouble.

  We were almost to the end of the stairs when I saw a small group sitting on the bottom two steps. As we came closer, I recognised Dylan and his friends, Amy and Conor. They were a ragtag bunch, with Amy who did her best impression of Robert Smith from The Cure, and Conor, with his thick glasses and shaggy haircut. He was also mixed race, the only kid in the entire building with a white mother and an African father. Needless to say, things hadn’t been easy for him.

  Then there was Dylan, who was good-looking and smart enough to be friends with whoever he wanted. Instead he chose the most unlikely pair of besties. Maybe that’s where the smart bit came in. Maybe he saw something the rest of us didn’t.

  It was one of the things I admired about him. He didn’t conform, didn’t follow the pack.

  Normally, Sam and I might’ve walked by these three without so much as a hello, but since I now sort of knew Dylan, we stopped to greet them.

  “Hey Dylan,” said Sam. “You’re looking a little better. Those bruises are healing up nicely.”

  I closed my eyes and grimaced. I mean, I loved Sam and all, but instead of avoiding elephants in rooms he tended to grab them by the tusks.

  “What business is it of yours?” Amy asked defensively. Of all the girls who lived around here, she was definitely the prickliest. Then again, her taste in fashion tended to get a lot of negative attention, so maybe she had to be prickly. I often wondered why she did it. St Mary’s Villas wasn’t exactly the most welcoming to the goth of the species. Or to anyone who was different in any way for that matter.

  I had to give her props for sticking to her guns.

  She also constantly carried around this little video camera, recording random stuff throughout the day. I think she was just obsessed with film and wanted to be, like, a director or something. Still, it freaked people out when they spotted her recording them.

  “I was just saying,” Sam replied. “No need to bite my head off.”

  Amy narrowed her eyes at him and took a swig of the can of lager she was holding. There was a six-pack next to Dylan, which told me how the three planned to spend their night. They certainly weren’t heading to the disco.

  Dylan’s attention came to me, starting at my boots and then making a slow ascent up my body. The way he looked at me so thoroughly gave me butterflies, a very rare and specific type. Dylan O’Dea butterflies were the kind people trapped and displayed in picture frames.

  My awareness of him was weird, because up until now I’d never really paid him much attention, other than absentmindedly noting he was attractive and tended to avoid the usual cliques at school.

  Maybe I should let strange boys burst into my flat more often.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked in that low voice of his.

  “The disco over at Sweeney’s,” I answered and tugged my jacket tighter around me.

  He never broke eye contact when he asked, “Why?”

  I frowned. “What do you mean why?”

  “Ev loves to dance,” Sam put in. “That’s why we’re going.”

  Amy let out a quiet scoff, and I bristled but didn’t say anything. Conor shyly stared at the ground, and Dylan continued to watch me.

  I held up a hand and added, “Guilty as charged.” Man, why did I say that?

  Before I had time to feel embarrassed, Dylan reached out, grabbed said hand, and pulled me down to sit next to him. A rush of breath escaped me at how familiarly he touched me.

  “Stay and have a drink with us instead. Consider this the favour I owe you.”

  “How is that a favour?” I asked.

  “Because it’ll save you spending a single second dancing to 90s pop and getting come-ons from drunk fifteen-year-olds.”

  “Ha! He’s not wrong,” Sam chirped, going to take a seat beside Amy, in spite of her hostile attitude. That was Sam for you. He wasn’t put off by shade. Quite like the elephants, he stared it square in the eye and killed it with his sunshine.

  I was still deciding whether I wanted to stay and hang out with Dylan instead of going to Sweeney’s, when Shane Huntley and his group walked into the building. Shane had a shaved head and wore a perennial uniform of jeans, Ben Sherman shirts, and pristinely white Adidas runners. That was when he wasn’t in some skewed version of our school uniform. Some days his tie would be around his head—Rambo style. Others he’d a have a shirt but no jumper, or a jumper with no shirt. He was either very bad at laundry, or simply refused to play by the rules.

  He quickly took in our group, looking at Sam the longest. A strange, almost pained look passed his features before he covered it with a sneer. I didn’t typically hate people, but I hated Shane for how he treated Sam.

  “How’s it going, lads?” he asked, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear to light up.

  “I think you’ll find there are females here, too,” Amy bristled.

  Shane looked from Amy and then to me when he replied, “I don’t see any.”

  Oh, good one. I internally rolled my eyes.

  His friends snickered, and I noticed Dylan stiffen beside me. Shane cast him a brief, assessing look before he focused his attention on Sam. At school, Sam was something of a target for Shane. It’d be a rare day he didn’t throw some homophobic insult or other, and it seemed today was not rare.

  “What are you doing here, Sammy? Shouldn’t you be down The George tonight getting bummed in the toilets?”

  The George was a well-known gay bar in town. I clenched my jaw, about to shoot off an angry retort when Sam got there first. “Why? You like thinking about that?”

  Shane’s features went from snickering to furious in an instant. “The fuck did you just say?”

  At this, Dylan stood and took a step towards Shane. He folded his arms and stared him down. “It’s time for you to go.”

  “I’m not scared of you, O’Dea. Heard the McCarthy lads kicked the shite outta ya the other day, and I see the rumours are true.”

  Dylan took his time picking up his can, downed the rest of the contents, then tossed it aside. “The rumours will be true about me shutting up that dumb mouth of yours.”

  Shane stared at him, all squinty eyed as though trying to figure out if he should keep pushing. “It’d take better men than you to shut me up,” he finally replied before turning to his buddies. “Come on. Reeks of faggot around here.”

  One of his friends slid their snaky eyes to Conor, muttering something awful under their breath as they walked away. Amy clearly heard it, too, because she stood up next to Dylan, fuming.

  “Wow, a homophobe and a racist. You lot deserve each other.”

  A couple of them gave her the finger as they threw more insults. She clenched her fists, and Conor reached out, telling her it wasn’t worth it.

  When they were gone, Dylan sat back down, but the rigid set of his posture said he was still seething. I didn’t know him well at all, but watching him stand up for Sam meant a lot to me. He barely knew us, yet he was quick to defend. I felt I should thank him somehow, but wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Anyone notice how he didn’t deny the dumb part?” asked Conor, as though to break the tension.

  I smiled at him. “I think being stupid is consider
ed cool among his type.”

  “You’re probably right. And they just keep having babies. Before we know it, the world will be like that movie, Idiocracy.”

  “And Shane will be president,” I shuddered. “What a thought.”

  “Ah, but we can be the ones to start up the resistance,” he countered. “We’ll call ourselves the Anti-Huntleys.”

  “Yeah, you two can be the Brad and Angelina of the rebellion,” Sam crooned as he winked at me. Jeez, ever since Brad’s divorce from Jennifer Aniston last year, Sam had been obsessed with his new relationship with Angelina Jolie. He always managed a way to work them into a conversation. And I knew his wink indicated he thought I was flirting with Conor, which I absolutely was not.

  Conor blushed and looked away as Dylan cracked open a lager. He silently handed it to me, before grabbing another for Sam. I uttered a quiet “thanks” and took a sip.

  “Evelyn’s not the one Conor’s interested in. He likes them older,” Amy revealed, and Conor shot her a murderous look.

  “Shut the fuck up, Amy,” he whispered stiffly.

  “Well now, what’s all this about?” Sam enquired.

  “He’s into the aunt,” said Amy, not caring that Conor shot her daggers with his eyes.

  I turned to gape at him. “You like Yvonne?”

  He shrugged, embarrassed. “She’s nice to me.”

  Yvonne was nice to everyone. She had a heart as big as all outdoors, and Conor lived just a few flats down from ours. He must’ve bumped into her from time to time. Although I was pretty sure Yvonne didn’t see him the same way. And that was before you even factored in the age gap.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” he replied, defensive.

  “Well, my aunt’s twenty-seven. That’s a nine-year age difference.”

  “If it were the other way around, nobody would bat an eye,” Dylan said. His voice licked at my senses. He’d been quiet since Shane left. I cast him a quick glance and saw he was studying my profile. I looked away again.

  “Exactly,” Amy put in. “There’s nothing wrong with an age gap, so long as both parties are legal and consenting.”

  “I never said there was. I’m just pretty sure my aunt wouldn’t see it that way. Any boyfriends she’s had have been older.”

  “That makes no matter,” said Sam. “I think you should tell her, Conor. Lay your feelings all out on the table with some big romantic gesture.”

  Conor grimaced while I reached out to give Sam a light slap. “Don’t be an arse.”

  If Conor did that, he’d only embarrass himself, and Sam knew it. He was trying to stir up mischief. I looked to Conor, took in his messy, shaggy haircut, bottle-end glasses and skinny frame. He wasn’t ugly, in fact, he had a kind, pleasant face, but he was so teenage it was painful. And he didn’t look eighteen. He looked fifteen, sixteen at a push. Yvonne probably thought of him as another random kid who lived in the flats.

  “Maybe wait a year or two,” I told him kindly. “Then you’ll be twenty, and it won’t matter so much.”

  He let out a beleaguered sigh. “God, it’s not like I’m in love with her or anything. I just think she’s pretty. And she always wears high heels.”

  “Oh, you like that, do ya?” asked Sam with a wink.

  “Most men do,” Dylan spoke quietly. The way he said it sent pinpricks down my spine.

  “I prefer a nice pair of Levis and a tight crotch myself,” Sam replied, and Dylan’s lips twitched ever so slightly.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. You should get yourself a pair. I’m sure Ev wouldn’t mind.”

  Oh, Sam, shut up now, please.

  Dylan gently nudged me in the shoulder. “Is that so?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” I mumbled under my breath, blushing like mental. Sam was so going to get it later.

  “Shane Huntley wears Levis,” Amy said, eyeing Sam shrewdly. “Is that where your preference stems from?” I was thankful to her for taking the spotlight off me and putting it on Sam. Little shit deserved it.

  Like always though, he took it in stride, avoiding the question with perfect deflection. “Speaking of Shane, Ev has a theory. She thinks his bullying is a result of repressed homosexuality. Apparently, it’s Freudian.”

  I was surprised he’d actually been listening. “It’s just something I read. It might not be true.”

  “No, you have a point,” said Dylan, and his validation sent a rush of pleasure through me. “I read an article once about a study carried out on a group of men, and the ones who displayed the most homophobic views had higher levels of genital vascularity when shown images of male-on-male intimacy.”

  Sam widened his eyes at me before he addressed Dylan. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone use the phrase ‘genital vascularity’ in polite company before.”

  I chuckled. “But you hear it in impolite company?”

  He waved me off. “You know what I mean.”

  “You’ve been reading too many of Yvonne’s historical romance novels.”

  “Yvonne reads romance novels?” Conor leapt on that bit of info.

  I glanced at him. “Yes, she does. A lot of women do.”

  He looked down as he went on. “Are they, uh, the sexy kind?”

  “Oh man, you’ve got it bad. I’m not telling you that. I don’t like the idea of you fantasising about my aunt.”

  “Too late for that.” Dylan chuckled before he knocked back a gulp of lager. I glanced at him. He really was a dark horse. Reading studies about bias and human sexuality certainly wasn’t something I’d expect of a teenage boy from St Mary’s Villas. I mean, I only knew about that sort of stuff because Yvonne was such a broad reader. She’d never had the money to go to college, but she’d always cultivated her learning in her spare time. As a result, I tended to absorb some second-hand knowledge, since I was usually the one around for her to bounce ideas off.

  “Shut it,” Conor whispered, embarrassed again.

  “There’s nothing to be shy about,” said Sam. “Yvonne’s one hot mama. If I was straight I’d be fantasising about her, too.”

  “But instead you fantasise about Shane,” Amy countered.

  “Oh my God, will you stop? Despite Ev’s and Dylan’s fancy ideas, he’s not gay. He’s just a bully.”

  “Yeah, a sexy bully that you like to daydream about,” she continued to goad.

  I decided to help out my friend, even though he hadn’t earned it. “Nah, Sam’s too busy daydreaming about Jared Leto. There’s no room for anyone else.”

  Amy’s eyebrows shot up as she looked to Sam. “Wow, there’s one thing you actually have good taste in.”

  “Hands off Mr Leto,” said Sam, back to playful. “He’s all mine.”

  “Have any of you seen this?” Conor interrupted, hitting play on a video on his phone, which looked to be top of the line. He ought not to be flashing that around the Villas or someone might steal it. The video showed a compilation of an Asian guy jumping from various rooftops, railings, and walls.

  “Better him than me,” said Sam. “That’s impressive though.”

  “I know. Everyone’s going wild for it online,” said Conor. “It’s some mean party trick.”

  “It’s actually called free running,” said Dylan. “And it’s a sport, not a party trick.”

  “You’re a party trick snob,” said Amy. “You think you have the best one.”

  “What can you do?” I asked.

  “He can identify any smell,” Conor explained, like it was the most amazing thing ever.

  “You lot are easily impressed,” Sam commented dryly. “I’m pretty sure most people can do that.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Dylan can smell any one thing and tell you all the ingredients, from a pasta sauce to a scented candle. It’s crazy,” Conor went on.

  Dylan looked at me as he spoke. “My mam was born with a diminished sense of smell, so from when I was young she always had me describe what things smelled like. Ov
er time I got used to picking out scents and breaking them down into their various components. I mean, I might not get every single one, especially if it’s chemical based. But natural ingredients I can usually pick out.”

  “So, kind of like how seasoned musicians can listen to Beethoven and pick out all the instruments,” I ventured and his eyes crinkled in a smile.

  “Yes, like that.”

  “I can’t believe your mam can’t smell. How does she know when to wash, or if there’s like, a gas leak in the flat?” Sam asked, and I stiffened at his question.

  I knew Dylan’s mother had passed away. I remembered seeing him and his dad leave for the funeral, all sad shoulders, black clothes. I stood on the balcony, watching them both down below. His dad threw his arm around his son and helped him into the waiting car, their lives forever changed . . .

  I blinked myself out of the memory. It was about three years ago, which was probably why Sam didn’t remember. I knew she died of cancer, having heard the gossip around the flats, but I didn’t know the specifics.

  “Actually, she’s passed,” Dylan explained, lips dipping downward. “So those things don’t really matter anymore.”

  For a brief second, he looked like he’d give anything to have those trivialities back again, to have his mam back.

  “Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,” Sam exclaimed, looking guilty. “I didn’t know.”

  “No worries. It was a couple of years ago,” said Dylan, and a moment of awkward silence fell. I thought a subject change was in order.

  “So, can we put your talent to the test? I want to see it in action.”

  Dylan’s attention came to me. “Sure, give me anything, and I’ll tell you what’s in it.”

  “How about this booze?” said Sam, thrusting his can at him. Dylan took it and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

  “So, the rest of you probably wouldn’t pick this up, but to me Heineken smells a lot like weed.”

  Sam made a face. “Weed? Seriously?”