Trigger warning: references to sexual assault.

SONG: Sabrina Carpenter - Hold Tight

🌺

APRIL LEVESQUE

Aashvi abruptly stands, the chair skidding backwards. She silently rages out of the classroom, interrupting our psychology teacher. Mr Patel stares at me for an explanation. I sheepishly smile, swiftly gathering our belongings and bounding after her. School is about to finish, anyway.

I was taught to never fully hate someone. The consciousness and the soul are separate foundations. Each should be studied of its own accord. Yet humanity strains our morals. Our development is the cause of injustice. The moment you assume a person is decently good, life takes greater lengths to warn you. That is how some have greater luck than others.

"Aash!"

She spins. Indian, silky-black hair, a dark skin tone, eyes glittering like jets. "I can't stand being in the same room as that asshole. I want to see him in pain so bad." Each word penetrated rancour and agitation. "I want him to fucking die."

My throat clogs. Punishment is pedagogic. The question is, is it right to justify death as retribution under a man's law? How else can a person learn from their actions — that is the main point of karma, isn't it? Even my priest said the devil improvised wisdom.

It has been more than three months since Bodie Banks raped a good friend of mine at Ines Chey's house. Camila De La Cruz. No one is aware except Aashvi, Bodie, Cami, Destiny Byrne and me. I was the last one to find out and automatically encouraged her to inform the authorities. It might not permanently demolish her agony, but at least the delinquent will be gone for good. We will all be safe.

I respect that Camila is not ready.

The bell rings.

Aash swings on her bag. "I'll see you at Roy's."

We hug goodbye, parting. Reaching the car park, my brother is nattering to my boyfriend. Roy notices me and smiles. I happily walk into his chest, inhaling his affectionate warmth.

"Ew." Ethan is a year younger than me. Tall and skinny, eyes dark, skin light-almond, hair dark-brunette. "You guys make me wanna jump off a cliff."

Roy is the leader of the school's basketball team. Girls blabbed about him in the first week of Year 12. Look, it's that cute new guy. They're not wrong. Sandy hair, beachy-tanned skin, soft brown eyes, athletic and slim, a melt-worthy smile, and a charming personality.

I vividly remember how we met: on my way to class, I bumped into him. My books crashed to the floor. He cursed and instantly crouched to pick them up and apologised. "Wait...you're in my sociology class, right?" I nodded. "Can we walk together? I still don't know my way around the school."

"Sure," I said.

He smiled, warm eyes twinkled. "Lead the way, uh—" He peeked at my lanyard. His brows arched. "Oh, you're April."

"Heard about me, I guess?"

His laugh warmed my stomach. "You got quite a reputation here."

In the present, Roy swings an arm around me. "Convince Ethan to come tomorrow."

A call of my name intercedes

The Matthews Brothers are magnetic. Failure loves to be ceased in their presence. Most students' richness is a humbling fleck of dust compared to the wealth of these brothers. This school is practically theirs.

Tanner Matthews is tall, dark, and handsome. He is the Head Boy, is part of the school's football team, and is currently the most followed individual on social media. A simple chain adorns his neck, rings adorn his fingers, matching his grey attire and durag.

He was my first kiss. I kissed him when I was fourteen.

Aashvi has a crush on him.

I embrace his lean-bulk figure. "You didn't text me for days! I thought you got run over by a car."

He gives me a look. "I am the most sensible person out of all of us." He curves his finger within our formed circle to emphasise, his left feather earring dangling. "You are the idiot who will get run over by a car."

Roy snorts. "That's true. She's clumsy."

"Like hell. You are a walking migraine, sweetheart."

Ethan raises a hand. "Seventeen years of migraines for me. I'm somehow still alive."

Derek laughs as Tanner teases, "Just act like she does not exist."

"I'm right here," I mutter.

Tanner theatrically frowns. "Do you hear something?"

He was the first person to know about my crush on Roy. It was the beginning of March. I had a free period and watched Teen Wolf with him. Roy and his mates entered the cafe. He leaned in sideways and whispered, "Your lover boy."

Heat coated my cheeks. As if sensing our intense gaping, Roy locked onto us. My heart froze. Shit. Do I look away? He smiled in a wave, and my heart blissfully evaporated.

Tanner sighed in exasperation and grabbed my wrist to wave my hand back. "You are acting as if you are meeting Bradley Cooper for the first time. Trust me, you would be invisible to him. I would know. I met him—"

"He's walking to us."

"I can see, girl."

"Then shush—"

"Hey, Roy!" A girl pulled back a chair, and patted on it for a chat. Roy mumbled "later", and stopped before us. The girl shot a frustrated bullet at our table.

''Sup, Ken doll,' said Tanner, and they clapped their hands together as a handshake. 'We're watching—' He glanced at my laptop screen '—a sex scene at the moment. Want to join?'

Roy held up his palms. "I'm good, thanks. April, do you like basketball? I have a game tomorrow and I think it'll be better if you're there. Maybe after it, we can get something to eat?"

Is he ... "Me?"

Tanner concealed his face with a large, veiny hand. "Cette fille," he mumbled, amazed, and seemed as if he wanted to gouge his eyes out. "No, April. He is talking to the damn wall."

Roy laughed and mortification crawled up my neck. I would have slapped Tanner if he was a horrible friend.

"Well?" said Roy.

Stupidly, I: "Erm ..."

Tanner swung an arm around my shoulder. "She will be the first one there! Won't you?"

"I'll—I'll think about it," I stuttered.

"She will not think about it," rephrased Tanner. When Roy left, Tanner dropped his sweet, strained smile and hissed, "You are an embarrassment."

"I got nervous!"

"When you said—" He mimicked me in a high-pitched voice: "I'll think about it—"

"I do not sound like that."

"You sound like you are fucking helium. Who the hell says they are going to think about it when their crush asks them out? You dodged a chance of being Gabriella and Troy. Except this time, Troy is blond."

"Because I don't know anything about basketball. Can you be there, please?"

"While you are eye-fucking him? Fuck no."

"I want a friend there in case something happens."

He hesitated. "Fine." I broke into a huge grin and sprung out my arms to embrace him.

In the present, Tanner claps Derek's sinewy back. "Anyway, the ugliest asshole in the universe wanted to talk to you, April."

"In private," adds Derek. "If that is okay with you."

He does? That's surprising. "Sure."

Derek swiftly leads me into the school building. I follow him deeper into the perfectly vacant hallway, his heavy footsteps echoing.

This morning, rumours spread of a significant difference regarding Derek Matthews, of how sexier he got over the summer. I'm certain he was never ripped in the past. He was fairly in the middle. Now, he is muscled so much that I'm surprised the hoodie hasn't cleaved. He always had perfect skin — I envied him and Tanner so much for that — though now, his skin is glowing and less pale. He seems healthier and balanced.

He stops and turns, his fierce gaze pinning me breathless like a needle. "It is better if no one sees us. The last thing I want is another person harassed."

"I understand."

Two videos went viral. Both occurred on the same day. One is of Derek hanging out his tongue for a girl to pour champagne, flooding his mouth and dribbling to his collarbone, saturating his transparent shirt. He drank it like a starving man as girls squealed and clapped in encouragement. It left thirsty comments freaking out over how hot Derek Matthews is. On the other hand, news outlets ridiculed him, nonetheless changed minds instantly when the second video leaked: Derek passed out on the floor.

I found him that night. Roy's car needed some work, hence we were running from the police that day — right after Derek staggered into the crowd and disappeared. Roy was more concerned about getting caught, though he reluctantly stood by as we waited for an ambulance.

I patted his cheek. "Derek?" Another pat, harsher. He let out a garbled moan. Blood deluded his left temple. With a sleeve, I cautiously dabbed it off. A person was recording us, attracting others to replicate.

Moments later, the police that were on our trail reached us, prepared to question us. One of the cops, dark-skinned, halted in shock. "Shit," he muttered.

The other cop stepped out of the car. "What?"

The dark-skinned cop rushed into his intercom, "Goddamn Samuel Matthews's boy is down. Get a fucking ambulance here."

"We called for one," I said.

"I hear someone already asked for one," he snapped to his line. "Why isn't it here, man?" Garbled response. "I don't care about goddamn traffic. Hurry the hell up!" He observed the crowd. "Send a batch to us, or maybe get Mr. Takada. We got some disrespectful shitheads."

The other cop hurried to the horde. "Hey, hey, put your phones away!"

"Got no shame," the dark-skinned cop mumbled. He approached us, prepared to interrogate us regarding the chase, but I hastily confessed everything and changed his demeanour. "Thanks for being some good kids. You did all of us a favour. Tell you what, I'll let ya go, yeah?"

In fresh black trainers and dark cargo pants, Derek slants on the wall, crossing his surprisingly sturdy arms and stretching the sleeves of his black hoodie. He, too, wears rings, charmingly suiting his aura — sterling silver band rings on his left index and ring finger, and a small skull signet one on his middle right finger. "I want to thank you for finding me," he begins, "and apologise for kissing you."

My brows furrowed, stunned at his last words, sudden and strange. My brain clicks. My lips burn and tingle, recalling how firm his rough ones were; the taste of bittersweet, fruity rum.

Sensing I comprehended his words, he proceeds, "I was high and drunk. I did not mean to. I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"It's okay." It's sweet how he's genuinely sorry over one kiss. "I'm more annoyed that you didn't listen."

His concerned expression softens into a smile, startling me. Recently, he has been an asshole to me, and I don't know why. I rarely pay attention to him, anyway. When I do, it's a brooding, intimidating face. Broader shoulders; the profound definition of his angular, sharp cheeks; and a chiselled jaw — one soft stroke, blood drips.

"I also want to apologise for being a bastard. For quite some time, I have been rude to you for no absolute reason at all. You have been nothing but kind to me. It was infuriating."

"Infuriating?"

"Yes," he mutters. "Maybe it is your tactic of being a people pleaser—"

"Excuse me?"

"—or maybe you are genuine." He sighs. "Out of everyone I know, you are the one person I cannot figure out."

"What does that supposed to mean?"

Derek studies me for a moment. "I am sorry."

I ignore his weirdness. "It's okay. Apologies accepted."

He studies me again.

This is awkward.

"Are you feeling better?" I ask.

"I do," he replies.

Suddenly, he steps closer to me. "If there is something I should know," he says strangely, "tell Tanner or me."

With that, he leaves me alone in the hallway, completely confused. 

***

Mum pushes the baby-stroller inside, closing the door after chatting with our Bangladeshi neighbours.

Jeromi Levesque is Sri Lankan and stunning. Cascading, thick-curled, dark hair; flawless skin; round eyes outlined with thick eyelashes. Dad is English. Mike, Ethan, Rose and I have a mixture of almond-beige skin. People frequently mistake us as Indian, Spanish, or Portuguese. Sometimes, during the summer, our tans will be Mum's skin colour. 

Sri Lankan names and surnames can be a beautiful stretch. Most of my family members' from Mum's side have surnames that are fourteen letters long. Mum and Dad gave us Sri Lankan middle names. Mike's is Tavish which means "heaven". Ethan's is Nelith — that means "the personification of law". Rose's is Yevani, "beautiful and youthful". And mine is Ayomi — "my joy", and Mike chose that for me.

I unstrap my three-year-old sister, picking her up. Mum drops the grocery bags on the kitchen island. Ethan appears in the doorway, shirtless. He kisses Mum's cheek, advancing to me, wiggling his hands. "Come here, Nanga."

As we are half Sinhalese, my parents ensured we maintain that beguiling culture. Akki or Akka is a Sinhalese term we call older women closer to our age, like sisters, sister-in-laws, cousins; not aunties. It is my nickname in the house for Ethan and Rose. Ethan is Malli — a term for younger boys; you can also use malla. Mike was Aiya, a term for older boys. Nangi or Nanga is for younger girls, and it used to be my nickname for Mike.

Ethan walked off with Rose. Helping Mum with the rations, she enlightens me that we can talk to Dad.

Dad is a captain in the British Army, part of a special assignment to protect innocents in the Middle East. Recently he hasn't returned. Constant fears are ghosting in my family of another loss. I force any downbeat thoughts to leave. Hopefully, he is here for Christmas.

Night arrives. We snuggle on the sofa, engrossed in robes, grasping mugs of milky tea. Rose is on my lap, fidgeting with my Crucifix necklace. The screen flickers, revealing our father. He's in a tent, his men preparing for bed, brushing their teeth and guffawing in chatters. I have no idea how Dad can call us considering the environment he's in. He ensures to keep in contact, despite the limits.

Dad beams, lines appearing at the corners of his almond-shaped cognacs. "Hey, guys." A soft buzz-cut, sinewy in a black, thin shirt, the Crucifix Cross of his chain proudly out and shining. He used to be an atheist.

Rose gasps. "Daddy!"

As accustomed, Rose performs the same behaviour as if she's determined this separation is a spell: she crawls to the laptop, touching the screen, expecting to caress our father. She abruptly retreats her hand back, flabbergasted, staring at her palm like Excuse me?

Dad's gaze crashes into sombre at her actions. He fluently hides it. "How's everyone doing?"

"We're doing well," replies Mum.

"Good. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't." He notices Ethan's bandaged hand and chuckles. "Again?"

Mum glares at Ethan, believing he purposely injured himself to get on her nerves. She prefers Ethan to have a positive avocation rather than pugilism.

"I don't know why you do boxing," I tell Ethan. "You're clearly bad at it."

He scoffs. "Practice makes perfect, sis. You know what, let's not talk about it, okay?"

Dad diverts to me. "Your exams are next summer. Nervous?"

"I'll be alright," I manage. "It'll be easy."

Dad enthusiastically curls his hand into a fist. "That's the spirit. With self-confidence and a positive mindset, you can accomplish anything." I smile. I miss his optimism. "Do you know what you would like to do as a career?"

"I'm still unsure."

"That's fine. You got time. Just be whatever you want to be, alright?"

"Don't do it for validation," includes Mum.

Dad nods in agreement. "Do it for yourself." He averts to Ethan. "Same to you, Malla."

Mum and Dad's parents are endearing. Nonetheless, their expectations were intolerable, and often decided their career paths. I consider myself a lucky young woman to have compassionate and open-minded parents.

"And, uh, how's the ugly shithead?"

"Julian," scolded Mum.

Dad shrugs, smiling. He always smiles whenever he looks at her — and every time he looks at her, he falls for her all over again. "What?"

"Mind your language," she says. "Roy is a sweet boy—"

Dad snorts. "I genuinely hate the kid. I don't want to ask questions about him. I don't give a damn. But since he's practically in our lives like an annoying speck of dust ..." He meets my gaze. "As long as he makes you happy, April, I think I can manage the dickhead—"

"Julian!" cuts Mum in a smile. "Now I'm thinking you're doing this on purpose!"

"You think?" Dad looks at us like, Can you believe her?

Ethan and I exchange a knowing smirk. Ethan melodramatically lifts his lips in disgust, completely cringed out by this, uh, language of love. They are not ashamed to do it in front of us, especially Dad as he knows we get repulsed.

Jeromi and Julian Levesque are the halves of one soul. Dad joined the Army when he was nineteen. When he was twenty-five, he served in Afghanistan, and Mum — who was twenty-three, was studying at the University of Cambridge — wanted to improve and expand her expertise, to push past her boundaries. 

During her holiday, she went to treat injured soldiers for four weeks. Dad had a deep, unruly, gruesome cut from his top left shoulder to his bottom right waist. He was an atheist. For the first time in his life, he prayed to God to not die. The next day, he was Mum's first patient.

Dad flickers to Rose. "And this little girl? What have you been up to, Rose?"

Rose tilts her head sideways, baffled. She grins and slants forward to touch the screen again. Her whimpers melt Dad's smile. His scarred hand flattens on his screen, desperate to destroy this barrier and squeeze us in his arms.

"Can you come for Christmas?" asks Ethan.

"I doubt it."

"Can you try?"

"No, don't try," I say. "Just quit."

Silence. Mum's melancholy brims her eyes.

Dad sighs. "It's easier said than done, April."

"You have served enough," I argue. Ethan nods. "Come home."

Another round of silence.

"Mike's dead," I continue angrily, tears threatening to escape. We can't lose you, too! The scream is gurgling in my throat. If it's released, I'd break down. That's the last thing I want.

Every day is a constant battle. I get anxious, fearing the worst.

I never understood wars. Why fight for power when the power is forgotten over time? If war is what the world needs to progress, it's revolting. I ranted about this once not so long ago, and to ease the tension, Ethan light-heartedly suggested world leaders should have a boxing match instead of deploying innocent men and women to fight their arguments. Brave men and women are dying for the sake of nothing.

Dad's eyes are like glass, glossy in the darkening tent. He endeavours to smile. It wavers. "The condition over here is getting worse by the day. They need me."

"So do we," snapped Ethan.

I don't care if he's fighting in a war. I'm too selfish. I want my father home.

"I'm trying to come back," is Dad's reply. "So in the meantime, the best we can do is trust in God. He will bring me back to you."

Ethan leans against the sofa, his fists clenched as if trying to preserve the sorrow. Rose begins to wail, sensing something is wrong.

"Hey, come on," Dad says in a forced, uplifting tone. "Jeromi? Jeromi, look at me." Mum's cheeks are wet with messy, wet trails. She slowly looks at him. "Come on, sweetheart. You're stronger than that. Don't be like this. Don't get sad."

"It's hard not to. If you end up like Mike—"

"Stop that," Dad snaps. "You shouldn't waste your life like this. I understand you're scared. I'd be a fool to say I'm not. I wake up thinking I might never see you again, but we have to remain positive. Everything will turn out fine." He pauses for a moment, as if having a moment of doubt, then repeats his last phrase slowly and firmly: "Everything will turn out fine."

Mum nods hopefully, wiping her eyes. "Okay. Just do whatever you can to come back soon," she whispered, her voice croaky and shattering. "Please."

Dad smiled at Mom with passionate pure love and softness. 'And I'll be there soon.'

 🌺