Finley Embraces Heart and Home by Anyta Sunday

Somebody to come when he called them

K. Mansfield, “Fairy Tale”

Ethan is all baseball caps and fleeting dimpled grins.

Half the summer has passed, and I still haven’t figured him out. He gets up at a despicably early hour and swims—I think. By the time I drag myself from bed, he’s finishing up an exercise routine, stretching against the wall, completely soaked with sweat and the smell of the river.

While I listen to audiobooks—earbuds in my ears, draped over the couch in our shared living area—he’s in his room. The door is always open; I see him at his desk, typing away at summer projects for school. Sometimes, I catch him looking at me. But he hurriedly looks away.

With Mum, he’s always polite, thoughtful, kind. He offers to help prepare dinners, but we’ve witnessed his absolute incompetence in the kitchen and steered him toward table-setting instead.

When it comes to Tom, he’s respectful. Their conversations are tedious, serious. Usually about how Ethan is getting along with his studies, and Ethan’s part time job at Tom’s firm. Lots of shop talk. Numbers bore me; I don’t pay too much attention.

Sometimes I think they bore Ethan too.

His shoulders curve inward every time Tom starts grilling him, and twice, when Tom’s left the room, he’s sighed.

So, like, I have this picture of him . . . but something about it feels off. Like there’s more to Ethan that nobody’s seeing.

I want to see it.

Which is the reason I’m dragging myself out of bed at fucking-hell-o’clock. His footsteps are pounding rhythmically down the stairs; I shove my shoes on, plunge into a jacket, and follow.

In the soft glow of a frosty dawn, he jogs under the pear trees in the backyard to the river at the base of the hill. The water is still and looks deep, and I watch from behind a tree as Ethan, stripped to his swim shorts, swims lap after lap. Freestyle. Butterfly.

Water glides over him, silky against the strong planes of his back. He lurches from beneath the surface with a splash and water wakes behind him, unsettled. Over and over. How many ripples can one guy make?

I stare at the disturbed water and shiver.

Ethan dives deep and then bursts up, standing. He’s all toned skin and clinging shorts. He shakes his wet hair, haloing himself in glittering droplets.

My hands press against the rough bark and a splinter weasels its way under the skin of my palm. I hiss and a twig snaps under my foot.

Ethan spins.

Pulse jack-rabbiting, I quickly conceal myself.

The near catchdoesn’t stop me following him again.

The next weekend, he gets a call after lunch and, glancing at his dad—busy talking wedding prep with Mum—slinks out of sight.

He heads to the backyard, to a gate in the fence that separates Mansfield from the property next door.

When he disappears through it, I climb one of the pear trees straddling the fence. The leaves are full and the branches stretch into the neighbour’s yard.

I stand on a strong juncture in the trunk, body stretching across a web of branches. I shift to avoid the press of a jutting branch against the greenstone at my chest. Ethan is greeting two young kids in costume, a knight and a princess.

The girl, in silver armour, presents Ethan with a pink, cone-shaped princess hat with lace streaming out from the top.

They giggle when he tosses his cap, and their eager hands drag him to an ornate white picnic table set with pretty, floral teacups.

He sits and dons the princess hat, pretends to eat and drink. He laughs, they all do. I’m grinning, too.

The boy demands a story, and Ethan stands up and transforms into all the characters of a one-man play.

An evil old wizard has imprisoned the outspoken princess and locked her up in a tower, where she can never speak her mind. The princess is having none of that, and when the wizard leaves, she sets out to free herself.

Dramatically, Ethan affects all the voices. “Be careful there, a young prince cries from below. The princess glances down, down, down the tower at him and laughs. Do you need help?” —the prince again— “The princess yanks off her shoe and stabs the weapon-like heel into the mortar, continuing her descent. Impeccable timing—”

“Sounds sarcastic,” the girl-knight says.

“What’s that mean?” the boy asks.

“That means the princess is mocking the prince. Because he’s too late to offer help.” Ethan resumes his princess façade: “If you can’t see, I’m more than halfway. I’m quite capable of saving myself.” His voice deepens. “Sorry. Only . . . if you save yourself, I don’t know what my role is anymore.” The princess: “Oh my, what a conundrum—a conundrum is a problem.”

“She’s being sarcastic again.”

“Thank you, Elinor.” Ethan continues, “Suddenly, the princess loses her grip—”

“Oh no,” the boy says. “Does she fall? Does she die?”

Ethan grins, voice his own—or at least, it’s the one I’m familiar with. “You sound far too gleeful, Zach Dashwood.”

The knight laughs, shoving her brother. “The princess can’t die. That would be a tragic ending.”

“All the originals are tragic.”

Ethan plants his hands on his hips. “Not this one. Just wait, a happily-ever-after will come. Now where was I?”

“The princess was falling!”

“She was swinging, holding on to her heel for dear life with one hand. The prince watched on, quite useless, really.” Ethan swings one arm, his other fisted above his head, his clutch on the imaginary tower. “She stabs more of the mortar and secures herself. A close call. Carefully, she climbs down the rest of the tower. She reaches the ground, rightly proud of herself.”

“Is that it? The End?”

“Not nearly!” Ethan says. “Because this princess cares about more than saving only herself. She looks over the prince’s shoulder and notices a poor young man, stuck in a tree. He’s calling out for someone to come to him.”

Keeping his eyes on the kids, Ethan moves toward the fence, toward the pear tree. He lifts his head, grinning up at me.

Busted.

Stomach flipping, I press my head against the branch and peer at him sheepishly through the leaves. “Saw me, huh?”

Ethan uses his dramatic princess voice. “Why, I saw you while I was climbing down from the tower, and I just knew I had to help you.”

The kids laugh and yell for the Ethan-princess to save me.

“Fall,” Ethan commands, pitching his voice high. “I shall catch thee.”

I’m not sure about this plan, but Ethan keeps encouraging me in his princess voice, and the kids are squealing, too delighted to disappoint. I swing down, both hands clutching the branch. Ethan folds his arms around my thighs and his face mushes against my lower stomach; my t-shirt rides up as I slither to the ground.

My feet have barely hit the grass when Ethan grabs me behind the knees and lifts me like a bride.

“Let’s do this right.”

Children run circles around us, cheering for their princess.

Laughter bursts out of me toward the brilliant blue sky, and Ethan’s responding laugh tickles up the bridge of my nose and settles like a soft weight between my brows.

“Stop this nonsense.” A hardened voice cuts through the cheer.

Ethan swivels violently, his clutch on me tightening.

Tom pushes through the gate, staring at us, horrified. “Put your brother down at once.”

I slip out of Ethan’s hold and hug my pounding chest.

Tom looks between us and then at the tea party beyond. “Get inside. The tailor’s here to measure you for your suits.”

Ethan quiets; all his incredible energy, colour, emotion compresses to nods and polite answers. His baseball cap goes back on.

He doesn’t outwardly hate his dad for it. At least, there’s no fight. He accepts what Tom says and does what he’s told.

Me, though. I’m angry. I glare at him but he’s not paying attention to me. He’s frowning after his son.

“It was just a fairy-tale at a tea party.”

“Did you put him up to this?”

“Excuse me?”

I probably shouldn’t laugh, but I do. A part of me is happy. I have proof now. I have something I can take to Mum. Tom’s not a good person. He’s a homophobe. I don’t know how I’ll ever respect the man.

“I hope she changes her mind about marrying you.”

Somebody to catch by the hand

K. Mansfield, “Fairy Tale”

“He’s toxic, Mum. What do you see in him?”

Mum stops peeling vegetables and looks at me across the marble kitchen island, baffled.

I explain what happened and she hums thoughtfully. “I’m sure you’re reading more into it than what’s there. Tom is supportive of the gay community. He donates every year to LGBT organisations.”

This stumps me. But . . . But . . . “He asked me if I put Ethan up to the tea party.”

“You had a date with the tailor, Fin. Maybe he was exasperated that he had to hunt you down for it? I don’t know. But I’m sure you misunderstood.”

I don’t stop peeling. Every strip is getting shorter and quicker and I’m pressing hard into the kumara.

“I’m not saying he’s perfect,” Mum continues. “But in his heart, he means well. He fought the school board to let you attend after summer. The most prestigious school in the South Island.”

I frown. A private school? “They let me in? I suck at school.”

“You don’t suck at school.”

“My failing grades would suggest otherwise.”

“You’re smart. You just get overwhelmed. It’s the pressure.”

“Or I’m just lazy.”

“No, you put in the effort. I’ve seen it. We all learn at different speeds, that’s all.” She frowns.

I know what that frown is about. She took me to a psychologist once; I took test after test and did just fine on all of them. The psychologist seemed to think that my issues in class were emotional. That once I’d gotten through my grief at the sudden loss of my dad, I’d be okay. But it’s been almost three years now and . . . it just takes so much energy. After half an hour of reading, I just want to nap.

“It’s a fresh start. You’ll have new teachers, the best education you can get. And much smaller classes, you might benefit from that.”

My frown deepens. “Is it the same school Ethan goes to?”

“He’s a year ahead of you, but yes.”

“And Tom got me in?”

“And he’s paying an exorbitant amount for it. Thank God for the sibling discount!”

I shudder. “I don’t get why he’s bothering.”

Mum comes around the island and lifts my chin. She stares into my eyes softly. “He sees you as family.”

The last ofthe summer holiday passes and school starts.

I hate the preppy uniform, but whatever. It’s co-ed at least, and I make a friend. Maybe not a close friend, but at least someone to sit with at lunch. Red-haired, always manicuredMaria knows everything about everyone, so she’s been good to have around. She’s even pointed out all the guys she knows are gay. Which, to be fair, isn’t many but the few there are make an impression.

Since the tea party, Ethan’s been weird around me. We barely speak, each going about our day like the other doesn’t exist. He drives himself to school, and I take the bus. To be fair, he’s not allowed to drive me there on his restricted license, but it still feels . . . symbolic or something. So did Mrs Norris’s puke on my bed. The second time this week.

Maria hitches her school bag higher up her shoulder as we zig-zag down the path to the carpark and bus stop. For once, I can’t wait to get back to Mansfield. My big fat Achieved is burning in my backpack. The first important test I’ve passed for English, uh, ever. Mum’s gonna explode with joy. Hell, I’m giddy on it, too.

The silly lightness in my stomach is even enough to overpower the prickles at my nape that tell me Ethan is close.

I glimpse him in the corner of my eye; he’s a few steps behind us on the single path, car keys jingling as he flips them over his finger, round and round.

Fern fronds flick into my face—thanks Maria—and I sidestep to avoid the same thing happening to Ethan. It’s acknowledging him, but . . . whatever. I’m happy. My teacher is great, and I might actually be improving.

“To be honest,” Maria’s saying, “that test was easy. Like, ridiculously easy. Everyone I’ve asked got Excellence. Only Rush got Achieved. How dumb do you have to be to only get Achieved?” Her laugh steals every ounce of my giddiness.

I halt abruptly; behind me, Ethan hits the brakes, shoe snapping against the concrete. Heaviness sinks my belly. My cheeks are burning.

Maria twists around, mouth parted to say something else, then stops. “You okay?”

I nod, swallowing hard. I wish Ethan would just pass us already.

“We can get a hot chocolate if you like. Celebrate our Excellences—wait, you did get Excellence, right?”

I stammer.

“Great. Let’s head to Tranquil Café.”

Ethan clears his throat behind us and Maria looks over my shoulder at him. He’s stepped closer now. I can feel him like a heater at my back. “Actually, Finley can’t today. Dad said we have to head straight home.”

I frown. “He did?”

“Yep. So, guess he’ll see you tomorrow, Maria.”

Maria sighs like this is putting a big dent in her plans. She checks her phone and then shrugs. “Okay, tomorrow then. I’m gonna catch up with Rush and give him shit. Later.”

She strides off, and I stare after her.

Ethan slips to my side, perfectly pressed in his spotless uniform, face free from the shadows of a cap. His hand moves to my bag and I feel the shudder of the zip. “It was open,”’ he says, and I know immediately he’s seen my test, pinned behind my smaller math textbook, the red-circled Achieved at the top right-hand corner.

I can’t look at him. My insides heave up my throat and the pressure stings my eyes.

“Um. See you at home, then.” I pound down the last of the path and emerge onto the parking lot. I’m halfway across when Ethan catches up and snags my hand.

His fingers wrap insistently around mine and our eyes catch. He tugs me toward his car and urges me inside.

“You’ll get in trouble,” I say as he slides into the driver’s seat.

Ethan stares out the window, then grabs his seatbelt, drawing it slowly across his chest. “I’ll be careful.”