YELLOW STARS

Hannah Fox

            The playground where they met was the only one Emma knew in the area. She’d visited with her sister a couple of times, eaten haribo on the swings, hammered up the yellow stairs to the grey slide.

            Joe was curled in the space under the yellow stairs, sat on his Metallica hoodie. The floor underneath was recycled rubber tyres chopped into something both rough and smooth. Emma thought he was smoking at first, he had his hand near his face in a certain way and his breath was a grey tongue flicking out.

            “Hey!” Emma said, not in greeting but admonishment. But as she leaned to sit she saw he’d been biting his thumbnail, not smoking, and his breath was because of the cold, that was all.

            “Hey,” Joe said, forehead wrinkling. “You OK?”

            “Yep.”

            “Was your dad OK about you coming out?”

            “Step-dad.” He hadn’t been OK with her coming out. Not at all. Emma shook her head. “Did you get them?”

            In response Joe produced a tiny translucent bag, four grey pills inside like eggs in a belly. They had something stamped onto them, or maybe carved into them, Joe’s hand was moving too quickly for her to make it out. The bag was small, micro. Who makes these bags, Emma thought, do they care that they are only ever used for this one seedy thing?

            “Thought we could take one at first, see what they’re like, then another if we need it,” Joe said. “They’re really good, apparently. He said we wouldn’t need two.”

            “Whatever,” Emma said.

            Rain was bouncing off the play equipment above as the light faded. The noise reminded Emma of being small and safe. She closed her eyes, enjoying the moment, but the wind-carried call of someone furious interrupted.

            “Is someone shouting?” Joe asked, all bovine stupidity.

            “Shh,” Emma said.

            Her stepdad’s voice, quivering with aggression, was calling her name. She realised, as she sat and listened to her name being yelled, that he must have followed her here, that he would drag her home using whatever means necessary, that her few hours of snatched freedom was a personal affront to him.

            “Shh, shh,” Emma said, the way she might say to a fractious child and Joe gripped her hand, rubbing her palm with his thumb.

            The shouting grew fainter, until the sound of the rain was dominant. Emma reached forwards and tugged the packet out of Joe’s fist, her fingers scraping against his damp skin. She dug her fingers into the plastic pouch, and scooped out two pills, lifting them off her finger with her lips. They tasted like talc. Emma passed the package back to Joe. “Let’s go,” she said, and she laughed. She laughed so hard and for so long Joe’s face became tight and closed, but she didn’t stop.