My Moroccan Boy (by Leo Lloyd)

Chapter One: A Crack in the River

Perdu (Lost)

My trainers kick up dust as I wander between the dry stone walls, squinting at the hastily drawn map in my hand. The path to the river had vanished somewhere behind — either that, or I'd taken a wrong turn past that damn goat pen. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, feeling the late afternoon heat press against my shoulders like the weight in my heart.

The field ahead slopes downward, dotted with gnarled olive trees and boulders smoothed by centuries of wind. Near the largest rock, a skinny teenager leans with his back against it, one foot propped casually behind him. His tight jeans cling to his thighs, the fabric straining slightly where his knee bends. The autumnal afternoon light catches half his face, turning his skin golden where it escapes the tree's shade — he's chewing absentmindedly on an olive leaf, staring at nothing in particular with wide, distracted eyes.

I freeze mid-step. He hasn't noticed me yet. Eighteen?Moroccans in this region tend to be on the short side, plus my age-guessing skills are terrible . But there's something about how his fingers tap against his own hipbone — impatient, like he's waiting for something without knowing what — that makes me linger instead of calling out. I should ask for directions. But the quiet of the field, the stillness of him, pins me in place.

Then his head turns. His eyes go round for half a second — like a startled deer catching movement in the brush — before he tries to play it cool, tucking the olive leaf behind his ear like some failed magician's trick. He straightens too fast, his back sliding off the boulder with an audible scrape of denim on stone.

"Bonjour!" he calls out, "Perdu?... Machi ana, pas moi.... Toi?" The words tumble out in a jumble of French-Arabic, his voice cracking midway into something unexpectedly sweet, like a kid who hasn't quite grown into his vocal cords yet trying to sell you stolen olives. His fingers flutter near his chest, then scramble to adjust his shirt collar, pulling it away from his throat as if that would somehow fix the squeak. A flush crawls up his neck when our eyes meet, and he quickly looks down at his dusty flip-flops instead. He bites the olive leaf harder, as if it might anchor him.

Inner thoughts (boy): Oh no. Oh no no no. It's him. That foreign man I spied in the souk. The one with red hair. Why was my voice like a dying goat? Stupid. Stupid mouth. Maybe if I stare at my feet hard enough, he'll think I'm a rock. A very stupid rock.

I laugh weakly, more of a breath than a sound — I don't think I've even smiled properly in years — and nod. "Oui, lost, perdu... River, umm, le oued?" The admission feels heavy — losing my direction as if confessing I don't know how to navigate this valley, this hollowed-out version of myself that still stumbles through motions. But his face is soft, open, sunlight diffused through palm fronds, and something in my chest loosens just a fraction.

I shake myself from my thoughts — how absurd, getting lost in a place this small when I've navigated cities without maps. My trainers scuff the dry earth as I close the distance, arm extending automatically, years of British politeness ingrained despite everything. "Salam alykum." His eyes suspiciously dart to my extended hand, and for a heartbeat, I think he'll bolt. But he abruptly pushes off the boulder, his tight jeans pulling at the thighs as he unfolds himself.

"Aw!" His grin is bright as a coin flipped into sunlight. His shirt rides up during the stretch, revealing a fragment of brown stomach — taut like a drum-head — before he tugs it back down with a self-conscious flick of his fingers. His hand brushes mine, tentative as a moth landing on a lamp, before settling into a shy grip. The contact sends a spark through me, not electric but calm, steadying — like finding a note slipped under a door you thought was locked. The contrast is ridiculous; my fingers engulf his, rough where old calluses linger from guitar strings and ink-stained pages, while his are smooth as the underside of an olive leaf.

"W—walykum salam," he murmurs, his voice cracking again — this time into something softer, almost melodic. His grip tightens briefly before he pulls away, tucking his hands behind his back like he's hiding evidence. "Aji? Vien, le oued." He takes a few steps away, flip-flops slapping against his heels, then glances back over his shoulder. "Vien?"

The way he says "Vien?" — half-question, half-plea — makes my heart skip a beat. He's sweet-looking. Is he after money? It'd be daft to turn back now, I may as well let him be my guide.

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