Eight Boys and a Walker girl

19 | Talk to me

19 | Talk to me

Julian and I are in the middle of an argument when I get the text from Danny.

I think we were just in an argumentative mood because of the heat. It's been spring for a good week now, but we only really started getting proper sun today, and it was horrible. Call me weird, but I'm just not a heat person. Sunny and warm with a breeze? Totally me. Sweltering hot to the point where your head hurts, you're feeling moody and the world smells of sweat from everyone around you? I'm out.

What makes it worse is that the girls of the Popular Table wanted to get their suntans up, so we had to eat lunch outside in the middle of the school field, the sun burning down on us, literally burning the skin on the back of my neck. The girls all lay on the grass, going 'aaah' and 'my tan is going to look, like, soooo super after this!' whilst I fidgeted and moaned, sheltering my eyes from the heat rays and trying not to die.

And then, when I finally get home, my bloody electric fan isn't in my room! What the hell? How dare someone take it? After about an hour of searching, I found it in Ty's room- how didn't I guess? And once I finally got myself comfortable in the garden on one of the fold-out deck-chairs Mum gets out in the heat, the fan whirring in my face, my book 'One of us is lying' open on my lap and my sunglasses perched on my eyes, who came bursting out into the garden with their portable speakers and rap music and cans of beer? You guessed it- the McCartney boys. All bloody eight of them, even Bailey, who was wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else, a snapback on his head and a rubber ring round his middle even though there was no water in sight.

That's my peaceful afternoon ruined.

Me and Julian don't argue until later, though, when we're all inside again, and me and him are laying the table for dinner.

"I'm sorry, but Spurs are never better than Chelsea," I say firmly, "Not in a million years. I think you're delusional."

Julian folds his arms and glares at me. "Chelsea? What a joke! They're rubbish! They play like-"

"Don't you dare say girls."

"I was going to say like sissies, actually," he says, "I mean, Higuain- come on. He's the worst forward ever. And don't get me started on Alonso-"

"Well it isn't like Kane is any better than Higuain!" I fire back, "And Lloris is a pathetic goalkeeper. I can't wait till we play you next. Spurs is going down."

I slam my hand down on the table to emphasise my point. If I wasn't sure before, I am now. The McCartney boys are completely mad.

"I can't believe you support Spurs, man," I groan in annoyance as I slam down a knife and fork, "Just as I was starting to like you McCartney weirdos."

Julian cracks a grin. "We aren't as weird as Toby Alderweireld."

"That was lame, dude. Your attempt at our defender really wasn't cool."

We both end up laughing as we finish laying the table. I elbow him as we head into the kitchen to get the plates. "You really are a retard. I mean, Spurs. Spurs? I thought I raised you better than that, dude."

"Spurs are the best, dude," he mocks me, elbowing me back. We hear a holler coming from the top of the stairs where Ty and Harry are stood. Ty is grinning at us, his eyes glinting.

"He mocked you, Evvie man," he says, "He mocked you! Personally-"

I let out a scream of protest and hold up my hand before he can continue.

"Ty! Don't you dare finish that sentence if you want to be able to have children when you're older!"

In my school, everyone is always saying "Personally, I wouldn't take that" every time someone makes fun of someone else. Apparently it's like the new thing. Don't ask me. It's annoying as hell. Ty falls about laughing, and Julian joins in- of course he does. Like brother, like brother.