The Player Game

Chapter 18

He obliges, grinning impishly as he takes control, dragging me around a group of old women.  “Well,” he begins.  “I think, since we’ve already raided the sweet shop, and you managed to break the kiddies swing in the park with your oh-so-big behind,” he adds, shooting me a knowing wink.  I blush at that, cursing myself for ever attempting to fit into the tiny swing.  “It’s time for something different,” he concludes, pausing to look at me.  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“What are you thinking?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking.  What are you thinking?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I have no idea!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air.  “Enlighten me, please!” I add, spluttering as the irksome smirk on his face gets to me.

My outburst only makes him smirk all the more.  “If you’re so adamant, I suppose I’ll have to,” he responds pompously.  “I was thinking, since we’re so colourful and sticky,” he waves a hand up and down our sherbet-coated bodies, “that we should do that thing.”

I wait for him to expand on the word thing, but quickly find out that he’s too distracted watching a bird fly overhead.  “Thing?” I hint, nodding my head for him to continue.

“You know,” he muses, looking around for inspiration.  “That thing… where you stand still and stuff… you know!”  No, I don’t actually.  “It’s kind of like begging, but silent; and everyone is all colourful and spray painted.”

“Flash mob?” I suggest, my brow furrowing as I try to decipher the meaning behind his words.  Why would Aaron and I want to flash mob anyway?  I doubt that Aaron can dance, let alone myself.  As a ten year old, I attended ballet classes - practically every child under twelve fell for the craze at the time, and I was no exception – but that doesn’t mean that I have any clue of how to move my body in a way that doesn’t involve making myself look like a demented walrus trying to reach water.

“No,” he says immediately, clicking two fingers together as though sparking a memory.  His eyes widen, and he bounces into the air, gasping.  “A living statue!” he exclaims, a row of white teeth gleaming as he turns to watch my reaction.

At first, I can’t help but grin along with him, the excitement radiating from him and into me.  Then, as the words sink in, the smile fades, a sceptical expression in its place.  “A living statue?” I repeat doubtfully.  “Aaron, a living statue has to be dressed up and covered in glitter or sparkly stuff,” I point out, motioning to my blazer.  I may be covered in sherbet, surprisingly colourful and sticky sherbet at that, but you can still see the ugly maroon fabric beneath it.  “You can still see our school uniform.”

“So what?” he responds, his grin not faltering in the slightest.  Apparently, he’s not willing to change his mind so easily.  “We can be an abstract set of statues.”  His face lights up as he comes to an abrupt halt.  “Oh my God!” he screams so loud that I have to shush him frantically until he calms down.  “Imagine this,” he breathes, using his hands to mime a sign in the air.  “Emily and Aaron: The Arty School Kids.”

A sudden need to burst into laughter courses through me.  His rosy cheeks and excited chatter remind me of a five year old on a Christmas morning, not a sixteen year old in a town centre.  Aaron’s expression falters as I make an effort to keep a straight face, the corner of my lips wobbling despite my attempts not to laugh.

I bite the inside of my cheek, a surge of air threatening to come out through my nose in a noisy snort.  It’s only when a disheartened pout turns down his lips that I can’t control the laughter anymore.  The snort erupts like a volcano, allowing me to open my mouth, a fit of laughter streaming out.