Nelson gestured to the clarinettist. ‘Sky, meet Yves.’

‘Hi. You’re good.’ Yves smiled, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

‘Thanks.’

‘That idiot’s my brother, Zed.’ He waved a hand towards the scowling biker.

‘Come on, Yves,’ Zed growled.

Yves ignored him. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s like this with everyone.’

Nelson laughed and left us to it.

‘You twins?’ They had the same colouring and golden-brown skin, but Yves was round-faced with sleek black hair, a young Clark Kent. Zed had wel -

defined features, strong nose, large eyes with long lashes, and a head of thick curls, more likely to be one of the colourful bad guys than be found among the boring good. A fal en hero, one of those tragic types who turn to the dark side like Anakin Skywalker …

Keep with the programme, Sky.

Yves shook his head. ‘No way. I’ve a year on him.

I’m a senior. He’s the baby of the family.’

Never had I seen anyone less like a baby. My respect for Yves soared as it was clear he wasn’t intimidated by his brother.

‘Gee, thanks, bro, I’m sure she wanted to know that.’ Zed folded his arms, foot tapping.

‘See you at band practice.’ Yves tugged Zed away.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I murmured, watching the brothers. ‘I bet you can’t wait.’ I hummed an ironic little exit tune, imagining them both leaping into the skies as they departed from the sight of us mere mortals.

That same afternoon, Tin

a ran me home in her car,

saying she wanted to see where I lived. I think she was real y angling for an invitation to meet the parents. Her vehicle only had two seats, the boot devoted to tool space for her brother’s plumbing business. You could stil make out the words Monterey Repairs on the side.

‘He gave it to me when he upgraded to a truck,’

she explained cheerful y, honking the horn to move a cluster of teenagers out of the way. ‘He’s official y my favourite brother for at least another month.’

‘How many brothers do you have?’

‘Two. More than enough. You?’

‘It’s just me.’

She chatted away as we wound through town. Her family sounded wonderful—a bit chaotic but close.

No wonder she had bags of confidence with that behind her.

She gunned the accelerator and we shot up the hil .

‘I met Zed and Yves Benedict at music practice,’ I said casual y, trying to ignore the fact that I was being thrown back in the seat like an astronaut on take-off.

‘Isn’t Zed gorgeous!’ She smacked her lips enthusiastical y, swerving round a cat that dared to cross the road in front of her.

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘There’s no suppose about it. That face, that body

—what more could a girl want?’

Someone who noticed her? I thought.

‘But he’s got a big attitude—drives the teachers mad. Two of his brothers were similar but they say he’s the worst. Almost got kicked out of school last year for disrespect to a staff member. Mind you, none of us liked Mr Lomas. Turned out he liked some of us too much, if you know what I mean. Got fired at the end of term.’

‘Yuck.’

‘Yeah, anyway. Seven sons in the family. Three stil at home in the house at the top of town next door to the cable car station and the older ones in Denver.’

‘Cable car?’

‘Yeah, their dad runs it during the season; their mom’s a ski instructor. We al think the Benedict boys are the kings of the slopes.’

‘There are seven of them?’

She hooted at a pedestrian and waved. ‘The Benedicts kept to a pattern: Trace, Uriel, Victor, Wil , Xavier, Yves, and Zed. Helped them remember, I guess.’

‘Odd names.’

‘Odd family, but they’re cool.’

Sal y and Simon were unpacking art supplies when we arrived back. I could tel they were delighted that I had brought home a friend so soon.

They worried about my shyness even more than I did.

‘Sorry we’ve nothing to offer you but shop-bought biscuits,’ my mother said, rustling up some refreshments from the grocery box on the kitchen counter. As if she were the kind of mother who would be baking her own!

‘And here was I hoping for a ful English tea,’ said Tina with a twinkle in her eye. ‘You know, iddy-biddy cucumber sandwiches and those cake things with jel y and cream.’

‘You mean scones and jam,’ said Simon.

‘Sc- own- es,’

Sal y

and

I

corrected

him

automatical y.

‘Sorry, did I miss something?’ Tina asked when we laughed.

‘Old joke—not funny,’ Simon said briefly. ‘Cut it out, girls. Sky told us you were into art, Tina. What have you heard about the new centre?’

‘I’ve seen the building—total y awesome. Mr Rodenheim had big ambitions for the place.’ She sneaked a peek at a sketchbook Sal y had just unpacked. She looked impressed, taking time to study each one. ‘This is great. Charcoal?’

Sal y stood up and tossed her scarf over her shoulder. ‘Yes, I like that medium for sketching.’

‘Are you going to hold classes?’

‘That’s part of the deal,’ Sal y confirmed, shooting Simon a delighted look.

‘I’d like to come, Mrs Bright, if I may.’

‘Of course, Tina. And please, cal me Sal y.’

‘Sal y and Simon,’ added my dad.

‘OK.’ Tina put down the sketch pad and shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘So did Sky here pick up artistic genes from you then?’

‘Er … no.’ Sal y smiled at me, a little embarrassed. It was always like this when people asked. We’d agreed we’d never pretend to be other than what we were.

‘I’m adopted, Tina,’ I explained. ‘My life was a little complicated before they took me in.’

Read ‘seriously messed up’. I’d been dumped at a motorway service station when I was six; no one had been able to trace my birth parents. I’d been traumatized, not even able to remember my name.

The only way I had communicated in the next four years was via music. Not a time I liked to remember.

It had left me with the haunting feeling that maybe one day someone would turn up and claim me like a suitcase lost by an airline. I knew I didn’t want to be traced.

‘Oh, sorry—I didn’t mean to put my foot in it. But your parents are awesome.’

‘It’s OK.’

She picked up her bag. ‘Cool. Gotta go. See you tomorrow.’ With a cheery wave, she was gone.

‘I like your Tina,’ Sal y announced, hugging me.

‘And she thinks you’re awesome.’

Simon shook his head. ‘Americans think shoes a r e awesome, someone offering them a lift is awesome: what are they going to do when they meet something real y awe-inspiring? They’l have run out of road with that word.’

‘Simon, stop being an old fuddy-duddy.’ Sal y slapped him in the ribs. ‘How was your day, Sky?’

‘Fine. No, better than fine. Awesome.’ I grinned at Sal y. ‘I think I’m going to be al right here.’ As long as I steered clear of Mrs Green’s cheerleaders.

Jazz band practice fel at the end of the week. During the intervening time, I didn’t come across the two Benedicts in the hal ways as our timetables appeared not to overlap. I did see Yves in the distance once when he was playing vol eybal , but Zed’s schedule did not coincide with mine.

Tina saw him.

Nelson shot a few hoops with him. Brave man.

But not me. Not that I spent al my time looking out for him, of course.

I heard a lot more about him. He and his family were one of the favourite topics for gossip. Three of the Benedict Boys—Trace, Victor, and now the youngest, Zed—were notorious for roaring through Wrickenridge on their motorbikes, getting involved in fights in the local bars, leaving a trail of broken hearts among the female population—mostly from their failure to date the local girls. The oldest two, Trace and Victor, had settled down a little now they had jobs out of town, ironical y both in law enforcement, but that didn’t stop their past exploits being related with great relish and some fondness.