Beginnings

Adam and I lay on our backs in the long grass behind the farm sheds. It's hot, summer has come at last after the seemingly never-ending April rains and we're taking advantage of it. The morning has been spent running around, chasing the chickens and geese, until father shouted at us, threatening to put us to work turning manure. We'd careered around some more, meandering our way back to the farmhouse for refreshments; greeted by mother, scolding the grass stains on our knees and trying her level best to keep us in the cool of the kitchen so we could help her with chores. Gulping lemonade and throwing water on our red faces we retreated as fast as we could back out into the sun. We'd been too exhausted to keep running and had flopped down in the shady grass.

I point out a dog shape in the clouds and we spend another hour making as many shapes out of the clouds as we can. It's one of our favourite games. We also like hide and seek or climbing the hay bales. Father counsels us not to climb there, as he knows of deaths past where children have been caught in an avalanche of hay; at best limbs get broken, disabilities inflicted. We ignore him, of course. Adam says we'd never be stupid enough to get caught dying in a hay bale storm. Even so, I haven't actually been out to the barn this year. Neither has Adam. Coincidence.

Adam is my cousin. He's a little older than me, but only by two years. He's just left school, no qualifications. Doesn't need any to take over his father's business, he says. We've played on our farm since we were small (knee-high to a grasshopper, as Uncle Derek says). Adam is probably one of my best friends. I trust him. I glance a sideways look as Adam points out yet another shape in the sky. I see his arm pressed against his head, his profile half in shadow. I see the slight crookedness to his nose, the fullness of his lips and the indentation in his chin from the time he fell against the stone steps aged five. His scars give him gravitas, in my eyes. (I learned the word, gravitas, in Ms Gearson's English class yesterday and I've wanted to use it since then.)

A fly settles on the end of his nose and he flicks at it with his left hand, brushing against my hip as he does so. I feel a tingle through my skin, my breath shallow. The fly passes off to bother something else. I shade my eyes from the sun and look carefully at Adam. His chest rises and falls as he speaks, as each breath provides the life before me. I see the tanned skin of his chest; a few blond hairs dot the landscape down to his sternum, a further light fuzz disappearing under his shirt. I lick my lips, mouth suddenly dry.

Adam looks up at me, his face a question. I look away, feel myself blush. The quizzical look remains on Adam's face. I shove him and jump to my feet, giggles emitting from my throat. He lies back but I am ready to run, ready to be chased. I want Adam to chase me, to grapple with me, pin me to the ground. I want his sturdy legs to constrict, in a pincer movement; I want his hands to grasp my wrists and push them above my head. I want to be blinded by the sun and have his face provide some shade. I want to feel his lips graze against mine.

But he doesn't move. Adam continues to lay there, still. His breathing calm now. I realise he's asleep. I collapse next to him, lay my head on his chest and curl up with his arm across me. I wonder what shape we make for the birds to look down upon as I drift into unconsciousness.