Chapter Seven Dance in Time

Dance in Time

August, 2012

Swiping his mousy hair to the side to emulate the latest Bieber trend, Jesse checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t sure he’d pulled it off, but it was the best he was going to do with the hair that refused to be fashionable. He blamed his mother. She had curls that refused to spiral and although his hair was straight, like his father’s, he’d still inherited the flat out refusal to be stylish. At home, he wouldn’t have cared all that much.

But here…

Throat dry, he swallowed his nerves. He shook out his hands, blowing out from rounded lips, then edged closer to his reflection, wiping the steam from the glass.

Great.

Fucking great.

A brand new and huge zit had erupted on the side of his face in the past five hours of travelling from Kent to Naxos. How was that even possible? He’d been bathing in Neutrogena for weeks to prevent this very catastrophe. Why? Why would the world do this to him? Today.

He wiped his cheek in the futile hope that it was a splodge of red pen from one of his drawings he’d been working on during the flight over. It didn’t smudge. Or wipe clean. It was definitely a spot.

“Mum!” he yelled through the gap of the bathroom door.

Their holiday villa in Aegleia Beach on the island of Naxos in Greece was on the ground floor of a row of other self-contained villas. It came with a private garden and a mini swimming pool overlooking their patch of the beach. It wasn’t a private beach as such, but it was on a curve and away from the main strip, so only those who owned a villa in the strip used it. Jesse had no idea how much it cost, but his dad was loaded, investment banking paid a decent wage, so the two bedrooms, open plan living space, small kitchenette and a single bathroom wedged between the front section and the bedrooms was a luxury despite it not being the five-bed, three bath detached house in a Kent suburb where he lived on a more permanent basis.

He only lived here during the summer holidays.

Which was a real shame.

Freya popped her head through the gap in the door, then scrunched up her nose and flapped her hand. “Blimey, Jess. Did you bathe in Lynx Africa?”

Jesse ignored her. Because he might have done. “How d’you get rid of a spot? Like, right now.”

Freya nipped inside the cosy bathroom with him. She was in her new black halter neck swimsuit, yellow sarong wrapped around her waist and her frizzy curls pushed out of her face with a loosely tied headband. The moment they’d arrived that afternoon, she’d been out on the balcony reading and soaking up the sun. It was her happy place. She loved Aegleia Beach almost as much as he did.

Almost.

She couldn’t seriously love it more than him.

It was just the two of them on holiday this time. Jesse’s dad had to work, but he’d insisted he’d be joining them later in the summer. But there was always the possibility he wouldn’t. Jesse’s dad spent more time at work, or playing golf, or off with clients, than he did with them. And Jesse wouldn’t admit it to his mum, nor to anyone else, but he was glad his dad wasn’t there right then to witness him going sappy over a boy.

He didn’t even want his mum to know.

Freya took Jesse’s chin in her manicured hand, tilting it one way, then the other, inspecting the, no doubt, crater sized zit on his face. He was taller than his mum now. At sixteen, his growth spurt had happened earlier in the year and he’d become what his mother referred to as a ‘young man’ and his dad moaned at him for taking too long in the bathroom to shave off his ‘bum fluff’. He was fair-haired, so the shaving thing wasn’t a necessity yet, but he’d heard it could help grow the follicles quicker, making him less Bieberish and more Beckhamish.

“Sorry, Jellybean, you can’t get rid of a spot. Let it fester and it’ll see itself out. Like husbands.”

“Mum! I’m going out!”

Freya sighed, hands on hips. “Toothpaste never really worked when I was a teenager, but you could try it?”

“Toothpaste? As in, brush my teeth?”

“As in, put toothpaste on the area and it’s meant to help reduce the redness. But I think you have to leave it overnight.”

“I haven’t got time for that!” Jesse was in panic mode. Tonight was important. He checked his reflection again. Maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Nope. It was still a great, big fucking mountain. Everest had literally erupted on his face. Hang on, was Everest a volcano? It didn’t matter. Whatever. People would queue up to climb his face for charity.

His life was over.

“You could use makeup.” Freya folded her arms, leaning on the doorframe.

“Will that get rid of it?”

“It’ll cover it up.”

Jesse pursed his lips in contemplation. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Put makeup on it.”

“On you? The whole of your face?”

“Yes. The whole of my face.”

“Jesse…”

“Please, Mum.” He turned back to the mirror, gesturing at his reflection. “I am literally growing another person on my face. It will have its own friends soon. It’ll be more popular than me!”

“You’re very dramatic, darling.” She ruffled his hair, then grimaced and stroked her fingers. “What have you used in your hair?”

“Hairspray.”

“My GHD hairspray? Jesse, that costs a fortune!” She leaned around him to the wash bag on the shelf, taking out the black and gold bottle. She shook it. “There’s hardly any left.” She tapped the top of his head with it. “This is for special occasions only.”

“This is a special occasion. Now can I have your makeup or not?”

Freya sighed. “Wait there.”

Jesse did, staring at the monster on his face. Maybe he could wish it away? He screwed his eyes shut, praying to the Greek God of Teen Spirit to get rid of the bloody spot.

His mobile phone, resting on the edge of the bath, dinged for a message. He opened his eyes, grabbed the iPhone and pressed into the message icon, all while his heart thumped in his chest like a bass drum.

Leaving now. Be there in 10. Can’t wait to see you! Dem x

Jesse’s cheeks hurt with how wide he smiled. There was a kiss. He’d put an actual kiss. Clutching the phone to his chest, he spun in circles around the bathroom.

His mum came back, rummaging in her makeup bag, then stopped, arching an eyebrow at him mid dance. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” He forced the grin off his face.

She cocked her head, but being the amazing mother she was, she didn’t press for more. If his dad were here, he would have demanded to know who had texted him, what they wanted, where he was going, who with and when he would be back. Well, he wouldn’t ask him when he would be back, he’d tell him when he would be back. Freya had a more laissez-faire parenting style, and Jesse was all for it. Whilst he had told his mum some things, he wasn’t ready to confess everything. He suspected she knew he was gay. That had been obvious from the outset. But he’d not come out yet. Officially. A couple of girls at school knew, because he told them about his crushes. And the popular boys had also decided on his sexuality before he had and used it as a reason to harass him in the corridor most days. But as he hadn’t actually kissed a boy, he’d had no reason to declare anything. There wasn’t anything to confess other than stupid, unrequited, fluttery feelings in his stomach each time he received a text or phone call from Demetrios, the boy from the island he’d met on their first holiday, and had hung out with every year since during his annual stays at Aegleia Beach.

“Come here, then.” Freya squirted some liquid foundation onto the back of her hand, dabbing a brush into it.

Jesse bit his lip. “Will people be able to tell I’ve got make-up on?”

“Not the way I do it.” She held up the brush. “Now, do you want to cover that up or not?”

Jesse thought about it. Either he went out with a massive zit which would have people avoiding him all night, or he let his mother plaster him in the foundation which wouldn’t be noticeable in the dark, anyway.

“Do it.” He closed his eyes and allowed his mother to work her magic.

She held his chin, raising his face to paint over the affected area, then blended in the colour over his skin. It was how Jesse would paint a picture, using the strokes to create a piece of art. He was expecting an A* in his GCSE Art, which would get him into the sixth form to study it at A Level, then onto university to become either a fine artist or graphic designer. Or an animator. Maybe illustrator? He hadn’t decided yet. But it’d be something using his skills in drawing.

“There you go.” Freya threw her brush back into her make-up bag. “Take a look.”

Jesse opened his eyes, dipping closer to the mirror. The spot was still there, but it was now blended into a flesh colour, not so red and angry and ready to destroy his social life.

A bang on their door had Jesse leaping for his phone. “Gotta go.”

“Is that Deme?”

“Yeah. He’s got a scooter now.” He kissed his mum’s cheek.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s an under eighteen disco thing.”

“Ah.” Freya folded her arms, a smile forming. “Hence the ‘I can’t have a zit on my face!’”

“Exactly.”

“Is he going to teach you how to pick up girls?” She raised her eyebrows, then quickly added, “Or boys. If that’s what you want?”

“We’re going to dance, Mum.” Jesse bolted out of the bathroom, skating down the corridor to shove his feet into his canvas loafers by the door. He’d gone for khaki shorts and a white shirt combo, which he’d changed four or five times and had settled on because it was the only thing that hadn’t creased in the suitcase.

Yanking open the door, he could have melted into goo on the stone tiles.

“Hi.” Demetrios’ smile was like warm sunshine after a cold winter.

Demetrios had also had a growth spurt. He was a year older than Jesse, and had left school the year previous to work full time in his dad’s taverna, so he now appeared several years older. It was the dark stubble and the mound of almost-black hair styled like one of those lads in One Direction. He’d filled out, too. Having started going to the beachside gym, and it was noticeable in the arms straining the cotton of his effortless T-shirt.

How did he make casual look haute couture?

Jesse turned to holler into the villa. “Bye, mum!”

“Hey, wait, wait!” Freya slapped on flip-flops down the hallway and because she was that embarrassing and that annoying, she popped Jesse’s glasses onto his nose for him.

Jesse clenched his jaw. He hated having to wear glasses. But his eyes weren’t the right size for contacts and, apparently, his eyesight would get worse as he got older, so he’d been told he might as well get used to wearing them full time.

“Hey, Deme.” Freya smiled at Demetrios.

“Hi, Mrs Hough. How was the flight?”

“Oh, call me Freya.” She waved him off. “And it was fine. This one refused to talk to me.” She ruffled Jesse’s hair, and he pushed her off. “So I watched a film that made me cry. I hear you two are off dancing.”

“It’s an under eighteen place,” Demetrios rushed out and his accent made Jesse weak in the knees. He could make a shopping list sound romantic. “I have my scooter and can bring Jesse home after.”

“I know, that’s fine.” Freya winked. “Does that mean Yiannis is by himself at the taverna tonight?” She puffed up her hair. “Might head over there for dinner. Jesse?” She cupped his chin, a fierce glare meaning business. “No later than ten p.m.”

“Yes, Mum.” Jesse attempted to get out of her clutches while Demetrios stifled his laugh behind his hand.

“No alcohol.”

“I won’t—”

“No drugs.”

“Mum!”

“And no breaking anyone’s heart.”

“I won’t,” Jesse replied through gritted teeth.

If anyone’s heart was going to be broken, it was his when Demetrios copped off with a girl at this dance and told him he and Jesse were just friends.

Freya kissed Jesse’s nose. “Call me when you are heading back, so I know to be here.”

“Yes, Mum.” Jesse ripped his face away, then stepped outside beside Demetrios.

“Have fun, boys!” Freya waggled her fingers as Jesse clutched Demetrios’ toned arm and dragged him away, down the concrete slope leading to the main road where Demetrios had parked his turquoise scooter on the curb.

“Wow.” Jesse checked out the bike.

Demetrios handed him a helmet. “Babá won’t let me ride without it, but I only have one. You should take it.”

Jesse did not want to mess his hair up any more than Freya already had for him. It had taken a mass of heat and sweat to dry it into position and a whole can of his mum’s expensive spray. But Demetrios’ kind, sweet gesture was enough for him to give in and he wriggled the helmet onto his head. Demetrios stepped forward, securing the buckle beneath his chin for him. Jesse swallowed. Held his breath. Demetrios would feel his heart beating. Notice him quivering at the close proximity, and Jesse could smell Demetrios’ aftershave, taste his minty breath, see every distinctive feature of his beautiful face.

It hurt.

Demetrios stepped back. “There. Done.” He smiled, gazing at Jesse for longer than anyone ever had. He chuckled, a little nervously, then bowed his head, cheeks blushing. “Um…you ready to go?”

“Yep! How far is it?”

Demetrios flicked his leg over the scooter, and Jesse slid on behind him. He didn’t know where to put his hands because he could not cuddle up to Demetrios. So, finding two metal poles on either side of him, he clutched them instead.

Demetrios shot a look over his shoulder. “Hold on to me. It’s ten minutes uphill. And I go fast.”

Oh, God.

Gulping, Jesse wrapped his arms around Demetrios’ waist and held on as Demetrios revved the engine, then scooted away.

When he’d said ‘fast’, the scooter only went sixty mph at top speed, so whilst it wasn’t breaking the land speed record, it was enough for Jesse to have to cling on for dear life. Not a problem when it was Demetrios he was holding onto, T-shirt ruffling in the breeze as they soared along the seafront, rising up to a clifftop route to arrive at another cluster of bars, restaurants, hotels and villas.

Demetrios parked up next to a line of scooters, mopeds and motorbikes, music filtering from inside a bar. People were already inside, with some milling outside on the terrace clutching tumblers of mocktails and soft drinks, all dressed up. Demetrios stepped off the bike and Jesse followed suit, handing him the helmet. Demetrios hung it on the handlebars, then led Jesse through the terrace, where he handed over two tickets to the security on patrol at the doors. They were then ushered inside where the disco was in full swing, teens already on the dancefloor, dancing their tanned hearts out to the latest tunes and retro party classics.

Niko’s Tavern catered to the youth who travelled on holiday with their parents, but didn’t want to spend the entire time in their shadow. With dance nights and no alcohol served, it was the place teens could go to pretend they had the freedom to do what they wanted. Demetrios led Jesse to the bar, where he ordered two mocktails, handed one to Jesse, then angled his head over to a corner. There, he produced a tiny bottle from within his denim shorts and poured the clear liquid into Jesse’s drink.

“What’s that?”

Demetrios grinned. “Ouzo. Swiped it from the taverna.” He poured some into his own glass. “Try it.”

“My mum’ll go nuts.”

“She won’t find out. I won’t let you get drunk. Just…merry.”

To save face, Jesse took a gulp of the now cocktail. Aniseed smacked him like black liquorice wrapped around a brick and meshed with a sweetened tropical fruit tang. It wasn’t pleasant. Nor was it unpleasant but he still coughed, making Demetrios laugh and pat his back.

“You get used to it.”

Jesse pushed his glasses up his nose. “Not sure I want to.”

“You will.” Demetrios gulped his as if it was milk.

Demetrios was allowed to drink. It was a Mediterranean European thing. Children in the Med grew up drinking. It was part of the culture. Brits didn’t know how to drink without getting off their faces. But here, alcohol was a way of life. Wine with dinner. Ouzo a digestif. Alcohol for Demetrios was like what the occasional Diet Coke was for Jesse. An allowed luxury.

Which was why he could drink it with ease, while Jesse, the klutz that he was, spluttered all the way through it.

“Drink up.” Demetrios downed his drink.

Despite the rancid taste, Jesse knocked back the concoction. Demetrios dumped the empty glasses on the table behind him, then took Jesse’s hand. “Come on.”

Demetrios had always been affectionate. Since they’d met on Jesse’s first holiday on the island and formed a friendship, and on each of Jesse’s returns, they’d grown closer. Demetrios hugged him, held his hand, ruffled his hair, stroked his face. He wasn’t like the boys back home. They either stayed out of Jesse’s way, or shouted insults. Jesse put it down to Demetrios being Greek. It was the way they were here. Touchy-feely. But it didn’t stop him from revelling in each touch, swooning at every prolonged eye contact, and heart pounding every time Demetrios put his hand in his and led him somewhere as if he didn’t want to go alone, didn’t want to let go, didn’t want Jesse to be taken by someone else.

He led him to the dance floor. Right in the centre, among the other dancers, Demetrios whipped around to face him and bopped away to the beat of the pop song. He was one of the oldest ones there, and he merged into the crowd like he belonged, swaying his hips and waving his arms, singing along to I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen. Jesse rotated his shoulders like a self-conscious rabbit caught in strobe lights. But he liked watching Demetrios. Because he could dance and he was the most stunning person there. Everyone knew it. They all had their eyes on him.

Demetrios veered closer, leaning into his ear. “What are you looking at?”

“Everyone looking at you.”

“No, they’re not.”

“They are.” Jesse braced himself, peering up at the crowd watching on. Moment of truth to find out. “Which one do you like?”

“Out of who?”

“Anyone here.”

Demetrios shrugged.

Jesse scanned the bar, girls pointing at Demetrios and giggling, swaying the skirts of their sundresses to catch his attention. The boys were trying to copy him, or get closer to him, or shove themselves in the way of the girls’ view.

“You could have your pick,” Jesse called over the music, angling his head to the masses.

The track merged then, into Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody, andcausing a raucous cheer from the teen crowd who would no doubt eye roll if their parents dared to dance to it despite them having been teenagers themselves when it had first come out. Demetrios grabbed Jesse’s hands, linking their fingers, and raised their arms in the air, dancing with him. Not in front of him, or next to him. But with him. Jesse’s heart leapt, pulse racing and the ouzo making it easier not to tremble and bolt and say something stupid.

Demetrios mesmerised him, singing along to the Huhs, Whoos, Ah huh’s and Yeahs, as though he were Whitney himself, and dancing with Jesse, chest to chest, urging Jesse to go with the flow, to throw away his inhibitions and act like no one was watching. The way they’d used to when they were two boys on the beach, before adolescence had made Jesse awkward and clumsy and in-fucking-love with a boy from another country.

Demetrios sang the lyrics. He was good, too. Not as good as Whitney, mind. But he had a voice Jesse could listen to all night.

“Come on, which one?” Jesse called to him over the track. “They’re all checking you out.”

Demetrios, dancing, skimmed his eyes across the crowd, then trained his focus back on Jesse. “Some are looking at you.”

“No one’s looking at me.”

“Some are.”

Jesse snorted in defiance. “Who?”

Demetrios swivelled Jesse under his arm in a pirouette. Then, when he landed back facing him, he grinned. “Me. I am.”

Jesse stopped dancing. So did Demetrios. Then, right in the middle of the floor, when the song was reaching the point of Whitney hitting the notes only she could, the bridge scaled and leapt, the crowd screaming along with her woos, she faded into the background so Jesse could only hear the blood rushing around his entire body as Demetrios leaned in and pressed his lips to Jesse’s.

Tsunami waves surged through Jesse’s veins. This was his first kiss. With anyone. And it was with Demetrios! The boy he’d crushed hard on for years. The boy he doodled about in Maths class. The boy he drew endless pictures of so he wouldn’t forget every defined perfection of his face when they were countries apart. The one who made his heart flutter with a single text message.

Demetrios pulled away as the next song merged into Glad You Came by The Wanted, the crowd bouncing around them to the upbeat track. “Do you not want to kiss me?”

Jesse blinked. “Erm…yeah.”

Demetrios grinned, then held out his arms, hitting a few of the surrounding dancers, who were jumping as the song pumped out of the speakers. “Go on, then.”

Jesse peeped at the crowd. Did he really want to have his first proper kiss here? Among a crowd? A place where they could be seen. Would be seen. Was Demetrios encouraging that? Did he want that?

Wait…Demetrios had kissed him.

Jesse grabbed Demetrios’ T-shirt and yanked him forward, watching the daring smile playing on his lips. The lips that had been on his own moments before. Jesse gulped through his thumping pulse pounding in his throat, making it difficult to think, to function. He wanted everyone else to disappear. Wanted to be alone. He didn’t want everyone to witness his awkwardness. But how could he turn this down?

Be brave.

Jesse tilted his neck, closed his eyes, and kissed Demetrios as if he knew what he was doing. Instinct took over and their lips moved fluidly together, parting and reuniting as if they’d been doing it all their lives. Demetrios slid his arms over Jesse’s shoulders, linking his fingers behind Jesse’s neck to keep him within the confines of his personal safety net, and deepened the only kiss Jesse ever wanted to have.

It was explosive.

Amazing.

Perfect.

All those horror stories of how first kisses were awkward and clumsy were wrong. It was nothing like that. Not with Demetrios. It was every romance movie kiss rolled into one toe curling montage.

Swaying his hips, Demetrios danced along to the changing tracks, Jesse in his clutches, and either singing the lyrics pelting out of the speaker or kissing him through a wide smile. He was loving this as much as Jesse was.

Holy fucking, God.

This was going to be the best holiday yet.