The Heron

The boys screamed when they saw the heron, so Chloe and I did too. Finley had his phone out and managed to capture the bird stretch and unfurl. It gave us evils, more annoyed than scared, then ruffled its long wings and soared past the pond, into the trees. I’d never seen a heron before. 

We didn’t go into the no-entry area of the park looking for a heron. I didn’t want to go in at all. The boys did, so Chloe said we had to. My heart beat fast when we climbed over the fence because I thought we might get told off, but nobody came. Inside there was just a bridge, a pond, and a random heron. 

It was golden hour and we were drinking warm Baileys, which Tom had paid a homeless guy to buy for us at the further-away offy because we were banned from the closer offy. 

We’d asked the guy to buy us Buzzballs and vodka, but he got two bottles of Baileys instead and told us to “fuck off,” because one was his now. Tom wanted to fight him; we all ran around the corner and hid. 

Tom came back hollering, swinging one bottle triumphantly over his shaved head, and we hailed him like a returning hero. I gave him a pink plaster for the cut on his cheek, and Chloe reminded me that she had dibs on him because she’d known him since nursery. I didn’t fancy him at all, his eyes were too blue, almost white, but she never believed me. Why would I want him when I was taller than him? Chloe told Tom that Baileys was her favourite drink and she’d had it loads of times. She said Baileys was probably what made her throw up on New Year’s Eve last year, but she still loved it. 

We were sitting on the wooden bridge and looking out over the pond. I was a little drunk from the Baileys and my tongue felt loose in my mouth. Finley was wearing his shorts low and his stupid snapback, and kept staring at me. He needed a haircut. I’d shaved down there this morning and I wanted to itch so badly. My shorts seemed to have shrunk; the crotch was like nettles between my legs, but I couldn’t scratch. I just wanted to go home and take everything off – lie there with my legs open and the window wide, the cool air blowing kisses over me. It would be nice not to speak for a while. 

Tom told me he could see me working at Maccies. I asked why, and he said, “Dunno, you just have a Maccies vibe.” 

I asked if it was because I was wearing a red and yellow top, and he said, “Nah, can’t explain it, just a general Maccies vibe.” Yesterday, he said I looked like a Labubu. He told Chloe she looked like Sydney Sweeney, and she wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. 

The air was cooling, birds cooed in the trees, the heron didn’t come back. The boys were seeing how far they could spit without moving. The majority of it landed on their t-shirts and arms, but one of Finley’s globules went into my hair. Everyone laughed except me. I wiped it out with a crispy leaf and threw it in Finley’s direction, but it caught in the air and didn’t hit him. 

Tom and Finley said they’d both smoked crack earlier, before we came. They were super hungover too, because they’d been at the club last night. Chloe’s eyes widened and she sat up straighter.

I said, “They don’t let fourteen-year-olds into the club, you retard.” 

Finley said, “Only if you’re stupid, retard,” and slapped me in the face. “My brother knows a guy who lets us in whenever we want.” 

My cheek was glowing; I forgot about the itch. Tom went “waheyyyyyy,” and fell onto Finley. Chloe was suddenly engrossed in her phone.

Finley put his freckled hand on his heart and looked into my eyes. “I don’t hate women,” he said. “You’re just all weird.”

Finley and Tom went off to piss together, leaving us in silence. The trees rustled and giggled amongst themselves. In the orange light, Chloe’s face looked like it had a filter on it. Chloe was the kind of girl whose birthday always fell on a Saturday. She smelled of blueberries and her mouth was glossy like a bubble. She looked good in every photo and video, and would literally post anything because she didn’t care. I swirled the remainder of the warm milky liqueur around my teeth and swallowed. 

Chloe smoked a cigarette. Chloe smoked another cigarette. I held my breath, trying not to breathe in her smoke, watching the stump get slowly smaller. She would call me a baby if I complained that it made my throat sore. 

Chloe looked at me and sang, “Labubu labu labu labubu,” and blew smoke in my direction. I exhaled a sharp flood of air.

She moved closer to lie in my lap, resting her head on my bare stomach, and playing with my belly button. She sniffed her finger and made gagging noises. My throat was cloudy with secondhand smoke, and I felt each day of the three months I had on her. We took a snap story together and captioned it ‘criminals.’

The boys were taking ages, so we both opened TikTok. I scrolled faster but Chloe had her volume higher. Her feed was hair tutorials and pretty girls on exotic beaches. Mine was mostly AI-generated historical scenarios. I scrolled past ‘It’s 1804 and you’re an orphan on the streets of London’ and ‘POV: You wake up as a slave in Ancient Rome’, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

When the boys came back, Tom immediately started making out with Chloe. They kissed sloppily, like barnyard animals. Finley grabbed my phone and tried to guess the password until it locked me out for half an hour, then he leaned in, his snapback bumping against my forehead. He had his eyes closed and I could see the jammy veins on his eyelids like my baby brother’s. When he had slapped me, he didn’t look fourteen and I had forgotten the ick for a second. I rolled backwards and pulled myself up. 

I took a few steps away and leaned over the bridge, letting my hair cascade over the rotten wood so the last rays of summer kissed my neck. We would all be back in class next week. Behind me, Chloe was asking Tom if he would teach her some songs on the guitar. She was going to be a singer, she said; her cousin knew a famous producer. Tom called her silly and said he’d do it for a blowjob. Finley had gone quiet.

“I got that on video, dickhead,” Chloe squealed. “I’m sending it to your mum.” 

A breeze picked up, hardening my arms and legs into goosebumps. I clasped my hands over my ears to block out the voices. Now they sounded like faraway children. I spat and watched it wobble and disintegrate, imagining diving in, lying on my back, floating with all the lily pads in the shimmering green. It would be nice not to worry anymore – no jean shorts, no smoke, no future. Do nothing, say nothing, post nothing. I wanted to be a girl underwater with long hair, covered in pond slime, my brain rotting away, a toy made in China, a glob of Baileys saliva. I wanted to watch a million herons spread their wings and fly over my head. 

When I looked back at Tom, Chloe, and Finley, their shadows had all grown long behind them.