Chapter 7

                                    

                                          
I open my eyes to a moist, sloppy tongue licking my face.
                          
     I sit up, shoving the perpetrator away from me, catching sight of him as I shield my eyes from the blinding morning sun.
                          
      'Fuck off, Jeffery,' I groan as the big dog barks at me, wagging his tail madly.
                          
      I lean over and dry wretch, trying to rid myself of the foul taste in my mouth, almost vomiting at the same time. From across the park I see Lily approaching, smiling and waving.
                          
      I blink my eyes, trying to focus. My head feels like dead weight. I have a splitting headache and to top it all off, I have the distinct feeling that I might have urinated on myself after getting up to go for a drunken night-time piss. I sigh, resigned to the fact that I'm never going to be looking or smelling my best when I randomly run into this gorgeous girl.  Lily reaches the edge of the sandpit and gives me a funny look. 'Hey.'
                          
      'Hey, how's it going?' I say, waving awkwardly at her.
                          
      'Why is it,' Lily says, 'that every time I see you outside of school, you're just waking up after spending the night in the park?'
                          
      'Probably because every time you've seen me, I've been shit-faced the night before and haven't been able to make it home before passing out.'
                          
      'Smooth,' she acknowledges. She walks into the sandpit, the furthest I'd been able to make it before exhaustion set in and gets her first proper look at me without the sun in her eyes. 'Holy shit. What happened to you?'
                          
      'What?' I jump, looking behind me. 'What's wrong?'
                          
      'You ... you're covered in blood and there's a huge gash below your eye. And your knuckles ... your knuckles are ripped to shreds.'
                          
      I look down at my hands; they are a mess of dirt and dry blood.
                          
      'What happened?'
                          
      I search Lily's face. There's no way I'm going to be able to get out of this one with some bullshit lie. It has to be the truth.
                          
      'Um ... Me, Blackjack and a few of our mates got into a fight last night,' I explain, glancing at the ground.
                          
      Lily approaches me slowly and kneels beside me, running her hands over my face, examining the cuts and bruises. 'Oh my God, are you all right? Was anyone hurt?' Her eyes still fixated on my hands.
                          
      'No, not seriously,' I lie. I like Lily, like her a lot, but I'm not about to tell her every detail of my pathetic life. She won't understand.
                          
      'How did this happen?' she breathes. 'Did someone try to roll you? Was it Graffers?'
                          
      'Yeah, kind of.' I get to my feet. 'It was Graffers, but no one got rolled. But I don't wanna talk about it right now. Right now I just need to rest and get cleaned up.'
                          
      Lily nods sympathetically. 'You do look terrible,' she agrees, biting her lip. 'You'd better come back to mine and clean up your cuts, wash the blood off.'
                          
      'Nah, it's all right,' I say, turning away from her in the direction of the flats. 'I better get home. I'll be all right after I've had a shower and put on some clean clothes.'
                          
      'Come back to mine,' she insists, her face creased with concern. 'I've got a first aid kit and my house isn't that far away. Come on.' She takes me by the arm and begins leading me in the opposite direction to where I want to go. 'I need to get you fixed up.'
                          
      I hesitate, enjoying the tingling sensation in my arm where she's touching me, but I'm slightly suspicious about why she wants to help.
                          
      'Won't your parents be concerned when a bruised and battered teenager comes crashing through their front door?' I argue.