He kisses Oni. He moves towards her face, and he thinks he’s about to kiss her, and he imagines that he’s about to kiss her, and then he is, and it takes him by surprise that it’s happening there, on his face, with his lips and her lips, wet and strange, and not just in his head after all.

Her mouth moves open and closed, and his does too, and her tongue slips inside, so his does too, and he feels like he is balancing on something.

They stop. Alisha claps.

One day they go farther. Dillon, and Oni, and Alisha. They walk beyond the well-worn paths, and take the turning that climbs higher up the sides of the valley. There is less rubbish here. The weeds seem cleaner. The path winds around the trees, rather than pushing a straight line through them. Alisha sings a song. It’s one that they hear on the radio. Her voice is in tune, heartfelt. Dillon listens, astonished.

Oni holds Dillon’s hand. They have kissed three times now. She might be his girlfriend. Her face is round, plump, black. It might also be beautiful. It’s so hard to tell these things. If he was black too, he might be able to tell.

The woods are dirty, and he is alone, and scared. The woods are beautiful, and he’s in love.

There is magic, and there is none.

His shoes thicken in the mud.

Alisha showers, uses the products her mum bought her. She dries her hair, stands in front of the mirror. She moves her head carefully, one side to another. She smiles, frowns. Widens her eyes to look at their pink corners. Leans close to look for spots. Draws a careful line around an eye and feels a lift, giddy and slight and sweet, like a step into a well-fitting dress, like someone laughing at one of her jokes.

At breakfast her mum circles her warily.

‘What are you having?’

‘Juice.’

‘Just juice?’

‘Yes just juice. Why?’

‘No reason.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Stop having a go.’

‘How did I have a go?’

They pause.

‘Are you allowed jeans?’

‘If they’re black,’ she lies.

‘What’s on today, then?’

‘School.’

‘Alisha.’

‘What? It’s the same every day.’

Dillon looks in the mirror too. He clenches his jaw and frowns at himself. He lowers his brows farther, until he’s squinting. He curls his lip. Then his face clears. There isn’t much for a boy to do, other than hope. He hopes his smooth pink cheeks will darken with stubble, or harden into an angular jawline. He hopes he might get chest hair, or grow taller and more muscular. He imagines it happening, like in ‘Beauty and the Beast’.