Where is he?

I clutch the trunk with one hand and peer round. Plenty of leaves and twigs and ants. But no Shane.

Then there’s a shuffling sound. A twig snaps and the shuffling stops. Then it starts again. I see him in the distance, walking carefully through the trees. He looks like a ballet dancer. Picking his feet up and putting them down, holding his arms perfectly still, his head balanced on his shoulders like a rock.

I duck down behind the trunk. I ball my fingers into fists. I tuck my chin into my chest and try to breathe very slowly through my nose, imagining the hairs in there moving with the air. I close my eyes. Everything has to be as small and tight as possible.

It all goes quiet.

I stay still for the longest time. Breathing in, breathing out.

Eventually I open one eye and peep round the trunk.

A hairy tanned knee is right there, almost touching my nose. I let out an awful squeal, like a little pig. I have to put a hand over my mouth to stop it.

‘I can see you,’ says Shane.

I try to grip the trunk so I can pull myself up, but a piece of bark comes off in my hand and I fall backwards.

Shane smiles.

‘Did you find anything?’ I ask from the ground.

He nods.

I stand up, brush myself off. ‘What is it?’ I step out from behind the trunk. My nose is parallel with his nipples. The sun lies in stripes across his bare chest. His hands are behind his back. He steps closer to me, and I sit back down on the trunk. He’s so close, I can smell him. He smells like new grass cuttings on our compost heap.

‘Close your eyes and put your hands out,’ he says.

‘What have you got?’ I reach behind his back but he twists away from me.

‘Close your eyes and hold out your hands.’

His lower lip hangs down like a soft pink slug.

‘What have you got, Shane?’

‘Close your eyes.’

So I close my eyes. Let my hands go limp in my lap. ‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Show me your unusual thing.’

I wait.

‘Show me,’ I say again.

And Shane puts his hand on my head. It’s heavy and warm. He just lets it rest there, not moving.

Then he starts to move his fingers. Very slowly, and right across my scalp. And it’s like I can suddenly feel everything: the dampness in his fingertips, the roughness of the trunk against my legs. He keeps swirling my hair round, digging his nails into my scalp, pushing his fingers up my neck and round my ears. The hoop of my earring catches on his nail, giving the flesh of my earlobe a tug.

I open my eyes but don’t move. I can see all the dark hairs on Shane’s thigh. The trees above us rustle. The earth smells ripe. My elasticated top feels tighter than ever.