Building A Mystery

Lily invites him home for the summer and you don’t quite understand why. He is sullen and seems to do nothing else but read, heavy tomes that intimidate you and only serve to remind you further of this new world that Lily inhabits. It’s been six years and you still get a jolt every time you remind that the boarding school you tell everyone she’s at is actually a special school for her kind.

You can’t imagine what it must be like. You dream, sometimes, when you are at school staring at mathematical equations that give you headaches or trying to learn off lists of important dates in history, of being able to wave a magic wand and perform all kinds of wonderful spells.

You wonder where the boy fits into all of this. You wonder whether he has a brother at home who does not have his talent, a sibling laden down with the knowledge that they will only ever be ordinary. Almost everyone is ordinary, you know, but it is only when you are side-by-side with the extraordinary that ordinary suddenly feels so hopelessly inadequate.

He has dark greasy hair and a large nose, and you think at first, because he is Lily’s and you are determined to criticise, that he is ugly. You begin to notice, though, that when he is reading and doesn’t realise you are watching him, his face is not contorted into a sneer or a pout, but is relaxed. You notice the way his eyes are entirely focused on the material and how long his eyelashes are.

You notice the way the edges of his mouth quirk upwards slightly from time to time, as though he is reading something amusing – even in those hefty volumes, you wonder? – but will not permit himself to smile fully.

You wonder why Lily, with her cleverness and her prettiness and her general wonderfulness, has brought him home when he really doesn’t seem like her type of boy at all, as a friend or as something more.

You wonder why this dark boy has allowed himself to stay with her, when he seems uncomfortable even with the slightest touch from her, when he prefers his books to going out with her late at night. You hear her invitations, her pleading and wheedling and eventual acceptance of his refusal, and cannot for the life of you understand why he is here.

Finally, you ask her. “Do you love him?” you say, doubting that she will answer you, but needing to make the attempt anyway.

She says, “That’s none of your business” and walks away.

You are the plain sister, the one who does not sparkle and shine, but you try to make yourself look pretty, try to wear the right clothes and have your hair in the style that is fashionable.

“What are you reading?” you ask him one day. He holds up the cover and the letters are so worn you can barely read the title. It is something magical, no doubt; ordinary books don’t look like that.

“You probably wouldn’t be interested,” he says, and looks back at the page he was on.

“Why not?” You are determined to keep this conversation going, even though you know the answer.

“You’re a Muggle,” he spits out.

Perhaps the word means more to him than it does to you; you are well aware that you are not part of his world and maybe that’s why it doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

“I still might be interested,” you say. You don’t know why you are doing this. You are not interested, not really; you know that you won’t understand, that you will never be perfect and special like Lily.

But you want him to talk to you, the way he talks to Lily; you want him to realise that you will listen and you will not try to manipulate him, you will accept him for whatever he is.

You will let him kiss you.

Oh please, let him want to kiss you.

He keeps reading. You watch him for a while, hoping that he will look up, and eventually he does. He scowls at you, for still being there.

If you had long red hair and bright green eyes and a slim figure and a sweet smile and the ability to wave a wand and have it actually do something, maybe he would love you, then.

You have none of those things, and you find yourself sniffling into your pillow before you sleep.

The next summer, when you hear Lily is bringing home a friend again, you hope it will be him, but the new boy is nothing like him. There is no mystery about him or why he is here. He and Lily sneak into each other’s rooms late at night and you block out the sounds with your radio. You never had to do this before, and you never want to, either.

You ask her why there’s a new boy, and she won’t tell you, but the glow emanating from her means that you don’t need to ask whether she’s in love. The tears come again, but they are not from a scowl this time. They are because now you never will understand why.

fin