One Perfect Summer

Dyson with you?’
    ‘Of course.’ He frowns. ‘I wouldn’t leave him with my parents. ’
    ‘Why do you work for them?’ I ask, seeing as they clearly don’t get on.
    ‘I can’t afford to move out yet, but working pays my rent.’
    ‘They make you pay rent ?’
    ‘Well, I am eighteen. Just.’ He snorts. ‘Not that they didn’t have me working behind a bar for a few years before that . . .’
    ‘Isn’t that illegal?’
    ‘Yep,’ he replies bluntly.
    I can’t imagine my parents ever charging me to live at home with them, or putting me to work behind a bar when I was just a kid. Maybe I’m naive.
    Dyson runs ahead and we soon catch up to see him trying to drag an impossibly large stick out from underneath a tree. He drops it and growls at it before barking at Joe and wagging his tail.
    ‘You daft dog,’ Joe says, shaking his head. ‘You can’t play fetch with that.’ Dyson barks again. ‘Find a smaller one. Go on!’
    Nope. Dyson wants that one.
    ‘I’m not throwing it,’ Joe says adamantly, and there’s something endearing about the way he speaks to his dog.
    Woof!
    ‘No.’
    Woof, woof, woof!
    ‘Bloody hell,’ Joe mutters, grabbing one end of the stick while stamping hard on it somewhere in the middle. With a crack, the wood snaps in half. I watch, smiling, as he throws it a hefty distance into the field and a deliriously delighted Dyson bounds after it.
    ‘You softy,’ I say.
    ‘Too soft.’ He glances sideways at me.
    ‘How long have you had him?’ I ask.
    ‘About two years. I found him roaming the beach when we lived in Cornwall. He followed me home and I made the mistake of feeding him. He wouldn’t leave me alone after that.’
    ‘I wonder who he belonged to.’
    Dyson returns with the stick so Joe throws it again. ‘Who knows? He didn’t have a collar. He was really scrawny, so either he was treated badly or he’d been homeless for a while. My dad nearly kicked off when he found out I was giving him leftovers from the pub kitchen.’
    ‘Why should he care? Waste not, want not, right?’
    ‘He can’t stand dogs.’
    ‘Why did he let you keep him, then?’
    ‘He was pretty distracted at the time.’
    ‘What with?’
    ‘You’re going to know my whole life story at this rate.’ He grins at me and changes the subject. ‘Alright, then, Brainiac, help me come up with some questions for this stupid quiz.’
    By the time we reach the cottage, I’ve found out that Joe has the same taste as me in music, TV and film, so it’s been an amusing walk back trying to outdo each other with our knowledge of indie rock, British comedy classics and sci-fi flicks.
    ‘I’m going to have to come to this quiz now, just so I can win,’ I say.
    He laughs and leans back against the cream-painted wooden gate. My nerves swiftly return. ‘I haven’t finished with the questions yet. I might put in something about Big Brother , just to trick you.’
    ‘That would mean watching it. Are you sure you’ve got the stomach for that sort of research?’ I ask drily.
    ‘Actually, no.’ He stares at me and the butterflies go berserk. ‘So you’re coming, then? To the pub tomorrow night?’
    ‘Is that okay?’
    He smiles. ‘Definitely.’
    I smile back at him. ‘Cool.’
    ‘Right, then. See you tomorrow.’
    ‘See you tomorrow.’
    We stand awkwardly for a brief moment until he realises he’s blocking my way. He leaps away from the gate and then recovers by reaching over and undoing the latch.
    ‘Thanks.’ I’m still beaming as I pass. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I say again as he closes the gate after me.
    ‘See ya.’ He turns away and clicks his fingers at Dyson. ‘Come on, boy.’
    I stand and watch them until they’re out of sight.

 
    ‘Name the vessel aboard which Luke Skywalker meets Princess Leia for the first time.’
    I hastily scribble down an answer on my sheet of paper.
    ‘Alice . . .’
    I glance up at my mum’s disapproving face. ‘What?’
    ‘Do you really think you should be participating in this quiz if you helped with all the questions?’
    ‘I didn’t help with all the questions!’ I snap. ‘He came up with these ones on his own. It’s not my fault we’ve got the same taste.’
    I look over at Joe behind the bar. He looks amused as his mother – a heavy-set woman with frizzy, dyed-blonde hair, heavy eye make-up and an orange tan – reads the next question.
    ‘Who walked out of the Big Brother house on Day 20 of this year’s series?’
    ‘You