The Never Boys by Scott Monk

Then he went on playing.
    After pouring out the feed, she rubbed Jiffy on the flank then approached Dean. He waited until she stood beside him to look up.
    â€˜So do you only play —’
    â€˜Flamenco.’
    â€˜â€” flamenco — or can you play rock as well?’
    â€˜All the time. If I’ve heard it, I can play it.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    It was an easy question, but a hard one to answer. Everyone had different tastes. It took a few moments, but he picked the perfect song for her: the Beatles’classic “Michelle”.
    The choice was a winner. With a musician’s eye — pretending to focus on the frets while secretly watching — he could tell she was completely rapt. He half-smiled. No doubt it was the same satisfaction his old man felt when he played to him.
    The last note faded into her clapping.
    â€˜Excuse my lousy French,’ he apologised, self-conscious that he was no longer hidden by the music. ‘I don’t think Lennon and McCartney wrote Sunday morning toys beyond the sun .’
    â€˜Only if you play it backwards.’
    â€˜Do you speak French?’
    She squatted. ‘No. The song — it’s one of my favourites. When I was younger, Dad used to sing it to me after he tucked me into bed. I haven’t heard it for ages. Thank you.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Do you know anything else?’
    â€˜I’d be a terrible guitarist if I didn’t.’
    â€˜Do you mind —?’
    â€˜Name it.’
    She did. He played it. Again, she was rapt.
    Before long, Jiffy had finished his feed but Michelle had taken a seat among the pepper trees, listening to her requests. Everything she chose, he could play. Her tastes ranged from the modern chartsto alternative to obscure one-hit wonders to classics. Like him, she was eclectic. A true music lover.
    She was younger than both Zara and him — fourteen, possibly fifteen. Swirled by short brown hair, she had fudge-coloured eyes, small breasts, taut legs and a dusting of freckles fading across her nose. Over a natural body shape, she wore blue shorts and a white and red T-shirt with Sesame Street ’s Elmo printed in the middle. Encircling her right wrist were dozens of bracelets, leather straps, beads and cowries — all homemade. An anklet rested above her left foot, which was also decorated with shells.
    â€˜Are you with a band?’
    â€˜Nah,’ he said. ‘I’m not that talented.’
    â€˜Are you kidding? I’ve never heard a guitar played like that before.’
    â€˜Is that good or bad?’
    â€˜You know what I mean,’ she said.
    He glanced down while absently fiddling with the strings. Compliments always embarrassed him.
    â€˜I wish I could play like that.’
    â€˜You’re a guitarist?’
    â€˜I tried once. Lost interest. My tutor was too serious, anyway.’
    â€˜You always need a good teacher.’
    â€˜Where did you learn? School?’
    â€˜No, the only thing I learnt there was to hide.’
    â€˜Hide?’
    â€˜Yeah. You weren’t welcome if you were different. Every morning, recess and lunch you’d find me practising in the music room. I didn’t have many friends.’
    â€˜I don’t believe that.’
    He shrugged. ‘It’s true. The place was full of jocks. Footy made you a man. Music was for poofs.’
    â€˜That’s stupid.’
    â€˜That’s school for you. Nothing makes sense.’
    He put aside the guitar and leant back on both palms. A memory of the vice-captain slamming him against the toilet wall came to mind. Music sheets flushing. Begging him not to break the guitar.
    â€˜Well, you seem to be popular here,’ she offered. ‘Hayden’s a big fan of yours and Zara talks about you all the time.’
    â€˜Yeah? What does she say?’
    â€˜You know. The usual stuff: where you’re from, where you’ve travelled, the trouble