It's Not Like The Movies (rewriting)

Chapter 1

It's official: Tuesday nights are not for movie nights. That's what I've decided after Dale's phone quacks for the fourth time this evening—don't ask me why his favourite ringtone is a duck—and the argument going on upstairs between Aaron and his girlfriend grows louder.

"What's with all the noise today?" I grab the remote off the coffee table to pause the TV, just as Scott Lang receives a punch to the face from one of his soon-to-be-ex inmates. The quacking has ended and Dale is quiet, which means he's declined the call for the fourth time too. With the living room door half-open and all the other sounds gone, it's difficult to block out Aaron and Lindsey. Their voices are muffled so I can't make out their words, but I don't think they're in the middle of a compliment battle.

"They've been fighting a lot recently," Dale says. I lean forward to look at him since he's sitting on the left side of the sofa and Max is in between us with a bowl of caramel popcorn. "But I'm not getting involved," he adds, which is the stance I expect from him. Aaron and Dale may be brothers but they also have boundaries. They're not siblings who confide in each other.

"What about you?" I say. "Who keeps calling you and why aren't you picking up?"

Dale scratches the side of his head and offers a sheepish smile. "Paul Rudd deserves our undivided attention, that's why."

He takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses on his pyjama top; it's a grey T-shirt with the words 'Marvel Comics' on it and there's a hole by the neckline which he apparently created by accident with a hanger. Max is also in his pyjamas since he's staying over, but his are navy blue, Calvin Klein branded and free of any wear and tear.

As the only person who has to go home at some point, I opted for high-waist jeans and a red jumper because it's cold out tonight. Dale's living room is warm at least; we're using the central heating and the mini electric fire that's under the wall mirror opposite. Dale brought down a blanket earlier but it's been folded up and abandoned on the armchair by the DVD cupboard.  

"I can't focus on Ant-Man when your phone is demanding attention like a three year old," I reply. "Seriously, who is it?"

He looks at Max and Max looks back at him. The room is dimly lit because the red curtains are drawn and the main lights are off but Dale has left the floor lamp on to illuminate his side of the room. I can see their lips aren't moving. A telepathic conversation is taking place and I'm being left out of it.

"It's no one," Dale answers. He breaks eye contact with Max and picks up his can of Coke from the table. We also have jalapeño-flavoured Pringles, a huge bag of Cool Original Doritos and a pack of Fruit Pastilles in front of us because yes, we're healthy teenagers.

I stare at our mutual friend, who's subtly turned his head away from me to avoid my eyes. He's known Dale since elementary and me just over two years so his loyalties lie with Dale, but that doesn't stop me from trying to get the truth out of him. With the way he's fiddling with his afro, I can tell I'm making him uncomfortable. He knows I'm excellent at staring contests.

"Max," I say, close to his ear. The lobe is pierced and I notice he's wearing a silver, moon-shaped stud which is fitting for someone as obsessed with space as he is. I start tapping him on the arm. "I can do this for the next hour if you want."

"Please don't." He shakes his head and stops my hand. I raise an eyebrow. He caves. "The mystery caller is Tracey."

"Dude!"

"What? Freya was going to find out one way or another." Max dodges Dale's back-handed slap on the shoulder and his bowl tips sideways, spilling popcorn onto the sofa. "My popcorn!" he exclaims as he hastily picks up the pieces and tosses them back in the bowl.