Counting Circles

Harry is nervous as his dad drives him to a special meeting

- Tess Niland Kimber

'GOT butterflies in your tummy, Harry?” Dad asks.

I stare at the watery sun-light stealing through the windscreen, highlighting his hands as he grips the leather-covered steering wheel.

“No,” I answer with a straight gaze. “Butterflies can’t get into your stomach cavity unless you swallow them. And then – if you did – your digestive juices would kill them.”

Dad’s smile freezes a little and he rubs his hand across the grey stubble hugging his chin.

“You’re right, Harry – of course.”

He reaches out to ruffle my dark hair before pulling back. Thankfully, he’s remembered in time that I don’t “do” touching.

He starts the engine. I look out of the side window as a mist of shops and flats slip by and we edge our way down our road towards the first traffic circle.

It’s not that I’m unfriendly, I think, as we pull up behind a silver Nissan Pathfinder. It has a mesh of bikes strapped to its rear, the wheels spinning furiously as if being ridden by invisible cyclists.

“You just like your own space, Harry,” Doctor Sarah says at the centre where I go some days instead of school. Nothing wrong with that – Doctor Sarah says that also.

“Today’s a big one for you, little man,” Dad smiles as we ease towards the next circle. “We’re going to Pocket Park again.”

I nod, not trusting my voice to answer.

THE roads are busy for a Tuesday. In the next lane is a pale blue Ford Fiesta. I can see inside. Sit-ting on the back seat is a boy about my age and a girl. They look alike. Between them – dividing them – is a kite and their thin, trousered legs are flanked by bulging carrier bags. Where are they going? Not to Pocket Park, that’s for sure. Driving is a woman with brown hair. She must be their mom.