Circles

Mum went livid when she’d learnt I’d been out on that field. All sorts live on grass, crops. Ticks, she told me. They’ll crawl into your bits and lay eggs. She’d have said anything to stop me being with him.

He was Ben. In certain lights, he looked like Eddie Vedder. He’d read about crop circles on the internet. I say read, he’d looked at pictures. That day, he showed up at the field with some planks of wood and a lawn roller and told me we’d be on Newsround. We’ll do, like, a giant yin-yang sign, man. He was so worldly, spiritual. And funny - he did a mean Bob Marley; sounded just like him.

There was no plan. In the end, we stamped most of it out with our feet, dancing as that field bowed before us. Until it lay there dead, flat. That’s when the police showed up. Idiots do this kind of stuff in the daytime, they said. The golden light framed Ben’s head like a halo, his face a shadow so I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. And what the hell is this? You don’t understand, Ben said. It’s a symbol of balance and shit. It's not even a fricking circle, kid. They carted us off in the back of their car.

Mum was waiting on the doorstep and frogmarched me into the kitchen. If you’ve spread your legs for that bohemian sack of nonsense, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. I cried for days. Real tears over this perfect boy with his wavy hair. He'd shared this dream with me, only me. Of endless skies wrapped up in circles of grass, wheat – whatever it was. Mum laughed through my sorrow; so much so she gave herself a hacking cough. He don't even look like that bloke from Pearl Jam. Bigger concern here is that I need to get your eyes tested. Ticks, she shouted through my bedroom door. Insects, pests, bugs - all sorts.