Tommy and Zia started calling me a dark horse and it was stupid, but I felt cool. Even though I knew every one of them was picturing my brother while we swapped spit.

At Tommy's sixteenth, Maria Brandon from Marc's year put her hand down my pants behind the social club. She made me hold her Malibu and Coke and I thought she was gonna fix her tights or something. Next thing I knew, her cold fingers were on my warm skin, grabbing and rubbing me. I remember the concentration on her face, like she was working out an equation in her head and for some reason all I could think of was when we made our own pizza dough in Year Nine.

Then Tommy ran round the corner and threw up next to the bins. Maria stopped, downed her drink and went back inside, leaving me holding her empty glass, watching my oldest friend paint the tarmac with puke.

EXT. EARLY EVENING Bay windows and primary-coloured front doors, like one of them little kids' shows.

Nobody seems to close their curtains, even though it's getting dark. I see widescreen TVs, huge fireplaces and expensive sofas in rooms that stretch back to French doors and gardens.

Number twelve.

Number fourteen.

Sixteen has a huge painting above the mantelpiece of a face made out of multicoloured shapes and there's an old man sitting in an antique-looking armchair reading a book, and my stomach is twisting into a fist.

I look down at my blue corner-shop carrier bag. Pringles and chocolate cornflake cakes. Idiot. I should've gone Sainsbury's and got some of them posh biscuits with bits of real ginger in or something. Shut up. It's not an audition. I picture Marc driving back across town, beaming to himself about playing matchmaker. He wanted to drop me right at the door so he could get a look at Leia. No chance.

I text Zia to let him know I'm not around tonight after all and notice how new my Jordans look. Too new. Like I bought them especially. I step to the tree next to the curb and scuff them in the dirt and now I can smell the aftershave. There was an old bottle of Dad's Davidoff in the bathroom cabinet and Marc made me put some on. Why did I wear aftershave? I don't even properly shave.

Number twenty has squares of that frosting stuff on the glass so you can't see inside but there's the outline of people and a massive paper lampshade hanging from the ceiling.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-four.

The door is red with stained-glass panels. The curtains are open but the front room is dark and lifeless. I pull a big leaf off the bush and rub it on my neck to try and absorb some of the Davidoff. Just relax.

And right now, my finger poised over the doorbell, it's so obvious that I really like this girl.

Dad said: The best ducks can swim in any pond.

The back room's like a grotto. Lit by a real open fire and a standing lamp behind the TV in the far right corner. The high wall behind them is completely filled with DVDs and books. The TV isn't actually any bigger than ours, but everything else is and through the glass of the patio doors the dark garden looks massive. My toes wriggle into the deep carpet and I'm glad I got to take off my shiny Jordans. Leia's been gone a while. How long does a tea take?

What do her parents do?

I shrug and scan the room. There's a glass-framed full-size Empire Strikes Back poster above the fire. It's got a couple of scribbled signatures in the bottom right-hand corner in black ink. Underneath it, on the mantelpiece, a photograph sits in pride of place. It's a black-and-white picture of a boy, about nine, with a younger girl on his lap. He's wearing dark-rimmed glasses, like Zia's, and a checkered shirt done up to the top button. His smile is taking up half of his face. The girl is wearing dungarees, with an eye patch over her right eye. She looks like the happiest pirate ever.

The fire is burning actual logs and making that popping sound and I get the urge to throw something on it, just to watch it burn.

I picture Mum and Marc at home now, on our smaller sofa, getting ready to watch Apollo 13 or something else that Mum's seen a hundred times and I feel OK. This feels OK. You sure?

"Sorry," Leia says, handing me a fat mug with a pattern that looks like a blueprint. "Two sugars, Mr Sweet-tooth."

"Thanks."

She's wearing tight stonewashed jeans and a loose black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled right up to her shoulders, her hair pushed back by a black band, like she just threw the outfit together and looks perfect by accident. I stare at the fire as she moves past me and smell something sweet and fresh. Is she wearing perfume? She sits on the other end of the deep leather sofa. My bag of rubbish snacks sits in between us. I should've dropped them in the bin.

"I'm sorry. About yesterday. I should've called or ... I wanted to."

Leia's looking at me, like she's trying to work out whether I'm full of it or not. I deserve it. This is awkward. I turn back to the fire.

"He knows how to talk, doesn't he, your brother?" she says.

"Yeah." I watch strings of smoke snake up the chimney. "Ever since I can remember."

"Is this weird?" she says and I turn to look at her. The light from the fire on her face. Don't let this go badly. Please.

"I dunno. Is it?"

"What's my surname?" she says, and just stares at me. You don't know her bloody surname?

I hold her stare and say, "Roberts. Your name's Leia Roberts. It's in your email address. Next question?"

Leia narrows her eyes like a cat. "Not as dumb as you look, Skywalker." She pulls the box of cornflake cakes out of the carrier bag. "I love these!" she says, and I almost punch the air.

"So who's the Star Wars fan?" I say, pointing up at the poster above the fire.

Leia rolls her eyes. "My dad. He's obsessed. He did some camerawork on the prequel films and got to meet George Lucas."

"My dad loves Star Wars too."

She gives me the 'no shit, Sherlock' face. You're sinking here.

"Guess we should be happy they didn't name us Chewbacca, eh?" I say, and we both laugh like it's a joke we've heard fifty times before. Lame.

"Is your dad home?"

Leia takes a cake and eats it in one go. "No, he's working late." She points at the ceiling. "Toby's upstairs. Don't worry, he won't come down."

"I'm not worried." Liar. Her brother's upstairs. Her older brother.

Just be cool.

"You think we should've changed their names, for the script?" I say, reaching for a cake. Leia's hand goes for another, brushing mine and, for a second, I swear we both slow down, trying to prolong the moment. Then we both retreat like it didn't happen.

"I thought that at first," she says, "but I think it's OK. Your brother's called Marc. My brother's called Toby. We're making it up, but it's grounded in something real. I think it helps. Like it matters, you know?"

I want to touch all of her. "Yeah," I say. "I do." I'm imagining my hands on her face, through her hair. "Guess we can always change names later if it feels right?"

Leia points at me. "Exactly. Obi Wan and Darth, maybe?" And we're both smiling.

I'm watching her chew her cake, my fingers wanting to trace the line of her lips. I want to be closer. Pull it together, you wuss. But it's like every thought I have is undressing her, pulling her in. I'm suddenly aware that I'm really staring, and that I have no idea for how long. Say something, you muppet.

"Nice fire." What?

"What?"

I point at the fire. "Your fire. It's real. Ours is electric."

Nice fire? That's the best you can do?

"Yeah," she says. "It's pretty cool. Sometimes I just throw stuff on to watch it burn."

And I smile to myself as we both just watch the flames, a cushion apart, something unspoken and animal firing between us.

Then footsteps on the stairs. Toby's coming down.

"No," Leia says, straightening up in her seat. "What's he doing?"

And the way she moves says she might have been in the same thought that I was. I sit up too.

"Please ignore him, Luke, whatever he says." She's nervous. Her smile is hiding actual nerves and I'm still imagining her neck and naked shoulderblades and the valley of her spine and it's throwing me off and the footsteps are reaching the bottom of the stairs and my mouth is full of cornflake cake and ...

"Who's this?"

He's not as skinny as I'd imagined. Nowhere near as big as Marc, but he's no featherweight. He's wearing a black T-shirt with the words 'Full Tilt Boogie' in white typewriter font. He's looking at Leia, but pointing at me. I'm not sure where to look and I can smell weed.

"This is Luke," says Leia. "I told you he was coming over. Luke, this is Toby."

"Tobias," he says sternly. "You didn't say he was a boy."

There's something about how he's standing that's not right. Chest puffed, but like his legs don't really believe it. "Does Dad know?"

What's this guy's problem?

His voice is deep and there are shaving bumps on his neck. He's handsome. I mean, he looks like Leia's brother.

"What do you want, Toby?" says Leia, starting to lose her temper.

Toby looks at me. "How old are you?"

I look up at him. Then I notice his hands. They're balled into fists and this is just weird.

"I'm nearly seventeen," I say, my eyes moving from his face to his hands.

"Scorpio," he says, and his fingers spread and start to move like they're playing the piano against his thighs.

"Toby, can you leave us alone? You said you had work to do." Leia's sitting forward now.

Toby glances at her. "Scorpios are old souls. Resilient."

"What?" says Leia.

I point at his T-shirt. "I liked the film."

He glances down then looks back at me, eyes narrow like I just cracked his secret code or something. "What film?" he says, and he's trying to catch me out. Full Tilt Boogie is the behind the scenes documentary of the making of From Dusk Till Dawn. He doesn't want me to know that.

Something inside me smiles. "My favourite bit is the Harvey Keitel interview." And his face is confused frustration. "Is everything all right?" I say, leaning forward, and Toby actually stumbles backwards, like he's trying to avoid me. His eyes wide.

This guy's nuts.

"You OK, mate?" I go to stand up, but feel Leia's hand on my arm.

"Toby, please. Do you want a tea? The kettle's just boiled. Come on, I'll make you a tea."

And she's up and leading him out of the room. He's biting his fingernails and jabs a finger my way. "Good scar," he says, smiling a painfully fake smile. Then they're gone and I'm sitting on the edge of the sofa looking at the fire.

INT. NIGHT Teaspoon stirs. Milk lightens the brown.

Cut to slender fingers, stroking thick dark hair.

Cut to four feet climbing stairs.

"Sorry," Leia says, easing the door closed behind her and sitting back down.

"Is he OK?" I feel a bit guilty. Like I wound him up.

She hesitates. "He's fine. Every now and then he likes to audition for protective older brother. Bad casting agent."

And it's one of those weak jokes that's just to let you know to change the subject. I offer a smile and picture Marc. Everybody has their baggage. A bag full of the past. Then she tips the last few cornflake cakes on to the sofa and holds up the empty plastic box. "Check it out."

She walks on her knees to the fire. "Come on."

I put my tea down and follow her on my knees. The heat cranks up as we get close and sit at the hearth.

"You know how they used to burn witches and stuff?" Leia says, and her eyes are dancing.

"Yeah?" I say, feeling the heat on my scar.

"So check this out ..." And she drops the plastic box into the flames. There's a hissing sound and the plastic starts to curl up into itself, twisting and contorting. A dark circle forms in the middle of it, then spreads and ignites. I think of tech lessons and burning our names into the desks with soldering irons. The pair of us watch, hypnotised, until the whole thing is melted down to a small black lump.

"That's what happens to people," she says, and I look at her. The light from the fire shows just how smooth her skin is, and thoughts of touching her begin to grow again.

"What do you mean?" I say.

"When a person burns, all the water in your body evaporates and you twist up like that, before your skin melts and then you just shrivel up. Like plastic. My dad explained it to me at a bonfire one time."

Who is this girl?

"I reckon burning would be the worst, right?" She looks at me, her face close enough to touch. The heat is raw on my skin. Leia doesn't seem to feel it. "I reckon with drowning, like if you were handcuffed to something heavy, trapping you underwater, it would be horrible, but I figure you'd still have a choice."

She's looking at me for agreement, but I'm lost in the image, so she carries on. "You could say to yourself, I'm screwed, this is it, and you just take your deepest breath and suck in as much water as you can to your lungs and then you'd drown. Right?"

I nod and shrug at the same time. Leia nods and slides back until she's leaning against the sofa. "And of course it would hurt. A lot. They say it feels like your insides bursting. But it couldn't last that long. From when you choose to give in to when you'd be dead, it would be pretty quick, I think. But with burning, you don't get that choice, do you? You can't just go, OK, I'll burn quicker now, thanks. It's not in your control. You just have to wait, in agony, until you completely melt, not knowing how long it will take."

I move back and sit next to her, both of us just staring forward, legs stretched out. I never expected to be talking about the best way to die, but I get what she means. Knowing it was inevitable, I'd just want it to be over too and I feel somehow closer to her. Close in the sense of knowing her more. I feel her elbow against mine and I notice how big my feet look next to hers.

"You ever get dej vu?" The question comes out of my mouth as though I'm talking to myself and just hangs there.