Greg Jarvis is a writer from London. He holds an MA in American Literature and Culture from Goldsmiths alongside prior writing experience from Guardian Masterclass and Faber Academy courses. 

His side hustle is as the owner of Mother Superior, a natural wine shop in Nunhead. 

‘Sparks’ is a story about sexual awakening, representing the first flickers of desire in some of its awkward beauty, with allusions to existing power structures which seek to shape that desire as it begins to express itself. 

Contact: gregjarv@gmail.com

Sparks

There is no easy way to stem involuntary bleeding. William Holden discovers this as blood first drips from his nose, a gentle slither from each nostril which snake in tandem to the groove of his upper lip. He puts a tongue to each, as though runny with cold, the odd taste confirmed by colour on the fresh smudge-wipe at the base of his thumb. This is during Biology, as Old Bailey projects the image of a female reproductive system onto the white board at the front of the classroom. Next to this is the image of a flower, and Old Bailey–a man whose grey hair tufts on his head like moss on a rock–is talking about ovaries and ovules while Will holds the bridge of his nose and squeezes. Stuffs two balls of torn tissue paper up till they are hidden, hoping the dull ache behind might be caused by the lack of natural light in the basement classroom, and not the impure thoughts his stepfather has begun to lecture him on. Thoughts which are common for a boy of your age, Keith had said, but can lead to sin if not managed in the right way. And sin, well that’s a one-way street for a young man like you, son.

         Mostly these thoughts relate to Tessa Nichols, who sits two rows ahead, and at breaktime had teased Will that she has known about what Old Bailey was teaching for years, ever since her sister Genie made an O with her left hand and poked a right index finger in and out. Tessa had performed this same motion as they spoke, joking that now it was all her sister talked about, boys and the shape of their things. She said Genie had shown her photos sent by her classmate in the sixth form, the boy Genie now called Forage because he looked like he’d been out in the woodland picking mushrooms. As she said this Will pushed at the thread of his trouser pocket, absentmindedly probing a nail at the split in the cotton, until he had poked a hole clean through.

In the classroom he fingers the rip as he stares at the back of her neck. A birthmark–like a faded bruise–emerges from the uniformly green and grey wool jumper. Dark hair spreads over her shoulders. Most attention goes to her left ear, which he suspects is a strange body part to fixate on, but it’s the way she hooks her hair behind it, unthinking, that makes him wish he had a chameleon tongue. Twice his body size would reach more than three metres, and with a tongue like that he could fire it at that small lump of flesh and whip it back before she would even notice. Blame it on the breeze. She turns at that moment, as though his thoughts have made the journey his tongue cannot, and the surprise causes him to snort one of the blood balls up his nasal passage and down into his throat. He stifles a cough and looks quickly around the classroom, at the diagrams of human body parts, the anatomical dissections of different life forms. A frog. A rat. By the projector a mid-sized skeleton hangs from a frame, and when the cool breeze blows down from the propped open fire door above the bones come to life in a gentle pendulum sway.

The slide flips to that of an embryo and Old Bailey explains that during this early stage of creation, around week six, the first flickering of the human brain begins.

But at this stage, he says, clicking onto the next slide and whacking the board with his pointer, the neural activity is not even as advanced as the humble prawn. 

At the sight of the prawn and the foetus together, displayed almost limb cradling limb, many of the class start to giggle. Tessa’s shoulders shake and Will probes once more at the crusting around the rim of his nostril, wondering if this rush of blood is related, if thoughts are indeed an energy that can be harnessed, channeled outside the body to impact some other material thing. He aims his energy at the class bell, an easy win given the clock above the whiteboard, he can almost sense the vibrations coming down the wire. As it sounds Old Bailey says again, no more advanced than the humble prawn, and the class fold their exercise books and file through the door as Old Bailey turns his pointer outwards and jokes and sometimes I wonder about the state of some of you sorry lot and all.

After school Will follows the potholed road around the corner to pick up his stepbrother from the adjoining primary. At the gate his breath is visible in the cold and he watches as some of the younger kids play on the uneven ground of the courtyard. Make-believe-families. I’m the dad and you’re the mum. Mitchell, navy puffer jacket hanging down his shoulders, shoelaces flapping in their undoing, chases the girls and tells them they have to be the mums because they have vaginas.

I don’t want to be the mum, says one girl. If I don’t want to then I don’t have to.

Yes you do, says Mitchell, that’s the rules.

Will calls to him to ease the tension, and when he sees Will he forgets about play and runs over, leads him by the hand to his book bag and water bottle.

You don’t need to be so bossy you know he says as he takes his brother’s bag and they exit the gate, mindful of his words on account of what their mother calls Mitchell’s pull to petulance. You can let them choose.

You’ve got blood on your nose comes the reply and he drops Mitchell’s hand and holds the stained loo roll to his face for the third time that day.

My mum says the best cure for nose bleeds is to keep your head over a steam bath.

Will recognises Tessa’s voice coming from behind the bus shelter.

It keeps the skin soft, she says. 

He picks it too much. That’s what my mum says. Mitchell doesn’t blink and Tessa laughs loudly.

I do not. He takes his brother’s head and rubs it with his knuckle. I think it’s the weather.

My grandad used to get them all the time, Tessa says as she pushes her foot from the shelter and moves towards them. He would just sit there at the table with, like, mayonnaise around his lips and blood coming out of his nose. He used to burp all the time too, some problem with his gut. You don’t do that do you? 

Will laughs and says I’m not eighty. They have their hands in their pockets but their shoulders seem to tip together.

I’m gonna head to the park later, for sunset, if you’re about.

Yeah okay. Once I’ve sorted Mitch out, yeah sure.

When Mitchell asks can I come Tessa takes his nose in her finger and thumb and wiggles it.

When you’re a bit older, young man. You’ve got a bit more growing to do first.

After tea, Will changes into a charcoal hoodie and jeans. Sat on the end of the bed he types the words how to turn on a woman into his phone, as if there is some easy switch to flip to get them whirring. He settles on an article describing the three parts of foreplay in a woman’s weekly. The first is easy. He gets up brushes his teeth and washes his hands. Repeats the mantra as he styles his hair in the mirror. Hygiene, talking, touching. He repeats those three words on his descent down the stairs. Then says one down two to go. Talking touching talking touching. As he laces up his trainers on the stairs Keith leans an arm on the banister. He is a small man, and stout, as though formed inside an oil drum. 

Your mother said back before dark I hear, Keith says. You make sure you listen to her.

Yeah course.

Where are you going anyway?

Just over the road. Gonna kick a ball about with Carter.

In the dark? Maybe I’ll come with you.

It’s not dark yet Will says and looks up. The autumn sun filters through the stained glass of the front door pane and a small square of the hall wall brightens with colour.

You know I used to play county level. The killer they used to call me in front of goal. Keith slices the air with his slipper and Will tries not to smirk at the man whose belly reaches further than his feet. I could just drop some crosses in for you guys. Or go in goal?

Let the boy alone Keith, his mum’s voice carrying from the kitchen.

I’ll see you later then Keith says. God bless.

Will says nothing. Leaves the door open so that he can hear when Keith shuts it and it is his mother who shouts have fun before the lock clicks as he is almost out of earshot. 

Tessa has found a spot on the bench at the top corner of the park. From here there is a view of the horizon, of the brush-dab cloud formation and the sun melting above the treeline. Privacy is provided by two large horse chestnuts which throw the last shade of the evening onto the ground by her feet, darkening the scattered leaves and conker shells. When she sees him she puts her phone into her pocket and gives a little wave, lifts up her jumper to show him a bottle smuggled under her waistband. 

I got it from my Dad’s cabinet. She says. Want some?

What is it?

Brandy. It’s a spirit. He makes it from cider apples, says it’s good for digestion. She takes a swig and then shuts her eyes tight. But knowing his gut I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. 

Won’t he notice?

He’s got a shed full of the stuff. 

Will takes a gulp from the half bottle. His mouth burns, the taste wholly different to the creamy Irish ale Carter’s dad keeps in a fridge in the garage. He swallows it down as his stomach squeezes in shock. Jesus. I think I’m gonna puke, he says.

It’s spirits. They’re supposed to taste rank, the ranker the better.

That’s crazy, it’s like swallowing lava. He spits some of the excess saliva that is flooding his mouth onto the grass behind the bench. If it’s supposed to be rank, why do they drink it he asks with a smile.

I’m joking. I dunno. She takes the bottle from him and swallows a big gulp. It seems to go down easier for her so he tries again and coughs a little this time but it settles. They do loads of weird stuff, she says, don’t yours? I mean, my Dad walks naked around the house still. Can you believe that? Like he’s a nudist or something. I think it’s a diversion tactic. I think he thinks that if we have to keep seeing his dick it’ll put us off seeing anyone else’s.

That’s definitely not normal.

I know. I’ve perfected the art of not looking. Even though Genie says if there is a penis in the room it is impossible not to look at it. I just leave.

She takes a long draw on the bottle, swallows it down and breathes slow and heavy. He sniffs my underwear too, like my underwear on the floor. He says to check if it’s clean or not.

Is it clean? Will asks, wishing he could suck the words back into his mouth the moment they leave it.

Of course it’s not clean who leaves clean underwear on the floor?

I didn’t mean. Shit. Sorry.

They watch as an old lady shuffles past with a terrier at heel.  There is an aliveness to the wind, a quiet grating through the trees, though it is not yet cold enough to drive anyone indoors.

I mean maybe he just pretends to sniff it, Will says, you know, to get you to be a bit tidier?

Does he hell. He does it loudly, as if his nose is blocked, like, Tessa sucks the air in through her nose and snorts.

Will laughs and they smile at each other. He feels the warmth from the brandy and his face reddens and then falls as the silence begins to grow. 

My mum still tries to choose my clothes, he says, like I’m a kid. I can tell the staff are looking at me. I think one of them at the superstore is in year twelve actually.

D’you think they have any idea?

How embarrassing they are? Course they do. I think they do it on purpose.

They pass the bottle back and forth, each time with a grimace and a chuckle and then she shakes with a shiver of cold.

We could try and make a fire, he says, picking up debris from the recent storm. He breaks a few fallen branches with his right foot, builds a stick pyramid around the rips of a discarded pizza box.

Have you got a lighter? She asks.

No. But there might be one lying around. Otherwise, we can try and find a piece of flint, and something to strike it against.

Does that really work?

It does on YouTube. 

As he says this there is movement from the hedgerow behind, a low rustle in the thickness of leaves. Tessa creeps forward and Will follows, holding her arm as he moves ahead of her. It wouldn’t be your dad would it he asks, unsure if he is even joking. He picks up a rock and throws it at the noise. They are both perfectly still, their grip on each other’s arms tightening as they crouch down. For a moment there is nothing but the silence of held breath until a fox darts out from the undergrowth and they fall together in laughter. Shuffling backwards until Tessa is leaning against the jutting bark of the chestnut tree.

You can kiss me, she says, if you want.

He nods and moves towards her but having not kissed anyone like this before his movements are uncertain. His tongue is more of a probing muscle than the hunger that moves it and his nostrils stick to her cheek so that he can’t breathe. They break for a moment and then try again and he slips his hand under the elastic of her jogging bottoms. She does the same to him but he is not hard, worried that his nose will start bleeding. He is drawn to the flesh of her inner thighs, to the heat of her, and as she rocks toward him he pulls away and apologises, says I’ve not really done this before.

That’s okay she says, lacing her hands in his, and as they pull together the horizon blends into a line like rust, their fingers still slowly moving.

Go on then.

Go on what? Will asks.

Tell me something you’ve never told anyone. So I feel like less of a freak.

Okay, I guess, well sometimes I like to think I can influence things with my mind. Like change the traffic lights or make the toaster pop. Earlier today I shot thoughts at you and you turned around. Do you know what I mean? I know I can’t really. I guess I just like to pretend, that there might be the smallest something.

Tessa is quiet for a while. The first stars slow-pepper the sky above and the growing wind ties them closer together. Then she starts to laugh.

That is such a boy thing to say, to shoot power out of your eyes.

He laughs too and she says I wonder, like, if it’s some unconscious jealousy or something, with guys, and superpowers.

What do you mean?

Well Genie says the real power is ours, I mean girls, womens. It’s not like you’re ever gonna be able to produce life from between your legs. She bumps his pelvis with her own. Sorry to break it to you.

His mind turns to the milky-white muck often spattered into a tissue. There isn’t much of an argument. Fair enough he says. I’d not really thought about it that way.

I don’t think guys do, she says.

Well I will now, now that you’ve shot down any belief in my supernatural abilities.

I’m sorry.

He smiles. Don’t be. Do you think you should talk to anyone, about, you know.

It’s okay. He’s just a weirdo. Genie thinks it’s because he’s worried we’re sexually active.

Yeah but even so.

It’s nothing. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Anyway we should maybe get going. I promised I’d be home for dinner.

Yeah okay, fair enough he says as he looks at his watch. My step-dad might come hunting me down soon too. Bash me back home with the bible.

Is he that bad?

Not really. Just a bit judgemental, preachy, you know, thinks my mind is not my own.

Yeah I know that feeling.

Their hands pull together and they kiss once more. Softer this time, and slower. She squeezes his leg between the gap in her thighs and as they finish his bottom lip pulls from between her teeth.

Right.

Right.

Now I’ve really got to go.

That’s cool. Me too.

See you tomorrow?

Yeah of course she says as she kisses his lips and then skips a little as she heads down the slope and out of the bottom park gate. See ya Willy she shouts over her shoulder as she disappears behind a row of terraced houses and into the approaching night.

After he gets home, as the dark settles into a blackish blue and his mother greets him at the door with a just in time mister, he heads upstairs to the bathroom and spends almost half an hour on the toilet, scrolling through photos of Tessa and touching himself. He loops a TikTok of her in her bathrobe, clicking her fingers as she changes into a ball gown. Props his phone on the sink and sniffs and tastes the hand that had brushed between her thighs, sucks at his middle finger as though it were a push pop American candy, the taste hard to describe, sweet and saline. What he imagines taffy might taste like even though he has never tried taffy just heard about it on the tv. After he comes he sniffs his hand for similarities and then opens the window in the hope the fresh air will be a decoy. Sitting in front of the tv Keith keeps glancing over to him. Will feels his cheeks flush. Keith brings a paper towel from the kitchen and Will braces himself for some terrible gag or a heartfelt sermon on the sanctity of semen. Keith simply hands it to him and says it’s your nose again mate. Do you think He’s trying to tell you something? 

Will decides against recalling this exchange to Tessa as they lie together in the sports hall storage room two weeks later. Her friend Leone is close with the groundskeeper, a young lad who has given her a copy of the storage room key in exchange for the promise of some extended time together on the exercise mats. Inside are vaulting boxes and ball cages, and unbeknown to many of the teachers it is the one place pupils can go where the door can also be locked from the inside.

After several minutes of hungry kisses Tessa twists at his trouser button. He yanks her shirt from her skirt waistband and cups the gentle pressure of her nipples through her bra, shuffles on top of her as she takes him in her hand and parts her legs. He slides a finger inside her, nervously, trying to find a rhythm, distracted by her hand working on him, the sensation familiar and yet revelatory and within a few eager tugs he has come, and his nose is dribbling blood all over her chest. 

Fucking hell Will, she says, spots blossoming on her open blouse. 

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I think it might be stress related.

I don’t think this is supposed to be stressful, she says. Look, can you just get off me. Lie down or something.

Yeah of course, sorry. He turns on his back and holds the bridge of his nose.

It’s all over my shirt. Fuck. I look like I’ve been murdered.

I’m sorry. He looks away so that she won’t see him swallowing hard.

Could you not feel it coming?

What? No. I don’t know. It’s not always like I know it’s going to happen.

You’re gonna have give me your shirt.

Why?

I can’t walk through the door wearing this. My Dad will kill me.

But what am I supposed to wear?

You can wear mine. Say it shrunk in the wash or something.

They swap tops. He studies her blood marked shirt. Are you gonna want this back?

If it’s clean she says.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to get the spots out. I can’t show my mum, and Keith already thinks these bleeds are some kind of holy phenomenon.

Bicarbonate of soda and white wine vinegar. Let it soak.

Alright. Where do I get that then?

Work it out okay I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around.

Yeah, like tomorrow.

Yeah, right. Look we better not tell anyone about this, okay? We’re just messing around. 

I’m not going to tell anyone. 

Okay. Good. 

Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then. He says this to her back. She doesn’t turn. 

He watches her go as he puts on her shirt. The chest is baggy and his wrists extend out of the sleeves. He looks like a boy whose sudden growth has been caught mid-spurt by his cuffs. The odour reminds him of damp life-jackets, the scent of his summer holiday in Greece last year. A banana boat in Zakynthos. He sits and pulls his blazer tight across his chest, mind on the way she had looked at him. Like catching the eye of a surprised dog doing its business in public, except it was his face that bore the pitied shame of some similar involuntary convulsion. As he closes the door of the storage room behind him, a full moon is out even though the sky is still a faint blue. He studies the shadows, remnants of ancient rivers visible even from this distance, and then howls in its direction like a wounded animal, as though it is in some strange way responsible, its pull not just cyclical or tidal but individual, everything connected. He takes a few steps and then the light-headedness comes and before he can sit down he faints into the pyracantha bush by the sports ground gate.

He comes round as Tessa is pouring bottled water over her hand and finger flicking it into his eyes until they are wide open. Thorns have cut white scratches into his temples, marks underlined by the encroaching moonlight.

You sure know how to make a girl feel bad about herself she says, her eyes seeming to shine. She offers him her arms and uses the lever of her weight to extract him from the branches, much like they often do with their classmates during P.E. Are you alright she asks once he has steadied himself, her eyes on the pink colouring back the pale in his cheeks, to which he replies yeah, yeah I’m okay. I’m good. Thanks. 

Here, drink this. She hands him what’s left of the water. We can turn it around next time she says as they exit the gate together. That might make things a little easier.

Turn it around? He asks.

She slips her arm through his, limb cradling limb, the foetus and the prawn.

Think about it, she says. You’ll work it out.