He ferrets out a packet of BBQ chips. ‘I was saying, chicks dig flowers and shit. You tried flowers?’ His eyes dart sideways, grin still in place, but there’s something kinda perceptive there, too. ‘Or maybe you could just ask her what her problem is?’ He packs his gob full of chips, and shrugs. ‘Girl looks like she could use a friendly face.’
I add a column in my mental notebook headed: The Elsie/ Sophia conundrum: more possible assists and/or solutions. I ignore the fact that Damien Pagono, with his shirt buttons askew and a whole pack of Smiths shoved in his mouth, is offering me romantic advice. If I were prone to self pity, I’d be feeling just a bit pathetic right about now.
At the front of the classroom, Mr Grayson has given up trying to salvage any authority and appears to be watching Netflix on his phone. ‘But what would I know,’ Damien says blithely. ‘My ma says I’m as useful as a one-legged guy in an arse-kicking contest. I’m hanging out for uni, man – maybe older chicks will be into weird dudes?’ He shoves the empty chip packet into his pocket and nudges my foot – somehow his rank size nines have ended up back on my desk. ‘So. You gonna keep ignoring me?’
I’m tempted to happily forget this conversation ever took place, but then I catch another glimpse of Pagono’s face. Beneath the bravado and chip crumbs, he looks bashful, and maybe a bit hopeful. Damn it to hell. My karmic juju better be skyrocketing.
I close my eyes. ‘Okay, fine. But dude, you gotta stop texting me dodgy memes. It’s not endearing. How did you even get my number?’
Damien taps the side of his nose. ‘Internet’s a magical place. Phone numbers, weird-as-shit fan art – I’ll send you a link for this site that’s nothing but pictures of the Hulk on the toilet.’
‘Fantastic,’ I say dryly. But Damien is looking at me like he’s pulled off his first Acrobatic Aces, and I can’t bring myself to sound completely sarcastic.
Mondays are usually pretty chill – Maths, which I normally snooze through, double English, which is tolerable, and History, which is really the only school-related reason for getting out of bed. But this Monday seems determined to chuck a whole box of metaphorical spanners right into the eyeball of my day.
In my rush to leave the house I forgot to bring my brulee torch and snow-in-a-can, which means my Sophia plan will be behind by a whole day. Halfway through recess I get a message from my sister that reads, Today has turned into a Joy Division song, which is Gilly-code for I will need Cartoon Network and tonnes of ice-cream when I get home. I text back a couple of poo emojis, cos I know not even my most charming patter will convince Mum to let Gillian loose with a bunch of strangers, and I can’t think of anything else helpful to say.
But yeah, my head is a bit elsewhere, and my lack of attention serves to bite me gigantically on the arse. I forget to take the long way past the Careers office as I head to my lunch hideout, and I’m promptly pounced upon by Ms Mehmet, the Careers counsellor, who appears from out of nowhere like she’s materialised from a Houdini box. I’ve managed to sidestep her all semester, but she’s clearly been on a mission to track me down. The upshot is, I get stuck in her office doing some inventive evasive talking to avoid her questions, my stomach growling.
Damien finds me as I’m rushing to my locker and helpfully chucks a mini-bag of cookies at me before he scarpers to Business Management. Judging by his expression when I accept them, I think this pretty much means we’re engaged.
I’m kinda bummed that my careful plans have fallen in a heap. I’m trying my best to stay optimistic, but it feels just a bit unfair, the way the real world keeps worming, inescapably, into my life. And to top it off, I barely catch a glimpse of Sophia all day.
I’m operating on Tiny Teddies and hope as I escape study group the second Mr Kilby closes his laptop. My contact lenses are itching like crazy from the overheated classrooms, and my stomach is pitching. I burst out of the building, casting a glance at my watch as I scramble across the carpark.
I know I’ve done nothing worthy of her attention today. Maybe the smidgen of curiosity I thought I sensed was just a figment of my imagination. Maybe she’s already bored? I’m not so delusional as to think our little conversations would set her world on fire. I need to think bigger. Way bigger. Or maybe … maybe I’m already disappointing.
I skid across the soggy carpark, tugging on my jacket and cap, and there she is.
She’s sitting right on the corner of the bench near the gate. Her long fingers are clasped in her lap, her eyes trained on the darkening street.
I force myself to slow, though my heart seems to be trying its best to climb up my oesophagus. I stop, for just a sec, behind Mr Kilby’s ancient MINI Cooper, and I call upon every internal resource, every public speaking tool and technique that I’ve forced myself to master over the years. I breathe, and then walk.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly.
Sophia glances up, no surprise showing on her face.
‘Hello.’
‘Missed your bus?’
‘Yes. That’s happened a bit lately.’
She’s bundled within her coat, but shows no reaction to the gusting bitter wind. In this light, her irises have a hue around them that’s not noticeable during the day, circles of russet lighter than the almost-black of her eyes.
She gestures, a little stiffly, to the seat beside her. ‘Are you going to sit?’
I’m kinda proud of the fact that I don’t bust out a happy dance. Instead, I pull myself up onto the backrest of the bench and plant my feet on the seat a safe few lengths away from her. When I lean forward with my forearms on my knees, I can just about see her profile. I wish I could sit close enough to see all of the subtle expressions that pass across her face, but I know she’s not comfortable with anyone in her space. She turns towards me, narrow-eyed and contemplative.
We sit in silence. Before I can muster up some patter, Sophia’s cheeks flush, the soft brown dusted with pink. She looks away quickly.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbles.
‘For what?’
‘I’m staring. It’s not polite. I’ve been told I can be a bit creepy.’
I laugh, pleased that even through the nerves it sounds almost normal. ‘And I’ve been told I could pass for the wooden-spoon winner of an Edward Cullen look-alike contest.’
She gapes up at me, her resolve to stop staring apparently forgotten. ‘Someone actually said that to you?’
I shrug. ‘Yeah, but to be fair, a giant dude in rollerblades had just kneed her in the head. I had to sit with her in the emergency room. I might have been dressed in a Kaonashi costume at the time. It’s a long story,’ I say, sheepishly.
Sophia still looks mortified. I scramble for something else to say, cos I can’t stand the thought that that is how she sees herself. ‘And, y’know, as someone who spent most of his childhood impersonating a horror movie extra from a German silent film – and yes, that is also something someone recently said to me – I can say with authority that you are not creepy.’