My Invisible Boyfriend

by Day, Susie

  MYCROFT CHRISTIE: After your success at finding your own perfect partner, I dare not doubt your matchmaking skills, Miss Ryder. So, finally, case number 3: Fili.

  HEIDI: Um. Yeah. I thought she was just a bit wrapped up in Gothboy, and too busy to talk to Ludo. Or Ed. Or me. But she’s not too busy: She just doesn’t want to. I think she hates me. Though now Dai says she’s being a witch to everyone.

  MYCROFT CHRISTIE: And why might that be?

  HEIDI: I have no idea. OK, case number 3: Figure out if Fili is being a witch, why Fili is being a witch, and fix both of them. Somehow.

  MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Excellent.

  HEIDI: I do actually have homework to do, you know. It’s all right for you: You’ve never had to investigate three sets of relationship shenanigans and create a scale model of the Manor for your art coursework.

  MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Not especially surprising, when one considers that I’m a fictional construct and this conversation isn’t real.

  HEIDI: Don’t harsh my metatextuality, man. I’ve got imaginary detective work to do.

  Recipe for Magnificent Detective Activity

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 intrepid girl detective

  1 imaginary boyfriend

  1 Peroxide Eric (potentially cheating)

  1 Henry (potentially evil)

  1 Fili (potentially a witch)

  METHOD:

  • Put on The Coat to create appropriate mental atmosphere.

  • Place girl detective in traditional surveillance role: tailing suspects, questioning witnesses, etc.

  • Deploy imaginary boyfriend as sleeper agent.

  • Return Leftover Squad to happy state of contentment (add/subtract boyfriends to taste; avoid inclusion of Frog in recipe at all costs).

  In theory, being the Finch’s resident detective should be easy. All the major players are conveniently located within a small, mostly inescapable location. My surveillance doesn’t need to take place behind a folded newspaper or wearing a funny mustache, because I’m undercover as Heidi, aka “that girl with the braids,” who will never be suspected to be the glamorous Miss Ryder, PI. Thanks to my network of informants (aka the Mothership, who has all the school schedules in her filing cabinet, and Dad Man, keeper of the keys to everywhere), I can track each of my targets’ expected daytime locations down to the last minute.

  EASE.

  EE.

  In practice: not so much. It’s kind of entertaining, lurking behind pillars to eavesdrop, lingering at the end of the lesson to put my calculator away amaaaaazingly slowly, even doing the “Oh, look, my shoelace is undone, I must stop to tie it up immediately” trick (although either I’m freakishly gifted in the shoelace-tying department, or they don’t come undone in real life anywhere near as often as you’d think). But it turns out that knowing that Henry’s got French first thing on Wednesday morning isn’t much use, when I’m over in Math making Venn diagrams about hamster ownership. Lurking in the lunch line taking careful note of what kind of potatoes Peroxide Eric is having today (with masterful subtlety) doesn’t actually reveal the innermost workings of his mind. And when it comes down to it, much as I like the idea of sneaking up the Manor stairs into someone’s bedroom, rifling through their drawers, and finding the envelope marked IMPORTANT CLUE—only to thrillingly hear someone approaching and have to hide under the bed—doing it for real is a no-go. I can’t really steal Dad Man’s keys. I’d sneeze. I probably can’t hide under Fili’s bed, because the dorm rooms have the kind with drawers in, and even if I could fit in the drawer, the drawers are probably already full of shoes and homework folders and stuff. Do real people even send each other letters anymore?

  Then there’s the time already taken up with sitting in PAG Artistic Team meetings nodding a lot while Venables gets all sweaty about whether the stage wings should be covered in pink glitter or silver satin, failing to find words that rhyme with “autumn,” concocting persuasive reasons why I can’t eat the Mothership’s broad-bean puree, working at the Little Leaf (which is still deathly quiet, apart from me and Teddy expanding our Adam and the Ants dance repertoire to include dandy highwaymen)—not to mention the fact that all kinds of significant detection-worthy action must be going on all evening, after I’ve gone home.

  Even when I am up there at the top of the hill, I have to be careful not give myself away, by lingering too hopefully around Fili, or asking Dai too many questions about Henry, or watching Peroxide Eric to see if his eyes are wandering in the direction of Scheherezade or any other potential Tarty McSlutcakes. So far I’ve only really noticed him snogging Ludo a lot—and occasionally staring at Fili, which would be funny except he’s only staring at her because I am, while she’s making it hugely obvious she’d prefer me not to exist by firmly looking the other way. Meanwhile, Dai’s virtually moved into the gym, and Henry always seems to be off doing actorish things in the auditorium, both of which might be Of Grand Significance or Kind Of Meaningless.

  Even Mycroft Christie would be struggling with this caseload. It’s not doing a whole lot for my glowy sensation of belonging, either. I could have an entire pond full of slimy things in my Bubble Wrap bag right now, and not one of them would notice.

  But like Mycroft Christie, at least when I head back to headquarters, I have a sidekick I can really rely on.

  By day, I’m Agent Ryder, slightly useless girl detective—and by night, I sit under my desk lamp, grin at the squishy eye of my gingerbread boy, and set him to work. Life would be simpler if he’d get on with it all on his own, but sometimes a girl has to give her boy a little push in the right direction. He’s not just there to cheer me up, now: He’s a man with a mission. It’s a dangerous job, Gingerbread Ed seems to say. But it’s all in a good cause, and if anything goes wrong, you can always eat the evidence. I’m not completely convinced about that last bit (he’s starting to look a bit dusty, after all, and he doesn’t smell quite as yummy as he did before), but it’s definitely more worthwhile than quadratic equations.

  Message from: gingerbread_ed Subject: fed up

  hey,

  so, uh, yeah. life sucks. i suck. i even tried writing a new song called “everything sucks” but—guess what? it sucked.

  h: miss you like singing in the rain, maybe you miss me, too?

  ed

  OK, so I’m being a bit naughty, inventing an argument, and it’s not what you’d call subtle, but hey, Ed’s a boy. Boys aren’t supposed to be subtle. (Besides, I bet the part where we made up was adorable. He probably sent flowers. Or chocolate. Definitely chocolate.)

  UChat

  ludovica_b: omg eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed

  gingerbread_ed: hey

  ludovica_b: you ok bb?

  gingerbread_ed: yeah

  gingerbread_ed: i was kind of blue earlier but i’m ok now

  ludovica_b: what happened?

  gingerbread_ed: i talked to h, we’re fine now

  gingerbread_ed: you know, relationship stuff

  ludovica_b: lol yes

  ludovica_b: know that stuff ;)

  gingerbread_ed: yeah?

  ludovica_b: yeah

  gingerbread_ed: everything ok?

  ludovica_b: yes

  ludovica_b: no

  ludovica_b: kind of?

  gingerbread_ed: anything i can do?

  ludovica_b: aww ur sweet

  ludovica_b: must be nice havin a bf like u

  gingerbread_ed: so she tells me :-)

  ludovica_b: lol

  gingerbread_ed: thought you all had nice bfs there

  gingerbread_ed: h seems to like that henry guy

  ludovica_b: yeah he’s cool

  gingerbread_ed: yeah?

  ludovica_b: he has such good clothes!!!

  gingerbread_ed: ok

  gingerbread_ed: what about the guy who is seeing fili?

  gingerbread_ed: simon?

  ludovica_b: don’t know

  ludovica_b: don’t really see fili anymore
/>   ludovica_b: think she doesn’t like me :(

  gingerbread_ed: oh

  gingerbread_ed: why’s that?

  ludovica_b: omg, heidi talks lots about boys

  ludovica_b: don’t you get jealous?

  gingerbread_ed: no

  ludovica_b: haha

  ludovica_b: don’t believe you!

  ludovica_b: i will have to keep my eye on her

  ludovica_b: lol

  AW.

  Message from: dai_fawr Hey dude,

  Ryder giving you a hard time? Lemme know if you want me to give her a kick. And I’ve got a spare seat over here in the Loveless Puppies Rest Home if ya need it.

  Later dude.

  Message from: gingerbread_ed hey,

  um, no, no h-kicking required. was just crossed wires: thought she was going to call, she was mad at me for not calling, etc. etc.

  you really loveless? downer. h is always telling me how sweet henry is over you.

  ed

  Message from: dai_fawr Hey dude,

  That’s nice to hear. If the gorgeous sod could just SHOW me that every now and then, I wouldn’t complain though, know what I mean?

  Later dude.

  “You spend too much time on that computer, babes,” says the Mothership, whenever she pops up to the attic. “Talking to that boyfriend of yours, are we?”

  I must look horrified, because she smiles, and gives me one of her stiff little hugs.

  “Parents aren’t as daft as they look, you know,” she says, smoothing down the tufty end of my braid. “Especially not ones who are teachers. We do hear things. And I know you’re growing up: Your father’s always saying you should be doing more teenage things. I think it’s nice. So no need to be so secretive, babes, yeah?”

  Secretive is my middle name. (Mycroft Christie, episode 1.1. Though obviously it’s Karen, really. Mine, not Mycroft Christie’s. We never find out his real one, so maybe he really is called Mycroft Secretive Christie. Or Mycroft Karen Christie. He’s from the future: They might go for that sort of thing.)

  “So, is it anyone I might recognize?” she says, quite casually, like she’s not at all dying to know.

  My eyes stray automatically to the desk, where Gingerbread Ed is listening to the conversation, with a very smirky cast to the squishiness of his eye.

  “Maybe,” I say, quite casual, too.

  Then I make homeworkish noises until she gives up and goes downstairs to do something alarming with beetroots.

  Gingerbread Ed: so delicious, even the Mothership can’t wait to meet him.

  It does add to the list of things I need to watch out for up at the Finch, though. Agent Ryder’s efforts at covert surveillance are rubbish enough, without looking over my shoulder to check the Mothership’s not watching me watching Henry watching Dai, with a funny little smirk on her face. Or when we’re coming out of French, and Ludo waits till we’re right outside Dad Man’s little office when he’s on the day shift to start bellowing at me.

  “OH MY GOD, Heidi, do you need, like, glasses? You’re, like, STARING at people.”

  I give Dad Man a little wave as we go past, and I pretend not to notice the way his head sticks out of the doorway to see who I might be staring at. Especially when his eyes widen in curious surprise, and I realize that Etienne Gracey just happens to be walking ahead of us.

  But there’s a line of people all streaming out of the back entrance, down past the lake, toward the auditorium.

  “Where are we going, Ludo?”

  “Duh. PAG meeting? It’s been on the notice board FOREVER? Oh my God, maybe you do need glasses.”

  I think I might need more than glasses. I’ve got a lurking feeling Venables is expecting a bit more than my Flock of Seagulls hair mime, but that’s about all I’ve got to offer. Teddy promised he’d nearly finished doing whatever it was he was doing to our scribbly notes to transform them into “designs.” I’d meant to bike over to the Little Leaf to pick them up before this meeting. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with important detective activity, though: PAG and notice boards haven’t really been top of the list.

  Somehow I don’t think Detection is going to cut it as an excuse for Venables.

  Ludo drags me into the Performing Arts block regardless, and pushes me over to where the rest of the Artistic Team is at work. Simon’s there already, looking like a pale little twig with hair, wearing what looks suspiciously like Fili’s favorite black jumper: the one with the little holes in the sleeves that you can put your thumbs through. He gives me a wispy nod as I join him, ducking out of the path of Miyu Sugawara, who’s staggering under a giant sparkly sign reading Orsino’s! She adds it to the piles of painted backdrops and huge wooden props resting against an upright piano: martini glasses twenty feet high, the world’s brickiest mobile phone.

  Panic status: moderate, increasing.

  Maybe this could be Twelfth Night: The Naked Musical!?

  The sliding walls of the auditorium are pushed back, along with most of the seats, and the cast are all lined up against the back wall doing stretches for…some reason that probably makes sense if you are the theatrical type. Or Scheherezade just wants everyone to see her in a leotard, which is just as possible. Dai’s doing sit-ups, sweatily. I can see Yuliya, long arms in a graceful arc over her head, and Ludo behind her with her tongue trapped between her teeth, face scrunched up in concentration, trying to replicate it. Fili’s sitting off to one side, reading her script, and glancing up every now and then at Simon, as if she’s checking he’s still there (which of course he is, watching her with a sort of dopey dreamy expression). I’d be thinking how sweet and coupley they were together, if I wasn’t just a little bit mad at her not liking how sweet and coupley me and Ed are (or would be, if dopey dreamy expressions were possible when your eyes are made from icing).

  Ludo still has one arm in Yuliya-pose, but the other starts waving madly, and through the misted-up window I can see Peroxide Eric, huddling out there in the drizzle with his coat collar flicked up, smoking a cigarette. That would be sweet, too, if I wasn’t wondering whether his little smirk was from seeing Ludo or thinking about Girl B. I narrow my eyes, switching back into Covert Detective Genius mode, to track down the true direction of his gaze. I’m not being Covert enough, though: He’s just looking at me.

  Then I notice that Henry isn’t even here, which might explain why Dai’s looking quite so miserable (unless that’s the sit-ups), which gets me thinking all kinds of not-cute things.

  The foyer doors bang, and Venables comes flying in, his half-unbuttoned shirt going alarmingly see-through from the wet, and his usual cloud of hair sticking damply to his head. He does a pantomimed look of surprise at finding people already there.

  “Sorry, guys, you know how it is, crazy schedule! So much to do! But it looks like you’ve got it all in hand, yeah? Great. Brilliant. Cast, I’ll be right with you. Just got a little bit of business with my dear old friends over here. So. Props guys, looking good. See you found that glitter paint, Timo. Fantastic. Brilliant. Love it. Now, then: costume department?”

  Simon and I exchange nervous looks. Well, I look nervous. With him, it’s a bit hard to tell.

  The doors bang again. This time it’s Henry, looking perfectly untroubled by the weather, carrying an umbrella and a huge cardboard box.

  “Delivery for the Hungry Performers’ Club!” he shouts, making his way over to us and bringing a tide of curious Finches behind him. “Chocolate Rehearsal Cupcakes! Fudgy Date Loaf! And there’s a special order of Yogurt Raisin Oatbars in here for the health-conscious gentleman who likes to watch his waistline—for no apparent reason, I might add?”

  Dai beams, pinkly, as Henry gives him a wink. From the looks on their faces, I think that qualifies as “showing” Dai he cares.

  I stare at the box, curious, as Henry swats people away, holding it up over his head and promising goodies after they’ve w
orked on the opening number.

  “I took the liberty of phoning in a standing order at the Little Leaf,” Henry murmurs to me, thumping it down on top of the piano at last. “Couldn’t help but notice that business seemed to be a little slow, and, well, I’ve never been in a production that didn’t run more smoothly with the aid of chocolate. I hope you don’t mind?”

  I grin. I don’t mind. I don’t mind to the point of possibly skipping about like a loony. Betsy must be thrilled, and Henry—as if there were really any doubt—has officially proven himself to be Not Remotely Evil.

  “For you,” Henry adds, lifting a cardboard tube out of the box and throwing it over to me. “Teddy said you’d left it down there by mistake?”

  OO.

  ER.

  My hands are kind of shaky as I open up the tube and pull out a big sheaf of curled-up sheets of paper. The costume designs: It has to be. I can feel Simon’s breath on my arm, standing close. And as the crowd of cake-hunters fades away, Venables appears, too, his hands on his hips, eyes wide with expectation.

  I wish I had time to look them over first. This could be a total disaster. Part of me even wants them to be rubbish, so I’ll know there’s no way Teddy can be going to art school: no way he’ll be heading to Chicago, and taking Betsy with him.

  But they’re not scribbly rough cartoons, like the ones Teddy drew in the Little Leaf. Not anything like those. They’re proper designs: Project Runway-style swoopy figures with mutant rectangular heads and triangles for hands. I can see all my original ideas, but he’s built them up, twisted them about, made them into something beautiful. The cast are split into two groups, like I suggested: Niteclubbers in sharp neons and silver flashes; New Visitors in flouncy pirate shirts and military jackets, all navy blues and red ribbons. There are splashes of color and tiny handwritten notes on the costumes for the twins, Viola and Sebastian (matching military jackets: hers powder blue, his pale pink), to show that when she’s pretending to be a boy, she wears a white stripe across her nose, like Adam Ant—just like I’d wanted.