My Invisible Boyfriend
Page 16
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: And would you have “got all judgey”?
HEIDI: Um. Maybe? Just a little tiny bit?
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Despite “you like who you like,” and wanting people to move on and be happy, and—forgive me for mentioning it—rather wanting Eric all to yourself?
HEIDI: Temporary insanity. Finch flu. I’m over him.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Even the eyelashes?
HEIDI: I hate eyelashes. Eyelashes are horrible. From now on, I’m only ever going out with people who don’t have eyelashes. Scratch that: I’m never going out with anyone ever.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: But what of Mysterious E?
HEIDI: Mysterious E can stay mysterious. I. Don’t. Care.
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
E,
This has been all sorts of amusing, but I’m done. Romance is for people who are better at life than I am. Go and wave your lovely affectionate bits at someone else, OK?
H
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest Heidi,
Shush.
With enduring
love & affection,
E
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
E,
Seriously. It’s too tiring and embarrassing, and I’m way too pathetic for this to be worth the effort.
H
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest H,
You’re flirting again.
My ever increasing
love & affection,
E
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
E,
Am not.
H
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest H,
Are too.
L & A,
E
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
E,
D2?
H
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest H,
It was your way with words that first attracted me, I believe.
My
glove & affliction,
E
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
E,
:P
H
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I do believe, you’re smiling, Miss Ryder.
HEIDI: I might be. Just a little bit. Though I still don’t know who he is.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Isn’t that half the fun? Now to work, my dear: The game is afoot!
HEIDI: Um. Yes. Whatever that means.
to: bloodwinetears@letterbox.com
from: gingerbread_ed@frogmail.com
dear fili,
how are things? are you feeling any more cheerful at all? just wondering, really, if you’re OK. i know what it’s like to feel crappy and alone, and not have anyone you can tell.
best wishes,
ed
to: gingerbread_ed@frogmail.com
from: bloodwinetears@letterbox.com
Dear Ed,
It’s kind of you to still write: You must be the most attentive ex-boyfriend ever. If only I could inspire the same degree of dedication. I’m unworthy of it, though. Poison kisses and betrayals is all anyone can expect from me, alas.
Does that answer your question?
Fili
Message from: gingerbread_ed
how are you doing, man? h called me tonight: sounds like you were right, she’s definitely into someone else. guess that’s the way it goes.
ed
Message from: dai_fawr
Oh yeah, Ryder’s after someone else. Don’t know she’s going to get him, though. ;)
Later dude.
gingerbread_ed: hey
ludovica_b: hi bb!!!
ludovica_b: missed you
gingerbread_ed: been busy
gingerbread_ed: but thanks
ludovica_b: did you miss me, too?
gingerbread_ed: of course
gingerbread_ed: how is heidi?
ludovica_b: think she is over you, bb
gingerbread_ed: she seeing someone else?
ludovica_b: mmmmaybe
ludovica_b: ;)
gingerbread_ed: that’s ok, i kind of knew
ludovica_b: you have a new gf now?
gingerbread_ed: nope
ludovica_b: i thought all the good ones were taken
gingerbread_ed: maybe i’m not such a good one
ludovica_b: bad boy ed?
ludovica_b: lol
ludovica_b: i must be just your type
“So you’ve gone from dating a cookie to dating the invisible man?”
Christmas has come early to the Little Leaf, since they’ll be missing the real thing. Betsy’s rocking a Santa hat and shiny-wrapped present earrings, and the menu is crammed with snowman meringues and, inevitably, gingerbread men.
“Dressed like that, you don’t get to mock me. Anyway, we’re talking, not dating. On account of me not actually knowing who he is. Still.”
I have explained the traumatic Peroxide Eric non-date to Betsy. Well, kind of. There may have been some editing in postproduction.
“So why don’t you just ask him who he is?”
I shake my head firmly. “Against the rules. The whole point is he’s this mysterious guy, waiting in the wings for me to unmask him. And he thinks I’m this amazing brainiac who can figure it out.”
“Then the poor guy has my sympathy,” shouts Teddy from the kitchen. “He’s obviously a crazy person.”
“Great pep talk, thank you.”
I wait for further mockery, but all I get is the whine of the hand mixer, cranked up to the highest setting.
Betsy winces as it makes that awful scrapy sound against the side of the bowl.
“Teddybaby, we don’t need pancakes that bad!” she yells, till the whizzing and the scraping stops.
I might need pancakes. She’s giving me that “let me explain your own lunacy to you” face.
“Wait up, honeybee, I need to get this straight. There are two guys: this Eric guy you thought was all pretty and kissable, and this Mystery guy who writes you saying he thinks you’re all pretty and kissable. And when you thought they were the same person, that was all roses, but now they aren’t…did pretty and kissable Eric suddenly get hideous and disgusting?”
I try to ignore the way Teddy’s curls are peeping out from the kitchen doorway, as if the opportunity to smirk is just too tempting, and picture Eric in my head. Eric with his long swishy coat, and his boots, and his eyelashes.
The coat is actually sort of ridiculous and smells like wet dog when it rains. His fingers are yellow. Ludo says he picks his nose. Even the eyelashes do their cheek-sweeping thing a bit too perfectly on cue to be accidental.
I think I liked the theory of Peroxide Eric—a studly badboy boyfriend—and sort of forgot there was an actual person involved. Several people, in fact. The willing-to-cheat-on-his-girlfriend thing turns out not to be so sexy after all.
“It’s…complicated. But he’s irrelevant anyway. He’s one hundred percent disinterested in me.”
“U-huh. But does that mean you just stop liking him, snap?”
I shrug. Apparently, it kind of does. Unless I’m doing it wrong.
I could be doing it wrong.
“What I’m getting at is…you don’t have to just say yes to the first guy who says he’s interested. You’re supposed to choose a boyfriend because you like him, too, you know? Not because he’s the only one who asked.”
“I do like him. I mean, I liked him when I thought he was the g
uy sending me the e-mails, being all flirty and funny and, just, getting me, you know? I get giddy when I see I’ve got a message from him. I could talk to him for hours. That guy’s the guy I like.”
Unless I’m doing it wrong.
I’m coiling one braid around my finger, thinking about love & affection, while Betsy tries not to crack up. Even Teddy comes out of the kitchen to beam one of his lazy smiles my way.
I’m not doing it wrong.
“All this without even knowing what he looks like? Boy must have some typing skills.” She tilts her head, so the bell on her hat gives a little tinkle, then turns serious. “Just be careful, honeybee, OK? Don’t want you getting your feelings hurt. Or Mystery Boy’s, either.”
I nog. I’ve already had my feelings hurt. I’m practically a veteran at this whole dating thing. And I’ve got no intention of making the same mistake, and getting distracted by a Mysterious Someone Who Isn’t E.
There’s another tinkly noise, but this one’s from the bell on the Little Leaf door.
It’s Simon. Spooky blond not-a-Gothboy Simon, who I keep seeing hanging around the corridors of the Finch, and who still makes me do a double take every time. He gives me a weak smile from under his hair. I give him the same one back again, wondering if he knows about Eric and Fili. Is that what scared all the Goth out of him?
Betsy doesn’t look so startled by the transformation, though, as if it’s not the first time she’s seen it.
“Hey, Simon! What can I get you, honey?”
Simon slides onto the stool next to mine and taps a finger on the counter, thinking.
“Banana bread?” he says, hopefully.
Betsy sucks in a breath, swinging her earrings as she shakes her head.
“Heidi doesn’t believe in banana in cake,” Teddy explains. “It’s like her religion.”
This is true. Bananas in fruit form are perfectly acceptable. In cake they result in mushiness, and a lingering aftertaste of yuck. They are the anti-peanut butter: guaranteed to de-yummify anything.
Simon gives me an apologetic look through his wispy hair as Teddy brings him a foul-smelling slice anyway, and fishes in his pocket.
“Maybe take out the order for the Banana Blondies then?” Simon says, sliding an envelope across the counter to Betsy.
She grins as she takes it. “You’re the boss. But don’t blame me if all those Finch parents start complaining.” She catches my blank look, and waves the envelope at me. “You didn’t know? It’s going to be the Little Leaf’s last hurrah: catering for your big musical extravaganza. Guess those rehearsal cupcakes went down pretty good, huh?”
I stare at Simon, as he prods the edge of his banana bread with a fork.
“You organized this? Wow, Simon, that’s really…”
I want to say unexpected, but it seems kind of rude.
“Are these the new designs?” he says softly, reaching across me to pick up a rolled-up sheaf of paper.
Teddy must have slipped it there next to me, along with the banana bread.
The designs for Etienne and the Illyrians are just as detailed as the last lot: same swooping style for hands and faces, same little handwritten notes and scribbles of color. No ribbons or silver flashes this time, though: it’s all skinny gray Lycra bodysuits with bright neon piping, in odd geometric squiggles like the inside of circuits.
“Cool,” murmurs Simon, his finger tracing around the neon pink lines.
“It’s all based on this film, Tron?” I explain. “These people get trapped inside a computer game, and they have to ride bikes and play frisbee to save the universe. It’s…less ridiculous than that sounds.”
“Though not by a whole lot,” says Teddy, reappearing to prop himself on his elbows behind the counter.
I catch his eye, and mouth a quick “thank you.” He grins, then gives Simon a sideways look, his eyes following Simon’s fingertip.
Simon did that before, I remember, with Fili’s costume picture. I remember thinking how romantic it seemed. Only now he’s doing it to Etienne Gracey’s costume, which is…also unexpected.
Is there some other non-Eric-shaped reason for Simon and Fili breaking up when they did? Like, Simon suddenly recognizing his inner gay?
He forks in another minute mouthful of banana cake, and gives me another of those watery, apologetic smiles.
WEIGH.
TUP.
Maybe it’s not the person whose going to be wearing the costume he likes.
Maybe it’s the person who drew the costume. Or the person who he thinks drew it anyway.
Simon, who quietly arranges for the Little Leaf to come to Twelfth Night.
Simon, who broke up with Fili the exact same night that Mysterious E first e-mailed.
Simon, the reformed Gothboy, who seems used to walking around in disguise.
Simon, aka Mysterious E?
UM.
WOO?
The penthouse. Mycroft Christie is wearing a fluffy blond wig and eating a stinky banana cake.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: What? You don’t like my makeover?
HEIDI: Downgrade. Sorry.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (tossing the wig aside and revealing his curls) I confess I agree. But still, one mustn’t judge by appearances.
HEIDI: You mean, I’m fugly and a weirdo and I should take what I can get?
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: On the contrary: Mysterious E’s appeal is not too dissimilar to my own, surely? Granted, this “Simon” person lacks certain of my debonair charms, but I fancy my intellect alone makes me quite the catch.
HEIDI: You also fight crime, can travel in time, and have saved the city of London from evil giant centipedes. Even if that episode was a bit crap. And you haven’t recently broken up with one of my mates, who is already really miserable, for complicated reasons that I probably can’t even tell you about.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: You do have intimidatingly high standards for your gentleman friends, Miss Ryder. Besides, I believe your intention—this time—was to ascertain the identity of your mysterious suitor before any awkward encounters on sofas could ensue. Might I propose a little further investigation?
Agent Ryder is starting to feel overwhelmed by the pressures of undercover life at the Finch. Pre-Christmas cheer is beginning to creep throughout the school, thanks mostly to Dad Man being bored and Wassail decorations being harder to find: tinsel around the notice boards, a tree as tall as the Manor on the front steps that’s speckled with white and blue lights. But behind all the fake snow and baubles in every classroom, every corridor, there seems to be a lurking secret, a little subtext, a dangerous casual slip that could bring it all tumbling down.
Eric loiters outside the music rooms while PAG rehearsals go on, waiting for Scheherezade to come out, while Ludo watches him from inside, her chin firmly up as she twirls to show what he’s missing. Fili watches Ludo twirl, her face downcast, till she sees me looking and ducks her head, while I remember that even Ed doesn’t know why she might be looking so guilty, and turn away, to find Dai, watching me closely, just as Ed asked him to, while Henry lingers off to one side, waiting for him to move on so he can slide in and share some not-a-birthday-or-a-party ideas.
The only person I never seem to bump into is Simon—though that must mean something.
I’m a little bit relieved (though I wouldn’t even tell Mycroft Christie that).
But I can’t avoid Simon when Venables calls a grand PAG meeting in the auditorium, with compulsory attendance for all.
“Brilliant, brilliant, come in, do!” he yelps, hair flapping as he beckons us in from the cold.
The auditorium has got its festive party mojo going, too. All the tiered seats have been pulled out and pushed forward, taking over what was empty rehearsal space and throwing all attention toward the stage, where giant plywood stiletto heels and cocktail glasses are stacking up. There are inflatable flamingos dangling from the lighting rig. Tucked away in the wings are rows of metal wardrobe frames, where I can see some of the finished costume
s hanging up: silver flashes mixing with ribbons and epaulettes.
We climb into the weirdly bouncy seats, precariously raised up above the stage, and I somehow end up sitting between Henry and Simon. Henry whispers rapidly into my ear about his brilliant idea for an Unparty for Dai’s Unbirthday, while Simon says nothing—just stares mistily into the distance through his hair in a way he probably thinks is enigmatic and sort of sexy.
I can see Dai watching me keenly, an “I thought so” look on his face.
OPE.
OO.
He thinks it’s Simon, too.
I try to catch Ludo’s eye, but she seems to be ducking mine suddenly.
I don’t want to look at Fili, a few rows below: It’s all too awkward.
“So, guys, guys, thank you for coming!” says Venables, skipping a bit with excitement. “Now, I know you’ve been working hard, I know you’re all tired, so I thought it was time you had a little break, and a little treat.”