My Invisible Boyfriend

by Day, Susie

  She leans over, tugging my plasticky arm.

  “Oh my God, can you BELIEVE Dai thought you and Henry were, like, a thing?”

  I look over to the two of them, mock-slow-dancing to the cellos in the middle of the room. Dai’s ears are bright red, his cheeks glowing in pink patches, as if even he’s just the tiniest bit self-conscious under all this attention. Henry’s laughing, his hair sticking out under the elastic of the party hat, as if he knows exactly what Dai’s thinking, as if he’s proud of making it happen.

  I can believe it, sort of. Because inside Dai’s head he doesn’t deserve all this: not wilted balloons, not invisible cakes, not a boyfriend at all, let alone this one.

  And I think:

  OH.

  That’s what I haven’t got. I don’t mean Henry. I don’t even mean the slow dance with someone’s hands at my hips, the silly whispered in-jokes, the eye lock as foreheads touch, then noses, then lips. Those I can invent: those I have invented. But I haven’t got a boy who’ll make me an Unparty while I’m not looking, because even though I say I don’t want one, I really do. I haven’t got a boy who knows me better than I know myself. And I think I might sort of need one, because I don’t think I know me at all.

  Fili comes to join us, perching on the arm of the armchair, just as drawn into the slow dance of epic romance going on before us.

  “They look so happy,” Fili murmurs, slipping her feet under Ludo’s legs to keep them warm.

  “I know,” Ludo sighs, hugging a cushion to her chest. “Oh my God, like, LOOK at us? Three hopeless single girls, staring at the unavailablest boys EVER. We’re, like, SO pathetic.”

  “Who says we’re all single?” says Fili, that increasingly familiar smile quirking her lips.

  Ludo’s mouth opens wide as she looks first at Fili, then at me. Then it opens even wider, as she realizes Fili is nodding my way.

  “Nuh-uh!” I say, my plasticlike arms making crinkly noises as I wave my hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh my God, Heidi! Tell us EVERYTHING. And no being all secretive like last time! We need details. No, wait. Dai! Henry, stop snogging his face off and get over here!”

  I shrink down in my antibacterial balloon, as Fili prompts me through an explanation of the adventures of Mysterious E (minus the extremely awkward bits). I keep expecting them to break out into total mockery at my pathetic attempts at romance, but instead they’re full of glee and questions.

  “So is he a Finch? He must be a Finch.”

  “Has he given you any clues?”

  “Is he hot?”

  “Ludo, she doesn’t even know his name. How’s she supposed to know if he’s hot?”

  “She knows his name’s E. If that’s his real name.”

  “Whose name begins with an E?”

  “Dude, it’s probably a code name.”

  “What’s the point of that? Doesn’t he want her to know who he is?”

  “That’s all part of the game. You know, working it out?”

  I glance up and catch Fili’s eye, hoping I can show her how grateful I am. But she’s glowing herself, at the easy, silly conversation: at being a part of it all, again, excited just as much as me. We’ve both missed this.

  “Like detectives?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Can we be detectives?” Ludo nudges me with a pointy elbow. “I bet we’d be really good detectives.”

  “We could have outfits.”

  “Disguises! We’ll go undercover as…attentive students.”

  “We’ll track him down for you, Ryder. Mysterious E isn’t going to be Mysterious for much longer.”

  They’re all grinning like idiots: Ludo, Dai, Henry, Fili. And me: not Miss Ryder or Mysterious H, but the same old dorky Scrabble-playing braid-headed Heidi. The Leftover Squad is back, embarking on our very first investigation, and I don’t even have to make it up.

  Agent Ryder resumes her covert surveillance activity, which turns out to be much more fun when it’s not quite so covert. After all, it doesn’t really matter if we get caught. Dad Man can find Henry and Dai on the Manor stairs, dressed like ninjas, peering through the banisters to monitor the passers-by while I loiter as bait—and he just thinks we’re being typically end-of-term weird. The Mothership can wonder why Fili and Ludo actually turn up to cross-country running for the first time all year—and dismiss their determination to run with the boys with the obvious explanation. And if Mysterious E happens to notice I’m being even more dorky than usual—well, he might just have to get used to that.

  Trying to fit it all in around the last week of musical rehearsals doesn’t get us very far with figuring out who my E could be. It’s quite a relief to know I’m not the only rubbish detective around here. But I’m starting to get as nervous as they are, gearing up for the big performance. Giddy with anticipation, mildly terrified, sleepless at night, trying to picture how it’ll go—whether I’ll mess up my lines, fall over, faint the moment the spotlight hits me.

  But I don’t need to imagine it. I just have to wait.

  to: arealboy@letterbox.com

  from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk

  Dearest E,

  Will you really be at the musical? I mean, how will I know you’re you?

  H

  to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk

  from: arealboy@letterbox.com

  Dearest Heidi,

  A less determined soul might find your continuing bafflement discouraging. Am I really so invisible?

  As to the night itself, worry not. I imagine you’ll find me easy enough to notice.

  Until the day, my enduring

  love & affection,

  E

  And then it’s here. The Big Day. The Season Finale. The Grand Unveiling.

  It’s not all happiness. It’s the end of term: Tomorrow it’ll be time for awkward farewells in front of parents you’d forgotten these people had, before all the shiny cars roll down the hill. The end of the Little Leaf, too. Saying good-bye to Betsy is going to be like saying good-bye to cake itself. Promising to write and send pictures to cake, being reassured that cake will call every now and then to say hi, knowing that this will only remind you of how you don’t have cake anymore and can never have cake again, when it’s cake, you know? Wondrous cake. (I’m not telling Betsy the cake metaphor. It’s possibly misinterpretable.) And who’s going to put cookie dough in my hair, and show me ridiculous ‘80s movies, and not mind a dork like me staring goofily at those beautiful twinkly eyes, and ruffly curls, and that slow lazy smile…

  Maybe it’s a good thing he’s leaving. I’ve had enough imaginary romance just lately.

  I’m barred from helping out with the last-minute setting up in the auditorium, thanks to the costuming embarrassment, so I try to distract myself by heading into town, for one last look at the crazy walls, one last chance to smell the waft of tea and baking. I need to ask Teddy for one last favor, too, for Ludo’s extra-special Christmas present, if that isn’t pushing my luck. Maybe I can even get a little bit of the inevitable tearful hugging out of the way, before I see them again tonight, up at the Finch. But the door’s locked. The walls have already been painted over with grungy white. Even the furniture’s gone.

  I hope Mysterious E won’t mind having a bit of a snotty girlfriend: I’m sniffly already.

  He’ll hold my hand, though. Lend me a tissue. Sigh fondly at me, the way boyfriends do.

  I head home, and waste the afternoon experimenting with the Mothership’s waterproof mascara, until she’s outside, honking the horn, and suddenly it’s all beginning, for real.

  The pillared Manor entrance is lit up with new spotlights, casting huge, distorted shadows across the stone as people pass the sparkling Christmas tree and head up the steps. We follow them through the corridor and down toward the lake, following the crowd and the slightly alarming smell of burning. Venables’s idea to light the way to the auditorium with tiny lanterns o
n boats floating across the lake seems to have been given to Jules Harper, resident pyro. Dad Man gives us a quick wave as he sprints past, fire extinguisher in hand.

  The Mothership hurries over to mumble reassuring things to the gathered parental types in posh frocks, shooing them into the foyer. I follow their lead, as if I’m just part of the audience.

  The whole place looks adorable. I peep through the auditorium doors to see the silver panels marking off the wings on either side (lined with familiar giant martini glasses) and the glittery ORSINO’S! sign suspended before the plush velvet curtains. A mirror ball revolves above the stage, sending faint hoops of light across the tiered seats, already filling up. But the foyer is decked out in a sparkly new party outfit, too. The walls are draped with balloons and crepe paper streamers. A machine pumps bubbles at the arriving audience, in strange irregular spurts, totally out of time with Huey Lewis thumping out of the crackly speaker system. It looks like a five-year-old’s birthday party, only big.

  Music Room 1 is the real transformation, though. There’s already a crowd of people gathered beneath a glittery sign reading THE VERY LITTLE LEAF, hung over the open doors. As they step aside, they reveal exactly that: the Little Leaf in miniature, like a doll’s house version for real people, tucked in beside the usual shelves of glockenspiels and tom-toms. There’s the same funny mix of mismatched cups and mugs, tables and chairs. Even the Sofa of Sex has been dragged up the hill for the occasion and plonked in the foyer. I can just see Betsy, pouring out tea, a pair of sparkly stars bouncing off springs on her hairband.

  There’s a chalkboard behind her, listing the menu: Rubik’s Battenburg (for real!), Pop Rock Cakes, Electric Dreams, and all the rest. I’m just being impressed by the highbrow Daily Wisdom—BECAUSE THOU ART VIRTUOUS, THERE SHALL BE NO MORE CAKES (TWELFTH NIGHT, II.iii) APART FROM THESE ONES!—when I get tackled by a French maid and a fifty-foot rollerboy.

  “HEIDI!”

  I’m on the foyer carpet, with fishnets and skates and hairspray all over me. Ludo and Dai, who are apparently pleased to see me, to the point of flattening.

  “Nice to see you, too?” I say, crawling back to my feet by tugging on Dai’s kneepad.

  He does an awkward little spin around me on his roller skates, then grabs me again, either in a hug or just to stop himself from rolling into Oliver Bass’s mother.

  No, it’s a hug. Ludo joins in.

  “Oh my God, Heidi, we worked it out!”

  I detach myself from her arms, and try to guide us out of the path of incoming parents.

  “You did?”

  She nods wildly, though her backcombed mop of hair stays scarily still.

  “We know who he is!” says Dai.

  “We’re, like, SO stupid!”

  “Ridiculous, really. It’s been staring us in the face.”

  “I mean, duh? E?”

  I can’t even get words out: I just stand there, waiting for them to spill.

  “E, Ryder? E for Etienne Gracey?”

  They both dance me around, making squeaky noises.

  “Etienne Gracey! Isn’t it, like, COMPLETELY amazing?”

  I nod my head, feeling numb all over.

  E.

  E for Etienne.

  Etienne, who broke up with Scheherezade at the Flick Henshall party.

  Etienne, who’s going to be wearing a gray leotard with neon pink squiggly bits on it.

  I imagine you’ll find me easy enough to notice.

  It’s true. It really is him. Etienne Gracey, Upper School rock god: so cool he even has a band named after him. He really is him.

  “Oh my God, Heidi! Like, SMILE?”

  “Yeah, Ryder, seriously. It’s Etienne Gracey, baby! How awesome is that?”

  The crackling of Huey Lewis comes to a sudden stop, and Venables’s voice mutters something incomprehensible through the static.

  “Oh my God, we’re totally supposed to be backstage!”

  “Gotta fly. Don’t tell me to break a leg or I’ll have to kill you!” He skids off into the wall till Ludo grabs him and starts to wheel him toward Music Room 3 and the backstage steps, both cackling gleefully as they wave and wish me luck.

  Etienne Gracey.

  I still feel numb. That’s probably normal, though. That’s probably very romantic. I mean, I’m just surprised. It’s just…not what I expected. I’m not disappointed, or anything like that. He’s Etienne Gracey, after all. I mean, I’ve always thought he was a bit self-obsessed and kind of jerky, but E’s not like that. And he plays guitar. Ed played guitar. I must like that kind of thing. Maybe that’s where I got the idea. That’s where this whole thing started, after all: me, sitting on the sofa at the McCartney Party, thinking Etienne liked me. It’s come full circle. It all fits together, perfectly, like on the TV.

  It just doesn’t quite feel like I thought it would, that’s all.

  I follow the last few people into the auditorium, hesitating in the doorway. The lights go dim, as the last few stragglers take their seats. I can just make out the Mothership waving at me, where she’s saved me a place down near the front.

  But then the stage lights go up, and there’s Henry in pink leggings and a massive pink afro wig, yelling “If music be the food of love, then we’re going to need some decibels, baby!” The stage is flooded with flashing lights and smoke. Finches appear: Fili the painted clown on a swing, Dai swirling around on his roller skates, trying not to crush Ludo, as the speakers crackle out “Walk Like an Egyptian.” The cloth backdrop falls to reveal Etienne and the Illyrians, in their skintight neon-painted Tron bodysuits, miming with huge inflatable instruments.

  I don’t really want to be here, suddenly. I’ve been looking forward to this so much, and now I’m here, watching a musical about crazy space disco love, knowing someone who more-than-likes me is up on that stage, and it doesn’t feel anything like I’d imagined.

  I’ve messed up again.

  I’ve got what I wanted, and now I don’t want it at all.

  Yuliya’s onstage, towering over Henry in her own fluffy wig, and stumbling her way through her lines slightly inaudibly. Scheherezade and Jambo arrive in a cloud of dry ice, military brass buttons shining, ribbons fluttering in the artificial breeze, to the strains of “Planet Earth.” Scheh reappears as a boy, white stripe across her nose, to be flirted with by Henry (all watched by an increasingly intrigued Malcolm Malvolio, aka Dai, to the in-jokey glee of the audience). Fili continues to swing on her trapeze above them all, offering melancholy little snippets of David Bowie between scenes. Etienne and the Illyrians continue to rock out, as far as is possible when your guitars are inflatable and you’re surrounded by people dressed as ice-cream cones and cocktail glasses, spinning around to “Club Tropicana.”

  It’s no good. I can’t pretend to suddenly like Etienne Gracey, even if he is Mysterious E. I’ll have to turn him down, just like Ludo thought I did before, because from now on I’m going to stick to gingerbread boys.

  I fumble my way in the dark to the door handle, not daring to watch anymore. I’m going to go and hide away in the Little Leaf for the last time. Drink tea. Eat cake. Maybe a gingerbread man (of the nondusty variety), if they have any.

  The auditorium door closes behind me with a whump, blocking out some of the noise, though the speakers still play a static, toned-down version, and there’s a small TV screen showing the view from the very edge of the stage, courtesy of Venables’s camera. It’s cooler out here, at least. I creep over to the makeshift counter beneath the glittery sign, and find not Betsy but Teddy, propped on his elbows. He gives me one of his lazy smiles, then goes back to watching the show on the TV, chuckling at Ludo and Dai falling about.

  “Your costumes look awesome,” I say, over the music.

  Teddy shakes his head. “Team effort, please. They were your ideas, remember?”

  I shrug back. I’ve made sure his name’s in the program, but I still feel guilty. It’s kind of cheeky of me to ask him for anything more—but this one
’s not for me. I might be incapable of sorting out my own love life, but at least I can add a quick fizz to someone else’s.

  “Can I ask a little favor? It’s kind of mental. And I did sort of ask you before, and you said no, and you can totally say no again, if you think it’s a horrible idea, only it would totally make her night, and I kind of feel like I owe her that, so…”

  Teddy looks amused at me stumbling over my words, and twirls his finger, to speed me up.

  “I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind kissing Ludo.” It sounds very mental, now I’ve said it: Now his eyebrows have shot up into his hair. “I mean, only the once. And not a huge full-on snogathon. Unless you wanted to.”

  “Heidi,” says Teddy, gently, almost apologetic. “I don’t want to kiss Ludo.”

  “Right. Sorry. You could just give her a hug, even? No, forget I said that. Forget I said anything? Just erase all memory of this conversation?”

  The easy smile spreads across his face again. I shuffle my feet: Guess I deserve being laughed at. Should be used it from Teddy anyway. I wait for him to make some snarky comment about how I’m very easily forgettable, or whatever, but he’s looking up. Not at the TV, or at the ceiling: looking up and tipping his head back a little, as if he wants me to look up above his head.

  The Shakespearean Daily Wisdom has been wiped away. In its place, in Teddy’s familiar twirly handwriting, it says:

  MUST I SPELL IT OUT?! YOU HAVE MY LOVE & AFFECTION, TEDDY.

  OH.

  MY.

  GOD.

  My hand flies to my mouth. I think some kind of squeaky noise gets out anyway.

  “It’s really that much of a surprise?” he says, his face falling.

  I squeak again.

  Yes?

  “Yes, it is, it is, but…yes!”