‘That would be a great shame, Vix. Not to mention that the shock would probably kill your fundamentally atheist grandma. I’m serious; I don’t know about your mum but, as far as I’m concerned, if you and Xavier want to – how shall I put it – go out together, I won’t stand in your way.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, unable to look him in the eye. I think I’ll still be cringing at lunchtime. ‘But it’s not like that. I haven’t even thought about Xavier in that way. Nothing’s going to happen.’
Dad smiles. ‘Sure you haven’t. And the Pope’s a Jehovah’s Witness.’
’m still smiling about my conversation with Dad as I walk into my classroom. He’s all right, my dad, even if he does sometimes say things that make me squirm. It’s good to know that he likes Xavier and that he wouldn’t mind if something happened between us. Not that it’s going to . . . I can still feel the imprint of Xavier’s kisses on my cheeks. I wonder what he said about me to his friends. I wonder what they said to him. Nothing, probably. Do I look OK today? Stupid question – I’m wearing my school ‘uniform’ of skinny jeans and a grey sweatshirt (we don’t have an actual school uniform), with my hair tied in a ponytail and no make-up. It’s what I always wear but, somehow, today, it feels very plain and boring. Maybe I’m finally growing out of the tomboy stage. Rosie and Sky are always saying I should make more of myself. Still, Xavier said he likes my ‘hairs’ . . .
I can’t sit next to Rosie because everyone who has a French exchange student has to ‘look after’ them in joint lessons, so Manon has my usual place. Instead, I end up at a desk at the front of the classroom, next to Katy Owen, whose French exchange went down with glandular fever last week and had to cancel her entire stay. Poor Katy. She looks really miserable. Mind you, so do some of the other girls in my class, who clearly aren’t getting on with their French exchanges. Imagine having to look after someone you can’t stand, day and night, for four whole weeks. I am so lucky.
As we file out for breaktime, Lucy Reed stops me. She’s wearing a big, fake grin. I know what’s coming.
‘Hey, Vix,’ she purrs. ‘So how’s your French boy, then?’
I don’t know what to say. Part of me likes the attention but, at the same time, I don’t like it. What I like is being interesting for once in my life, and not just part of the classroom furniture. I’m the sort of girl who everybody gets on with – friendly, clever enough but not too clever, or too good at sport. I’ve never been bullied, or left out, or picked last, or anything like that. But nobody – apart from my friends – has ever been all that bothered about me, certainly not the loud, supposedly cool girls, like Lucy. I suppose I’ve never done anything to merit being interesting. On the other hand, her prurience makes me uncomfortable. The way I feel about Xavier is personal, something I’m still trying to work out in my head. If I’m honest, I’m not totally clear how I feel about him. I’m certainly not sure how he feels about me. And Lucy is the last person I want to discuss this with.
‘He’s nice,’ I say, making it sound like I have no opinion one way or the other.
Lucy snorts. ‘I got a good look at him at the station the other day. “Nice” isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe him. More like super fit. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed!’
‘It’s none of your business,’ I tell her. It’s the stupidest thing I could say. It shows her she’s getting to me and makes it look as if I have something to hide.
‘Ooh la la! Touchy. So you have noticed!’
I sigh. ‘Yes, he’s fit. He’s also a really great person. We had a fun weekend together. What else do you want me to say?’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says, putting her hand on my shoulder, as if we’re mates. ‘I wasn’t having a go. I’m just interested, that’s all.’ She smiles. I think she must be angling for an introduction. I’m not going to offer one.
‘No problem, Lucy.
So how’s your French exchange?’ She looks over her shoulder. Her exchange student, a small, mousy-looking girl, is standing in the corridor, waiting patiently for her.
‘She’s OK, a bit dull. I barely understand a single word she says.’
I shrug. ‘Bummer. Listen, it’s lovely chatting and all, but I really need to catch Rosie before breaktime ends.’ She won’t give up. ‘Sure . . . So I guess the party is at yours, then? And maybe you can get your guy to bring some of the other French boys. If you don’t want to share him . . .’
I laugh. ‘I don’t think so, Lucy.’ I really don’t. I’ve never had a party at home and I’m not planning on starting now. Imagine Mum’s face if half my year (and half of Facebook) turned up at my house, where everything has to be tidy and in its place, so she doesn’t trip. Sick mums and house parties don’t go together too well. Especially as I’d be the one clearing it all up afterwards.
‘Well, if you change your mind, or feel like a night out sometime, let me know. We can all hang out. I can bring supplies.’
By supplies, she means alcohol. She’s actually trying to bribe me with alcohol! I can’t be bothered to tell her that it wouldn’t impress Xavier. He’s already told me that he’s been having a small glass of wine at dinner with his family ever since he was eleven. He can’t see the point of drinking to get drunk, like some English teenagers do. Alcohol’s not a big deal to him.
‘OK, I’ll let you know.’
‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Do.’
Rosie is waiting for me outside. Alone, thankfully. She says Manon has gone to the loo, so we’ll only have a couple of minutes to chat.
I give my best friend a hug. ‘I miss not sitting next to you in class.’
‘Yeah, me too. But it’s only for a few weeks, and Manon’s cool. It’s not like we don’t see each other all the time.’
‘Yes, true. Listen, while she isn’t here, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘It’s Xavier.’ I’ve been dying to tell her how my feelings have been developing, how I think I’m genuinely falling for him in a big way and how I suspect, just a tiny bit, even if I don’t dare to admit it, that he might like me in return. What with Xavier staying at my house, and Manon at hers, we haven’t had much time for our usual late-night messaging chats. I need to ask her advice on my next move. She’s much more experienced in these things than me. ‘I know we’ve all been joking about how gorgeous he is, and you and Sky have been teasing me, but I think I really like him. I mean LIKE him. In a “something could happen” way.’
Her reaction takes me by surprise. She stiffens. ‘I’d keep your distance, Vix. Keep him as a friend. You don’t want to get hurt, do you?’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘I mean, he’s only here for a month and if you fall for him you’ll get your heart broken. It’s not worth it.’
‘You’ve changed your tune. You told me to go for it. You were egging me on.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about it and I just don’t think it’s a good idea to start up something with someone you probably won’t ever see again.’
This isn’t like Rosie at all. Usually, she’s so encouraging, especially when she thinks I might be interested in someone. She’s been telling me for years how much she’d like me to have a boyfriend. Just last week she was saying how great it would be if we could go out on double dates.
‘Oh . . . I . . . I thought you’d be happy for me.’
‘I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I just stood by and watched you get hurt, would I?’
‘No, I guess, but . . .’ Manon is coming back. This isn’t something I want to talk about in front of her. ‘Anyway.’
Rosie squeezes my shoulder. ‘We’ll talk about it more another time, OK?’
‘OK.’
I’ve gota very strong feeling that there must be more to this, something that she isn’t telling me. But what?
It gnaws at me all afternoon but I have no opportunity to talk to her alone again. At lunch, we’re joined by Manon and some of
her French friends. Manon is as frosty with me as ever. She does say hello and she gives me two grudging air kisses, but she barely speaks to me after that. I understand that she’d rather catch up with her friends from home, in her own language, but still. It’s ignorant.
I think I’m going to stop making an effort soon. I’ve tried complimenting her on her clothes, asked her what she likes doing at the weekends in Nice and attempted to find out about her family. All my questions are met with monosyllabic answers and a dismissive, patronising smile. Now, I’m running out of ways to begin a conversation with her. It’s too much like hard work. I suppose I’m just going to have to accept that, for whatever reason, she doesn’t like me. Well, guess what, Mademoiselle Up Yourself, the feeling is mutual. If only Rosie didn’t seem to like her so much. They keep giggling together, like old friends, and I’ve noticed that Manon is wearing one of Rosie’s favourite bracelets today. One that she was even loathe to lend Sky, when she asked, a few weeks ago.
I go straight home from school, even though Xavier won’t be there. He’s spending the evening with some of the other French boys and one of the parents is going to drop him back later. Dad won’t be there either – he’s got a work dinner – so I’m cooking spaghetti bolognese for Mum. I wish I hadn’t promised her that now. I’ve got tons of coursework to do (which I didn’t get around to at the weekend) and I don’t feel very hungry. There’s too much on my mind. I’ll give myself a tiny portion and hope Mum doesn’t notice.
She doesn’t. Or if she does, she doesn’t mention it. After dinner, I wash up as quickly as I can, then excuse myself and come up to my bedroom. I try to work, I really do, but after half an hour sitting staring at my textbooks, getting nowhere, I give up and go on to Facebook instead.
I need to talk to a good friend about everything. Ideally, I would chat to Sky, but she’s staying with her half-sister Katie tonight and I don’t want to interrupt their time together. They haven’t known each other for long, but Sky’s been so much happier and so much more confident since they met. She’s stopped worrying about her stupid nose and she’s got no time for the immature, rubbish boys, like Rich, who make her feel bad about herself. She’s even got a new hobby, DJing, and she’s getting pretty good at it.
Sometimes, I like to imagine that I’ve got a long-lost sister out there somewhere too. I know there’s no way in a million years that my super straight dad has fathered a daughter he doesn’t know about, but humour me. My sister wouldn’t be Camden cool like Katie. No. My sister – let’s call her Rachel (no reason, I just like the name) – would live on a farm in the countryside, far, far away, with acres and acres of private land, where I could learn to drive her car. She’d have quad bikes too and there’d be a lake where I could swim. And ponies. And dogs – great big, fluffy English sheepdogs. My friends could come to stay at weekends and we’d have picnics and camp out in the fields. Best of all, my sister would be terribly wise, with a long history of relationships. We’d sit by her enormous, roaring fire, with mugs of hot chocolate and toasted marshmallows (and perhaps, croissants), and I’d tell her all about Xavier and Rosie and Manon. She’d be able to tell me exactly what to do.
Unfortunately, my imaginary sister doesn’t exist, which makes her worse than useless when it comes to giving advice. So, I do something I’ve never done before: I message Max to ask his opinion on my personal life. Sometimes, I think, it’s good to get advice from a friend who’s not too close, for a more objective viewpoint. And, sometimes, it’s useful to hear what a boy has to say. Especially if you’re asking for advice about a boy. Max and I have been good friends since the summer, when he came to stay at his brother’s house on my street. People say that if he hadn’t gone out with Rosie (which was a whole big mess, as she didn’t really fancy him), something might have happened between us. I don’t know if that’s true. Whatever might have been, he went back to boarding school and he has a new girlfriend. I’m happy being just mates and so is he.
We catch up a little, on what he’s been doing at his wacky school, where the pupils make the rules and you can choose whether or not to go to lessons (weirdly, most people do). He asks how Rosie and Sky are, and tells me his rock star brother Rufus will be home from tour in a few weeks, so I should pop round to see him. When he asks how I am, I skirt around the issue for a while because I’m not sure where to start. If we were talking on the phone or face to face, I’d probably chicken out. In the end, I just go for it:
Me: Can I ask you something? It’s personal.
Max: Sure . . . Go ahead.
Me: OK, I’ve met this guy. Well, he’s actually staying in my house. You know, the French exchange student I told you about. I kind of like him. And I think he might like me too, but I’m not sure.
Max: Yeah? Cool. So tell me more.
I tell Max all about Xavier and the time we’ve spent together since he arrived, the way he acts around me, and the things he’s said and done.
Max: Vix, I think he definitely likes you.
Me: Really?
Max: Yes. Don’t be so surprised. Why wouldn’t he? You’re cool and pretty and fun. A guy who wasn’t in to you wouldn’t want to spend so much time with you.
Me: But how can I be sure?
Max: Take it from me. I’m a guy, I know. So go for it!
Me: OK . . . thanks. There’s something else. Rosie is being dead weird about it. She told me not to do anything about my feelings because I’m going to get my heart broken.
Max: Maybe she’s jealous.
Me: No, I don’t think so. She’s got Laurie and she seems happy with him. I don’t think she fancies Xavier at all.
Max: Well, maybe she doesn’t want you to have a boyfriend. Maybe she likes you being single so you’re always there for her.
Me: No, it’s not that either. I’m sure.
Max: Just ignore her then. It’s your life. Like I said, I think you should go for it. Your heart might get broken, but maybe it won’t. But if you don’t do anything you’ll never know, will you? You’ve got to take risks sometimes if you want anything good to happen.
Me: I know you’re right. It’s not that I’m scared. But I don’t know where to start.
I don’t want to tell him I’ve never had a boyfriend, even though he’s probably guessed.
How do I let Xavier know that I like him and want something to happen? What do I do? What do I say?
Max: There aren’t any rules. Just be yourself, Vix. If he likes you back, and I’m sure he does, it will happen naturally.
I wrap up the conversation after that because I’m not sure what else to say, and Xavier will be back soon, and if I don’t do some homework I will get into serious trouble at school tomorrow. But I can’t stop thinking about what Max said. Be myself? That’s easy. But it doesn’t help at all. I’ve always been myself and nothing has ever happened ‘naturally’ before, not with anyone. Maybe ‘being myself’ is the problem. Maybe I’m destined to be single for ever.
hen I first started helping to look after Mum, I used to think of myself as a sort of Cinderella (without the Ugly Sisters or the rags). If I was doing a chore I really hated – cleaning the bathroom, say – I’d shut my eyes as tightly as I could and will a Fairy Godmother to appear. With a wave of her magic wand, she’d not only make all the cleaning products disappear, she’d also make Mum better – and not just until midnight. Then she’d whisk me off in a Formula One racing car (horses and carriages are far too clunky) to a fabulous theme park, where all my friends would be waiting. At the time, I was far too young to appreciate boys, so there was never a Prince Charming figure in my fantasy. But if there had been, I’m sure he’d have been a lot like Xavier. So maybe all those years of wishing did work after all . . .
‘Veecks?’ A sleepy-looking Xavier jolts me out of my daydreams. I was hoping to have finished cleaning the bathroom before he emerged from his bedroom. I don’t want him to know that when’s Dad’s away I get up a full half-hour before him every day, or that this morning I’v
e already helped Mum out of bed, got her dressed, taken her downstairs and made her coffee. He rubs his eyes. ‘Vot are you doing?’
It must be fairly obvious. I have a cloth in one hand and a can of Mr Muscle in the other. I resist the temptation to say something sarcastic like ‘I’m baking a cake’ because I’ve learned that sarcasm doesn’t translate very well, and that, by the time I’ve explained that I’m joking, it won’t seem remotely clever or funny any more. ‘I’m cleaning.’
‘Yes, but why? Why before school?’
‘Because the bath is dirty. And because Mum asked me to. I was supposed to do it last night but didn’t have time. It’s no big deal.’
‘Ah, OK. Your muzzer, she eez OK? She does not work, no?’
I guess he’s wondering why she can’t clean the bathroom herself.
‘No, she doesn’t work at the moment . . .’ I leave the statement hanging. Mum used to be a teacher. She was medically retired a few years ago. She’ll never be able to go back, but Xavier doesn’t need to know that.
‘She eez sick?’
It’s the question I’ve been dreading. I take a deep breath. I could still change my mind and tell him the truth. And maybe I would, if he didn’t look so concerned and sympathetic. The last thing I want from him is his pity.
‘She hurt her legs. Um, in an accident. It just means she can’t walk properly or do stuff around the house for a while.’ I smile. ‘I really don’t mind helping out.’
I’m not sure if he believes me – although I suppose there’s no reason why he shouldn’t – but, thankfully, he doesn’t ask for any more details. ‘She will get bettair soon,’ he says, in a comforting tone. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I tingle, all the way down to my fingertips.
‘Sure she will.’
‘So I ’elp you now?’
I look at him, incredulous. ‘Seriously?’
‘Why not? I can clean also.’
The Boy from France Page 6