Forever Geek

by Holly Smale

  “Umm,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “If you could keep it between us, that would be great.”

  It’s not that I’m not going to tell Jasper.

  I’m just not going to tell him right now. Some topics are delicate and need a little longer to explain: like the fact that I’m currently on the other side of the world, tracking down my ex-boyfriend.

  “All memory of this conversation has been wiped from our brains,” Toby says loyally. “It never happened, Harriet Manners.”

  And a sudden fond lump jumps into my throat.

  The polar bear is the strongest mammal on the planet.

  They’re loyal and tenacious and brave.

  In fact, the Inuits believe that polar bears are so magical and wise that the very word Arctic comes from the Greek Arktikos which literally means “the constellation of the bear”.

  Polar bears are so amazing, they named a continent after them.

  And I feel incredibly lucky that this one tracked me down and never let go.

  “Thank you, Toby Pilgrim,” I say gratefully. “You’re a true genius.”

  “I know, Harriet,” Tobes says, blowing his nose again loudly. “I went and did the test.”

  Feeling much calmer now, I put the Brick down.

  Then I get a carefully folded-up piece of paper out of my bag. I found it this morning, attached to an email from last year. In the foreground, Nick is grinning: hair a mess of curls, nose crumpled, hand held up against the sun.

  And in the background is a little brown house.

  Whenever I’m sad or lost, the first place I go is to my local launderette. But after that, I go home: to Annabel, to Dad, to Tabby, to my dog and my bedroom. Something tells me Nick might do that too.

  Here goes Stalker Plan Number One.

  here are 2,481 houses in Byron Bay.

  That means – without an address, and with the limited time I have left – I would have to visit over a hundred houses an hour, or 1.7 a minute, for the chance of finding the one Nick grew up in.

  Conformance to a linear sense of time tells me this would be almost impossible.

  Luckily, one short remembered conversation has increased my chances significantly.

  “You live on Ivanhoe Street?” I’d laughed when he told me last summer, my feet propped on his lap. “But your house is in Byron Bay: did they have to pick a Sir Walter Scott poem?”

  “Yeah,” Nick grinned, tugging on the toe of my sock. “Sadly ‘She Walks In Beauty Like the Night Street’ was already taken.”

  I chuckled. “Still has a better ring than ‘Prometheus Avenue’.”

  “Or ‘Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage Place’.”

  And – as I walk quickly down the road with the photo clutched in my hand – I can still hear us laughing.

  Finally, after examining eleven houses on Ivanhoe Street, I see it.

  And I feel like I’d have recognised it as his immediately, even if I didn’t have a picture held out in front of me.

  It’s two storeys, and small by Australian standards.

  There’s a pointed roof and a cute balcony with sun-faded towels hung over it; under which are sunloungers, a dining table and a hammock. The house is brown and slatted; the windows are large and open.

  It sits in the middle of a lush green garden full of ferns and palm trees, surrounded by trees so thin and tall and stretched-out it looks like a giant has tried to pull them from their roots.

  There are three beaten-up surfboards covered in old, scratched-up stickers that say PRAY FOR WAVES and Good Vibes Only and SHUT UP AND SURF leaning against a wall, and a blue barbecue pulled out next to them with a burnt sausage lying on the grill.

  A brown dog sits on the lawn, panting.

  Scattered at random – here and there, like confetti – are unmistakable hints of Nick.

  In the piano I can see through the living-room window; in the pile of laundry, just visible in the hallway; in the winding stairs to the porch that he sometimes used to jump down while we were on epic four-hour phone calls together.

  To the left is the big, hollowed-out tree he fell from when he was eleven, breaking his arm and leaving behind two metal pins that always make the security gates at airports beep. To the right are the little holes he made in the wall to climb on to the roof.

  Starting to flush, I hold the photo up and I can almost see him standing there again: squinting in the sun.

  Because somewhere in that house right now is possibly …

  I take my deepest breath.

  You can do this, Harriet.

  Bending down, I give the brown dog a quick pat. He must be a new addition to the family.

  Then I touch my necklace again, approach the front door and ring the bell. It chimes around the house – bouncing off the walls – and through the mosquito net I can hear voices: yelling.

  “Get that?”

  “I’m busy!”

  “You get it.”

  “Oh my God, am I the doorman or what?”

  “Fine.”

  I wait with my breath held as I listen to the sound of steps coming through from the back of the house, getting closer and closer.

  Finally, the shadowy shape of a woman emerges.

  Slight and small, with long, straight black hair tied in a ponytail that has a hint of grey at the temples. Her face is round and her eyes almond: her skin is very pale.

  And I have to blink a few times: that’s how familiar she is.

  It’s as if somebody has copied and pasted Yuka Ito into a different document and then edited her, like a human game of Spot the Difference. There are smile lines round her mouth and eyes where Yuka has none; and this face is warm and open, whereas Yuka’s never is.

  Plus this woman is wearing a long, loose pale blue dress with a denim pocket on the front, and I think Yuka Ito would scoop her own eyes out with spoons before she let that happen.

  The brain of a spider is so large it actually spills out into its legs, and that’s what mine suddenly feels like it’s doing: emptying into my feet and toes and leaving my head completely.

  Keep it together, Harriet.

  And try not to breathe so hard: you look like you ran here.

  Brow creasing, Nick’s mum pulls open the screen door and holds a hand up against the sunshine, exactly the way Nick does in the photograph I’m holding. There are infinite possible sentences in the English language: uncountable ways to make your thoughts known.

  Suddenly I don’t have any of them at my disposal.

  “H-hello,” I finally manage as she looks me up and down curiously. “I’m—”

  “Harriet Manners,” she finishes for me. “I know.”

  e’re always only twenty-five per cent aware.

  Even when we’re wide awake we only know what a quarter of our bodily functions are doing. Our heartbeat, lungs, eyes, fingers, lips: they all keep going without our intervention.

  But as Keiko Hidaka – Nick’s mum and Yuka’s little sister – stares at me quietly and patiently, I swear I can feel every tremor, every movement, every muscle in my being.

  And it’s taking every bit of focus I have to keep it all functioning as normal: otherwise it feels like it might just shut down.

  She knows me? How does Nick’s mum know me?

  Also I have to say it: she doesn’t look like the kind of mum who would yell at her son for not picking up socks. She doesn’t look like the kind of mum who would yell about anything, actually.

  But maybe not many mums do.

  “Hello.” Keiko smiles gently as I open and shut my mouth repeatedly. “What can I do for you, Harriet?”

  Her English has a faint echo of the same delicate intonation and lilt that Rin’s has: the carefulness of a second language.

  “I …” I clear my throat.

  You’re here for Nick, Harriet. Focus on being here for Nick.

  “I was just in the, uh, area.” Awkwardly, I gesture around the porch, as if I’ve found myself at this precise spot by total accident a
nd I’m as surprised by it as she is. “And I thought I would … see if Nick was … about.”

  About.

  Like a seven-year-old with a bike, looking for a playmate. Not a sixteen-year-old ex-girlfriend from the other side of the world who had to take two aeroplanes and sleep on a bus overnight to get here.

  “Ah,” she says with a curt nod.

  “Who is it?” a loud Australian voice yells from the back. “Jeez, Keiko, you’re going to let all the flies—”

  A tall, thin, tanned man with very curly, greying hair lopes towards the door and stops. He looks exactly like Nick will in thirty years, and my brain now feels like it’s spilling out of my shoes on to the floor.

  “Is that …?” Nick’s dad says, squinting at me.

  “Yes,” Keiko agrees. “I believe it is.”

  “Is she …?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do we …”

  “I don’t know just yet.”

  It would take thirty-eight minutes to fall through to the centre of the Earth and emerge on the other side, if it was physically possible without burning to ash within seconds of breaking through the Earth’s mantle.

  I’m so embarrassed I might just go ahead and give it a try anyway.

  I’d be combusting but at least I’d be on my way home.

  “Who is it?” another voice yells as my ears start to flame. “What is everyone— Wwwhooaa.”

  A small face has appeared from round the corner.

  It has familiar dark skin and slanted eyes, but the hair is a buzz-cut, he’s short and there’s a speckling of acne on his cheeks.

  “Is that who I think it is?” says Nick’s little brother Josh.

  “Umm,” I say, shifting on to my other foot. They’re all staring at me with round eyes as if I’m a woodlouse and I’ve just started juggling. Nick’s not here, or they’re not going to go and get him for me. Either way this is definitely the most awkward situation I’ve ever put myself in.

  And – given how well you know me now – that’s really saying something.

  Be brave, Harriet.

  “I was wondering if you could … perhaps … tell me where I might be able to find him? I’m only in town for the day and it would be really nice to … uh.”

  Make a declaration of support and kindness.

  See his face again.

  OK, where did that thought come from?

  “Say hello,” I finish weakly.

  Nick’s mum and dad glance at each other, then at the dog still sitting on the grass.

  “Oh my God,” his dad sighs. “When is that thing going to get off our lawn? Why won’t it go home where it belongs?”

  I flinch, trying not to read the obvious in that statement.

  “I’m afraid we don’t know where Nick is today,” Keiko says, flashing her husband a stern stare that suddenly makes her look exactly like her sister. “But I’m sure he’ll be sorry to have missed you.”

  There’s something in her voice that suggests that might well not be true, and all at once it feels like I’ve been popped with a pin.

  “Sure,” I say as gamely as I can. “I’m sure I’ll be in the … area again.” You know: the next time I happen to pass through Eastern Australia on my travels to exactly nowhere. “It was … nice meeting you.”

  “It was lovely meeting you too, Harriet,” Keiko smiles kindly. “Finally.”

  With a gentle yet firm hand, she closes the screen door.

  But just as I’m walking away I hear Nick’s dad whisper: “Do we tell him she came?”

  “No,” Keiko whispers back. “I don’t think we should.”

  ight, that scene didn’t go exactly as planned.

  I mean, it went as it was likely to go – all things considered – but that’s not the same thing, is it? On the upside, at least it gives me extra time to work on my opening speech.

  Also, over 800,000 Britons are profoundly deaf.

  If I try hard enough, I can probably completely block out what I just heard.

  Pulling my shoulders up, I straighten my back and walk with feigned purpose down the driveway, trying not to notice the curtains twitching curiously behind me.

  Then I re-evaluate my next step.

  Reaching up, I fiddle anxiously with the chain of planets round my neck. About 264 BC in ancient Rome, gladiators known as bestiarii were made to fight bears, leopards, tigers, lions, bulls or any other predator that could give the audience the dramatic spectacle they were looking for.

  The gladiator was usually ripped to shreds.

  Breathing deeply, I get my map out and start walking towards the centre of Byron Bay. Because I know what’s next on my Stalker List, and frankly I’d rather take on a hundred terrifying animals simultaneously.

  Let’s hope I get out of this particular arena alive.

  Here are some things I would ideally like to never do:

  As I push through the door into the buzzy, packed, noisy Oh-ganic Cafe, I decide this is now at number five.

  I’ve never seen anywhere so cool.

  Literally everyone in here is tanned and beautiful. Everyone is nonchalant and relaxed and glowing with rude health; clad in bandana tops and leggings, board shorts and tees, crochet and tie-dye halternecks. They have dreadlocks with rainbow threads woven through them or tumbling glossy curls; piercings through eyebrows, tattoos of snakes and dragons; bodies conditioned by hours of complicated yoga moves and an outdoor lifestyle.

  They’re lounging on big cushions and bean bags strewn at random all over the cafe floor; leaning on low tables, chatting easily, eating bowlfuls of salads and cheesecakes that – according to the menu above the counter – have no cheese in them.

  It’s hip. Snazzy. Groovy. Nifty.

  Happening and now.

  And all the other words that Nat has told me never, ever to use in public again because they’re just not cool. Ironically.

  I’ve never felt more out of place in my life.

  Although at least I’m not wearing a pinstripe suit this time, because I don’t think they’d even let me through the door.

  Clearing my throat, I straighten out my orange crossword T-shirt and look around the cafe more carefully. In the past, on the rare occasions Nick was in Australia, he’d ring me from this cafe and – over two or three phone calls – I met his best friends.

  Jake: a blond, dreadlocked boy with a spike through his bottom lip and sleepy eyes. Tod: tall and black-skinned, with a quiet smile and a big afro of curls that “could beat Nick’s any day, mate”. Noah and Liam: identical twins who were surprisingly different-looking.

  All of whom were lovely and welcoming whenever we spoke – even if they did mock Nick mercilessly for having a posh English girlfriend – but were also thoroughly intimidating in their collective confidence.

  Even when Nick was there, gently guiding me through it.

  Except this time … he’s not going to be.

  And I can tell within three and a half seconds of entering the room that he’s not here, because whatever it is that sets off the Nick alarm in my head is totally silent.

  Swallowing, I look around again.

  Then I see them: sitting in the corner, laughing, drinking milkshakes, bent over Tod’s mobile phone, looking at something super trendy and beyond my understanding.

  “Hahahaha,” Jake’s snorting as I cautiously approach from behind him. “Look at that panda’s face when the baby sneezes.”

  “Play it again,” Noah chuckles. “Wait, put the sound up higher.”

  “It’s up as high as it’ll go. Hahahaha – there it goes again.”

  “Find that one with the foxes,” Jake chips in. “It’s hilarious.”

  “Wait, do foxes sneeze? Bro, that’s ridiculous.”

  Surprised, I blink at the backs of their bent-over heads.

  Are they seriously watching animal videos on YouTube? Team JRNTH does that. Huh. Maybe Nick and his friends aren’t quite as unlike us as I initially thought.

  With a
deep breath, I clear my throat.

  “Foxes can sneeze,” I say bravely. “Also, they’re the only members of the dog family who retract their claws like cats.”

  Jake blinks and pauses the video.

  Then slowly, one by one, they all turn round to face me.

  There’s a silence.

  “Foxes also have whiskers on both their faces and legs to help them navigate,” I add nervously after ten seconds or so.

  Another silence.

  “And a group of foxes is called a skulk or a leash,” I blurt desperately.

  “No way,” Tod says finally, eyebrows lifting. “No way.”

  “Way,” Liam grins. “So way.”

  I guess they recognise me too.

  “Hi,” I say, raising my hand as confidently as I possibly can. “I’m Harriet Manners.”

  here have been many awkward moments in my life.

  The time my skirt fell down in the middle of my Year Three school dance recital and I stood there in my vest and knickers for thirty minutes, waving a wand: pretty humiliating.

  When I leant against a grandfather clock in John Lewis and brought the entire set of them crashing down like dominos: that was kind of tense too.

  Every netball match I’ve ever been a part of.

  But all of them now pale into insignificance.

  Because – standing in front of a group of boys, in a cafe on the other side of the world from home – I suddenly feel … crazy.

  Demented. Insane. Mentally unsound.

  Like the clichéd bonkers ex-girlfriend: the one every girl is warned to never, ever be, at any cost, ever.

  And with a flash, I wonder if I should have listened to Nat: she does generally tend to have a firmer grasp on social dynamics than I do. Because I might not be a stalker, but I certainly look very much like one at this moment.

  “Hahahaha,” Jake snorts, throwing back his head and laughing loudly. “What are you doing here, Harriet Manners? You’re in Australia? Unreal.”

  My cheeks are getting redder and redder.

  Until they’ve gone past red and started entering the puce and violet section of the colour spectrum.

  “I was just … uh … passing,” I start, then stop. That’s not going to cut it this time – I don’t think it did last time either. “I came here to see Nick,” I admit. “I don’t suppose you know where he is, do you?”