At eleven, I turned off my computer, totally grossed out. I was going to need to find my own approach to help Nick.
At recess on Monday, Hugh Forward followed me back to my locker from Maths, badgering me about the budget for the school social. I noticed that the Walt Whitman paperback had been replaced by a new book of poems by Walter Dean Myers. I’d assumed that the Whitman was for an assignment, but maybe Hugh actually liked poetry?
‘James O’Keefe says his cousin’s band is really good,’ Hugh said.
I rolled my eyes. ‘Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘I’m not spending two hundred and fifty dollars to have a bunch of stoners drool and shake their hair around on stage. We should be spending the money on something important, like converting the gardens to sustainable native flora, or a new water tank … ’
I trailed off. Nick was standing in front of my locker, headphones on, looking aloof.
‘Then what do you suggest?’ asked Hugh. ‘There’s a kid in Year Nine who is apparently a really good DJ. He might do it for fifty dollars.’
I stared at Nick.
‘Penny?’ said Hugh. ‘Hello?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, still staring at Nick. ‘The DJ. Fine.’
Hugh sighed and stalked away.
‘Hey,’ I said to Nick.
He nodded and looked down at the floor, scuffing his Chuck Taylors against the linoleum.
‘Do you want to go outside?’ I asked.
Another nod.
We found a bench outside, away from the recess crowds.
Nick took a deep breath. ‘I-I’m sorry I yelled at you,’ he said. ‘I know— Sometimes I can get … a bit melodramatic.’
I thought about his overblown blog posts. ‘That’s okay.’
‘I’m just not used to talking to … people.’ It was as though every word he spoke was causing him pain, and he had to pull them out of his mouth like splinters.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I know it’s difficult for you. But it’s good you’re trying.’
He sighed, and then words started to tumble out, faster and faster. ‘Sometimes I can look at myself and see that I’m being ridiculous, that it’s all just willpower and I can change if I want to. If I want it hard enough. But other days everything’s dark, and I feel like I’ll never find my way out.’
He stopped, shocked that he’d said so much.
‘I get it,’ I said. ‘And I want to help you.’
Nick rocked back and forth a little and tilted his head up to the sky. ‘I don’t think you can,’ he said to the clouds. ‘It’s just all too much. Too hard.’
‘Just try,’ I said. ‘For a few days. See how it goes.’
He swallowed audibly, but didn’t say anything. It was better than an outright no.
I found Nick at lunchtime that day, and the next day. The Gazette and Debating could do without me for once. We had a break from swimming practice, after the carnival, and I wagged Orchestra and avoided Ms Darling in the corridors.
Nick was starting to seem less anxious around me. His breathing was normal and he no longer trembled and dripped with sweat whenever I sat next to him. I was sure if he could go to a social event such as a party and see that it wasn’t the big deal he thought it was, he’d relax. And maybe even pluck up the courage to talk to Amy Butler. Then he’d realise she was kind of boring, and I could move on my as-yet undefined plan to really fix his problem. But Nick remained adamant that he wouldn’t be able to talk to Amy, because he’d be too anxious.
‘Anxious about what?’ I asked, on Wednesday afternoon. ‘What do you think is going to happen? What could happen that would be so very bad?’
‘Everything,’ said Nick. ‘She might laugh at me, or tell everyone and they would laugh at me. And then every day for the rest of my life I’d think of it, and burn with shame, right into the depths of my soul.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What if you only had six months to live? And your doctor told you that for those six months, your lifestyle wouldn’t be compromised in any way by your health. Would you talk to her then?’
Nick shook his head. ‘No way. I’d still be too anxious.’
‘So you’d just sit in your room and do nothing?’
Nick leaned forward so his chin rested on his hands. ‘I’d steal my father’s credit card,’ he said. ‘Or sell my mother’s engagement ring or something. And I’d run away.’
I frowned. ‘Really? You’d steal your mother’s engagement ring? You don’t want to win the lottery or something?’
‘I’ve never bought a lottery ticket. I’d never win. I’m too unlucky.’
‘But this is a hypothetical fantasy,’ I said. ‘You can win the lottery if you want.’
‘I’d rather steal from my parents,’ said Nick. ‘To teach them a lesson.’
I really, really had to meet Nick’s family. Surely they couldn’t be as bad as he was implying. Could they?
‘Okay, then,’ I said. ‘Where would you run away to?’
‘Everywhere. I’d travel around the world. I’d stroll along the canals of Venice, and climb the Eiffel Tower, and walk on the moors in Scotland. I’d go to galleries and museums all over Europe. I’d go to London and see every musical showing in the West End, apart from the ones that have music from Queen or ABBA.’
‘Alone?’
Nick nodded. ‘Alone.’
‘That’s sad.’ I didn’t mean sad as in lame. I meant it made me sad to think about Nick in all those romantic places, surrounded by couples, but always alone.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What would you do if you only had six months to live?’
I thought about it. And the more I thought about it, the sadder I felt. Because if I was truly honest with myself, I’d do exactly the same thing.
I mean, I wouldn’t steal Dad’s credit card or sell Mum’s jewellery. And I’d probably go to different places (well, maybe the Scottish moor. And Venice. But definitely not the musical theatre). But I’d want to travel. I’d want to see everything I possibly could before I died. And I’d be alone.
Because I knew that if anyone else was with me, they’d want to do different things. And see different things. And so I wouldn’t ever get to have my perfect overseas trip. Everything would be a compromise. I supposed that was what being in a relationship would be like. Always compromising. Maybe it was better to be alone.
18:31
I hate being at school, but I’ve come to hate being at home more. Every day is the same, and the longer I spend in the house, the worse it gets. I lose my appetite, I can’t sleep. I get so tired I can’t concentrate on anything for more than five minutes, but I still can’t sleep. I don’t talk to anyone for days, not even my parents. I end up walking just to get away from everyone and everything.
I walk every day, all the time. Round and round our block, so many times I’m surprised there isn’t a groove worn by my feet. I count the steps as I walk. It’s 1829 steps around the block. 2743 to the shops and back, not that I ever buy anything. 4914 to school. Pace, pace, pace. I step on every single crack, just in case the poem is right and my mother will break her back.
And I think about my girl. I think about her hair and her eyes and her warm shy smile. I think about what might happen if I came across her on my walk. Maybe I would accidentally bump into her, and she’d drop whatever she was carrying. A bag of oranges maybe, or books from the library. And then I could help her pick them up and we could start talking.
Or maybe I’d come across her sitting in the gutter, crying. And I could ask her what was wrong and she could tell me how lonely she felt, and how she needed someone to talk to. And then she could talk to me, and I could listen. Or she’d be coming out of the florist with a bunch of daisies. And she’d pull one out and give it to me. Guys never get given flowers, which isn’t fair because it’s not like we don’t think they’re beautiful too.
This never happens, of course. I’ve never seen her when I’m walking. But I keep walking anyway, and counting. Otherwise I’d go crazy. Mor
e crazy.
‘I think you’ve seen too many movies,’ I told Nick on Thursday after school. We were sitting on some steps near the library, away from watching eyes. ‘You can’t spend your whole life waiting for that perfect moment where you rescue Amy Butler from drowning or her dad accidentally hits you with his car or you get locked on a rooftop together.’
‘Meet cute,’ said Nick.
‘What?’
‘It’s called a “meet cute”. When two characters in a story meet each other and fall in love.’
I stared at him.
‘I spend a lot of time on the internet,’ he explained.
‘Whatever it’s called,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t happen in real life. You have to get to know people. Love at first sight isn’t a real thing, and if it is, it never lasts.’
Nick sighed. ‘I know. It’s all lies. Sometimes I think there’s no such thing as love at all, that it’s all made up by Hallmark and Hollywood.’
He looked as if he was going to cry.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ I said. ‘There is totally such a thing as love. But you can’t waste your life waiting for it to land on your doorstep. You have to go out and make things happen for yourself.’
‘And how do you suggest I do that?’ he asked, turning a miserable face towards me, but not meeting my eyes.
‘Well, there is that party I told you about,’ I said. ‘On Saturday.’
‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I just couldn’t. I wouldn’t know what to say to anyone.’
‘It’s easy. You just go up to someone and say “hi”. Then you start a conversation.’
Nick went pale. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that. The very idea of having a conversation with a girl makes my blood run cold.’
I laughed. ‘Well, I hate to frighten you,’ I said, ‘but in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a girl. And we’ve just been having a conversation for over half an hour.’
Nick blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Yep. And you’re doing an excellent job. We’ll have you kissing girls in no time.’
He scratched his elbow and stared at an illegible piece of graffiti on the step beside him. ‘I’ve never kissed anyone,’ he said. ‘Or been kissed.’
‘Except by your mum.’
Nick shook his head. ‘I don’t remember my mother ever kissing me.’
‘Seriously?’ My mother had her flaws, plenty of them. But I’d never felt I lacked affection from my parents. Never.
‘And what about your dad?’ I asked.
‘He never kissed me either.’
‘Have you ever tried telling him about your problem?’
Nick laughed in a colourless sort of way. ‘My father doesn’t like to talk about personal matters.’
‘He never sat you down and gave you the Talk?’
‘What talk?’
‘You know,’ I said. ‘The Talk. About sex.’
‘What?’ Nick looked surprised and offended. ‘No way! God. No.’
‘But you do … know … about sex. Right?’
He made eye contact with me for a long moment, the longest he’d ever looked at me for. ‘Yes, Penny,’ he said, and I was momentarily surprised that he knew my name. ‘I know about sex. I do have the internet, you know. I may be an anxiety-ridden emotional cripple, but that doesn’t mean I’m a total idiot.’
I laughed, and Nick’s face cracked a tiny bit. Just a hint of a smile changed everything about him. His sullen aloofness lifted and he looked boyish and hopeful and … kind of beautiful. I could finally see why all the girls thought he was hot. His eyes opened up, and they were soft and greenish-brownish-grey, like a misty morning high up in a mountain forest. Something squeezed inside me. This was new.
Then he saw me watching him and blushed, and the smile was gone and his face was locked away again behind his Nick mask.
‘But … ’ His face screwed up as though he were tasting something bitter, and he closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I am … ’ He swallowed.
‘Yes?’
He bit his lip. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone?’
I nodded, adding in my mind that the article didn’t count, because I wouldn’t be using Nick’s real name.
‘I’m … ’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’m a virgin.’
I couldn’t help bursting out laughing. Nick went bright red and started to tremble.
‘Nobody can know,’ he said, between clenched teeth. ‘It’d be too humiliating.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s your big secret? That you’re a virgin?’
Nick glanced around, a hunted look in his eyes. ‘Don’t say it so loud!’
‘Nick,’ I said. ‘We’re in Year Ten. Statistically, only about 40 per cent of the people in our year have had sex. You’re in a healthy majority.’
‘Does that mean … ’ His voice cracked. ‘Are you … ?’
‘A virgin? Of course.’
He blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Really. Teenagers are massively prone to exaggeration. Contrary to popular belief, Con Stingas doesn’t have regular sexual relations with Luke Smith’s mum.’
Nick seemed ridiculously pleased. Boys. They were all the same, more or less.
‘I should go home,’ he said. ‘My mother will be expecting me for dinner.’
‘I want to meet your parents,’ I said.
Nick barked out a short laugh. ‘No way.’
‘Why not? They’d probably be overjoyed if you brought a girl home.’
‘No.’
I’d never heard Nick say anything so firmly. Usually he ducked his head when he spoke, and there was always a faint tremor in the back of his throat, as though he could cry at any moment. But that single no had been said with total force and confidence. It only fired up my curiosity even more.
I had to see Nick’s home and meet his parents. It would be essential to my article, and to my understanding of him as a person. Upbringing was clearly such a major factor in loveshyness. It wasn’t enough for him to tell me about his parents – I had to make an independent assessment.
It was time for some journalistic sneakiness.
I pulled out my iPhone and pretended to check my email. ‘I’d better go too,’ I said. ‘Dad wants to try this new Moroccan place for dinner.’ I made a show of looking off to Nick’s right, away from me. ‘Hey, is that Amy Butler over there?’ I pointed.
Nick’s head whipped around, and he peered at the gaggle of girls by the canteen. ‘No.’
‘My bad.’ I zipped up the pocket to my bag and slipped off the bench. Nick didn’t seem to notice that I was no longer holding my phone.
When I got home, I made a beeline for my laptop. I logged into my account and clicked on the Find My iPhone button. A map of the city popped up, with a pulsing blue circle that zoomed in until it centred on one suburban home.
‘Found you,’ I said, scribbling an address on a post-it.
‘Going somewhere?’ asked Dad. ‘We found the most incredible jigsaw of a poodle groomed to look like a dragon. It’s got to be worth at least sixty points.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I’m going to a friend’s house for dinner.’
‘You’re going next door?’ He nodded his head towards Rin’s apartment.
‘No, another friend. His name’s Nick. But don’t get excited,’ I said, as Josh opened his mouth. ‘He’s just a friend. He’s helping me with an article I’m writing.’
10
IT WAS AN UNREMARKABLE HOUSE in an ordinary street in a leafy suburb not far from school. It was large, brick, and would have been very elegant when it was built in the 1980s, with lots of windows and a well-maintained lawn. It didn’t look like the house of horrors that Nick had darkly referred to.
A middle-aged woman opened the door. She had curly blonde hair and was wearing a simple yet expensive-looking blue dress and well-applied makeup. I thought she resembled a mum on an American soap opera, pretty and bland and nurturing. She seemed mildly surprised to see me.
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‘Mrs Rammage?’ I held out my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Penny.’
Mrs Rammage shook it, still confused. ‘Are you selling something?’
‘Pardon?’ I said, laughing. ‘No, I’m Nick’s friend. He didn’t tell you he’d invited me for dinner?’ I put my hand over my mouth in mock dismay. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. He said he’d check with you first. He must have forgotten.’
Mrs Rammage’s polite confusion had been replaced with a frown. ‘My son invited you here? For dinner?’
I feigned embarrassment. ‘He did,’ I said. ‘But it’s totally okay, Mrs Rammage. I’ll just go home. I wouldn’t want to impose on you without any warning.’
Nick’s mum continued to stare at me as if I’d told her I was from another planet.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I said, trying to appear polite, responsible and confused all at the same time. ‘But I’ll just go, shall I? I’m really sorry to have bothered you. Silly Nick.’
I turned and started walking back towards the gate, counting silently in my head. Say something, lady!
‘Wait,’ said Mrs Rammage, and I turned, relieved. I adopted a politely questioning expression.
‘Of course you should stay,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘It’s lovely to meet one of Nick’s friends. Please come in, I’ll tell him you’re here.’
She ushered me through the door, and invited me to sit in the living room before she disappeared to find Nick. I gazed around and realised that, despite its normal exterior, all was not okay in this house.
Everything was covered in plastic. There was a clear rubbery runner over the hallway carpet, and the couch was covered in the kind of plastic that movers use to protect fabric. The TV had a plastic cover, and on top of it, two remote controls nestled in styrofoam holders. On the mantelpiece was a collection of blown glass birds with long, thin necks and pointed beaks. They looked cruel. The house smelled of disinfectant and air freshener. It made my eyes itch. The only sound was the loud ticking of an ugly gold clock above the mantelpiece.
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