Love-shy

by Lili Wilkinson

  I shot a guilty look at my empty music stand and unopened oboe case, then opened my Chemistry textbook to the problems we were supposed to do. But my eyes glazed over and lines for the loveshy article kept popping into my head. Now that Nick was getting professional help, my article had all sorts of exciting new angles. I wondered if there was a way I could interview his counsellor, or whether that would be unethical. I pushed the Chemistry textbook aside and started making notes.

  Nick bailed me up the next morning at recess.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Do you want to go outside?’

  ‘Not here,’ he muttered. ‘After school. I can’t talk here.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you at that bench,’ I said, bemused. I watched him hurry off, his shoulders hunched and his head down, without his usual fake-swagger. It was as though he was really shaken about something. Had he told his parents about the therapist?

  I wondered about it all through my classes, and bolted out to the bench as soon as the last bell went. Nick was already there; he must have skipped class again. He seemed about to have another panic attack. His breath was all panty again and tears rolled down his face as his body shook with silent sobs. What had happened? I imagined Nick’s father grinding one of his terrariums to dirt and glass shards under his heel.

  ‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s – it’s—’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Actually, breathe first. Then tell me.’

  Nick took a gulping breath. ‘It’s Amy,’ he said, all in a rush. ‘She – she … ’ He squeezed his eyes shut.

  What had she done? Had he spoken to her? Had he realised how boring and shallow she was?

  ‘Nick,’ I said. ‘What happened with Amy? Did you guys talk?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘I can’t – I can’t ever talk to her again.’

  ‘Again? You never did talk to her.’

  He glared at me through his tears. ‘Well, now I never will.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’ Had Amy got together with Youssef?

  Nick breathed deeply for a moment, his face stricken.

  ‘She cut her hair.’

  I blinked, then laughed. He shrank from me as though my laughter were some kind of poison.

  ‘Don’t mock me,’ he said. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why you’re upset,’ I said. ‘Just because a girl you like cut her hair?’

  ‘You haven’t seen it.’

  ‘Does it look bad?’

  ‘I can’t even begin to explain,’ he said. ‘Just tell me something. You’re a girl.’ He eyed me as though this was a bit of a revelation.

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Why do girls cut their hair short?’

  ‘It’s easier to look after.’ I inadvertently reached up to feel my own short hair. ‘And it’s cute on some girls. Pixie-like. Some faces are suited to short hair.’

  ‘Boys’ faces,’ said Nick. ‘Not girls’. I hate it when girls cut their hair. They’re so pretty with it long, and then they get it cut and all the other girls flock around and tell them how cute they look. It makes me sick. Why do they lie like that?’

  I frowned. This wasn’t a side of Nick I was particularly charmed by. ‘How do you know they’re lying? Maybe they really do think it looks cute.’

  ‘How can they? It ruins a girl’s prettiness. It makes her look disgusting, like a boy. The prettiest girl can turn dog-ugly just by having her hair cut.’

  I scowled at him. ‘I have short hair, you know. In case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you basically just jumped up and down and told me I was dog-ugly. If you ever want to get a girlfriend, then follow this red-hot tip: don’t tell a girl she’s dog-ugly. It won’t get you very far.’

  Nick waved a dismissive hand. ‘You don’t count.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You just don’t.’

  ‘But Amy Butler does.’

  ‘Did. Amy Butler did. Not anymore.’

  ‘Because she had a haircut?’

  Nick burst into a fresh flood of tears.

  ‘Listen to yourself!’ I said, clenching my jaw. ‘You get all high and mighty because the girls think you’re hot, but then won’t want to talk to you when they find out you’re shy. And you call them shallow.’

  ‘They are shallow.’

  ‘And you don’t think it’s shallow to suddenly not like the girl of your obsessively romantic dreams, just because she got a haircut?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  I folded my arms. ‘How is it different? Enlighten me, because I’m very curious.’

  ‘Those girls don’t understand me,’ he said. ‘They’d judge me if they knew what I was really like. They wouldn’t be able to see past my condition.’

  ‘Like you can’t see past Amy Butler’s haircut.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t help being loveshy. But Amy did that to herself. She chose to do that. It’s like she doesn’t care about looking pretty and attracting the right boy.’

  ‘Well, maybe she doesn’t.’

  ‘Then she’s just lazy.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Amy was a bit boring, sure, but nobody deserved to be talked about that way. ‘Maybe looking pretty and attracting the right boy isn’t a priority for Amy. Maybe she’d rather concentrate on swimming, or getting into university, or doing something to make the world a better place.’

  Was I talking about Amy or myself?

  ‘But why can’t she do those things and look pretty at the same time?’

  I shook my head. ‘You sound like a creepy misogynist. Women don’t exist just to look pretty. Women are people, and they want things and need things the same way that men do. We’re not dolls.’

  ‘I’m not a misogynist,’ Nick said. ‘It simply isn’t fair that girls get to be beautiful, and then just throw it away. Boys aren’t allowed to look pretty, so their only option is to look at pretty girls.’

  I wanted to smack him in the face. I wanted to tell him that he spent too much time on loveshyforum.com with all the other weirdos … except Nick still didn’t know that I knew that.

  ‘Do you want to look pretty?’ I asked. ‘Then look pretty! This is the twenty-first century, Nick. If you want to wear makeup and a dress to school, then yeah, people will think you’re weird, but they already think that, so what’s the difference?’

  ‘I don’t want to wear a dress,’ Nick muttered, looking sullen.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to be treated like a doll or an object,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure Amy Butler doesn’t either.’

  Nick swallowed and gazed at his shoes for a long moment. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last, with considerable effort. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t talk like that.’

  ‘Damn right you shouldn’t,’ I said with a frown. I was pretty sure this conversation wasn’t over.

  14

  ‘HEY,’ I SAID, SITTING ON the bench beside Nick at recess the next day.

  Nick jumped, then nodded without looking at me and took off his headphones.

  ‘What are you listening to?’ I asked.

  ‘Stuff,’ he said. ‘You know.’ He floundered. ‘Er. Rock and roll?’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘What are you really listening to?’

  ‘I am the very model of a majorly mental basket-case,’ he said with a wry smile.

  I laughed. ‘Gilbert and Sullivan still working for you, I see. How are you?’ I asked. ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘We were supposed to do fitness testing in Biology,’ said Nick. ‘Run around the racetrack and then measure resting heart rate. I wagged.’

  ‘You really don’t like physical exercise,’ I observed.

  ‘I hate it. And I hate touching the equipment.’ Nick shuddered. ‘All those sweaty germs. I failed PE in Years Seven, Eight and Nine. When I came to this school, I forged
a note from my doctor saying I had a heart condition and had to be excused.’

  ‘You should be a girl,’ I said. ‘We can always say we have our period.’

  Nick blushed bright red at period. Then he sighed. ‘I wish I were a girl. You have it so easy.’

  I narrowed my eyes. It seemed we were going to continue the previous day’s conversation. Still, Nick was making good progress. He’d have probably thrown up on me again if I’d mentioned the word period a week ago.

  ‘The grass is always greener,’ I told him. ‘The downside to being able to say you can’t do PE because your period pain is so bad, is that sometimes it’s true.’

  ‘Girls still have it easier,’ said Nick. ‘Girls don’t have to play sport in order to be popular. You don’t have to get a job, you can just stay at home and raise children and spend your husband’s money. You—’

  My mouth hung open. ‘I’m sorry?’ I said. ‘You don’t have to get a job, you can just stay at home and raise children and spend your husband’s money?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Nick. ‘My mother doesn’t work.’

  ‘Well, mine does,’ I said. ‘And you know what else? She does the same job as a man, but gets paid, on average, 30 per cent less, because she’s a woman. She’s also statistically more likely to get overlooked for a promotion.’

  ‘Women can’t get the draft.’

  Was he insane? ‘Neither can men! Conscription was abolished in the ’70s. The same decade, by the way, that gave women the vote in Switzerland.’

  ‘Women get to sing the good bits in choirs. Bach, Handel, Beethoven, Mozart. All the most beautiful parts are for the sopranos.’

  ‘All of those choral works were written by men,’ I said. ‘And the soprano parts were mostly written for boy sopranos.’

  Nick seriously knew nothing about the world, or women.

  ‘And girls don’t bully,’ he said. ‘They don’t fight. They’re not violent.’

  I stared at him until he blushed.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Are you serious? You think girls don’t bully, or fight, or be violent?’

  ‘Well, they don’t. Girls are calm and play quiet games and are nice to each other.’

  I felt genuinely angry. ‘You’re nuts. Do you hear yourself?’

  ‘I am nuts,’ said Nick, suddenly cold. ‘We’ve established that already. I’m nuts. I’m mental. Deal with it.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re not going to blame this ridiculous misogyny on your condition.’

  ‘I’m not a misogynist,’ Nick said, his brow knitting. ‘I love women. That’s part of my whole problem.’

  ‘Your problem,’ I snapped, ‘is that you see girls as these perfect, pretty objects for you to worship, instead of seeing us as people. Come on.’ I stood up.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I need to show you something. I think you need to understand a little more about girls.’

  Nick seemed alarmed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to make you talk to any of them.’

  I crossed my arms and looked impatient until finally he climbed to his feet and followed me across the courtyard. We skirted the edge of the cricket field, Nick hunched over defensively, his eyes on the hurtling balls.

  ‘What?’ he muttered, when he saw my amused look. ‘I don’t want to get hit in the head. I could get a concussion.’

  Between the cricket oval and the pool were two basketball courts. We wandered over to the closest one.

  ‘Observe,’ I said. ‘Boys playing basketball.’

  Nick looked disgusted.

  ‘They’re aggressive, sure,’ I said. ‘See how Rory Singh is trying to block James O’Keefe’s access to the ball. But that’s his role in the game, he’s supposed to block James and stop him from scoring. And he’s willing to put his body on the line to do it. Look.’

  ‘I don’t want to look,’ said Nick. ‘I hate it here. Can we go?’

  ‘Just pay attention,’ I said. ‘This is important. Now, James is pretty pissed off, right? He looks like he wants to punch Rory in the face. And Rory looks like he wants to tackle James to the ground.’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘Do you think he will?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

  We watched the game. Despite Rory’s valiant attempts, James’s team was better, and just as the whistle blew, one of the other boys sunk a final three-pointer, and it was over. I made a mental note to have a word to the coach, because it was clear none of those boys had been introduced to the concept of strategy.

  ‘A pretty humiliating loss,’ I said to Nick. ‘But what do the losers do? They shake hands with each member of the winning team. Now watch James and Rory.’

  After the handshake, Rory gave James a playful shove, and then they walked together to the side of the court, where they grabbed towels and water and slumped onto the bench.

  ‘They don’t seem so angry now, do they?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘But that’s my point,’ he said. ‘They’re all normal and friendly now, but put a ball between them and they want to kill each other.’

  I put my hand on his shoulder and he flinched. I pulled away. ‘Let’s go look at the other court now.’

  The girls’ game was still going. Nick flushed to see all the singlet tops and bare thighs.

  ‘Watch these girls,’ I said. ‘Specifically, that one over there with the blonde ponytail.’

  I pointed to Olivia Fischer, who was standing so close to Kayla Morgan that a less erudite person than myself would have described Olivia as being ‘all up in Kayla’s grill’.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Look at her hands.’

  Nick frowned. ‘What do you mean? Her hands are … hands. She doesn’t seem to be doing anything inappropriate with them.’

  ‘Look closer. Look at her fingernails.’

  ‘Is that … elastoplast?’

  I nodded. ‘Why do you think Olivia is wearing elastoplast over her fingernails?’

  ‘I don’t know. So she doesn’t damage them? I know girls don’t like to break their nails.’

  I snorted. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not so she doesn’t damage them. Officially it’s to stop her from accidentally scratching Kayla when she grabs for the ball. Girls’ basketball is physical and rough – just like boys’ basketball. Girls are not calm, quiet and nice on a basketball court. And untaped fingernails are weapons.’

  Nick was taken aback.

  ‘And if you ask me, unofficially it’s to stop Olivia from scratching Kayla’s eyes out after Kayla takes a three-pointer.’

  Olivia slammed into Kayla. Kayla fell to the ground, and Olivia ‘accidentally’ trod on her hand. Nick flinched. The referee’s whistle blew and Oliva was fouled off the court.

  ‘Now look at her mouthguard. Can you read the words on it?’

  ‘It says … bite me?’

  ‘Right. Not so nice.’

  Without Olivia in the game, Kayla owned the court, shooting two-and three-pointers at will to take her team to an easy victory. I turned to Nick. ‘Remember what happened after the last game?’ I said. ‘The boys all shook hands and were friends again. Do you think Olivia will do that?’

  He turned wide eyes on me, hopeful. ‘The girls are shaking hands too,’ he pointed out.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Olivia’s probably going to lay into Kayla in the changing rooms, because Kayla got her fouled out of the game.’

  ‘I think I need to sit down.’

  We walked away from the court, over to a bench in the shade of a large gum tree.

  ‘Not all girls are like Olivia,’ I said. ‘And not all girls are … what did you say? Calm and play quiet games and are nice to each other. Girls are people, just like boys. Everyone is different.’

  Nick stared at me as if I’d thrown a puppy in front of a train. ‘But most girls aren’t violent.’

  ‘When I was five,’ I t
old him, ‘there was a girl called Holly Hamilton who didn’t like me. She used to pull my hair and grab my sandwiches off me and throw them into the dirt and stamp on them. And she told me that if I told a teacher about what she was doing, she’d cut off all my hair.’

  Nick looked rather green. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I went home after school one day and cut off my own hair.’

  ‘And then you told a teacher?’

  I grinned. ‘And then I pushed Holly Hamilton over in the playground and kicked tanbark into her eyes.’

  Nick was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘You know, Penny, I’m quite frightened of you.’

  I laughed. ‘But do you see my point? Girls don’t have it easier. We don’t get bullied less, we’re not less violent. Girls are just as horrible, mean and selfish as boys. More so, because we bully psychologically as well, and it doesn’t stop in primary school. Girls are always needling each other about their clothes, their hair, whether they’re having too much sex, or not enough. You can never win, if you’re a girl. You’re either frigid or a slut. Square or a loser. Slacker or try-hard.’

  ‘But if you’re popular everyone likes you.’

  I watched students drift through the school grounds. You could spot the popular ones from a mile away, all golden and shining.

  ‘You know how people call popular girls “It Girls”?’ I said. ‘Well, being popular is more like being It. Like in chasey. You get all the attention – everyone’s focused on you. But you’re always running around on your own apart from everyone else. It’s much more fun being part of the crowd, running away from whoever’s It.’

  ‘I’ve never played chasey.’

  I wasn’t surprised. ‘Just remember that popularity isn’t something easy. It’s something you have to maintain. It’s hard. It can suck your whole life away.’

  ‘But you’re not like that. And you’re popular.’

  I shrugged. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘People respect me because they know I’m smart, but that’s not the same thing as being popular. Not A-list popular.’

  ‘But couldn’t you be A-list popular? If you wanted to be?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I have no designs on popularity. I don’t really care for the competition of high school.’

  ‘So not all girls are mean and violent. You’re not.’