Love-shy

by Lili Wilkinson

  ‘No. There are plenty of lovely, caring, emotionally genuine girls. There are plenty of shy girls. There are plenty of girls who don’t want to date a jock or a stoner. My point is, you can’t go around saying boys are like this and girls are like that, because it doesn’t work that way.’

  Nick looked confused.

  ‘Men aren’t from Mars,’ I told him. ‘And women aren’t from Venus. When you get down to it, there are some people who are nice, some people who aren’t, and a whole lot of fuzzy grey in between.’

  Nick wove his fingers into his hair and scratched thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘You’re right, of course. I know that. It’s just … easier to think of girls as this great unattainable Nirvana that I’ll never be able to reach. Because that way … ’

  ‘That way you can just put it all in the too-hard basket without even trying?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘It’s not okay. I’m acting like a dick, and I’m really sorry. I just— It’s hard, but I’m going to change. I was being a silly sausage, and I’m sorry.’

  I blinked. ‘A what?’

  He smiled faintly. ‘It’s what my therapist says I’m allowed to call myself. Because calling myself an idiot and a terrible person and an emotional cripple is just making me more like those things. So when I do something that I’m not supposed to, or react in an unhealthy way, I’m allowed to call myself a silly sausage. But nothing worse.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said.

  Nick looked at me for a moment, a little frown between his eyebrows. ‘Can … Can I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What frightens you? What makes you anxious?’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Are you asking me what makes me feel fear, or what makes me feel anxiety? They’re different. Fear makes you want to be with others, but anxiety makes you want to be alone.’ Or so I’d read in the loveshy book.

  ‘Either. Stop avoiding the question.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to avoid it. I was just clarifying.’

  ‘So now it’s clear.’

  I thought about it.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I can’t think of anything.’

  Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re not afraid of anything.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Spiders?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Nope. I mean, I don’t want to get too close to a whitetail or redback, but daddy-long-legs and huntsmen are fine.’

  ‘Heights?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘The dark?’

  ‘I find the dark peaceful,’ I said. ‘I miss it, living in the city.’

  ‘What about getting needles? Everyone hates getting needles.’

  ‘Doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Nick. ‘I’m afraid of people, specifically girls, but I’m pretty frightened of boys too, to be honest. I’m frightened of my father and my mother. I’m frightened about germs and getting sick. I’m frightened of throwing up on people. I can’t bear spiders or mice or moths or cockroaches. I sleep with the light on. I hate going to the dentist. Or the doctor, or anyone else who might make me take my clothes off or stick something into me.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ I said. ‘I guess I’m just well-rounded.’

  ‘You’re in denial, that’s what you are.’

  ‘I’m not! I just don’t have any phobias.’

  ‘What about losing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Imagine if you came last in a big swimming race? Or lost a debate? Or didn’t get elected for SRC?’

  I remembered the heart-hammering terror I’d felt when Perry Chau had nearly beaten me in that Year Eight Debating final. I’d only won by two points. ‘It wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘Or what if you got a mark that wasn’t an A?’

  ‘Wanting to be good at stuff isn’t a phobia,’ I said. ‘I simply have high personal standards.’

  ‘Fear of failure is a phobia,’ said Nick. ‘It’s called atychiphobia. Fear of losing.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have that. I just like winning.’

  ‘What if you failed Year Ten? What if you didn’t get into journalism at uni?’

  The bell jangled for the end of recess, and I felt suddenly ill-at-ease. What subject did I have next? Was there homework I hadn’t done? I didn’t like the way Nick was messing with my mind.

  ‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘None of that would ever happen, because I wouldn’t let it happen.’

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘And I’ll never have a nervous breakdown over talking to a girl. Because I won’t let that happen.’

  ‘But that’s different,’ I said, feeling my face heat up. ‘You’re avoiding your fears and problems. I’m in control of my life. That’s what makes us different.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Nick. ‘But what if you can’t fix me? You can’t control me.’

  I didn’t have a reply to that.

  ‘Penny!’

  It was Ms Tidy. Her hair was particularly untidy, and she looked worried. ‘Penny, is everything okay?’

  ‘With me? Of course. Everything’s fine.’

  Concern was written all over Ms Tidy’s face. ‘You didn’t—’ she started.

  What was she so upset about? Had I forgotten …

  The article. Damn.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘It totally slipped my mind. I’ll do it today, I promise.’

  Ms Tidy shook her head. ‘We did the final compile and sent it to the layout team yesterday,’ she said, her concern giving way to annoyance.

  ‘But … the article … ’

  ‘Arabella finished it.’

  I blinked. ‘So … there’ll nothing by me in the paper?’

  This had never happened before. I’d had a minimum of one article in the East Glendale Secondary College Gazette every month since Year Seven. And now a whole issue would go to the printer with nothing. Not so much as an editorial note or a book review.

  ‘I’ll do something,’ I promised. ‘I’ll slip it in before it goes to the printer next week. I’ll make it fit.’

  ‘Are you sure everything’s okay, Penny?’ asked Ms Tidy. ‘Nothing’s happened to upset or distract you?’

  Everything had happened, but I couldn’t tell her that. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘You have a lot of extracurricular commitments,’ said Ms Tidy. ‘I’m sure everyone would understand if you dropped a few to make more room in your life.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I really am fine. It won’t happen again. I’ll be at the next newspaper meeting, I promise.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I have to go,’ I interrupted, and scurried away down the corridor.

  ‘I need to get a job,’ said Nick, the next day. ‘My therapist wants me to start talking to more people – especially more girls. And she says a structured interaction like serving someone at a cash register is a good way of practising.’

  ‘That sounds like a great idea,’ I said. We were sitting in our usual spot outside the science labs, away from the lunchtime bustle.

  Nick didn’t look so sure. ‘I’m scared of touching money.’

  ‘Scared that other people’s greed will rub off on you?’

  ‘Scared that other people’s germs will rub off on me. Did you know that 94 per cent of banknotes in Spain carry traces of cocaine? And faecal bacteria and staphylococcus are found on 42 per cent of American notes?’

  ‘Where do you get these statistics from?’

  ‘Yet another charming example of my epic mentalness.’ Nick’s lips curled in a self-mocking smile.

  ‘Silly sausage,’ I told him, and he shrugged.

  ‘My therapist has given me some exercises to do about the germ thing,’ he said. ‘I have to pick up some rubbish and then not wash my hands for an hour. On Sunday
I have to go the whole day without a shower. And I have to shake hands with someone and not wash my hands afterwards.’

  His shoulders hunched up in an embarrassed cringe.

  ‘Was that a request?’ I asked. ‘Do you want to shake hands with me?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick quickly. ‘And yes. This is harder than it should be.’

  ‘Because I’m a girl?’

  He nodded. ‘But at least I know your hands are cleaner than a boy’s.’

  I held out my hand. Nick swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then he reached out and took my hand.

  I expected it to be clammy and nervous, but it wasn’t. Nick’s hand was warm, and very soft, but not limp. I squeezed his hand a little, and to my delight he squeezed back, in a proper handshake. I grinned at him, and he dropped my hand.

  ‘See?’ I said. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

  Nick bowed his head, but he was smiling. His ears were pink and he was so utterly pleased and proud of himself that it was all I could do not to throw my arms around him and give him a big hug. One step at a time.

  I arrived home to discover the soggy towel and bathers that I’d forgotten to rinse on my bedroom floor. Great. Now my whole room smelled of damp and chlorine. I sighed and tossed them into the laundry, then checked Nick’s blog and loveshyforum.com. Nothing new. This was a good sign. Now he had me to talk to, Nick didn’t have to post.

  Dad stuck his head around the door. ‘Can I come in?’

  I nodded, and he came in and sat on my bed. Was this going to be another lecture about how I should be talking to my mother?

  ‘So I got a call from your school today,’ he said, picking up a pink highlighter and popping the cap off and on.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Some of your teachers are … concerned. About your recent behaviour.’

  I blinked. ‘What recent behaviour? Is this about the swimming carnival?’

  ‘That was mentioned, yes. And apparently you’ve been skipping classes, and neglecting your extracurricular activities.’

  Morons. Couldn’t the concert band or debating team function without me?

  ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘No, sweetheart, of course not. Your teachers just want to make sure you’re okay. As do I.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you take on too many projects,’ he said. ‘Debating, SRC, the newspaper, swimming, oboe. Maybe you could drop a thing or two. Especially since your studies are getting more intense as you approach Year Eleven.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Dad, I’m fine. I’m not under too much pressure. I can handle my extra commitments. But they’re called “extracurricular” because they’re not compulsory. I missed a couple of SRC meetings. Who cares? It’s not like we ever do anything important anyway.’

  ‘I haven’t heard you practise your oboe lately.’

  ‘I’ve been doing it when I get home from school,’ I lied. ‘You’re still at work.’

  Dad put down the highlighter and looked uncomfortable.

  ‘What?’ I said flatly. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The teacher I spoke to suggested you see the school guidance counsellor. She’s got some time on Monday morning.’

  ‘No.’ This was ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with me! I was just busy working on an assignment. I bet this never happened to Christiane Amanpour.

  ‘When I said “suggested” … ’ Dad trailed off.

  ‘They’re forcing me to see a guidance counsellor?’

  ‘No, not forcing, as such … ’ ‘So what happens if I don’t go?’

  ‘You’ll have to drop your extracurricular activities.’

  15

  ‘WOULD YOU LIKE TO ORDER?’

  I looked up from my phone. ‘Um, no thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  The waiter nodded and left me alone.

  It was Saturday night, and I was waiting for Nick. We were going on a date. A practice-date. He’d resisted the idea at first, but I’d threatened to turn up at his house again for dinner, and he caved pretty quickly.

  But now he was fifteen minutes late and I was afraid he’d bailed on me.

  I tapped my fingers on the table. I’d actually made quite an effort, wearing a dress (rare for me) and even mascara and lipstick. We’d arranged to meet at La Cucina, a cute little Italian restaurant in the city. Dad and I ate there all the time, so the waiters knew who I was. And it wasn’t so flash or crowded or noisy that it would freak Nick out.

  My stomach rumbled. There was crab ravioli on the Specials menu, and I hoped Nick would arrive soon so I could order it before the chef ran out.

  Twenty minutes late.

  Twenty-five.

  I sighed and decided to order the ravioli anyway, and eat it on my own. I was signalling the waiter when – miracle of miracles – the door to the restaurant opened and Nick appeared, carrying a small plastic bag.

  My stomach turned over. He’d come! He’d actually turned up!

  I waved. Nick ducked his head and sidled past the other diners to our table, where he sank into his chair with a sigh of relief. He was nicely dressed in a black shirt and dark blue jeans, and his hair was as floppily cool as always. A table-ful of older girls looked over at him appraisingly, and I felt rather proud to be seen with such a hot guy. But now he was up close, I could see the sheen of sweat on his pale forehead.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  Nick nodded. ‘I think so. I nearly didn’t make it.’

  ‘Frozen again?’

  He ducked his head again. ‘And I had to sneak out, because I didn’t want to tell my mother where I was going.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too embarrassing. She’d probably cry.’

  I had a sudden flashback to Nick’s mum crying into her leathery beef and tried not to shudder.

  ‘But you’re here now,’ I said, handing him a menu. ‘Which is wonderful. A big step. Well done.’

  He blushed and seemed pleased, then the faintly mocking expression took over. ‘One small step for everyone else, one giant leap for Nick Rammage, Emotional Cripple.’

  ‘Silly sausage,’ I said.

  ‘One giant leap for Nick Rammage, Silly Sausage,’ he said, and allowed himself a genuine smile. I smiled back.

  ‘I brought you something,’ he said, passing me the bag. ‘I didn’t have any wrapping paper. But I wanted to say thanks.’

  It was a Pez dispenser.

  ‘It’s the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz,’ Nick explained. ‘Because you helped me find my courage.’

  I thought my smile might split my face in half. ‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling unbelievably touched.

  The waiter returned, and we ordered. Nick pulled a small stack of white cards out of his back pocket.

  ‘Are you making a speech?’ I asked.

  ‘My therapist gave me some ideas for conversation topics that I could try out.’

  The debater in me couldn’t help but respect a guy who brought note-cards along on a date. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘The floor is yours.’

  ‘Um,’ he said, looking down at the first card nervously. ‘What are your plans for next year?’

  I grinned, and we started to talk. Nick’s left eyelid twitched every time the conversation lulled, but all in all it went well. He asked me questions and seemed to be genuinely interested in my answers, pausing thoughtfully before commenting on my reply. I could almost believe I was on a real date, with a normal boy. It was quite nice, really.

  ‘So, why journalism?’ asked Nick. ‘You could do anything, surely. Why not become a lawyer and earn heaps of money, or a politician and rule the world?’

  I picked up my fork and studied it. ‘Journalism’s exciting,’ I said. ‘I don’t ever want a job where I get bored. Where the only challenge is getting the next promotion. I want to travel and see amazing things and meet amazing people. And I want to share that. Most people don’t think enough, don’t wonder abo
ut what the outside world is like. I want to make people think. Make them ask questions. I want to change the rules, do things that no one has ever done before.’

  I told him all about Nellie Bly, and how she had not only changed opportunities for women writers, but had also changed journalism itself.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘What do you want to do when you leave school?’

  Nick thought about it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I never thought I’d be able to do anything. Now…’ He closed his eyes, looking overwhelmed. ‘I’d like to do something where I could be outside. Work with plants. Landscape gardening or something.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ I said, and then, because he seemed a bit more comfortable, I decided to throw him a challenge. ‘So have you given any thought to coming to the social next Friday?’

  Nick screwed up his face and buttered a piece of bread. ‘I don’t think I want to go,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’

  I put on my I’m disappointed in you face. ‘Well, I think you are ready. Look at you, talking to a girl, in a restaurant. There are candles on the table. It’s almost romantic!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nick. ‘But this is different. It isn’t … a social.’

  ‘You’ll never get better until you face your fears. And you chickened out on Sarah Parsons’ party. You owe me.’

  Our food arrived and Nick looked relieved.

  After dessert, I leaned back in my chair with a contented sigh.

  ‘That was good,’ said Nick, licking the last bit of sorbet from his spoon. ‘Really good.’

  It must have been really good, I thought, after being served stringy overcooked rubbish every night.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk?’ I suggested. ‘I’m stuffed to the gills and could use a little fresh air.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We wandered through the city, peering down alleyways and into the windows of interesting little shops.

  ‘What’s it like?’ Nick asked. ‘Living in the city?’

  ‘I love it,’ I told him. ‘I love the food and the energy, and having everything so close. I know that no matter what time of the day or night, there’s always something happening, in a laneway or a tiny theatre or a cavernous art gallery. There’s always music and people and life.’

  ‘Where did you live before?’ asked Nick. I glanced over at him to see if he was referring to his conversation cards, but he was gazing at the lit windows overhead.