Love-shy

by Lili Wilkinson

  I hauled myself off the couch and dashed to my bedroom, hunting around for some clean clothes, then gave up and pulled on the jeans and T-shirt I’d been wearing that morning.

  ‘Dad?’ I yelled, trying to find a matching sock. ‘Can you please call me a cab?’

  I slid into my seat at 5:59 with a sigh of relief. Hugh shot me a look with some very expressive eyebrows. Aylee Kim, our second speaker, glared at me.

  ‘Where were you?’ she hissed, but then the adjudicator rang a bell and Hugh stood up to a polite smattering of applause.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Over the next ten minutes, I will demonstrate how foreign aid doesn’t help the most vulnerable people in developing nations. Moreover, it actually causes harm.’

  I looked down at the stack of empty note-cards in front of me. Luckily I was the best speaker in the Eastern Region – I’d have no trouble winging this one. I took a sip of water and picked up a pen, ready to take notes.

  Maybe if I debated really well, Ms Armstrong wouldn’t make me give up Debating. Maybe I could just decimate the opposition, prove how totally on-the-ball I was with everything, and it would all be right again. I could have my extracurricular activities back.

  Otherwise what would I do all day? Where would I go at lunchtime? Sit with Rin? Not after the way I’d acted today. I’d be surprised if Rin ever spoke to me again.

  Hugh was still talking, but I couldn’t hear him anymore. All I could hear was Nick’s voice, over and over again.

  You’re just as bad as I am.

  But I was involved. I participated in school activities – I practically ran all the school activities. How would they put out the Gazette without me? Didn’t they realise the Debating team wouldn’t make any regional finals if I wasn’t there? I mean, Hugh was a fine first speaker, but Aylee had a tendency of chewing her hair which totally put the judges off, and she wasn’t particularly good at rebuttal. And who would play first oboe in the orchestra?

  And sure, sometimes I might have been a little distant. But I was a journalist. We had to be objective. Nellie Bly had to be firm and hard-hitting just to get people to listen to her in the first place. There was no room in journalism for wishy-washy softness – we had to be ruthless and cutting-edge. Did Nellie Bly have heaps of friends? I didn’t think so. She didn’t get married until after her great journalistic adventures. She was happy being alone.

  She did have a monkey, though. His name was McGinty. I wondered if I could get a monkey. Or maybe a puppy. Something that wouldn’t judge me.

  I looked up. Hugh had sat down and a girl with braces from the opposition was saying something about earthquake victims in Haiti and ‘so-called administration fees’. I wondered if she had any true friends. If she’d ever tried to kiss someone. If they’d kissed her back.

  ‘Millions of children in Malawi, Burundi and Kenya are going to school because of government aid,’ said Braces Girl. ‘Vaccination programs are wiping out diphtheria, tetanus and river blindness.’

  I knew what Nick would say. You spend your life running around being busy, to hide the fact that you are actually totally lonely.

  Hugh scribbled on a piece of paper and passed it to Aylee, who handed it to me.

  GOVT AID = STATE BRIBERY

  I blinked and stared at it. Hugh nodded meaningfully at me, and I nodded back. It was probably a good time to start paying attention.

  I thought about Nick’s light-globe terrariums. I could see why he liked the idea of a tiny, safe, beautiful world. A world where you could be completely alone and nobody could touch you or hurt you. A world where you could just be you.

  Aylee nudged me in the ribs. It was my turn? Really? Already? When did she talk? Had I missed it?

  I stood up and looked at the panel of judges, and the crowd of people waiting to hear me speak.

  ‘Knock ’em dead,’ whispered Hugh.

  My throat was suddenly dry. I looked down at my stack of note-cards. On the first one, I’d written:

  That foreign aid should be administered by NGOs rather than states.

  That was the topic? I realised in horror that I had no idea whether we were on the positive or negative side. I hadn’t been listening. I turned to the next note card. It was blank. They were all blank.

  I heard Nick’s voice in my head. Fear of failure is a phobia. It’s called atychiphobia. Fear of losing.

  It was a dream. It had to be a dream. Maybe I could just walk out and wake up in my bed. What was it you were supposed to do when you couldn’t wake up from a dream? Blink? Jolt? I bit my tongue too, just for good measure, but nothing worked. I wasn’t waking up.

  This was real.

  This was real and I’d spent the first thirty seconds of my talk blinking furiously and jiggling up and down.

  ‘Penny?’ whispered Hugh.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Should foreign aid be administered by NGOs rather than states?’ I said. ‘That’s what we’re here to find out. Or is it?’

  I scanned the room, hoping that it would seem like an impressive pause.

  ‘Maybe we are asking the wrong question,’ I continued. ‘Maybe what’s really at stake here is people. Should we be helping people?’

  Hugh was staring at me as if I were insane. Maybe I could do this. Maybe it’d be like the impassioned speech that comes at the end of the movie, where the lawyer or politician or whoever throws away their notes, speaks from the heart and saves the day.

  ‘Helping people is supposed to make you feel better,’ I said. ‘Altruism is supposed to be one of the greatest strengths of humanity. You help someone. Their life becomes better. You feel good about yourself. But what happens when that system fails? What happens when you try to help someone, but you just make everything worse?’

  My voice sped up and heightened in pitch. My heart hammered. But I couldn’t stop.

  ‘And they’re unhappy, so they say things to you. Mean things. Untrue things. But then you start to wonder if those things are true. Maybe you are afraid of failure. Maybe you don’t have any friends. Maybe you are lonely.’

  I was crying now. The judges were exchanging mutters and concerned frowns. Hugh was desperately trying to catch my eye. The opposition looked as though they weren’t sure whether to be worried or jubilant.

  ‘So … ’ My voice cracked and was punctuated with little sobs. ‘So maybe you shouldn’t have helped them at all. Maybe if you’d just left them alone, then they wouldn’t be angry and you wouldn’t have realised how terrible everything is.’

  What was I doing?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, staring down at my cards, hoping that magically some notes would appear to save me. They didn’t.

  The clock said I had seven minutes left. I couldn’t do it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, this time to Hugh and Aylee.

  And I dropped my note-cards and ran out of the room.

  I sat out on the fire escape taking big gulps of air and crying. What was wrong with me?

  The door behind me banged open.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’

  I shook my head and tried to tell Hugh that I didn’t know, but I couldn’t get the words out.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Penny?’ he asked, his voice full of disappointment. ‘It’s like you just don’t care anymore. About school. About anything. Are you really so much better than us that you can’t be bothered preparing for a debate final?’

  That only made me cry harder. I hated the idea that I’d let people down. I was the reliable one! No matter how rubbish everyone else was, I could always bring it home and save the day. Not anymore, it seemed. I’d got my team disqualified from the swimming carnival. I’d been kicked out of the orchestra. I wasn’t allowed to debate anymore – not that any team would have me now. I’d missed my last two deadlines for the paper, and for what? Following a boy around, pretending to have all this journalistic integrity, all because I had a dumb crush.

  I hated myself.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I
croaked out between sobs. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  There was a confused silence from Hugh, and then, ‘Move over.’

  He sat down next to me on the fire escape. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘We all choke occasionally. It’s what makes us human.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Not ever except for today.’

  And a few other times lately that I could think of. I put my head in my hands.

  ‘To be honest,’ said Hugh, ‘I’m kind of relieved to learn that you’re human like the rest of us. It gives me hope.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Hugh paused, and I looked up at him. Was he blushing? ‘You know. That the rest of us have a chance. That you won’t always be the best at everything. That maybe one day someone else will get the front page story on the Gazette, or come first in a swimming race, or play the oboe solo, or be class captain, or get the best-speaker award at a debate.’

  I sniffed. ‘Well, you got your wish. I’m not allowed to swim or be in the band or the debate team after tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had to see the school counsellor. She says I’m over-committed and that’s why I keep dropping the ball.’ I swallowed another sob. ‘And after tonight I think maybe she’s right.’

  Hugh was quiet again.

  ‘Aren’t you glad?’ I asked. ‘That now you’ll be the best debater?’

  He didn’t reply.

  I started to cry in earnest again. ‘Do you really all hate me that much? That you want to see me lose? Is that all I am to you? Just someone to beat?’

  ‘Isn’t that how you see us?’ asked Hugh.

  I opened my mouth to deny it, but he was right. I did see everyone else as competition.

  ‘But if I’m not the best at everything,’ I whispered, ‘what will be left of me? Why would people like me then?’

  ‘People don’t like you because you’re the best at everything.’

  I let out a wet laugh. ‘People don’t like me at all.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Hugh. ‘I like you.’

  I studied him. He’d started off the debate with every hair in place, but it was reverting to its usual wild, curly state. He had a weird mole on his right cheek, like a beauty spot, and his ears stuck out a little. But his eyes were dark and gentle, and they looked at me in a way that made me feel a little nervous.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, my voice barely audible.

  ‘You’re curious and interesting and very, very funny – even if you don’t always mean to be. You care about the world, and you’re fiery and ambitious and you don’t let anyone walk all over you. And you’re ridiculously smart, which is intimidating for some people, but it’s a big turn-on for me.’

  Turn-on? Hugh went bright pink and turned away. ‘Now stop fishing for compliments,’ he muttered.

  I felt myself smile soggily, and suddenly everything didn’t seem as bad. Perhaps I was just being a silly sausage and needed some perspective.

  ‘Is that why you stuck your tongue in my ear at the cast party last year?’ I asked. ‘Because my incredible intellect turns you on?’

  Hugh blinked. ‘What? I never stuck my tongue in your ear.’

  ‘Yes, you did. Just before Jamal came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a feather boa and a pair of Ray-Bans.’

  Hugh frowned, then gave a yelp of laughter. ‘I really didn’t,’ he said. ‘I was leaning over to ask you something, and you jumped sideways to avoid Jamal’s … well, you remember. And you kind of ear-butted me. You nearly broke my nose.’

  That wasn’t how I remembered it. ‘What were you going to ask me, then?’

  Hugh went a little pinker. ‘Never mind.’

  We sat there awkwardly for a moment, then Hugh said, ‘He’s not worth it, you know.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Nick Rammage.’

  I felt as though someone were squeezing my throat. ‘What?’ I croaked. ‘How do you know about Nick?’

  Hugh rolled his eyes. ‘Everybody knows,’ he said. ‘You wait at his locker and then wag Debating or SRC to go and sit with him every single day.’

  My mouth hung open. ‘But … ’ I said. ‘No. It’s not what you think.’

  ‘Really? Because I think you were drawn to his carefully cultivated air of mystery, the way all the other girls are. And for once he actually talked to someone, and that made you feel special, and you ended up falling for him.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘How close am I?’ he asked.

  I was about to tell him that he was wrong, that he had totally misinterpreted the situation, that he didn’t know the details. But …

  ‘Pretty close, actually,’ I admitted.

  Hugh seemed somehow disappointed, as though he hadn’t wanted to be right. ‘He’s just a phony. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I do know that.’

  ‘Good. Because if you’re going to throw away everything you’re good at, you should at least do it for someone who isn’t such a poseur.’

  ‘He’s not a poseur,’ I said. ‘He’s just … he has a lot of stuff going on. It’s complicated.’

  Hugh looked away again. ‘Are you in love with him?’

  Was I? I cared about Nick, I wanted him to be okay. I wanted to talk to him and for him not to be angry at me anymore. But love?

  ‘No,’ I said, and a wave of relief swept over me. ‘I don’t think so.’

  I wasn’t in love with Nick. I’d had a stupid crush, and had done stupid things. But Hugh was right – I’d just been flattered that he paid attention to me. That the most unattainable boy had wanted to hang out with me.

  Hugh nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’

  Then he stood up. ‘We’d better get back inside and find out how badly we lost the debate.’

  He offered me his hand. I took it and he pulled me to my feet.

  I have never written a

  word that did not come

  from my heart. I never

  shall.

  NELLIE BLY

  17

  I FLOPPED ONTO MY BED, FEELING emotionally exhausted.

  For a moment I thought about going next door to see Rin, but it was nearly ten at night. And anyway, who was I kidding? Rin wasn’t my friend. She just felt sorry for me.

  Was that what everyone thought? That I was some poor pathetic loser? Did I just get invited to their parties because they felt sorry for me?

  Or maybe I was nothing more than some high-school-paper hack, hanging around all the beautiful people, always observing, never belonging. Dreaming of serious journalism, when really all I was destined for was some raggy sensationalist tabloid whose greatest scoop was whether or not Katie Holmes was pregnant again.

  I wished I’d never gone into the library that day. I wished I’d never heard of loveshyness.

  I heard the front door open. ‘Penny? Are you home?’ Dad’s head peered around my door. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘May I come in?’

  I shrugged. Dad came in and sat down on the end of my bed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘Everyone hates me.’

  Dad raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure that’s not true. What happened?’

  I sat up and explained everything. About Nick and the loveshy article and Hamish and Rin and everything. Dad listened, his head on one side.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly been busy,’ he said at last.

  ‘I don’t ever want to go back to school again,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want to be a journalist anymore. I think I might get a job selling fish.’

  ‘Fish?’

  ‘Fish. Wrapped in newspaper. That’s all it’s good for.’

  Dad smiled. ‘I reckon there’s one or two things you should try before you give up entirely and run away to become a fishmonger.’

  ‘Like? What should I do?’

  Dad looked at me. ‘Do you want my honest opinion?’r />
  I nodded. Dad got up and left the room, returning a moment later holding the cordless phone and a post-it note. He stuck the post-it on my desk and handed me the phone.

  ‘I think you know what my honest opinion is.’

  I bit my lip. Dad dropped a kiss on my forehead and left my room, shutting the door gently behind him.

  I crawled off the bed and sat at my desk with a sigh. I wanted to turn on my computer, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to be close to the internet, in case I was tempted to read Nick’s latest post. I didn’t want to see it. I wasn’t interested anymore. It would probably be about me, and I didn’t think I could take any more cruelty.

  I stared at the wall, where I’d pinned up a card containing the Nine Principles of Journalism. I sighed. I’d probably broken them all. Number seven stood out particularly. Its practitioners must maintain an independence from those they cover.

  I hadn’t maintained any independence from who I was covering. Not even a little bit. I’d got involved. I wasn’t an independent monitor. My loyalty wasn’t to my readers. It was to myself. At some point, I’d stopped talking to Nick for the lofty purposes of research and journalism, and started talking to him because I wanted to.

  Because I liked him.

  I’d been such an idiot.

  It was ridiculous, because I didn’t like him! I was in the middle of some kind of grotesque, romantic fantasy where I’d rescue Nick from his self-made prison, and he’d be eternally grateful and love me because of it.

  That was wrong. It was kind of creepy.

  But I did want to help him. Because if I could help him, then maybe I could help myself, too. We both thought we were safe in our little glass terrarium worlds, sheltered from cruelty and judgement and spite. But we were also sheltered from the good things, too. Such as love and friendship and feeling as if we belonged somewhere.

  I wanted to help Nick out of his glass globe.

  The problem was, I’d been doing it all wrong. I’d been trying to break the glass of Nick’s terrarium to let him out, as though it were a prison. But if you break the glass, all the plants are suddenly exposed to the world and they die. It wasn’t a prison; it was more like a protective shell.

  I had to coax Nick out slowly, show him that he could grow and flower in the outside world. That it was tough for everyone out here, but because we could work together and draw strength from each other, we could grow bigger and better and brighter than we ever could if we stayed inside our little glass globes.