Truly, Wildly, Deeply

by Jenny McLachlan

  ‘So everything is OK,’ I say, trying to read his face. ‘You and me? We’re OK?’

  ‘Of course.’ He jumps to his feet. ‘We can pretend that yesterday never happened.’ He pauses here to give me one last look. ‘Now, before I go to my maths lesson I must collect up the empty cups for Peggy.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s OK. I can do it on my own.’

  I look round the room. He’s right: he doesn’t need me. ‘See you in English?’

  He does a quick salute. ‘See you in English, Annie, my friend and nothing more.’ Then he’s off, scooping up mugs and stacking them under his chin.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Over the next few days, Fab diligently behaves like my friend and absolutely nothing more.

  He still sits next to me in English and we talk, and argue, but I don’t get any more moja dziewczynas, and it might be my imagination, but Fab doesn’t really seem to come over and chat to me in the common room, and he chats to everyone in the common room. I mean, on Wednesday, I even saw him playing chess with briefcase boy from my form.

  I tell myself this is good, and I focus on hanging out with my friends, enjoying my freedom and doing what I want when I want. Although now I’m being such a good friend to Hilary, I also have to do quite a bit of what she wants too. And what she wants to do on Thursday is feed the ducks in the park near college. The boys come along too, because the cafe in the park sells such good paninis.

  ‘I told you you’d love it,’ Hilary says, attempting to stroke a scruffy-looking mallard. ‘Look at their cute faces!

  ‘They’ve got mites,’ Oliver says. ‘I can tell by the way they’re nibbling their feathers.’

  Jim backs away from an aggressive seagull who wants in on the action. ‘You are such a buzzkill, Oli. You know that, right?’

  ‘I’m a realist, which is why I’m not having a party when my parents go away.’

  I look up from the group of ducks surrounding my wheelchair. ‘Who’s having a party when their parents go away?’

  Jim says, ‘Oli. His mum and dad are going off to watch Les Misérables and stay in a Travelodge. They’re practically begging us to have a party.’

  ‘It would almost be rude not to,’ I say.

  Hilary grabs Oliver’s hand. ‘Please, Oli,’ she says, pushing her glasses up her nose so that they really maximise the size of her eyes. ‘I really like parties.’

  I don’t believe it. Hilary’s actually working Oliver!

  After a moment’s hesitation, he pulls his hand away. ‘No. The last time I had a party the police were called and it was all Mal’s fault.’

  We turn to look at Mal, who has his mouth full of panini.

  He nods to let us know this is true.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘So I had a superhero party –’

  ‘For his sixteenth birthday,’ says Jim, grinning.

  ‘I was, and still am, very into comics,’ says Oliver, without a trace of embarrassment, ‘and I wanted an excuse to wear my Batman costume. It’s made of leather.’

  ‘Oh, wow.’ I gaze at Oliver with new-found respect. ‘Tell me you wear that costume when you’re killing vermin?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says, frowning. ‘It’s very expensive. Mal came to my party dressed as Jack Sparrow, ignoring the very clear superhero costume instructions on the invitation.’

  ‘And he decides to try alcohol for the first time,’ says Jim, taking over. ‘He raids Oli’s parents’ drinks cabinet then wanders outside. Next thing we know, a neighbour’s knocking on the door in his pyjamas and he’s got Captain Jack in an armlock. Then the police turn up!’

  ‘Apparently I went into the neighbour’s house,’ says Mal.

  ‘They came downstairs to find a pirate drinking a pint of their milk and dancing around the kitchen to Sting,’ says Jim. He’s laughing so much he’s alarming the ducks.

  ‘Apparently I put the radio on,’ adds Mal.

  ‘Oliver, you have got to have a party,’ I say. ‘If your last one was that good, imagine what this one will be like!’

  Mal says, ‘We could do superheroes again. You’d get to be Batman, Oli …’

  Oliver bites his lip and we can see that he’s tempted.

  ‘I’ll help tidy up,’ adds Hilary. ‘I won’t go home until your house is spotless.’

  Slowly, Oliver nods. ‘OK, next Friday, superhero party at my place, but you’ve got to promise to keep it small.’

  We all yell, sending the ducks flying into the air.

  ‘Avian flu!’ shouts Jim. ‘Cover your mouths!’ Then he crouches close to me. ‘I am so putting it on Facebook.’

  ‘It’s going to be massive,’ I say, and we share a look of wicked complicity.

  TWENTY-NINE

  We spend Friday lunchtime in the common room discussing the important issue of costumes. Oliver’s just explaining exactly who Bushmaster is (a human being with cybernetic arms and tails, obviously), when Uncle Emil walks into the canteen with his toolbox. He’s followed by Fab, who’s staggering under the weight of a huge cardboard box. This should be a surprising sight, but I became immune to the surprising things Fab does a long time ago.

  ‘What’s your boyfriend up to now?’ says Jim.

  Before I can answer, or even hit him on the arm, Hilary says, ‘Fab’s got permission to set his table football up in here. He told me about it in French.’

  I feel a flicker of irritation that Fab didn’t tell me about his table football, but I remind myself not to be stupid. Why should he have mentioned it to me? Didn’t I make it very clear that I’m not his girl?

  Fab starts pulling handles out of the box covered in little football players, and Hilary announces, ‘I’m going to be Squirrel Girl.’

  ‘You’ve made that up,’ says Jim.

  ‘Ah, she hasn’t, actually,’ says Oliver. ‘Squirrel Girl first appeared in 1992 in a Marvel comic drawn by Steve Ditko.’

  ‘Her costume’s all furry.’ Hilary gives herself a cuddle in anticipation.

  ‘What’s Squirrel Girl’s power?’ I ask.

  ‘She can communicate with squirrels,’ says Hilary.

  ‘Rubbish superpower,’ muses Mal.

  ‘Says the man who’s never encountered an angry squirrel,’ says Oliver, darkly. ‘They bite to the bone.’

  Over in the centre of the room, Emil starts shouting at Fab and waving a screwdriver in his face. Today Fab is dressed from head to toe in black Adidas. His tracksuit top is zipped up high and he’s rolled up his sleeves. Pushed to the back of his head is a black beanie. If he wasn’t wearing his espadrilles, he’d look like a ninja.

  ‘Annie!’ Jim’s clicking his fingers in front of his face. ‘Which superhero are you going to be?’

  ‘Hit-Girl,’ I say. ‘I’ve always wanted an excuse to wear a purple wig.’

  We chat about wigs and tights for a bit longer, then Jim gets to his feet. ‘I’ll see you dudes later. I’ve got a driving lesson.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Mal looks amazed. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘Because you’d want to watch me drive out of college and that would put me off.’

  Mal grabs Oliver. ‘Let’s watch him drive out of college and put him off.’

  Jim groans and runs out of the common room with Mal and Oliver close behind him.

  ‘I like them,’ I say. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Hilary, wrinkling her nose. ‘They’re cute.’

  We sit back on the sofa and soak up the great Friday feeling that’s sweeping the common room. Everyone’s in a good mood and the iPod Hoggers have even allowed some popular music to be played.

  Soon the football table has been constructed and Fab tests each handle in turn, making the players spin round.

  Next to me, Hilary sighs. ‘I am so disappointed about you two.’

  ‘What?’ I glance across at her.

  ‘You and Fab. I was shipping you guys so hard.’

 
‘Well, you picked the wrong couple to ship.’

  I break a corner off my waffle and watch as Fab says goodbye to his uncle, shaking his hand and then giving him a bear hug. It looks like the table’s ready for its first match.

  ‘Scarlett,’ Fab calls out, ‘come and play!’

  I watch as the Hogger with the achingly cool short hair jumps up and goes to stand next to Fab. Two of Scarlet’s friends take the opposite side of the table.

  Fab drops the ball into the centre, and they’re off, spinning the handles, yelling and swearing (with the exception of Fab). Scarlett clearly isn’t in full control of her goalie because Fab keeps having to reach round her to get to it.

  Suddenly, Hilary says, ‘So if you don’t like him, how come you’re stalking him with your eyes?’

  ‘What?’ I turn to see her looking at me and smiling. ‘I am not! He’s hard to avoid, that’s all. He’s tall … and so loud. If a double-decker bus honked its horn, you’d look at it, right?’

  They must have scored because Fab’s roaring in delight and hugging Scarlett.

  ‘Well, if your eyes were a tongue,’ says Hilary, ‘then you’d have licked Fab to death in the past five minutes.’

  ‘Ew, Hilary. First of all, gross. Secondly, shut up! What are you on about?’

  ‘Are you eating that?’ She nods towards the waffle on my plate.

  ‘No. All your licking talk has made me lose my appetite.’

  She picks it up and takes a bite. ‘It’s just, I’ve been watching you, and thinking that maybe you kind of like Fab and you’re feeling a bit jealous.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but, no, I haven’t suddenly developed a thing for sportswear combined with excessive height.’

  She shrugs. ‘Must have misread the signals,’ she pops the last bit of my waffle into her mouth, ‘because that’s exactly what I thought you were into.’ She jumps to her feet. ‘Gotta go. I’ve got a book waiting for me at the library. You coming?’

  I think about all the stairs that would involve and how jelly-like my legs feel right now and the fact that my wheelchair is currently on the opposite side of college. ‘No, thanks. Sofa’s too comfy.’

  Then I’m all alone. Just me and my thoughts and a noisy game of table football. And my thoughts get massively stuck on what Hilary just said. I stare at Scarlett. Right now, her pretty little head is flung back and she’s laughing at the top of her voice. She deliberately bumps against Fab with her hip, pushing him away from the table with her tiny denim-encased bottom. She’s also wearing chunky boots and an enormous cardigan. She looks amazing … Cow.

  Oh, God. I have just called a girl I have never spoken to a cow. Hilary’s right … I must be jealous!

  The thought makes me sit up a little taller because if I’m jealous of Scarlett then Hilary’s right about that other thing too: I must like Fab. That’s how jealousy works! Immediately, I feel slightly sick and start to blush, even though I’m sitting all on my own and no one is watching me. Clearly, I’ve got a problem with the idea, but I force myself to run with it, just for a moment, so I can work out exactly what my mind is playing at.

  Say I do like Fab. I know he likes me so it would be simple, wouldn’t it? I’d just go up to him and say, ‘Hey, Fab, I’ve got the hots for you. Let’s go out.’ I could do it today. ‘Sure thing,’ he’d say – conveniently forgetting everything I said to him on Monday – then he’d wrap his big arms around me, pulling me close, and I’d slip my arms round him and our whole bodies would touch, and …

  No. No way. It would get so intense so quickly. Fab isn’t the sort of person who does things by halves. He’d expect to hold hands, sit next to me in the common room, text me, ring me, know what I’m thinking and feeling every moment of the day. I’d become Fab’s girl. I’d become Fannie.

  I push the liking Fab thing into a corner of my mind and I lock it away … then I throw away the key.

  Straight away, I feel better, lighter.

  ‘Annie!’ I look up and see Fab standing in front of me with a big smile on his face. ‘Coming to English?’

  ‘Yes, I am!’ I say, a bit too brightly.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘You look red.’

  ‘Do I?’ I look down as I gather up my stuff. ‘Well, it’s hot in here, don’t you think?’

  ‘No.’

  Urrgh! Why does he have to always speak the truth?

  ‘Well, I’m wearing layers. Layers make me hot, but cosy, you know?’ Wow. I need to stop talking. ‘And that’s why I’m red. Layers. So. English. Shall we go?’

  He smiles and shrugs. ‘I’m waiting for you.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ I say, then I laugh a little too brightly and for a little too long.

  THIRTY

  I spend the weekend making my Hit-Girl costume and trying and failing not to think about Fab. It doesn’t help that we’ve got an essay due in and he sends me a series of Wuthering Heights–related texts. They’re all very businesslike – Annie, exactly how old is Heathcliff when he leaves Wuthering Heights?; Annie, when does Catherine marry Edgar? – but they have the effect of turning my bedroom into the common room. Fab just keeps popping up all the time, and each time my phone pings I get this little flutter of anticipation and I blush.

  I blush on my own in my bedroom!

  But I tell myself Hilary’s wrong. I’m not acting like this because I’m lusting after Fab – I’m simply addicted to the constant attention he’d been giving me. I don’t like the taste of Pringles and I know they’re not good for me, but once I’ve put one in my mouth I can’t stop eating them. I’m addicted to Fab, that’s all, and I need to get him out of my system. I need a Fab detox.

  I decide that the party is the perfect Fabstraction – after all, he’s already told me he can’t go – so when I’m back at college I throw myself into planning Oliver’s party.

  I say ‘Oliver’s party’, but really it’s become our party. We decide on a guest list (modest), food (pizza and crisps), drink (whatever everyone brings) and we finalise the dress code (if you’re not in a leotard and/or tights then you’re not coming in). Soon we’ve got Oliver to agree to a giant spider’s web in his kitchen, ‘kryptonite’ jelly and a load of props for a selfie booth.

  On Thursday, I’m so busy sewing sequins on Jim’s duvet cover (it’s going to be his Robin cape) that I don’t even notice Fab presenting Peggy with a birthday cake until everyone starts singing ‘Happy Birthday’. Progress!

  The party planning goes well until Oliver gets cold feet on Friday lunchtime.

  ‘Mum collects owls and Dad grows bonsai,’ he says, nibbling fiercely on a carrot. ‘If loads of people come tonight then something will get broken.’

  ‘Oli, calm down,’ says Jim. ‘Loads of people are not going to be a problem. We’re just not that popular. More likely it’s just going to be us five sitting around your living room, wearing masks and admiring your dad’s tiny trees.’

  ‘And fighting our way out of the spider’s web,’ adds Hilary.

  Oli gasps. ‘You see? These things get out of hand!’

  ‘Only if someone puts an invitation on Facebook,’ says Jim. ‘Which we haven’t done, have we, Mal?’

  Mal shakes his head solemnly. ‘And we didn’t stand up and tell everyone in our maths group about it either.’

  Oliver’s eyes widen in alarm, so I add, ‘And we’ve definitely not stuck up posters on the doors of the girls’ toilets.’

  ‘Or told my brother, who hangs out with some really badass drug dealers who fight with Clocks,’ says Hilary.

  ‘Don’t you mean Glocks?’ says Jim, smiling.

  Hilary nods. ‘Yeah, that’s what I said, Clocks!’

  ‘Don’t joke about badass drug dealers,’ says Oliver. ‘One of Mum’s owls is Murano glass. It’s very rare and expensive. A drug dealer would probably love to get their hands on it.’

  ‘Unfortunately we are joking,’ says Jim, sighing and running his hands through his already messed-up hair. ‘I
’m not sure we can even call it a party. Do ten people in a room make a party, or is it a gathering?’ He nods towards me and Hilary. ‘I think you two are the only girls going.’

  ‘We’re all you need,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Annie,’ says Mal, ‘have you asked Fab?’ He nods across the common room to where Fab is playing a solo game of table football, leaning across the table to operate both teams. I’m afraid I noticed this some time ago, but in my defence he is talking to himself, loudly.

  ‘Fab’s busy,’ I say.

  He’s going to Simon’s stag do, which is obviously excellent news because I can’t detox from Fab if he’s handing out pizza dressed as Wolverine. I’m not sure why I’ve just imagined Fab dressed as Wolverine, but suddenly it’s a powerful image and I’m looking at Fab and picturing it in vivid detail: the vest, the jeans, the shiny belt buckle … What’s wrong with me? I’m supposed to be weaning myself off Fab, not imagining him in a skintight vest!

  ‘This party is going to be great,’ I say, tearing my eyes away. Then I add, in a loud and confident voice, ‘And we definitely don’t need Fab to be there.’

  ‘If there’s one person I actually want at my party, it’s Fab,’ Oliver mutters.

  ‘Why?’ I burst out. ‘He’s not that great!’

  He looks at me. ‘Yes. He is. People listen to Fab. If Fab says, “Don’t touch the tiny trees” then no one will touch the tiny trees.’

  ‘Oliver, people listen to me too, and I can protect those bonsai.’

  He nods. ‘I suppose so … But Fab’s got this presence –’

  I roll my eyes. ‘He’s got a big voice, that’s all.’

  On cue, Fab yells out, ‘GOL!’

  ‘Oliver, no one’s touching those little trees,’ I say, ‘not on my watch. And we don’t need Fab Kaczka’s magical presence in our lives!’

  The four of them look at me, frowning.

  ‘At the party. We don’t need his magical presence at the party. Tonight.’

  The boys nod, but Hilary keeps looking at me, eyes narrowed, with a smile playing on her lips.