by C. J. Duggan
I looked away. Enough. I had seen enough. I felt so stupid thinking how amazing it had been that he had asked to borrow a pen, a freaking pen; big bloody deal. The way I had revelled in our verbal sparring match on the beach, only to remember how Boon had taunted me the night before with insinuations. That’s just what boys do, Lexie. They flirt and like to watch you blush and squirm with their innuendos: these boys more than any others. They were in Year Twelve, eighteen, and legally of age. What better way to pass the time than to entertain themselves with a funny mousy girl from the country? Taunt the likes of me while they bedded girls like Lucy. I had been kidding myself, kidding myself all along that Ballantine would even so much as think about me in that way. I’d instead over-analysed the big amounts of nothing, and weaved them into something – romanticising every minute action. What. An. Idiot. What would I know about a boy like him?
I made a promise to myself. No more time wasting, no more staring or swooning over Ballantine. Not only was he obviously trouble, but he was a direct route to a broken heart. I could already feel the frayed edges of disappointment at seeing him just talk to a girl. Enough was enough. I breathed in deeply, resigning myself to take one last look at him, as if to get some closure before sticking with my decision.
One last look and then move on, Lexie!
So when my eyes finally shifted to where Ballantine stood, my breath caught in my throat. The universe was playing one last dirty trick on me, because my eyes had locked directly with his. He was already staring at me with an amused expression. I was tempted to look behind me, wondering if he was looking at someone else, but instead my eyes narrowed in question, eliciting a boyish grin from him before he stepped up on the kerb and glanced towards the sound of our bus nearing. It was a brief yet most direct connection, of that I was sure. I know because I made a clear note to make sure it was in fact real and not imagined, but Ballantine had definitely been looking at me, he had definitely smiled and I didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, but my head told me I didn’t want any part of it.
If only my heart would bloody listen.
Chapter Twenty
Boys were stupid, and for a brief moment the idea of an all-girls school seemed genius, until I remembered Lucy and her cheer squad. Okay, definitely a bad idea.
I chose to distance myself from Amanda and co. at recess, instead taking in the quiet surrounds and leaning against a paperbark tree chewing a raspberry roll-up with Laura cross-legged in front of me.
I wanted to tell her about my late-night sneak-out (minus her brother’s involvement) and my reconciliation with Amanda. I wanted to blab about how crushed I’d been over Ballantine disappearing and then have a giant hate session on Lucy Fell-on-her-face. But of course I didn’t dare, knowing she would probably write my confessions in her bloody diary, and more importantly, recalling Boon’s words about Laura crushing on Ballantine. I only hoped that that diary entry was old, really old, and that she no longer felt that way. You know, for her sake, I thought, because I wasn’t going there anymore, remember?
Yeah, right.
None of those thoughts sounded in the least bit believable. Still, I had impressed myself by making the decision to sit on the side of the school that would have me nowhere near the Kirkland boys.
And just when I was thinking there was hope yet, I heard a distant yell.
‘HEADS!’
A football came sailing through the air, ricocheting off the trunk of the tree, oh so close to my head. I squealed, protecting the back of my head with linked hands, remaining that way for a long moment, until I slowly lifted my gaze to check if the coast was clear.
‘Sorry, ladies.’ Ballantine jogged over, laughing at the near miss.
‘Bloody hell, Ballantine, you almost took off Lexie’s head,’ said Laura, joining in on the laughter. Ballantine leant down, a whoosh of his aftershave swept over me, as did his mischievous look as he picked up the footy.
‘Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?’ he said, winking at Laura as if letting her in on the joke.
Laura was blushing profusely, probably over-analysing that very wink. Ballantine backed away before turning and thumping the footy across the field to where a cluster of boys played in front of us. Where Ballantine played in front of us. I sighed. Try as I might, there was no escaping him and, more disturbingly, I didn’t really want to.
•
For the most part, the sound of the lunch bell elicited fist-pumps and whoops as everyone clambered for freedom. I wished I could enjoy that feeling; instead, I slinked my way to Siberia. If I had a rock and a chisel I would engrave a second line on the wall. I was deliberately the first one there, even ahead of whatever poor teacher had drawn the short straw and had to watch over us. I slid the door closed behind me, making my way towards the very back today; might as well mix things up a bit.
The next to arrive was a boy I hadn’t seen before, with spiky hair that was a bit too long. I think he was going for punker-rock-badass with a dog chain hooked on the hip of his jeans. He wasn’t quite pulling it off – something about the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose didn’t exactly intimidate, somehow.
The door flew open and I saw an arm point into the room before I followed it to a familiar elbow-patched jacket and moustache.
Mr Branson. My heart stopped, thinking – no, fearing – that he was the teacher who would be watching over us, but instead he merely stood in the doorway, pointing to the front row. ‘Sit,’ he bit out, as if commanding a disobedient animal.
‘But, sir!’ came a long, pained whine from the hall.
‘Now, Erica Yatesby, I will not be telling you again!’ His face was flushed; I could tell he was on his last ounce of patience before exploding.
There were heavy footsteps as a girl with unnaturally blonde hair and unnaturally tanned skin (both a result of a bottle) sighed and slunk her way into her seat, pressing her head against the tabletop. ‘It’s not fair,’ she whined.
‘No, it never is, is it?’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she exclaimed, tears of frustration causing pale lines to streak through her foundation.
‘No, it never is, is it?’ Mr Branson repeated. He reminded me of an unenthusiastic Willy Wonka who would like nothing more than to send all the naughty children to the boiler room.
He switched his focus to across the room. ‘Got plenty to do I hope, Robbie Robinson?’
My head snapped to the spiky-haired boy.
So that was Robbie Robinson, definitely not a badass.
Before he could reply, everyone’s attention shifted to the two figures that appeared in the doorway.
‘Mr Branson.’ They both nodded, but with an air of cheekiness as they rather miserably attempted to stifle their grins.
‘Well, well, it wouldn’t be a complete detention without Boon and Ballantine, would it?’ Mr Branson said, shaking his head.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Mr Branson was this bitter all the time.
Ballantine and Boon made their way into the class.
‘How about we sit apart, boys, wouldn’t want you to be distracted now.’
The boys stilled, looking at each other with guarded amusement.
Boon broke off down the middle aisle, throwing his books onto a desk and taking a seat. ‘Yeah, Ballantine, stop distracting me.’
Boon had slunk in his chair much like the overly dramatic Erica Yatesby had, but my amusement was short-lived when Ballantine continued down the aisle, all the way to the back row. His steps closed in and his silhouette appeared in my peripheral vision as I forced myself to read my textbook, concentrating not so much on reading the words but on keeping calm and breathing evenly.
His books crashed down next to mine, the scraping of the chair legs across the floor shrieked as if someone had run their nails across a blackboard. A shiver ran down my spine, but for all the wrong reasons, as he took a seat next to me. The smell of his cool, crisp scent washed over me; I wanted to lean into it. Inst
ead, I busied myself by foraging through my pencil case and without a word, pulled out the black ballpoint pen from last detention and held it out to him.
Ballantine’s eyes flicked from me to the pen with interest. He reached out his hand and clasped it over mine. His fingers were soft and warm; they slid over my skin in a fleeting caress. I wondered if it was just a matter of me overthinking everything, but there was no overthinking the devious look in his eyes when he took the pen from me. It was like he was toying with me, much like a lion would prey on a wide-eyed gazelle. I wished he would stop. But, in other ways, I hoped he would continue. Were boys always this confusing?
Boon raised his hand. ‘Mr Branson, I thought you didn’t want Ballantine to be distracted,’ he said with a cheeky backwards glance.
Ballantine laughed, scrunching up a piece of paper and turfing it in Boon’s direction. Boon ducked too late, causing it to bounce off his shoulder blades.
‘Mr Branson, Ballantine threw paper at me,’ Boon whined like a small child, or like Erica Yatesby.
Mr Branson pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. He paced across the front of the room, placing his hands casually on his hips.
‘This is not a summer camp, and it sure as hell isn’t The Breakfast Club. There will be no teachers periodically leaving you to your own devices so you can open up about each other’s lives or wreak havoc in an eighties montage. There will be no Judd Nelsons.’ He pointed at Ballantine. ‘No Molly Ringwalds.’ Pointing at me. ‘And no Emilio Estevez.’ He pointed the finger at Robbie. ‘Capeesh?’
Ballantine leant over to me. ‘He knows way too much about that movie,’ he whispered, causing me to snigger.
Boon was lost in thought, as if he was deeply troubled by what Mr Branson was saying. He raised his hand.
‘Yes?’ Mr Branson snapped.
‘Can I be Emilio Estevez?’
Chapter Twenty-One
As if by some divine intervention Mr Clarkson, the PE teacher and designated detention monitor, stepped into the room, distracting Mr Branson before his head imploded in fury.
‘I’ve got it, John,’ said Mr Clarkson, whacking him on the shoulder with a friendly smile.
Mr Branson grunted something under his breath before storming out; Mr Clarkson’s brows rose as if he was equally relieved he was gone. He turned to take in the faces, his eyes moving from Boon to Ballantine.
‘Well, nice to see you are consistent in some things, boys,’ he said dryly.
Ballantine nodded his head in acknowledgment. ‘Clarko.’
Mr Clarkson, or ‘Clarko’, just shook his head; his demeanour was nothing like Mr Branson’s. I didn’t know if it was his casual Adidas tracksuit pants and runners that made him less intimidating but I actually think he was just a laidback character, the Yin to Mr Branson’s Yang.
‘Okay, folks. Just think of this as like ripping off a Band-Aid: do it without fuss and it will hurt less.’
Such wise words. Even Clarko nodded as if he was proud of his own analogy, taking a seat behind the desk.
Everyone fell into silence. It seemed the presence of Mr Branson brought out the worst in students, whereas Clarko’s calm ways earnt respect from Boon and Ballantine, who readied themselves with their books and work. Well, ‘work’ being Ballantine doodling inside his exercise book. A myriad of waves, swirls and circles made up an inky mural that was both intricate and beautiful. Drawn in red and blue ink, he now added flecks of black from my pen and there was a happiness inside of me that bubbled to the surface, a ridiculous satisfaction knowing that my pen was participating in some small way.
Dear God, get over yourself, Lexie.
I shut my overactive thoughts down.
Don’t think about the boy, the hot boy who, for some reason, out of all the chairs in all of Siberia, chose to sit next to you.
I tried to not get too excited about that. I had been surprised at the time but now I’d had a whole hour to reflect and think and basically be tortured by his presence, by his mind-numbing scent. I wondered if swooning over a boy was a legitimate cause to be admitted to the sick bay?
My thoughts were distracted by the jigging of Boon’s leg in front; his short attention span would be hard work for him, especially with no-one to pass notes to, no-one to taunt.
It had me thinking, and then, before I knew it . . . doing.
There was one way to pass the time and I slowly tore out a lined piece of paper from my book. I watched as Clarko was busying himself, marking papers.
I scribbled on the paper, smiling a small smile and feeling a little giddy at what I was about to do. I was going to break the ice with Ballantine. Treat him just like any other boy, strip back the fact he was ludicrously hot; let’s just be two normal people in detention.
I slid the paper over to him, causing him to still from his masterpiece. His eyes flicked up to Clarko. Ensuring the coast was clear, he pulled the paper over to him, which shot an unexpected thrill through me.
He read my slanted writing, short and sweet.
Where did you go last night?
If he was surprised by the question he didn’t show it, or maybe he was just using that poker face again. He looked at the note for a long while, so long that I thought he wouldn’t respond, that he would just leave me hanging and feeling mortified. But then he committed pen to paper. Printing in neat, clean writing, and with the same care with which he’d received the note, he slid it back to me.
Home.
Talk about short and sweet. I frowned, looking at the one-word reply.
He went home? He didn’t go to the Wipe Out Bar?
I scribbled a reply and slid it back.
No Wipe Out Bar? Isn’t that the place to be?
I watched intently for his reaction; he breathed a laugh and shook his head, writing his reply.
There’s so much more to see than Dean’s crusty old tourist bar.
There was that name again. It seemed that Dean was very much the character behind the Wipe Out Bar, and with what I had gathered from the bits and pieces of conversations, I hadn’t made up my mind yet whether he was a hero or a villain, but I was looking forward to finding out.
I could’ve asked more, but the note exchange wasn’t exactly riveting stuff; still, I folded the sheet up and tucked it away. I felt a little sad knowing that I would probably moon over it later, like some pathetic pining woman wandering helplessly through the English moors fixating on a love that would never be.
Clarko stood up, stretching. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes, guys. I expect the room to be as I left it, okay?’ He said it more as a joke, and I laughed, not because what he had said was particularly funny, but I remembered Mr Branson telling us how teachers would not periodically disappear, leaving us to our own devices. Guess in the real world though, even teachers need a toilet break.
Mr Clarkson had no sooner left the room than Boon rested on the back of his chair, his mischievous eyes flicking from me to Ballantine and back.
‘Eyes forward, Emilio,’ I said, cutting him off before he had a chance to say something smart.
Boon laughed.
‘You heard Molly, eyes forward,’ Ballantine added in mock seriousness.
Boon shook his head. ‘This Breakfast Club sucks.’
•
There were no more notes passed. Ballantine kept working on his masterpiece and I kept rather unsuccessfully trying to work on my Maths pyramid project; trying to problem-solve was not a smart idea. Maybe I should just read some King Lear instead.
The bell sounded, ending another hour of misery. I couldn’t tell who was faster at packing up their gear, Erica fake-tan or Boon. It was like they had something amazing on their agenda. I had to hand in a Maths project. Surprisingly, though, Clarko was out the door before anyone else. I took my time, slowly packing up, holding off zipping my pencil case until Ballantine returned my pen. But when he moved to stand, having packed up all his gear, I looked up to where he stood, or rather lingered, looking down at me.<
br />
‘Are you going out tonight?’ he asked.
I stilled from pushing my chair out.
Did he seriously ask me a question?
I blinked, trying to think of something to say. I had no idea, I hadn’t planned on going out last night; in fact, nothing in my life was planned ever. I wanted a comeback – something smart, something witty and confident. Like, ‘Yeah, just heading down for a few at the local. Wanna come?’
Instead: ‘Any suggestions for a school night?’ I asked.
Ballantine seemed to be amused by whatever was running through his mind. ‘Some say that the Wipe Out Bar is the place to be,’ he said, repeating my very own words.
‘Really? Because I kind of heard that there are far better things to experience than that,’ I said, gathering my books and standing. Even on my feet I still had to look up at him, into those dark brown eyes that glinted with trouble.
‘I guess it depends on what experience you’re after?’ he said in all seriousness.
‘Oh, yeah? And what experience would you give me?’ I blurted it out, quick and unthinking, and just when I hoped he might take it the wrong way, Ballantine’s brows rose in surprise, his eyes ever watchful as I blushed and squirmed under their scrutiny.
The bell sounded for the last time, and I prayed that it might break the awkward moment between us. But it didn’t. So before he had a chance to reply I did what I did best. ‘Um, better get going,’ I said, brushing past him, trying not to think about how good he smelt or the feel of his eyes boring into me even as I walked away, thinking it was probably best he just keep the pen.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘I know something you don’t know,’ Amanda tauntingly whispered into my ear as she passed me on her way to beat me to the front seat of the car where Uncle Peter waited for us.
Unlike the jovial array of questions about our day Aunty Karen would hit us with, Uncle Peter was too busy talking to himself, or rather the phone glued to his ear. Our laughter was cut off by a rather deep scowl and a finger to the lips for us to be quiet. Do you know how hard it is to close a car door quietly? Near impossible. Aside from Uncle Peter’s business dealings, the commute home was a silent one. Still, it didn’t stop Amanda from torturing me in the rearview mirror. Making kissy-kissy faces and hubba-hubba expressions. My insides were giddy with excitement; I just wanted to scream. What did she know? What did she have to tell me? Wasn’t it enough with Boon’s cryptic message about what a certain ‘mate’ of his had said about me? Was this related? Oh God, would this car ride ever end?