Super Awkward
Page 14
I flung back the covers, pulling on my horse slippers for the three-second journey to my crisis area. The floor by my radiator.
Dear World, I, Bella Fisher have decided to never leave my house again and resign as a member of the human race. I am no good at it, and every day gives me more opportunities to entertain all other humans with my misfortune. Please consider this my resignation following today’s pivotal events. Au revoir.
Using French made it seem more dramatic. More ‘romantic’ tragedy, than ‘I’m a massive tragedy’. Must write it down and post a copy to everyone, like a bad news Father Christmas. Yes. I felt a bit better already.
The scene of the shame was the art room. Mr Lutas’s domain. Last lesson of the day. A totally average occurrence, where totally average things should happen.
The room had been noisier than normal as for the first time, we were going to be joined by some of our sixth formers, including some newbies. Teaching support was part of one of their modules and they’d been assigned our class to help out with until the end of term. But what was causing the chatter was that apparently one of the boys was hotter than the sun. I was obvs avoiding eye contact with Tegan, but my side-eye had spotted that even she had applied clear (school regulation) lipgloss awaiting their arrival.
I was sitting in my usual place, all of my work on this month’s project in trays in front of me. I was happy, I was laughing, I was totally unaware of what was about to happen.
Earlier this year, Mr Lutas had set us the title of ‘Trilogy of Emotion’ and my project had been going surprisingly well. I think it was because it was the kind of art that didn’t actually need to look like anything, so if you went wrong, no one could tell, and you could just say, ‘Oh, well that is art’. For ‘Hate’ I was originally going to make a photography project, with loads of pictures of conceptual toilet-door gender signs. It drives me mad – how am I meant to know if I’m a mermaid or a seahorse, or an elephant with or without a tusk, or a cake or a biscuit? I just need to wee. However, I thought taking pictures outside toilet doors might get me A-rrested rather than an ‘A’, so instead I’d done a clay sculpture of a chunk of Stilton, with a whole pineapple on top. Cheese + pineapple = true crime against food. Sculpting cheese was also mega easy. I just had to make one big shape, because cheese can be any shape. Cheesey-peasy.
My second completed one was for ‘Fear’. I’d tried to appeal to Mr Lutas, by making a piece that represented being ‘Born to Succeed?’ (the question mark was very important, so I’d outlined that bit in Tippex). I’d made a dangling baby mobile made up of pictures of things that are intimidatingly successful. It had gone quite well, Mr Lutas nodding with approval as Emma Watson’s, Beyoncé’s, Anna Kendrick’s, Steve Jobs’ and Michelle Obama’s faces drifted round.
After seeing my clay cheese creation, Mr Lutas had advised me to really ‘concentrate on conceptualizing a strong creative vision’. I think he’d meant, ‘don’t make something so awful ever again’. So I knew I had to nail it with my final piece, ‘Love’. My work on it already took up most of the space on my table. I’d started it a couple of weeks ago, when my vision for it had been totally clear. There was only one love in my life – apart from my music collection, aye-ayes, anything with marshmallow in, my camera, Chomps, sleeping, beluga whales, all other whales, Mumbles, MIAGTM and lasagne – and that was Zac.
Mr Lutas wanted effort, and that’s what I’d given him. I’d told him it wasn’t inspired by a real person, but was a representation of how a person can embody all the feelings of ‘love’.
To call what I had created ‘art’ would be a gross underestimation. It was a multi-layered, schizophrenic, 3D tribute to Zac and my obsession with him. Pictures of caravans, a doll’s shoe, a lock of my sister’s hair (well a clump I stole from her hairbrush), a badger dressed as an arrow. I’d even recently added a secondary layer of varnished popcorn and a pigeon’s footprint. With each new addition it became more of a monstrosity, and the more Mr Lutas couldn’t decide if it was insanity or genius. I couldn’t tell either. I’d called it ‘Lights Camera Zaction’. Last lesson Mr Lutas had called it a ‘deeply troubled creative vision’.
Either way, award-winning or alarming, today was the day I was going to finally complete it with its crowning glory, AND get back in Mr Lutas’s good books. So, as soon as he gave us the nod, I was off. Within the first ten minutes I’d got to where I wanted to be – placing on the giant letters – Z, A and C – all made up of messages that the two of us had sent. Mr Lutas congratulated me on my use of ‘découpage’, and said it might help me get full marks. I’d nodded thoughtfully, said ‘thank you’ and decided not to admit that I had no idea what découpage was.
I tried not to look at the other end of my table, and compare my project to Rachel’s, which was probably going to be exhibited in the Tate. Maybe painting triangles is the way to making millions.
Just as I stuck the Z down, Mr Lutas announced he had to leave us alone for five minutes, and strode out of the room. The noise exploded up like when you accidentally sit on the TV remote and almost shatter your windows with the Coronation Street theme tune. But when he strode back in, the chat stopped even more quickly than it had started.
“Everyone, settle down. I’d like to intrrrroduce you to our teaching assistants.”
The girls exchanged looks. It was their time to shine. I carried on gluing down the letter C.
“As you should know, some of our specially selected sixth formers will be joining this class between now and the end of the terrrrm. It’s part of their course to explore the worrrrld of teaching, so please consider them as extra teachers and treat them accordingly.” He’d turned towards the door. “Come on in, lads, ladies.”
I’d grossed out at Mr Lutas saying ‘lads’. The rest of the room rippled with excitement. Arrival of fresh, older eye candy. In they walked.
You know in cartoons when someone’s jaw hits the floor? Well my jaw fell so hard it dented the extra popcorn I’d just glued on. There were indeed some hotties – as well as some bored-looking cool girls. And one of the boys was indeed the hottest person I’d ever seen. No wonder everyone had been so excited to meet him. Tall, dark, smart yet scruffy hair, gorgeous eyes.
But hand on heart, he wasn’t hotter than Zac. Oh no, it was way worse than that.
He was Zac.
HELLO, WORST MOMENT OF MY LIFE.
Luckily Zac didn’t spot me in the sea of drooling faces.
If I threw up on my artwork, would Mr Lutas grade it higher for ‘creative concept’?
I rubbed my ankles together as fast as I could in an attempt to spontaneously combust my socks, or at least set off the fire alarm. But with no flames emerging, Mr Lutas started introducing the students. All I could hear was my head screaming, ‘WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!!!’.
“Err, hello, everyone. I’m new here, so bear with me.” Zac coughed to try and clear a path for his words through the stifled giggles. “So, any questions, please ask, and I’ll do my best to figure out the answer.”
I had a question – what the hell was Zac doing in my classroom?! He said he was going to BIRMINGHAM?
It all rushed through my head – the holiday, the date, the lying about my age, the fact that that I’d now half-snogged (hogged?) one of our sixth formers through deceit and treachery. Was that even legal?! There was no way he could see me. Or my artwork. WITH HIS ACTUAL NAME ON.
In a puff of madness I’d dived under my table, timing it perfectly, as at the front of the room Lou caused a distraction by putting her hand up. She’s one of those girls who doesn’t care about marks, as long as she’s the centre of attention. Fine by me, I was hiding on the floor. We had very different agendas.
“Hello, sir, great to meet you.” She’d used her most suck-up voice. “I was wondering, could you come and help me make ‘love’ on my canvas?”
Mr Lutas spluttered, the class erupted. I contemplated a daring, under-desk crawling escape.
“Oi, Rachel. Oi!”
I’d tugged at her skirt. She’d waited till the coast was clear and hissed down.
“What on earth are you doing??”
“Ineedtogetoutofhere. NOW.”
But it was too late. Four feet, with two people attached were walking towards us.
“Bella, what arrrrre you doing down there?” Mr Lutas seemed personally offended by me being under a desk.
“BELLA!” Chalk dust from his groin rained past my head as he stamped his foot.
Escape options flashed through my head like a DVD fast forwarding.
“BELLA get up here NOW! Unless you want to give up on the hope of holding on to any of your prrrrrom points?”
But I couldn’t move one single muscle.
Mr Lutas cleared his throat. “Be clear, you can consider this yourrrr FINAL WARNING.”
I only had one option. And even I was ashamed to try it.
“My name’s not Bella –” yes, I’d attempted disguise – “it’s, er, Bell-errr. . .” THINK! “. . . ina?”
I swallowed.
“BELLERINA?!” Mr Lutas bellowed so hard one of his spit globules hit my left foot.
“Er, yes?”
Cringecringecrange.
“WHATEVER YOU ARE CALLED.” I figured when someone is apoplectic with rage is probably not the time to tell them you’d actually been aiming for Belinda but only just remembered it. “I don’t know what you’rrre playing at, but get up off that floor. NOW.”
I, Bellerina, had embarrassed Mr Lutas in front of his hotshot college students and I was going to have pay. To say things were not going to plan would be like saying Louis Tomlinson can afford to buy a single Chomp.
I’d buried my head in my hands, trying to hide both my face and my intense shame. But hands weren’t enough, so I’d pulled my jumper up and over my head, cocooning myself in a beige cavern. Classy. But Zac not recognizing me was bigger than what Mr Lutas, or any of the thirty people clearly staring at me, thought.
Under the table a hand thrust towards me.
“Er, hello, Bella. Nice to meet you. I really hope it’s not me that’s made you sit under a table with a jumper on your head.”
Zac clearly thought I was the class weirdo, and used an extra supportive ‘I’m on your side’ voice. I know Zac had told me he liked unpredictable girls, but surely this overstepped the line. And then circumnavigated the globe and then re-stepped over it again.
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m just, er, having an allergic reaction to some paint.”
But would he give up? Of course not. He was Zac. Caring. Persistent. Calm. Totally annoying.
He did exactly what I hoped he wouldn’t do. He bent down to my level. I was face to face with him. Just he didn’t know as there was a layer of wool between us.
“Can I do anything to help?”
Mr Lutas’s aftershave wafted in the air as he bent down too.
“I said. Get. Up. Off. The. Floor. And take that jumper off your head.”
There was no way out.
I slowly pulled my jumper down, my horrified face revealing itself millimetre by painful millimetre. Zac did the world’s biggest double-double-take. Maybe even a double-double-double-take, which is like eight takes.
“What the hell?!” He’d recoiled back so hard he whacked his head on the desk. Without another word – other than ‘ow’ – he made his way back to standing, pretending that he’d slipped.
In that one second, under that one desk, I, Bella Fisher, had officially ruined my life. How was I going to ever be able to explain any of this to Zac? I’d crawled back up and slumped into my chair, pretending not to hear the whispers.
Rachel looked concerned.
“Are you OK?” she’d mouthed. But the worst was yet to come. Mr Lutas wanted to reassure the placement students that I wasn’t a danger to the teaching profession, and normally functioned as a normal student.
“When this young lady is not hiding under tables for no explicable reason, she can be found working on quite an interrrresting interrrpretation for her ‘love’ piece. Isn’t that right?” Mr Lutas grabbed my work and held it up proudly. “Just look at that découpage!”
Maybe, if I was beyond lucky, Zac could be perfect in every way except for lacking the ability to read his own name.
But I was anti-lucky. A black hole of luck.
Mr Lutas pointed to the messages I’d just stuck on.
“See how Bella has made up some messages that only someone in the complete throws of a teenage crush would send? Great creativity. See?” He pointed to the exact messages that I’d sent to Rachel that morning. “If Z was a country, he’d be Fitaly – national dish Spag-hottie.” He pointed at another. “He’s so hot that if we put bread on his head it would turn to toast.” And also, “Even his wrists are fanciable.” Mr Lutas did an actual chortle. “I mean she’s really captured the mind-set of somebody out of control with young love! Really on the brink of madness.”
If Zac wasn’t already speechless, standing beside a 3D (4D if you counted the smell of popcorn) shrine to himself achieved it. I couldn’t look at his face. Or his wrists. I was numb with embarrassment. The class must have thought Zac was overcome with my art. I knew he was probably wondering whether to call the police.
I fixed my eyes on my feet as if I’d just discovered tiny Borrowers doing a Mexican wave on my toes.
“And what a coincidence that she chose your name. Maybe you can give her some extra guidance?”
Rachel’s eyes widened. The penny dropped. Along with the bottom out of my world. Thank goodness Mr Lutas whisked Zac back to the other sixth formers to show-off far more impressive/not-hiding-under-a-table students.
I was so cross with myself I wanted to screw up my whole art project, throw it in the bin, then jump in after it, but I knew I couldn’t risk any more drama around Mr Lutas. And I’d probably get stuck in the bin.
Once the hysteria of having real-life fit people in the room had died down, everyone got back to their work. My progress was severely stunted as I was so scared of locking eyes with Zac, I couldn’t walk to get any of the stuff I needed, so had to fake paint with a pencil for forty-five minutes, occasionally stepping back and looking at it knowingly. When I finally confirmed to Rachel that Zac was THE Zac, and yes, he was even better looking IRL than in the photos I’d shown her on almost an hourly basis, she had to physically sit down and fan herself. When she recovered, she reasoned I shouldn’t be so miserable, as I now had living proof of the world’s best-ever pull.
In one lesson I’d gone from wanting to see Zac every day, to having the possibility of it – and wishing I didn’t. WHY had I lied about my age? WHY OH WHY did I say I was at college? Oh yeah – to kiss him. But was it worth it? Er, yes, but that’s not the point. I’d ruined EVERYTHING. He was never going to talk to me now, let alone go on date number three. And if he wasn’t speaking to me, it was going to be hard for me to speak at him to explain myself. Or suggest a life of happiness together.
I don’t know how I made it through the rest of that lesson. Through the end of the day. Through the walk home. Through Jo giving me a hug on my bed as I spilled the full Zac story from standing-him up, to seeing him in Worcester (minus cinema trip), to revealing my accidental art shrine to him. I never thought I’d be grateful that she was home for exam leave.
As I lay in bed trying to figure out what to do next, my phone lit up. New message. Probably more abuse.
Well that was awkward.
ARGH! As if Zac needed to remind me. I stared at the full stop. He’d never just full stopped me at the end of a message before. But then he’d never known that I was a fake-art-college-student-called-Bellerina until today.
I panic messaged back before I could overthink it.
I’m SO sorry. None of this was meant to
happen. OBVS.
I followed up with one of the many things that had been on my mind ever since it happened.
How come you didn’t tell me you’d already
moved?
I was going to give it a week to settle in and
surprise you. Didn’t see your name on the college
list, so didn’t think we’d run into each other there.
Guess you’re the one full of surprises
Mortification. He’d been trying to be extra nice, and I’d been an extra-massive disappointment. If only there was a ‘Please forgive me, I’m a total idiot, and I make terrible decisions when around insanely perfect people’ emoji.
Was there anything I could do to convince him to give me a second chance? Try and remind him how much fun we had before all this? I HAD to go all out. I HAD to get him to hear me out.
I’m not. I swear. I’m sorry x 1 million. Can we
talk? Tomorrow at first break?
My life hung in the balance of his reply. ‘Typing’. TYPE FASTER!
Y’know my Italy trip? Well, it’s a yes IF I get
full marks for this placement. So I can’t risk any
drama, or anyone finding out we’ve got history.
I was getting in touch to say we should probably
give each other some space. . . Hope you
understand.
I stared numbly at the screen. His one-hundred-and-ninety-eight-character way of saying ‘no’. He’d been so excited about trying to get on that Italy/Fitaly art trip – and I’d been so excited for him. I never guessed I’d end up being the one thing putting it at risk.
Another message popped up.
Look, I’ll know about the trip by that end of
term party. How about we speak then? I’ll be
supervising.
Eurgh. He meant prom and that was almost two weeks away. So much for him being my date to it – now he was going to be the one telling me off for walking on the wrong side of the corridor.