Waiting for Callback

by Perdita Cargill

  The hall was all decked out with random garlands. I think the ugliest ones had been put there to add to the eighties vibe, but the highest-up ones were just left over from various sporting events. It was dark which was a sound design decision. Most of the girls had gone all out with so much neon netting and Lycra it was a full-on fire hazard, but the boys had ducked the theme. (Except for one boy wearing tight orange leggings. Brave but misguided. He was like a walking biology diagram.)

  Moss and I made a beeline for the food, partly to give us time to acclimatize to the shock of being in the same room as the opposite sex, but mostly because, well, it was food.

  ‘Ohmigod, they have Party Rings.’ I hadn’t seen those things since Year Two birthday parties and it was irrationally exciting.

  ‘Shall we just take the bowl and go and eat them at home?’ asked Moss hopefully.

  Tempting but no. Socials were a rite of passage. We needed to experience at least one – if only so we could be as rude about them as all the girls in the upper years.

  ‘This is like some messed-up, twenty-first-century version of the Meryton Assembly in Pride and Prejudice,’ I said, surveying the room. (Surveying the room is very much what people do in Jane Austen novels and Pride and Prejudice was our set text for English.)

  ‘That is a freakishly geekish thing to say,’ said Moss. ‘And how is it like that?’

  ‘One, all us girls have been looking forward to it for weeks because we never get to see boys. Two, more girls have turned up than guys and that fact is really annoying the girls and they’re becoming competitive with one another to get the most attention. Three, there are lots of single-sex groups and occasionally two girls “take a turn about the room” to increase their chances of getting pulled. Four, the boys will all complain about how lame it was and the girls will talk about it for months. Five, none of the fathers will have any interest in what happened and all the mothers will ask too many questions.’

  ‘You’re right. We are totally at the start of a Georgian romcom,’ said Moss. ‘With the sad exception of costumes.’ She tugged down her purple puff ball, which was riding up, but unfortunately only on one side. I passed her a purple Party Ring as an edible accessory.

  ‘I’d forgotten how good these were. I didn’t appreciate them properly when I was seven. They’re so— Eurgh!’ Moss recoiled in horror.

  ‘That was a quick change of opinion.’

  ‘No,’ Moss whispered, ‘look at that.’

  I followed her gaze to a gymnastics bench in a corner, not nearly far enough away from the table, where Flissy was sucking some poor guy’s face. It really put me off my Party Ring (they may be ruined forever by the association). We both stared. It was oddly compelling: as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t look away.

  ‘That’s repulsive,’ said Moss way, way too loudly.

  ‘Oh, hey, guys.’ Flissy sat up proudly. She was wearing little more than an electric-blue leotard and very shiny footless tights – she’d probably matched her costume to her make-out location. She rarely addressed us, but she had a point to make. ‘This is my boyfriend James.’

  ‘It would be a bit weird if it was some other guy.’

  ‘What? Why?’ James asked. He seemed deeply confused by the sophistication of the conversation.

  ‘Because you’ve been sucking each other’s faces for the last five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, it’s been much longer than that.’ Flissy smirked.

  The token PTA father in charge of refreshments looked deeply uncomfortable.

  ‘Let’s leave them to it,’ said Moss because a) they were already back on it and b) it was depressing.

  The music was being provided by one of the many ‘DJs’ the boys’ school had to offer – guys who’d selflessly volunteered to take charge of the music in return for a raised platform on which to show off gravity-defying gelled hair and get a bird’s-eye view of the dance floor for more time-efficient perving. The whole ‘I’m a DJ thing’ was clearly working for this one because Talia and three other girls had already joined him.

  The music was really dance-y and Moss and I got properly into it. We got some attention, but I can’t be sure that it was the right sort; my dancing style is not universally appreciated. I was halfway through an original rendition of the Grease finale (well, that’s what I’d say if challenged) when Moss grabbed my arm.

  ‘Elektra, I know that boy.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Her enthusiasm suggested that it wasn’t anyone I knew. This was a bit of a breakthrough.

  ‘He just moved in practically next door to us.’ She pointed at a guy with shaggy white-blond hair who was leaning against a pillar and watching the party like it was some sort of nature documentary. He was fit if you liked the skinny, arty-boy vibe. Which Moss plainly did. But she was not alone; a small huddle of girls on the other side of the room were watching him too and swaying awkwardly. Moss looked at them bitterly. ‘Look at Kasha and Melly perving on him. Bit desperate – they don’t even know him.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me about winning the boy-next-door lottery.’ What were the odds? A sixty-five-year-old single accountant lived next door to me. On the other side there was a woman with seven cats.

  ‘Torr!’ Moss called, waving her arm only slightly manically.

  Blond boy looked around, confused.

  ‘Torr!’ Moss tried again, going bright red, as well she might.

  He caught sight of her and grinned.

  ‘Oh. My. God. He’s got a sexy-lopsided-grin,’ I whispered. This was something we’d read about, but never (despite intensive research) encountered in the flesh. It was fortunate that skinny, arty boys were not my type: Moss and I had a strict non-compete policy.

  ‘It’s Moss, right? How are you?’ He came towards us.

  ‘I’m good. What are you doing here?’ Moss giggled, more (I hope) for the benefit of the staring girls than for Torr.

  ‘I’ve just started at St John’s . . . Strangely enough, I didn’t choose to crash this thing.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, so lame, right?’ said Moss.

  ‘I’m coming round to the neon fishnet look actually,’ I said.

  Moss dug her nails into my arm. ‘Ha, funny.’ I hadn’t been joking. ‘Torr, this is Elektra.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Elektra.’ Torr cracked out his arty-boy speciality grin.

  ‘We came ironically, but this is killing me,’ said Moss. She was clearly trying to reassemble (assemble?) the aloof and mysterious arty persona that had been destroyed by the Party Rings and cheesy dancing.

  ‘Yeah, I feel you. This is not really my kind of scene.’ (He was doing the whole Darcy ‘above the company’ thing.)

  ‘What is your scene?’

  ‘I’m more into gigs and stuff.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, us too.’ Moss nodded.

  That was a lie. We’d never been to a gig in our lives.

  ‘I’m gonna go and get a drink. Would you girls like anything?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d love one. I’ll have whatever you’re having.’ I’m not going to lie: Moss simpered.

  ‘There’s literally only squash.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She giggled awkwardly. ‘Squash is good.’

  ‘What about you, Elektra?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine, thanks.’

  He sauntered to the refreshments table where PTA man was still desperately trying to ignore Flissy and James’s PDA.

  ‘Elektra, I was legitimately so awkward,’ Moss wailed.

  That was a little bit true; also she’d been speaking in a strange American accent and saying odd things, but now was not the time to point any of that out.

  ‘Come on, Mossy, he was flirting so much. You definitely were too.’

  ‘No I wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes you were, you harlot.’

  ‘OK, yes, I was attempting to and failing miserably. That’s even worse. What if he asks me which gigs we’ve been to?’

  ‘Chill, that’s what Google’s for; we’re experts at
last-minute revision.’

  ‘I can’t believe I actually said, “I’ll have what you’re having.”’

  ‘He loved it.’

  ‘He looked at me like I was insane.’

  That was kind of true actually. ‘Insane in a good way. He practically offered to buy you a drink. That’s how all romcoms start.’

  ‘Free squash does not count.’

  Maybe she had a point. ‘So, what’s the plan of attack?’

  ‘I don’t know. Of course I don’t know. How would I know?’ There was a distinct note of panic creeping into her voice.

  ‘I’m going to disappear so this thing can intensify.’

  ‘No, Elektra, you can’t abandon me. I’m too awkward for this.’

  ‘No you’re not. Your flirt game was strong. Just carry on doing what you’re doing. You’ll be like Flissy by the end of the night.’

  ‘Ewww, can you not?’

  ‘I’m going to go and find Jenny and leave you two alone. Text me regular updates?’

  She just nodded; she was still panicking.

  ‘Come find us later and you can tell me everything.’

  She nodded again. He was on his way back over.

  ‘Love you. Good luck.’

  ‘When I was little, I didn’t understand that other kids thought I actually was Hermione, really geeky. It was devastating. I thought no one would ever fancy me.’

  Emma Watson

  The next morning, Moss arrived at my doorstep ready to spill her news from last night, and I paid her in kind by getting my mum to make blueberry pancakes.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I said once I’d managed to get Mum out of the room and out of earshot.

  ‘Nothing happened.’ Moss sighed and stabbed a pancake.

  ‘What? Why not? Torr was definitely into it.’

  ‘Maybe, but, like, I don’t really know him yet and stuff. And then he had to leave early.’

  ‘Ah, that’s so annoying.’

  ‘I know,’ she said as though it were an infringement of her human rights. ‘He had to go to some stupid gig.’

  She stabbed her pancake again. Between the knifing and the blueberry sauce, they were starting to look like the victims of a violent gangland attack. ‘I came to find you guys, but you’d disappeared and you weren’t answering your phone.’

  ‘Sorry. I sort of misplaced it during the George Michael singalong and then the guy that Maia was with vomited on me so I bailed and got Mum to pick me up early. It was a fun night till then though.’

  Moss’s phone buzzed.

  ‘That’s Torr, isn’t it?’ It wasn’t really a question. Her smile wasn’t subtle.

  ‘Mayyybeee.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘“Hey, Moss.”’ She read out the text in a weird accent that was actually worryingly accurate (sort of East End via Gloucestershire). ‘“Good to see you last night. Sorry I couldn’t stay. We should do something soon.”’

  I felt quite smug. I’d definitely called this one. I was going to take all the credit when this got to full-on relationship stage.

  ‘But what do I reply? Why did he have to be so vague?’

  ‘He really was not that vague. He’s so clearly into you.’

  ‘Elektra, help me. What do I put?’

  ‘You’re asking me for boy advice?’

  ‘You’re the only person in the room.’

  Fair. ‘Erm, what about something like, “Yeah, was nice. Sounds good.” But obviously put it a bit more smoothly.’ Texting is hard. Neither adults nor guys appreciate the amount of thought and subtle subtext that go into the composition of a text.

  ‘Yes, yes, good, so . . .’ She paused for about ten minutes, staring at the screen. ‘How about, “Was good to see you too. I’m around next week”?’

  ‘Perfect. Go for it.’ I’d have said, ‘Seize the moment,’ but this was taking too long.

  ‘I can’t send it. What if this is a terrible mistake?’

  ‘It’s definitely not.’ Obviously, my extensive experience in this area had made me something of an expert. ‘You’ve just got to shut your eyes and send it.’

  ‘Done. Oh, God, that was definitely a mistake.’

  ‘No it wasn’t. Do you want to get with him?’

  ‘No . . . Yes . . . Not sure. He might be a nice person to try stuff with.’

  For some reason, we found this very funny.

  ‘You need a couple name.’

  ‘We so do. Mossorr?’

  ‘Torross?’

  ‘Can’t be Taurus. We’re both Capricorn. Capricorns are caring and loyal.’

  They’d been talking about star signs? Seriously? This was not like Moss. She had it bad. ‘What about . . . Toss then?’

  ‘Not Toss! Please not Toss.’

  Her phone buzzed again. We both stared. The tension was palpable.

  ‘Ahhh, he’s asked me to meet up with him.’ Moss had to bite her lip to stop her embarrassingly huge grin.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Unspecified things,’ she said and we both started sniggering again. I have never claimed that we were mature.

  ‘Just go.’

  ‘My mum’ll freak out. Even if I just go for coffee, you know my mum,’ she said and I did.

  In many ways, Moss’s mum was lovely. She was always nice to me; she made a mean lemon cheesecake; I liked how she dressed (skinny jeans, ankle boots, also she had a pink cocoon coat that I lusted after); she never got mad with Moss about the mess in her bedroom; she let me bring Digby round instead of walking him in the park; and she didn’t mind that we all called Moss ‘Moss’ and not Momoko (mostly because Momoko means ‘peach child’ and while Moss is many things she’s not a ‘peach child’). But when it came to the whole achievements thing Moss’s mum was fierce. Moss got up an hour earlier than me every single morning to practise the piano. After school on Monday, she had extra maths; after school on Wednesday, she had a tennis lesson (and she was never going to be any good at any sport so that was a total waste of time and money); and for four hours on Saturday morning she had Japanese class to please her dad who was originally from Japan.

  Even by London standards, that was pretty intense.

  I moaned about my parents making me do all my homework and monitoring my phone addiction and not letting me watch any of the weirdly compelling reality shows about seriously fat people, but if my mum got too heavy about studying I would just keep saying I was stressed until she backed off in a panic and started to buy me lavender oil and Oreos (my favourite, but normally as welcome as hemlock in my house) and schedule ‘down time’ back into my life.

  Moss’s mum was in a whole different category. I would bet 100 per cent that she wouldn’t think dating (anyone) was a good idea – she’d label it ‘a distraction’ and say no.

  And Moss’s dad wouldn’t be any help because he lived on the other side of London with a new, very young girlfriend. In fact, she looked about the same age as us (but had way bigger boobs). I tried very hard to hate him for Moss’s sake, but he was really funny. I don’t think Moss hated him either.

  Pretty sure her mum did though.

  ‘You could say you were coming round to mine?’

  We weren’t in the habit of lying to our parents (much), but sometimes you just had to go for it.

  Moss shook her head. ‘Nah, it’s not worth it; she’ll find out. I’ll be brave and talk to her. You never know – maybe if I offer to mind Haruka for her for a few afternoons.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ I said, which was the mark of a true friend. Moss’s little sister, Haruka, looked cute, but she was pretty high maintenance (a bit like Moss really, not that I’d ever tell her that).

  ‘Now you have to get with Archie and then we could double-date.’

  ‘That’s not even funny.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

  ‘There’s as much chance of Archie asking me out as Prince Harry.’

  ‘Don’t be so defeatist. Why don’t you ask
him? Come on, it’s the twenty-first century.’ That was easy for Moss to say; she hadn’t had to ask Torr out.

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll just go up to Archie at ACT and randomly ask him if he’d like to go on a date. That wouldn’t seriously freak him out.’

  ‘He’d love it. Major ego boost.’

  ‘Yep and major ego shrink for me when he says no.’

  ‘He wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘I’m so not going to risk it.’

  And I wasn’t.

  From: Ms Chan, Assistant to Deputy Head, Berkeley Academy

  Date: 13 January 16:06

  To: Year 10; Year 11; Year 12; Year 13

  Subject: Lost property

  Dear Girls,

  In the wake of this year’s social, a surprising number of items have been handed in to me. Highlights (which are available for collection from my office) include:

  • 1 pair silver spandex leggings

  • 3 shoulder pads

  • 1 bottle of perfume, 3 cans of hairspray and too many items of make-up for me to list here

  • 2 white iPhone 4s, 1 black iPhone 5 and 1 purple Nokia phone with an ‘I <3 my Dalmatian’ sticker on the back.

  At the risk of being gender normative, I am assuming that the 2 skinny ties, 5 Lynx hygiene products and the single size 11 trainer belong to visitors from St John’s and have repatriated them accordingly.

  There were also a number of contraband items and it goes without saying that I hope that there is no girl stupid enough to come and claim those.

  Best wishes for an organized term,

  Ms Chan

  (Assistant to Mr Tibble)

  Berkeley Academy: Believing and Achieving since 1964

  From: Stella at the Haden Agency

  Date: 16 January 12:16

  To: Julia James

  Cc: Charlotte at the Haden Agency

  Subject: Straker (working title) project and Capital Film School

  (Module 3.2: Working with Children and Animals)

  Dear Julia,

  Mixed news. Firstly, I’m so sorry for the late notice, but the Straker (working title) meeting that was rescheduled for 19 January has been postponed again. Unfortunately, we do not yet have a date for any rearranged meeting. I will of course let you know the moment that we have any further information, but I should warn you that there is a chance that the delay could be quite long and that, given the playing age of the character, could affect Elektra’s suitability for the role. You will appreciate that such matters are outside our control!