Love-Struck

by Rachael Wing

  “– oooh, for the first time since –”

  “– the gig, yeah. And so I went in, because I thought everything was clear and that he wasn’t working; so I bent down to root around the carrots –”

  “– nice –”

  “And then I heard this voice, all deep and gorgeous, saying, ‘Well, if it isn’t Little Miss Hockers’ and I nearly died – there I was bending over a pile of old carrots, my big bum waving around in the air –”

  “– it’s not that big –”

  “Oh, cheers!” I laughed, and he laughed too, his nose wrinkling as he chuckled. “Well, my rear, however big, was waving around and he scared me so much that I fell flat into the tub of carrots, and then when I tried to stand up and got hit by a face in the shelf – I mean shelf in the face—” By this time Wes was hooting with laughter like a small owl, and I had to give him a small shove on the shoulder, because his giggles were making me giggle, and turning my tragedy into a comedy. “And it was just so embarrassing that I had to get out of there quick as a cat, without any carrots, and then I rang you…”

  “Oh dear,” he sighed, shaking his head through subsiding chuckles, then his conker-coloured eyes met mine as he ate the luscious dessert. “Not a good day for Cathen’s leading superhero, eh?” I shook my head, carefully touching the point where my head had nearly split in two, and helped myself to some more ice cream. We’re so greedy; the bowl was nearly finished.

  “No,” I agreed. “Getting publicly humiliated? Bad times. But the hottest guy in school –” Wes uttered a sarcastic, pointed cough. “– asking for my number again after said public humiliation? Good times!”

  “He didn’t say that he lost your number, did he?” Wes asked sardonically. I didn’t say anything and looked at the floor. “Hols, that’s the oldest line in the book! I’m telling you, he’s not good enough for you; the guy’s a sleaze.”

  I frowned. “He might have actually lost my number, you know. Don’t be so cynical! And don’t ruin this for me; you know I’ve liked him for ages!”

  Wes rolled his eyes. “Only because ‘he’s just so gorgeous!’ – and you call me superficial?”

  “You’re just jealous!” I declared, nicking the last bit of ice cream from the bowl. “Anyway, he said he’s going to MSR, so even if he doesn’t call I’ll see him there!” I pushed the spoon around the bowl, preparing to tell Wes about my plan. “He also said that he didn’t have a tent to stay in for the weekend…”

  I bit my lip and waited for Wes to respond. After a few seconds he looked up, saw my face, and realized what I was asking. “You’ve got to be joking! Hols, I can’t stand the guy for a double maths, let alone two nights.” I pouted, doing my best wounded-puppy face, but it’s kind of lost its effect after two years. He shook his head. “Sorry, Comic Book Kid, but you’ll have to woo and win him some other way…”

  I carried on pouting. “Fine, be like that. But if it was the other way around I would have said yes!”

  “No, you wouldn’t. And besides, it would never be the other way around; I prefer the tall, blonde and beautiful type.”

  I laughed. “Whatever, Winston. It was worth asking. But if a beautiful girl did walk in here right now, and you totally fell for her, I would ask her myself to share our tent.”

  Wes was staring straight over my shoulder towards the door with a glazed expression.

  “It makes me feel so loved when you don’t listen to a word I say…”

  Wes’s eyes clicked back up to mine.

  “Her.”

  “What?” I said, totally baffled.

  He nodded to the door, his eyes now fixed back on it. “Her.”

  I turned in my seat and did a double take. I could have sworn I’d just seen Barbie. I looked again. Yes, I had seen Barbie. Real Life Barbie. Swishy blonde hair, tiny shorts, four-season tan: Barbie.

  Barbie took off her shades and looked around the parlour at all the people inside. She saw the bar and walked straight over to it. Swish, swish with her shiny hair. She was pretty tall, too. Well, anything is tall to my measley 5’3”, but even by normal standards, this chick was tall.

  “It’s your turn to be joking, mate,” I whispered to Wes, who was still pretty much gaping at The Plastic One as if she were made of gold. “Jeez! Shut your mouth, why don’t you? You look like the Channel Tunnel.”

  He didn’t hear me, his eyes fixed on the girl.

  “She’s coming this way! Act like you’re not my girlfriend.”

  I frowned incredulously. “But I’m not your girlfriend!”

  Barbie, now at the bar just behind Wes, cast me a strange look, then turned back to the ice cream. She was OK-looking up close. Well, actually, she was pretty much ten million times better than OK-looking. Surprise surprise, she had bright blue eyes and really white teeth. She was like a perfect advertisement for Sweden, so I was mildly surprised when a wholly different accent came out of her mouth.

  “Hi, do you, like, have any sorbets, or frozen yoghurt?”

  I felt like shouting, “It’s ‘yog-urt’ for one, not ‘youh-guurrt’; and no, this is an ice cream parlour, we do ice cream!”, but I kept my mouth shut. I often get angry at people who are prettier than me, but it’s not their fault, so I just have to be bitter and hostile inside instead, and come across as a nice, non-shallow person to everyone not inside my head.

  Ozzie smiled at her and shook his head. “I am very sorry, we have not any frozen yoghurt, only sorbet in the corner.”

  Barbie smiled her (100-watt) smile, thanked Ozzie (who winked at the awestruck Wes, then went back to serving), and wandered over to the far end of the freezer-server to have a look at the flavours. Wes turned around to have another look, then turned back to me with an expression on his face that just said, “Hamana!”: meaning, “Man, that girl is hot; I would!”

  As Wes looked like he was so in awe he wouldn’t speak for a good few minutes, I thought it best to ask him nod/shake questions.

  “You like?”

  Nod.

  “You want?”

  Nod nod.

  “You need my help to get?”

  Nod nod nod.

  I grinned.

  “Well, Stoney, it looks like your dormant hormones have actually awakened! Congrats and such. What’s the plan, big man?”

  His expression of delirious happiness was as frozen as the ice cream surrounding us, but it broke as he squeaked, “A name, please, find out her name.”

  I rolled my eyes dramatically and slid off my stool, then wandered over to the American beauty deliberating over which low-fat treat to have. I wondered briefly if she knew that the sorbets may be low fat, but they have more sugar in than I even want to know about, but I pushed it aside, pinned on my best smile and pointed at the Mango Lemon Twist.

  “That’s probably the best one in here if you’re looking for a sorbet; it leaves a really nice aftertaste. It’s actually my favourite, second best to the special.”

  I gestured to the sign that declared Butterscotch and Malteasers to be the special for the week. The doll-a-like smiled (which nearly blinded me) and nodded.

  “I’ll try it, thanks!” She placed an order “to go” with Nerin and then turned back to me. “I guess that would be my favourite too, but I’d never know – I’m lactose intolerant.”

  My jaw dropped.

  Lactose intolerant?

  How does this girl LIVE?!

  “Bummer,” I said quite coolly for a girl who was having a heart attack inside. “That’s a shame.” A shame? It’s a catastrophe! “But the sorbets really are good, so at least you’re not denied all frozen pleasures.” As she laughed, my internal green-eyed monster growled again. She even had a pretty laugh, all infectious and cute. Grrr. “I’m Holly, by the way, and I pretty much live in here, hence all the ice-cream-related knowledge.”

  “I’m Emil
y,” she laughed, looking around the room again. “And obviously don’t know anything about ice cream! But this place is totally amped!”

  “Totally what?”

  Emily looked back at me, and smiled. “Oh, amped – it’s like … cool?”

  “Oh, right,” I grinned. Americans have weird words. “So you’re from America, right? I haven’t seen you around; are you here on holiday?”

  “Well, actually, I’ve just moved here. My mom’s just gotten a new job, so we moved over for that.”

  “That sucks,” I said, frowning. I would hate to leave Cathen just because Mum or Dad got a new job. I’d have to leave Ozzie’s, and school, and no way could I leave Wes behind; he’s my right arm! I began to feel sorry for her, even though she was hotter than fire. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen. Sixteen in the fall!”

  “You’re my year then. Are you going to Cathen Comp?”

  “Yeah, I’m – oh, thanks!” She gracefully took her sorbet from Nerin, paid, then turned back to me. “I’m actually starting tomorrow. My mom says it’ll help me to settle in if I meet everyone now, and I might make some friends for the summer.”

  I nodded, my mind thinking a mile a minute. “It’s my school. So what form are you going to be in, do you know?”

  Squinting, she tried to remember. “Uh, 10B, I think…”

  Our form. I had to stop myself from laughing; Wes was going to have a coronary.

  “Cool, that’s our form! Me and my friend Wes, that’s him there, come and meet him.”

  I motioned over my shoulder to where Wes was, shredding a napkin, and I rolled my eyes. Couldn’t he be doing something to make him look cool, like texting or something? I made a mental reminder to teach him how to look good in front of people you’re trying to impress. I know I’m not an expert, what with the carrot massacre and everything, but goodness knows I know more than he does, obviously.

  We walked over to The Socially Awkward One and he looked up at Emily with a bit of a dazed expression on his face.

  “This is Emily.”

  You could see the name pass into his brain and just swirl around, taking up all the space that was before occupied with thoughts on how to talk to human beings. He just nodded.

  I took a deep breath and soldiered on.

  “She’s just moved here from America,” I explained, trying not to sound too much like a primary-school teacher.

  “Hey,” she said with her killer smile. “How’re ya doing?”

  Wes looked like he couldn’t believe she was talking to him, then suddenly snapped into life.

  “Yeah, I’m good, thanks, and yourself?”

  She smiled straight into his eyes.

  “I’m all the better for meeting you.”

  I raised my internal eyebrows. Was that a line?! Or did it literally just mean that she was glad that she met him? Americans are friendly, so that might just have been her being nice, or it could have been—

  But I didn’t have time to analyze her body language or anything like that, because as quick as a flash she said:

  “Oh my gosh, look at the time! I gotta get going! See ya at school, have a nice day!”

  And with a wave, she turned on her flip-flops and ran (with more agility than I’ll ever possess) out of the door, and the bell on top jingled as it shut behind her.

  I turned back to Wes, who was still staring at the door.

  “So?” I asked, smirking at his awestruck face.

  He couldn’t speak for a second, then managed to force out a word.

  “Emily.”

  “Yes. That’s her name, I’m glad you picked that up.”

  “She’s American.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s blonde.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  “Meh, I suppose if you’re into that whole plastic-looking thing, yeah…”

  “And she’s moved here … to Cathen … to our school?”

  “Our form, in fact.”

  He paused for a second.

  “God is rewarding me for all of my good deeds, he’s sent her to me.”

  I cracked a mocking smile. “You don’t do good deeds! You don’t even do your own washing up! Juanita your maid does it! And you’re not religious!”

  He came out of his saintly daydream and frowned at me.

  “I do!”

  “Oh yeah, Lameboy, name one!”

  “I … erm, I … I … brought you ice cream when you had that stomach bug and couldn’t come to school, a few months ago!” he finished triumphantly.

  “I couldn’t eat it, I was being sick!” I laughed. “I had to sit and watch you eat it all, whilst I wasn’t allowed to eat anything or else I’d throw up!”

  That got him.

  “It was still a good deed…” he grumbled, backing down. He looked me straight in the eyes. “Well, if God didn’t send her to me, she must just be a very lucky coincidence.” He put on the hopeful eyes and gently tugged my sleeve. “Will you help me? You know I’m useless at everything.”

  I thought about it for a second.

  Then I had a genius idea.

  “Can Jonah stay in the tent?”

  Wes’s eyes narrowed, and he put on his best John Wayne impression. “So you want to play dirty, Hockers?” I nodded. He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

  I grinned and gave him a bear hug. “Yay! Love you, Wes!”

  He smiled and shrugged me off. “Yeah, whatever, Hox, I said maybe!”

  I wasn’t too bothered about that though, because if I helped him get Barbie then he would be too happy to care what I say or do, and would definitely say yes to Jonah in our tent. A whole weekend of Jonah, his godly self just one compartment away. I was bouncing with excitement.

  All I had to do was set up A Plan.

  “Are you sure my hair looks OK?” Wes asked for the third time as we sat in our regular seats in registration, at the back of the class for blatantly obvious reasons, waiting for Mr Clumfield to start taking the register.

  Mr Clumfield is a legend. We actually couldn’t have a better form tutor. He’s so funny – in his cracking Yorkshire accent he tells us a different joke every Monday morning that he learnt at the pub with his mates on the Friday before, to “make our start to the week that bit brighter”; and he has a proper dishy smile matched with deep, dark eyes, which makes me feel a little bit faint some days. He’s also my English teacher, which is pretty cool, and just makes anyone feel welcome whenever. And he also shaved his (really hairy) legs for charity last year, and wore a skirt for the rest of the week. In the middle of November. Like I said, he’s just a bit legendary in our school.

  He was sat at his desk, with his own particular mug that says “CLUMMEISTER!” (God knows where he gets these things), scribbling away at some work or something. He furiously scratched something out with his pen and stood up suddenly with that full-of-fun grin and mischievous eyes.

  “All right, guys, let’s kick off your Monday. There are two muffins in an oven. One of the muffins says to the other muffin: ‘Whoa, mate, it’s hot in here!’ – the other muffin screams and cries, ‘Ahhh, a talking muffin!’”

  I laughed, at least, along with the girls from my Blodge class, where instead of discussing plant and animal cells, we just sit and plan what we’re going to wear Friday night. Faye Nichols and Jessi Townsend – they’re those kind of girls who are pretty, intelligent and quiet, but like a good giggle. Amongst those laughing there were obviously the Mortimer twins, Maddie Adams and their crew of jokers. Maddie has one of those infectious laughs, and laughs at anything and everything – she’s a right ray of sunshine on a cloudy day – and paired with Remi and Arno, the Mortimer twins, they could possibly form the most side-splitting trio known to man. The twins have a band called The Mechanicals,
and they play locally for the youth club; not the best band in the world, but the boys know how to charm a crowd, and they help out at The Venue in town as roadies for the visiting bands there. It’s pretty cool.

  Then on the far side of the room the geeky girls, led by Verity Carter, who eagerly sit at the front (and who I know for a fact write “I heart Mr Clum” in the backs of their homework diaries), went into fits of giggles too, but that was more to do with the fact that they fancy the pants off him than the hilariosity of his joke. Obviously, no giggles came from the tables nearest the doors – the kids like Henry Stags and Carly Lane who think they’re hardcore because they listen to heavy-metal grunge and wear too much eyeliner – obviously they can’t laugh because they’re “making a statement” or whatever. I don’t know exactly what the statement they are trying to make is, but if you can’t crack a smile once in a while then I’m not sure if it’s worth it.

  Of course, Wes laughed too. Mr Clumfield is totally his idol. He stays behind some days to talk to him about Shakespeare, or novels, or obscure poetry that I’ve never actually heard of, ever. To be honest, English isn’t really my forte – I’m more of a drawer than a describer – but Wes comes into his own there. He’s a poet (but doesn’t tell many people) and writes his own lyrics, and also does the tab to them on guitar. He’s pretty good, actually; his lyrics are so fitting and his acoustic stuff is pretty much to die for. I wish I could write like that sometimes, but when I try to write everything gets a bit muddled up in my head, and doesn’t go down on paper quite how I want it to; but Mr Clumfield helps a load, which is why he’s probably my favourite teacher at Cathen.

  “Is everybody feeling a bit lighter now?” he asked us, and we responded with a resounding “yes” as he picked up the sheet of paper from his desk.

  Then someone knocked to come into the room, and Wes shot bolt upright again, hand going straight to his hair as he stared at the door. I swatted his hand down, and gave him a look that said “Stop messing with it or I’ll shave it off”. Wes chewed his lip nervously. I grinned and gave him a wink: show time.

  Oh, what laughs!

  “Good!” Mr Clumfield continued, glancing at the sheet in his hand and striding over to the door. “This must be our newcomer to Cathen,” he opened the door. “Hi … Emily, is it?”