The Trouble with Flirting

by Rachel Morgan

  Allegra rubs her eyes. She isn’t wearing any make-up. I’ve never seen her without make-up. “I hope so. I made the mistake of mentioning this test to my parents. They want me to send a photo of the result when I get it back.”

  “A photo?” Charlotte says. “Wow. That’s extreme.”

  “I, uh, may have had a habit of lying to my parents about test results at school. They like to see proof now. They—Hey, since when do you wear glasses?” she says to me.

  “Uh, since always,” I admit. “I usually wear contacts.”

  “Oh.” Allegra tilts her head as she examines my face. “They’re cute. You should wear them more often.”

  “I should? You don’t think glasses are too … nerdy?”

  “Well, spectacles do sort of have that nerd vibe,” Charlotte says, “but as long as they’re a trendy design and the shape suits your face, they can make you look both intelligent and attractive at the same time.”

  Allegra nods. “Yeah. That. I’m just a bit too tired right now to make my thoughts come out clearly.”

  At the front of the lecture theatre, Professor Batch organises a pile of papers. “No more talking, please,” he booms. “I’m about to hand out the question papers.”

  I try to quiet my brain and recall the main points from all the summaries I made in the past twenty-four hours, but I’m distracted by the guy three rows down who just turned around. The guy smiling at me and mouthing, “Good luck.”

  Jackson.

  Focus, Livi, focus.

  I smile back, then turn my attention to the paper that just landed on the desk in front of me.

  ***

  “That wasn’t so bad, huh?” Jackson leans in the doorway of the lecture theatre, waiting for me. He’s never waited for me before. Something must be different.

  “Yes, I’m quite surprised,” I say. “I was expecting it to be a lot worse.” I reach up to tuck my hair behind my ear, mainly because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.

  Allegra and Co. walk past us. Allegra winks while Charlotte and Amber argue about question twelve.

  Jackson tilts his head to the side. “I like your hair like that. It’s … natural.”

  Holy pink Power Ranger. Here I am on my worst day ever and I’ve already received two compliments? I’ve obviously missed something about the way the world works.

  “Come on, let’s get to Stats,” Jackson says.

  I manage to refrain from squealing as we head to our next lecture venue together. I let my hand dangle casually between us, just in case he wants to hold it. Oh my hat, I am pathetic. Here I am getting all giggly-excited about HAND HOLDING. I can’t help it, though. I’ve only ever had one boyfriend, and he didn’t wait after class for me. He didn’t hold my hand in public, either. We exchanged smiles across the corridors and notes during English and History, but we kept our hanging out for after school. As if it would have been weird to be seen together in front of everyone else. Or something. I can’t remember. We were both orchestra geeks, so perhaps that explains it.

  Of course, my German prince Carl held my hand, but it never happened in public. None of our exchanges ever took place in public.

  “So, uh, we missed you on Saturday at The Banana Pearl,” I say with a sideways glance at Jackson. I add in a half-smile that’s supposed to look cute and upset at the same time.

  “Ya, no, I wish I could have been there. I had to take on a late shift at work. Only got home around midnight, and then …” He gives me an apologetic look. “Well, I was kinda beat.”

  “Oh, yeah, okay, that’s cool. Where do you work?”

  He scratches his head. “Uh, at the cinema. Kinda lame, I know.”

  “What? No. That’s really cool. Do you get to watch all the movies?”

  He laughs. “Not exactly. I do more of the glamorous work like collecting tickets and sweeping popcorn off the floor.”

  My laughter joins his. My mother would be horrified to learn that I’m interested in a popcorn sweeper, but Jackson’s job—and the fact that he can joke about it—makes him even more adorable to me.

  If only he would attempt to hold my hand now.

  No such luck. We make it to our Statistics lecture without our hands even brushing, but it’s hard to feel disappointed when I’ve got a whole period of sitting next to him to look forward to. I scan the lecture theatre and find my four friends and two of his in our usual spot: roughly the middle row. But instead of joining them, Jackson leads me to the back row. The row where the loner Indian girl and the two guys with the dreadlocks always sit. And that other guy who only comes to lectures to sleep.

  Jackson walks along the row, picks a seat in the middle, and gestures to the seat next to him. Right. As if I had any intention of sitting anywhere else. I flash what I hope is a cute smile as I slide into my seat and place my bag on the floor between us. I lean down—this isn’t a cleavage-exposing shirt, so it needs a bit of help—and slowly remove my notebook and a pen from my bag. I open the notebook to the last page I wrote on, then cross one leg over the other. Slow and sexy. I stare ahead and focus on breathing normally. I’m cool. I’m so cool. Sitting in the back row with the guy I have a mega crush on is not affecting me in the least. I’m going to pay attention to the lecture now. And look! I have glasses on, which make me appear both intelligent and—

  “Recovered from the test yet?” our lecturer asks. She’s young, but her horrendous taste in clothes combined with her long, non-styled hair that just hangs there makes her look at least a decade older than she is. Charlotte keeps talking about abducting her and performing a makeover. “Yes, I know all about the test most of you had in first period,” she says, nodding to all of us. “Don’t look so surprised, Mr Fischer. But I need you to forget about it now and concentrate, because today we’ll be doing—”

  I have no idea what we’ll be doing today, because Jackson just reached over and started drawing on my open notebook, completely shattering my focus. All I see is his hand and the neat lines coming together to form a picture. It’s a little cartoon guy. He’s waving at me. No, wait, he’s holding a bunch of flowers out to me.

  Oh, that is so cute!

  I pick up my pen and write, If I could draw a little girl accepting the flowers, I would.

  Underneath my words, he writes HA HA HA! in large capitals, then proceeds to draw little stick figures climbing all over the letters.

  I write, Cute!

  He then spends a while bent over the corner of my notebook, eventually revealing a cartoon version of our lecturer pointing at a projector screen with nonsense written on it. I laugh quietly, then nudge his knee with mine. “You’re really good at this,” I whisper.

  He gives me a heart-melting grin. Then he picks up one of my hands from my lap. He holds it in his left hand and starts drawing on my palm with his right.

  He’s drawing on my hand.

  HE’S TOUCHING MY HAND.

  Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. That would be seriously uncool.

  He holds my hand up so I can see his artwork. Not a picture this time, but words. Saturday night. 7 pm. You and me. What do you say?

  What do I say? “Are you … is that …”

  He nods and whispers, “I’m asking you out.”

  I try to conceal my absurd happiness with a teasing smile. “You could have just asked me, you know.”

  “But then I wouldn’t have had an excuse to hold your hand.”

  My insides melt.

  “You two at the back there,” our lecturer calls out. “I hope you’re paying attention because the next question is for you.”

  Allegra is allegrissimo today, dashing around the mall, scouring every shop for the perfect dress for my date tonight, sampling nail polish, and snapping up deals before other shoppers can get to them.

  “Okay stop,” I say eventually. “I need a break. My hair appointment is in twenty minutes. Can we sit down until then?”

  “You know you’ll be sitting the whole time you’re having your ha
ir done, right?”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that my feet are sore now.”

  Allegra sighs and mutters, “Amateur.” She links her arm through mine. “Fine, we can sit at the salon and look at magazines.”

  “Great.”

  I kept telling Allegra it was too expensive to colour my hair, but then she found a Groupon for a salon here at Cavendish, and we both decided my first date with Jackson would be an excellent occasion on which to make my debut as a blonde. The kind of blonde who has a head full of ‘natural’ highlights from caramel to gold to platinum. Or something like that. Sometimes I zone out when Allegra talks too much.

  I plop onto a couch, squeeze the magazine in my hands, and say, “I’m so excited!”

  “I know, right? Your hair is going to look amazing.”

  “Not about my hair, silly. About my date. Do you think he’ll try to kiss me?”

  Allegra lets out a hoot of laughter. “He’s not a fumbling thirteen-year-old. Of course he’s going to kiss you. Why else do people go to movies?”

  Well, I thought they went to movies to actually watch movies, but I guess that’s what they do with their friends, not the hot guy they’ve been crushing on for weeks.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Is there anyone who’s caught your eye since Rob decided to be a jerk last weekend?”

  “Well, since you brought it up,” Allegra says, flipping her magazine shut and grinning at me. “There is actually someone. Remember when you got Logan to invite us to Smuts on Monday evening and we were hanging out in his room? And that guy who stays in the room across the landing came in to talk to him?”

  “Yes?”

  “That guy. Damien.” She sighs. “Isn’t that a sexy name?”

  “Um, sure. Very sexy.” Damien seemed more like the quiet, studious type, not like the loud, confident guys Allegra usually goes for. But what do I know?

  A woman with short black hair, black clothes, and black shoes ushers me towards one of the chairs in front of the mirror. I sit, fold my hands in my lap, and take a look at my reflection. I take a deep breath and say to Allegra, “Are you sure about this?”

  “Am I sure about this? Am I sure I want to see my friend as a hot blonde? Oh yes. The question, Livi, is whether you are sure you want to see yourself as a hot blonde.”

  I tilt my head to the side and practise my flirty smile. “I am. Let’s do this.”

  ***

  So here I am in my tight new dress—note to self: STOP BUYING NEW CLOTHES. YOU’LL RUN OUT OF MONEY SOON—crawling around on my bedroom floor, holding my perfectly styled hair back with one hand, and patting the floor with the other in the hopes of coming across the earrings I just dropped. One, they go perfectly with this dress, and two, they don’t belong to me. I have to find them.

  Eventually I feel something small and sharp beneath my hand, and when I look closer, I see a small aqua coloured stud glinting at me. Now to find the other one.

  When I’m finally back on my feet with both earrings in and my knees dusted off, it’s almost time to go.

  Shoes, handbag, one last mirror check, and I’m ready.

  “Hey, Luke, I’m back.” The sound of the front door closing accompanies Adam’s voice. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  Great.

  Adam and I haven’t spoken since the clothing argument almost a week ago. Considering we live in the same house, I thought it would be more difficult to avoid him, but these days it seems like he’s always gone when I wake up and out when I get home late, and the rest of the time I’m on campus or with Allegra. It’s been remarkably easy for us to ignore each other.

  What will he say about my hair?

  My hair turned out to be gorgeous, of course—every shade of blonde mixed in with a hint of my original red—but Adam will no doubt find a way to link it to the fact that my new friends have way more influence over me than my old friends. Maybe I can get out of the house without him seeing me.

  I lift my keys quietly from my desk, then listen at my door. No sound. No one speaking. No footsteps walking down the passage towards Adam’s bedroom. Where did he go?

  I look over at the time on the small clock beside my bed. Crumbs, I really need to get going. Jackson’s shift at the cinema finished five minutes ago, which means he’ll be waiting for me. He offered to be a gentleman and rush over here to pick me up, but we’d miss the beginning of our movie if he did that, so I told him not to be silly. And then I kissed goodbye to my brilliant hard-to-get skills and I added that he’d have plenty of opportunities to pick me up in the future.

  Cringe.

  I step out of my bedroom and head for the front door as quietly as I can in heels. Clip clop. No Adam. Clip clop. Still no Adam. I’m almost there when the front door swings open, revealing the last person I want to see: Adam.

  Crapazoid. He must have gone back to his car for something.

  He freezes in the doorway, his eyes a little wider than normal as he takes in my hair. He stares. Blinks. Stares some more. Then he shakes his head and walks past me, leaving the front door open.

  “What?” I shout after him. “WHAT? You want to say something?”

  “I don’t know who you are,” he shouts back.

  “Loser,” I mutter, slamming the door behind me as I leave.

  I put Adam out of my mind, drive as quickly as I can, and arrive at the cinema seven minutes after the time Jackson and I agreed to meet. Seven minutes is good, right? Not too eager, but not annoyingly late.

  I reach the top of the elevator and look around. People waiting in line to buy popcorn, drinks and snacks. People fighting over salt canisters. People coming in and out of the toilets. People crowding around the poor guy checking tickets. People, people, people. How am I ever supposed to find—

  “Hey there, sexy.”

  Butterflies flit around my insides—HE THINKS I’M SEXY!—but I manage to pull off the look I practised in my mirror this afternoon. The glance down, smile shyly, then peek up through long lashes look.

  Jackson swallows.

  Yes! Score! I rock at this flirting business. Jackson’s also pretty good, though, so he recovers quickly from him nervous swallowing moment. He steps forward and gives me a hug. It’s a smooth, quick movement, over in two seconds, but I’m pretty sure his lips brushed my cheek.

  I clear my throat. “So which movie are we watching?”

  “I thought you might enjoy that chick flick,” he says, pointing to a poster showing a startled guy with a woman on each arm, “rather than the new superhero release everyone’s here to see. And we’ll have more privacy this way.” He winks.

  Privacy. I like the sound of that.

  I also really like the sound of the new superhero movie. I’ve been looking forward to it ever since I saw the first trailer months ago. But I don’t want to miss a second of it, so it’s probably a good thing Jackson and I won’t be watching it tonight.

  Eventually we get through the crowds of superhero fans, past the ticket-checking guy, and into our movie. We sit down as the lights go out and the first advert comes up. I put my handbag on my lap, then settle back with my arms on the armrests. Obviously. Because that’s universal sign language for ‘Hold my hand,’ right?

  Jackson leans across the armrest and whispers, “I told you we’d have more privacy in here.” He nods to the other side of me, where there are four empty seats and then three girls. On Jackson’s side of the row, there’s no one.

  “Well done,” I whisper.

  He grins. When he sits back, I realise his hand is holding mine.

  Wow. He’s good. Guys should take lessons from him.

  The butterflies in my stomach continue their flapping as the movie begins. It’s a movie stuffed full of chick flick clichés, so I can’t help making fun of it. Fortunately, instead of finding this annoying, Jackson seems to enjoy this game. It becomes a race to see who can point out each dumb movie cliché first.

  We’re about half an hour in when we
both turn to each other at the same time, ready to make fun of the same idiotic movie moment. We both start laughing, quietly shaking as neither of us looks away. Our laughter subsides to smiles. And we’re still not looking away. Jackson’s gaze moves to my lips, then back up again. He leans towards me.

  Breathe, Livi. Don’t pass out. Breathe!

  I breathe in as I lean closer to him. My heart hammers. The butterflies’ wings catch fire. His lips touch mine. Slow and soft and sweet. His hand slides through my hair and pulls me closer—and I melt against him.

  I’m still smiling when I get home. Even the fact that I have to park in the road because the driveway is blocked by Adam’s friends’ cars can’t turn my lips down. I sit in my car, humming a song and replaying the night’s events, that same silly smile on my face and my insides almost as jellylike as when Jackson first leaned over to kiss me. I don’t remember much of the movie after that first half hour, but I’ve become intimately acquainted with Jackson’s lips.

  Our plan was to have a romantic dinner somewhere after the movie, but at 8:30 pm on a Saturday evening, everywhere decent was already full. We ended up in the mall’s food court at the Burger King, which I hadn’t exactly pictured as part of our Perfect First Date—I was certainly hoping my new dress would get to see finer cutlery than the plastic stuff they throw into the takeout bag—but I was with Jackson, so it didn’t really matter where or what we ate.

  A sigh escapes my lips as I think of our chocolate milkshake-flavoured kiss as we leant against my car in the parking lot. Jackson wanted to drive me home in my car so he could kiss me goodnight outside my own house, but I told him—with a flirtatious smile—that he could save that for next time.

  I wake up from my reverie and remind myself that I’m just about asking to be hijacked, sitting here in the dark with my keys in the ignition. I hurry up the driveway, across the garden that is once again approaching jungle status, and into the house.

  Laughter, shouting and music greet me. I remove my heels and hold them in one hand as I walk to the lounge doorway. Five guys—probably all computer science nerds like Adam—are squashed onto our L-shaped couch. Adam and another guy are holding Xbox controllers and sitting forward, staring intently at the TV. Even though I can’t see the screen from here, I know they’re playing SoulCalibur. I recognise the music. Adam shouts “Yesssss!” just as his friend shouts “Awwwww!” and flops back onto the couch. Then someone else notices me standing in the doorway, smacks his friend on the arm, and seconds later they’re all staring my way.