You Were Made For Me

by Jenna Guillaume

  About You Were Made for Me

  The day I created a boy started out like any other.

  Katie didn’t mean to create a boy. A boy like a long-lost Hemsworth brother: six-foot tall with floppy hair and eyes like the sky on a clear summer’s day; whose lips taste like cookie dough and whose skin smells like springtime.

  A boy who is completely devoted to Katie.

  He was meant to be perfect.

  But he was never meant to exist.

  Praise for What I Like About Me

  ‘Funny and heartfelt. I loved it.’ Melina Marchetta

  ‘Teens are going to LOVE this book. Such a sweet coming of age tale.’ Clementine Ford, bestselling author of Fight Like a Girl

  ‘Heartfelt and unexpectedly deep under its sparkling exterior, this novel features an authentic teen voice, a diverse cast of genuinely likeable characters, a distinctly (and refreshingly) Australian ambience, and a charming protagonist.’ Readings

  For my grandparents,

  Susan and Paul Zampa,

  and Shirley and William Rowlands,

  with all my love.

  And for Margie.

  Contents

  Cover

  About You Were Made for Me

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Also by the author

  Copyright page

  One

  The day I created a boy started out like any other.

  I woke up at about 6.30 am and dragged myself out of bed. I wrote a few paragraphs for the short story I’d been working on, then I had a shower, brushed my teeth and – wait, hold on a second.

  Libby is telling me to skip to the interesting part. But I think it’s all relevant because we don’t know exactly what happened that day to cause –

  It definitely wasn’t you brushing your teeth.

  That’s Libby writing. Even though she insisted I was the best one to record what happened.

  Well, I didn’t think you’d start with brushing your teeth. Also, the day ‘I’ created a boy? Really, Katie? Is that what happened?

  Okay, the day WE created a boy. We being you and me. Better?

  Yes. As long as you don’t talk about brushing your teeth again. Are we going to have to go over every bowel movement you’ve had in the last few months, too?

  LIBBY!

  . . . Do you not think I can do this?

  Don’t even. Of course you’re the best person for the job. But every good writer needs a good editor, right?

  Well. I don’t know about ‘good’.

  I swear –

  But I do know I’ve got a story to tell. And I can only tell it my way. So . . .

  My story – our story – is wild, and completely unbelievable.

  It’s also absolutely, one hundred per cent true.

  Well, no truth is absolute. Everything is subjective.

  Okay. It’s my absolute truth.

  All I can do is lay it out there, no matter how hard or embarrassing it might be. Especially when it’s embarrassing or hard, because then you’ll know I really am telling the truth. What you make of it from there, of course, is entirely up to you.

  Now, where was I . . .?

  Right.

  The day we created a boy. It started out like any other . . .

  ‘Declan Bell Jones is the perfect guy,’ I said with a sigh.

  (I’ve skipped to the interesting part, as Libby requested. Well, not the really interesting part – that comes a little later – but the lead-up is important, trust me.)

  It was a Friday, after school, and Libby and I were dawdling by the soccer field on our way home so that I could sneak glances at Declan Bell Jones as he trained. He was in my Geography class, and I’d been staring at the back of his perfect head all year. I’d memorised every inch. The ashy blond hair. The tanned skin of his neck. The little mole just below his hairline, which his collar caressed every time he moved (which was often – he was a fidgeter).

  I thought a lot about what it might be like if I were the one caressing that mole. Which might explain my marks in Geography.

  ‘I swear, if I had a dollar for every time you said that, I could afford my own car,’ Libby said, interrupting my thoughts about Declan Bell Jones and his mole.

  ‘You can’t even drive,’ I replied.

  ‘Minor detail.’ She took a bite of the fruit Roll-Up she’d wrapped around her index finger and twisted so that it resembled a weird red monster’s claw. Still chewing, she said, ‘Anyway, what did Miss Lui say?’

  I’d hung back after sixth period to talk to my Art teacher about signing up to paint a mural on one of the walls around the main quad. The school had designated six areas for students to decorate. They were trying to move away from the concrete prison block look, I think.

  ‘They just want free labour,’ Libby had muttered when the news was announced at assembly that morning. But she’d nagged me nonstop for the rest of the day until I agreed to speak to Miss Lui. That’s the thing about Libby. She grumbles that I spend too much time daydreaming, but she’s also my biggest supporter – she believes in me more than I believe in myself most of the time. I’ve known her for longer than I can remember (literally – we met in preschool). We have the kind of friendship where we can tell each other anything – anything – and we won’t take offence or judge each other.

  I mean, we even fart around each other.

  ‘She said she thinks I’d be great,’ I told Libby. ‘“Marvellous” was the word she used, actually.’ I smiled to myself. Hearing my favourite teacher say that about me had made the nervousness I felt about putting my art – and myself – out there ease up a little.

  ‘Maaaaaarvellous,’ Libby intoned, in a pretty good imitation of Miss Lui. ‘See, I told you.’

  ‘I still have no idea what I’ll paint, though,’ I said. ‘I mean, it’s so much pressure! The whole school is going to see it. And it could be there for, like, generations to come. What if it’s not good enough? What if I suck? What if –’

  ‘What if it’s brilliant? What if it’s maaaaaarvellous? What if –’

  Libby stopped abruptly and I turned my head to see what had caused the look of horror that had suddenly come over her face. We were nearing the goal end of the soccer field, and standing there was none other the devil herself, flanked by two of her demon minions.

  Mikayla Fitzsimmons, Olivia Kent and Emily McAlister. The unholy trinity.

  They were giggling as they watched the boys on the field and hadn’t spotted us. Yet.

  ‘Uh, let’s go the other way and cut through the car park,’ Libby muttered.

  Here’s what you need to know about Mikayla Fitzsimmons: she’s one of the hottest girls in our year. Tall, blonde, about eighty per cent legs. Curly hair that somehow always manages to look cute and controlled, unlike my unruly mass.

  Her personality, on the other hand . . .

  She’s a total feral.

&n
bsp; Libby and I, and the rest of our friends, we’re not exactly in the ‘cool’ group at school. We’re not at the bottom of the food chain, either (that sad distinction belongs to Tiff Richardson, who never seems to shower). But Mikayla treats anyone who isn’t her minion – or a guy – like month-old garbage (the minions are only treated like day-old garbage, lucky for them).

  Mikayla’s called me all sorts of names over the years. Pancake, thanks to my flat chest. Four-eyes, thanks to my glasses. Pinocchio, thanks to my big nose. Calamari, thanks to my surname (it’s Camilleri). Cousin It. Crater Face. Freckle Fart from Kmart. Anything to remind me I’m ugly and worthless and destined to be forever alone.

  But that’s nothing compared to the way Mikayla treats Libby. Because not only is Mikayla mean, she’s also super racist. Libby is Filipina-Australian – her parents moved here before she was born. And she’s smarter and wittier than anyone else in our year. But Mikayla had this thing in Year 8 where she thought it was hilarious to pretend she couldn’t understand anything Libby said. She’d come out with stuff like, ‘What did you say? I didn’t get it. Why don’t you speak English?’ and Libby would typically respond with a smart-arse comment about Mikayla’s lack of comprehension skills/general intelligence.

  But there was one day when it got too much for Libby, I guess, and she snapped. We were in Art at the time, and Libby threw the chisel she’d been holding at Mikayla’s head. It only just missed, and they ended up in a huge scrag fight. There was hair-pulling, nail-clawing, screaming and spitting, the lot. They were both put on afternoon detention for a week.

  Libby’s parents were Not Impressed, until they found out what had caused the fight. Then they were up at the school, and Libby’s punishment was reduced to one detention. Meanwhile Mikayla was given a formal warning and put on report for a month. All her teachers had to fill out a sheet about her behaviour every single period. Libby was mortified, but at least it shut Mikayla up. I mean, she still gave us nuclear-level death stares whenever we crossed her line of sight, and she called us names under her breath and whispered behind our backs. Emily and Olivia would occasionally get a bit braver and make snide comments when we put our hands up in class, or they’d throw wads of paper at our heads when the teacher’s back was turned, causing Mikayla to launch into one of her spine-chilling high-pitched giggling fits. But most of the time they just steered clear of us.

  And we really steered clear of them.

  Which meant we were a little surprised when we saw them at the soccer field. Mikayla and Emily live a few suburbs away, and they usually catch the bus home straight after school. Olivia lives near me and Libby – we actually went to primary school with her and used to play together sometimes – but if we ever see her out of school, we all do the mature thing and ignore each other’s existence. She’s usually alone, so it works just fine.

  That day she wasn’t alone, though, and I had a feeling the mutual invisibility thing wouldn’t be quite as effective. Not with Mikayla the fire-breathing monster there – and with no teachers around to make her act like a human.

  Without another word to each other, Libby and I started to back up, trying not to draw attention to ourselves. Our eyes were on Mikayla, not the field.

  Which is why I didn’t see what was coming or even register the call of ‘Heads up!’ until it was way too late.

  A blur of black and white came whooshing at my face. For a split second I thought it was a magpie, and I screamed.

  Then there was nothing but darkness, and voices that sounded really far away.

  My eyelids felt heavy. Slowly I opened them.

  I blinked.

  Blinked again.

  And thought I had died and gone to heaven.

  Because looming over me, hazy but right there, was the spectacularly handsome face of Declan Bell Jones. I watched in wonder as his features rearranged themselves from concerned to relieved.

  I crashed down to Earth two seconds later when Libby appeared above me, shoving Declan out of the way and throwing herself on her knees next to me.

  ‘You’re alive!’ she declared theatrically, cupping my face in her hands. She still had that Roll-Up wrapped around her index finger, and it was sticky against my skin.

  ‘I think so,’ I said, sitting up with her help. It was only then that I took in the crowd gathered around me. Not just Declan, but all of his teammates and their coach. Plus Mikayla Fitzsimmons and her friends. Ugh.

  I was contemplating the likelihood of a sinkhole opening up and swallowing me when something incredible happened.

  Declan reached down to help me up.

  Let me repeat that.

  Declan. Reached down. To help me up.

  His hands. Were gripping my arms.

  His hands. Were moving to my shoulders.

  His eyes. Were peering into my face.

  All thoughts of Mikayla – of anyone or anything, really – instantly dissolved. I nearly fell right back on the ground.

  ‘You alright?’ Declan was saying.

  I grinned and said the first thing that popped into my head. ‘Magpie?’

  Magpie?!

  ‘Bugger, she might be concussed,’ I heard a deep voice say. Declan moved away from me and his coach stepped closer. He bent forward and spoke loudly. ‘It wasn’t a magpie, love, it was a soccer ball. Conked you right on the head. Here, how many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘Huh?’ I was still feeling a bit dazed, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the fall or Declan’s proximity.

  ‘How. Many. Fingers. Am. I. Holding. Up?’ the coach repeated, even louder this time.

  ‘Ummm . . .’

  ‘You don’t need to yell, pretty sure she can still hear,’ Libby said. ‘Can’t see very far without her glasses, though.’ She plucked them from where they’d fallen on the ground and handed them to me. I held them up to my face. The lenses were miraculously intact, but one of the arms was twisted at an angle that definitely wasn’t right. I groaned. My mum was going to kill me. I’d only had these frames for two days.

  The coach dropped the hand he’d been holding up and straightened with an exasperated sigh. He turned to Declan, who was still hovering close by, even though most of his teammates had started trickling back onto the field.

  ‘We better take her to the hospital,’ the coach said.

  ‘No! She’s fine,’ Libby said. She knows how much I hate hospitals. ‘You’re fine, aren’t you, Katie?’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told you to call me Kate,’ I whispered.

  Through gritted teeth, Libby said, ‘Is this really the time, Kate?’ Her gaze flicked towards the others. I noticed that Mikayla had moved to stand next to Declan, her hand gripping his upper arm.

  ‘I’m fine. Just fine,’ I blurted out, although I was feeling anything but.

  ‘I really have to insist on taking you to –’

  ‘You know what, her doctor is just down the road there, I’ll take her right now. No need to worry, sir,’ Libby was saying. She tugged on my arm.

  ‘I think I should come with you,’ the coach said. ‘Wait there, I’ll grab my wallet, I left it in my glove box.’ He started jogging towards the car park.

  There was an excruciating moment as the rest of us just stood there in silence.

  Declan was the first to break it. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said to me. ‘About your glasses. And your head.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Does it hurt?’

  Before I could answer, Mikayla cut in. ‘It’s not your fault, babe. They shouldn’t have got in the way.’

  ‘Okay, we’re done here,’ Libby said. ‘Come on, Katie.’

  I let her pull me away. As we rushed towards the alleyway that led to my street, I heard the coach yelling after us. It only made us giggle and speed up. I glanced over my shoulder as we rounded the corner away from the field. Without my glasses, I could just make out the blurred shape of Declan still standing there, with the smudge that was Mikayla apparently glued to his
side.

  ‘Are they going out?’ I said.

  Libby snorted. ‘Looks like it. So much for the perfect guy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, how great can he be if he’s interested in Mikayla “The Devil Incarnate” Fitzsimmons?’

  I let out a huff. I still thought he was pretty perfect.

  Except, of course, for the fact that he wasn’t interested in me.

  (See, I told you I’d tell you the whole truth. No matter how humiliating it is.)

  (And boy, does it get humiliating.)

  Two

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to the doctor?’ Libby was sitting on the kitchen bench at my place, swinging her legs back and forth and using a spoon to scrape the residual cookie dough from the mixing bowl so she could shovel it into her mouth.

  I closed the oven and set a timer for when the cookies would be ready. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, straightening my glasses for the fiftieth time. I’d busted out the masking tape to try to repair them. They were barely functioning and looked ridiculous, but it was all I could do for now. ‘I don’t have a concussion. I’m not nauseous or dizzy or headachey.’ We’d looked up the symptoms. Just to be safe.

  ‘Nauseated.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’re not nauseated. Not “not nauseous”. You should know that, you’re the writer.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m not nauseated or nauseous. You might be, though, if you keep eating that raw cookie dough.’

  Libby shrugged and leaped down from the counter. ‘It’s only a little bit, it won’t hurt me.’

  ‘And I’m not a writer,’ I added.

  ‘Oh really? So those notebooks in your room are filled with what? Maths equations? And all those files on your Google Drive?’ Libby bent over and let Max, my Old English Sheepdog, lick her fingers, murmuring to him about what a good boy he was.

  ‘Libby! Chocolate is bad for dogs.’ I chucked a tea towel at her head.

  ‘It’s only a little bit, it won’t hurt him,’ she said with a laugh.

  I started filling up the sink to wash the dishes. ‘A few short stories and half-finished fanfics don’t make me a writer.’