No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  ‘Honestly, giving advice about having hypothetical sex is stressful enough, never mind thinking about actual real-life sex one day. It’s all too much, guys,’ I say, rummaging in my bag for my timetable. At least I feel comfortable with my friends knowing that I’m most definitely and certifiably A Virgin.

  ‘Good job there’s literally no chance of it happening then, eh?’

  We all turn our heads to Holly, who’s making a cup of tea at the sink while doing a healthy dose of eavesdropping. Holly doesn’t take her eyes off her phone to look at us, just keeps scrolling away absent-mindedly with a smug smile on her face.

  ‘Get out of here, Holly,’ Abi spits back at her.

  ‘Chill, Abi – it was only a joke,’ says Holly, rolling her eyes.

  It was definitely not a joke. First, because it’s true. And second, because she knows she only said it to make me feel bad.

  ‘Is there not a single living soul that you’re interested in? Still?’ asks Ella, totally incredulous.

  Now seems like as good an opportunity as ever to fess up about Joe. Introduce the concept to the world. Come out as a crush-haver.

  ‘Actually . . .’ I say, and even with just that word, I can’t help smiling. I’ve got a secret. A little something no one knows but me. But not for long.

  ‘Oh my God, what the hell?’ cries Ella. ‘What’s going on?!’

  Everyone leans in.

  ‘Jesus, it’s not that exciting; it’s definitely not a . . . thing. I just met someone the other day that I thought was quite cute,’ I say, in what may be the understatement of the century. I’ve thought about him non-stop for two days. I’ve thought about his face, his hands, his voice, the colour of his hair, the jeans he was wearing. But the gnawing doubt that guys like him don’t go for girls like me has also filled my head. I’m embarrassed even to think like this, and I feel exposed and vulnerable.

  ‘Who, though?’ Abi looks at me seriously. ‘We need a name . . . a star sign.’

  ‘Um, just this guy I met at Ben’s party. So, no star sign just yet,’ I say, tugging at my top, not looking anyone in the eye. ‘I didn’t really talk to him much, but I thought he was pretty OK-looking . . .’ There I go again with the understatements. At least Camila doesn’t blow my cover and let on we’ve already discussed this in private.

  ‘We still need a name,’ says Abi, clearly thirsty for details.

  ‘Joe. His name is Joe,’ I say, like I’d been nervously holding my breath. Saying his name out loud makes it real. Multiple human people knowing I fancy him makes it . . . a thing. It’s not just a thing rattling around in my head or a secret shared with my best friend. It’s a real thing that I might just have to deal with.

  Sophia leans forward. ‘What does he look like? Is he cute?’

  ‘I think so! He’s taller than me, blond hair, kind of . . . normal size? God, I don’t know how to describe him! He has really nice lips though.’

  Abi cocks her head. ‘Waaaaaait a minute, my girl. If he’s the boy I’m thinking of, I literally just saw him.’

  ‘Saw him where? What do you mean?’ I’m starting to panic – this is too real already. I thought he only really existed in my head, in my own little world. It hadn’t occurred to me that he is an actual person who is walking around, breathing, talking to people, eating food, being places.

  ‘When I went out at lunch to see Oliver for a bit, we went down a . . . secluded, romantic side street to make out,’ she says, waggling her eyebrows. ‘And he bumped into someone he knew going into a shop there, and then after the guy had gone, Oliver said that it was Joe who had been at Ben’s party the other night – as if I’m going to remember everyone I meet when I’m drunk! Anyway, he works in that record shop, the weird second-hand one round the corner. Apparently his family runs it or something.’

  ‘What did he look like? Lemme just check this is actually the same guy,’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘Um . . . kind of exactly how you just said, but also he was wearing some sort of band T-shirt that would probably appeal to you.’

  ‘That’s the one . . .’

  Woah! Way too much information, way too quickly. Too real. Yep, I definitely liked it better when he could be written off as a figment of my imagination. So now I know where Joe is right at this very minute. Why is this so . . . weirdly stressful? Why does it matter where he is? I think about it for a second and realize it’s because now I know where he is, I feel like I need to be there. Like, now.

  Ella nudges me. ‘You should go and see him. This is perfect.’

  She’s totally right, encouraging me to do what I was desperately hoping no one would encourage me to do. Knots gnaw away in the pit of my stomach while a wild fluttering starts in my chest.

  ‘Maybe . . .’ I mumble, but they’re all buoyed by my newfound crush and the news that he’s mere streets away from us. How can they think this is exciting and fun? Do they not realize it’s actually extremely bad and stressful—

  I’m literally saved by the bell: break-time’s over, and to my friends’ great disappointment, we have to head off to our next classes. No more time for gossip.

  I daydream all the way through physics with Mrs Shah. I can’t stop zoning out, even though I desperately need to tune in. Let me assure you: physics is no joke. Never has been, never will be. When the double lesson finishes, I realize I’ve written hardly any notes. I’ve spent the whole class burrowed deep inside my own head, playing out various scenarios where I visit the shop where Joe works after school.

  Oh God, creep mode fully engaged.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘This Must Be the Place’ – Talking Heads

  ‘I don’t want to look like a weirdo. That’s literally the last thing I want to look like,’ I whine at Abi and Camila.

  ‘You won’t!’ Camila says, an imploring look in her eyes.

  She’s being extremely optimistic.

  We’re sitting on a bench outside school. It’s 3.45 p.m., and the clock is most definitely ticking.

  ‘This is your chance, mate! It’s not weird for you to just . . . drop by while he’s at work,’ says Abi.

  I shoot her a look so she understands that some things will always seem creepy, and ‘just dropping by’ is one of them.

  ‘It’s seriously not,’ she says defensively.

  ‘Think of it as fate, you know? You just happen to stop by, and he just happens to be working there today,’ says Camila, trying her hardest to persuade me.

  ‘That doesn’t make it true! If I genuinely had just casually dropped into Beats Per Minute looking for, of all preposterous things, a record, that would be OK. But I can’t start believing my own lie that I’m just at the shop by chance.’

  ‘First, you love music anyway, so why wouldn’t you be at a record shop, aside from the fact it ain’t the 1970s? Second, if you don’t catch him now, who knows when he’ll be at work again? Who knows when you’ll see him again?’ Abi is evidently doing her best to appeal to my sense of drama.

  ‘Or if you’ll see him again,’ says Camila, managing to one-up her.

  ‘Look, if I did do this, what would I even say to him?’

  ‘“Hello”, like a normal person. “How are you?”, like a normal person. “It was nice to meet you”, like a normal person,’ Abi says, rolling her eyes like I’m being deliberately slow.

  ‘And then feign surprise that he works there, like a normal person who isn’t stalking him,’ says Camila.

  ‘So, you do think it’s stalking! Jesus. You and your terrible advice,’ I groan.

  ‘We can’t all be blessed with your advice skills, my friend.’

  I do want to see Joe. I want to see if he’s how I remember him, because I’m scared I’ve remembered him better than he is. The problem is that I only want to see him. I don’t want him to see me, and I really don’t want to talk to him, because talking to Joe sets a precedent for more talking to Joe, and then it’ll have to become a thing I do, when in fact all I want is for him to fall madly
in love with me with zero effort on my part. Zero risk equals zero embarrassment. But I know that isn’t going to happen. Although it feels easier to not get involved, I’m feeling like a moth to a flame. I know where he is right at this second. The thought of it is making my heart flutter.

  A switch flips in my head. ‘I’m going to do it.’

  ‘Do you want us to come with you, for backup, like?’ asks Abi, always keen to be in the thick of it.

  ‘No – it would be even weirder if I brought bodyguards. And you might say something awkward by accident. The fewer people there, the less chance there is of something awful happening.’

  Is this true? I could probably make quite awful things happen all by myself.

  ‘Debatable,’ says Camila, grinning. She knows I’m not famed for my smooth moves.

  ‘I need optimism, pep and good vibes for my little definitely-not-stalking trip. Wish me luck, pals.’

  I haul myself off the bench and start my purposeful stroll up the hill to the shop. I brush my hair as I walk, even though there’s not quite enough time to transform myself into a megababe en route. Don’t think about it. Be normal. This is normal. Everything is fine, I tell myself as I breathe in and out, in and out, trying to clear my head of stressful thoughts. I’m sure people do much weirder things than this all the time, but also . . . what would I know?

  The bright shopfront looms over me as soon as I turn on to the side street. I’m gobsmacked; it just doesn’t fit in, and it’s so beautiful. It’s painted a strong, beautiful vibrant blue, with BPM barely visible in thin black lettering.

  I press my hand against the cool glass pane of the door and push it open without giving myself any time to think. As soon as I breach the threshold, I feel acutely aware of the way my body is moving. Is this a normal way to walk? Is this where you normally have your hands when you’re walking? Where do you normally hold your gaze when you’re not looking for anything or anyone in particular? It hits me now, I should have made notes. ‘How to be normal.’

  The tinkling bell above the door heralds my extremely normal arrival, so I have no time to figure out my grand plan, because right there, right behind the counter, mere metres from the door, is Joe, looking up from his book to see who is darkening his doorway.

  Just seeing him really would have been enough. If I could have just stared at him through the glass and not gone inside, I would have been happy, although I’m extremely aware that would have made me look even weirder. He’s so unbelievably cute; I hadn’t remembered him wrong at all. Is it possible he’s got cuter? In fact, yes, it is, because he’s wearing his glasses. Jesus.

  For a few seconds, I just look around. How have I never been here before? It’s amazing. It’s absolutely crammed with records and CDs, and there’s even a bargain bin full of tapes. I guess I’ve never been here before because, really, who physically owns music any more? But still, it’s kind of an incredible place to have on my doorstep. Its walls are covered with sun-faded posters of Bruce Springsteen, Grace Jones, Neil Young. In the afternoon light, everything seems to be filtered through a fine dust. Even though the shop feels like it’s bursting at the seams with stuff, everything is actually meticulously ordered and maintained. I try to take in as much of it as I can, but naturally my attentions are divided. Maybe I’ll come back another day when he’s not working and have a proper nose around. Maybe I’ll become a Real Music person.

  I’m prepared for the polite ‘Welcome to the shop’ smile to signal he has no idea who I am, but it doesn’t come. Instead, my heart leaps: it’s a real smile; a warm one. He puts down the book he’s reading.

  ‘Oh!’ I chirp in faux surprise. Now I know he recognizes me, I don’t have to pretend I don’t recognize him, which at least saves me from one layer of social fraud.

  ‘Hello . . . Emma? Emily?’ he ventures, squinting his left eye and cocking his head.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. The Emily one. Not the Emma one,’ I garble. Idiot. ‘Do you . . . Do you work here?’

  ‘I do indeed. My parents have owned this shop for decades, and now I’m attempting to make an honest living by looking after it on quiet days,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, that’s cool,’ I say. I guess it is, really. You could do worse than working in a music shop.

  ‘Except every day is a quiet day,’ he says, lowering his voice.

  He’s not kidding. Aside from me, there’s just a random middle-aged man in an anorak poking through the jazz section, occasionally taking a record out, perusing it and replacing it. I don’t know what to say in response, so I just let his words hang in the air.

  Which turns into a dreaded awkward silence.

  ‘So . . . how can I help you?’ Joe says after what feels like an eternity.

  Oh God, I haven’t prepared for this moment. How can he help me?

  ‘My dad found his old record player in the loft yesterday,’ I lie smoothly. Where did that come from? Not too shabby, Emily. ‘I wanted to take advantage of this . . . new musical discovery and buy a record.’

  ‘Your first ever record?’ His eyes light up.

  ‘Yes! I mean, it’s not like I’ve never listened to music before. Just . . . not a record,’ I garble. God, I hope that didn’t sound too defensive.

  ‘OK, so no pressure on this purchase at all,’ says Joe, grinning.

  It’s only as he says this that I fully understand I’m going to actually have to exchange my hard-earned cash for a record to legitimize my visit. I know we do have a record player somewhere, probably in the loft, so maybe it wouldn’t be a complete waste of money. Even if it is, it’s probably worth it for giving me the excuse to chat to Joe. Do I keep it short and just buy something I already know I like so I can get out of here? Or do I use this as an opportunity to bond with Joe?

  Don’t be a dickhead, Emily. This is going much better than you thought it would. See it through.

  Like a sign from the heavens, the anorak man leaves. I guess this means I’m alone with Joe. And Joe is legitimately engaged in helping me. Oh my actual God, I cannot believe my luck.

  ‘OK, so what sort of thing are you looking for?’ he asks, eager as a puppy to help me out.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it . . .’ Well, at least I’m not just wall-to-wall lying. I hadn’t thought about it, because until about two minutes ago, I hadn’t invented the need for him to help me.

  ‘This record is for you, right? Or for someone else? I need to know who I’m advising.’

  ‘Right . . .’ I say, gazing into his eyes, focusing on the dark lashes . . . much darker than his sandy hair. ‘Oh, sorry! I mean, yes . . . I don’t mean . . . Right . . . I mean, yes – it is for me.’

  Joe smiles, apparently unfazed by my goofery. ‘Good, that makes it easier. What sort of thing do you like then? Apart from Talking Heads, I mean.’

  My stomach flips with happiness because he’s remembered our conversation – but then I feel a wave of panic rush over me. What sort of thing do I like? My mind has gone blank. I listen to music all the time, so why can’t I think of anything right now? The seconds are ticking by, and I’m just standing there, heart palpitating and mouth open like I’m waiting for something to happen.

  ‘Um . . . let me think . . .’ I say, forcing an awkward laugh. Music. Bands. Songs. Anything. Just say something . . .

  When I’ve stared blankly at him for slightly too long, inspiration finally strikes.

  ‘I like Robyn. And the Knife,’ I say, as I remember the last things I listened to on my headphones.

  ‘OK, good,’ he says, nodding and smiling encouragement.

  I’m blushing furiously now. It could have been worse – I could have said two random bands I don’t like at all . . . or some atrocious novelty record from the 1970s. Small mercies, tiny victories.

  I follow him as he shuffles up and down the aisles; he’s clearly looking for something. The shop is so small, I keep brushing against things with my objectively huge bum. But the aisles are also so narrow, I can stand right up c
lose to Joe without it being weird. I breathe in his powdery smell, but quietly, so I don’t get accused of being a heavy-breathing creep.

  ‘This is what I was looking for,’ he says, easing a record out of the tightly packed shelf in the section marked ‘L’.

  He holds out a record in a white sleeve with three asymmetric pastel-coloured triangles overlapping each other like a mountain range. I don’t recognize the artwork. I don’t have a chance to take anything else in because he’s doing his best attentive salesman impression.

  ‘You don’t already have it, do you?’ he asks.

  Would it be cool if I did? Should I say I do?

  ‘I thought this one kind of made sense because Robyn and the Knife are both Swedish and, uh, so is this guy . . .’ He trails off. ‘That sounds like really weak reasoning now I say it out loud, but . . . it also kind of makes sense. Or I hope it does. When you listen to it . . . which I hope you do.’

  Geography-based music recommendations. It doesn’t seem the soundest basis on which to categorize artists, but I’m not about to tell Joe that.

  ‘Yeah, that makes sense,’ I lie. I look down at the sleeve. There’s no name and no title. ‘Uh, what is it though?’ I feel stupid for asking, but I feel like I would look stupider if I just took his word for it.

  ‘Yes, I see now that the minimalist cover design doesn’t include a name . . . it’s called Oh You’re So Silent Jens by Jens Lekman. I really rate it,’ he says, pushing his glasses up his nose then running his fingers through his hair nonchalantly.

  I turn it over, as if expecting to learn something from the back. I don’t learn anything. If I agree to buy this, will he think it’s strange? Like I just took the first thing he suggested? I decide I don’t care. I’m too intrigued by what he thinks I’ll like to care about whether or not I’ll actually like it. I just want to know what goes on in his head – and if he ‘rates’ this album, maybe I can learn something about him too. Plus the Swedish thing reminds me of Camila, and I’m doing all I can to feel close to her at the moment.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Well, that was easy,’ he says cheerily, as he rounds the counter to ring up my purchase.