by Day, Susie
Pod people.
My friends have been replaced by Pod people. Robots. Zombie doppelgängers from space. The Leftover Squad has been hijacked by evil clones, and we haven’t even been given our first mission yet.
OK, rewind that thought. I have no moral objection to people looking nice. I might not be exactly managing it myself, in my baggy jeans and my superdork braids, but that just makes me the poster child for not being fooled by the advertising: It’s what’s inside that counts, don’t judge a book, etc. It’s what comes with the extra layers of lipgloss and perfume that’s spooking me. Ludo finally lets go of my wrist, but only to do a quick hitch-and-jiggle on her bra, tugging her vest top down a notch as she eyes Scheherezade. Dai’s telling me some story about lost luggage on the way to Madagascar, but the whole time he’s looking around, eyes sliding up and down, approving and disapproving. Even Fili is tinkering with her millions of long dark braids, eyelashes fluttering shyly as Gothboy tries on her favorite ring with the spider on it.
It’s catching. Everyone’s doing it. I don’t think there’s a person in the room actually enjoying themselves: They’re too busy checking each other out.
Not me, though: The eyes hit, connect, and slide on by.
Maybe my fledgling detective geekiness is not so attractive. Maybe I’ve got the casting for the Leftover Squad all wrong. I’m the comedy sidekick who falls in poo. The talking dog. The redshirt who gets killed off in episode 4, and no one really minds.
“This is SO awesome,” whispers Ludo loudly in my ear.
OAR.
SUM.
I nog: nod and shrug, both at once.
Half an hour later, with the sky dark outside and nothing but MTV on the plasma screen to light the room, I realize I’m not dealing with zombie robot doppelgängers. It’s the love potion episode. Every TV show has it sooner or later. Magic spell, monster bite, something in the water: romantic Kryptonite that makes people lick faces with people they shouldn’t. Mycroft Christie ended up snogging a vampire, an evil old lady who trained exploding hamsters to break into banks, and Jori Song (twice) while under the influence of bad mojo. Hilarious consequences generally ensue.
It’s not so entertaining when you’re in the middle of it.
OK, there’s not exactly a Roman orgy happening. People are still wearing clothes, so far as I can tell from the flicker of the TV. It’s prewatershed, family-friendly, PG-13. But everywhere I look, it’s going on. Tongues and hands and giggles in corners. Oliver Bass is proving how over Anna-Louise he is by sticking his tongue down Miyu’s throat. Scheherezade is sitting on Jo-Jo’s lap, arms draped over his shoulders. Brendan Wilson is sliding a hand up the new Ana girl’s thigh, while she coyly smiles and fiddles with the hem of her skirt.
I hear Fili’s laugh over the music, and see her curled up and cozy with her boy twin, holding hands, shoulders pressed together. I go to nudge Ludo, and realize she’s otherwise occupied, the peroxide-haired, pierced newbie guy’s mouth on hers, his hand resting, as if by total accident, on her boob. I squint my left eye closed, trying not to look, but I can still hear a vague slurpy noise. I turn to grab Dai, but the seat next to me is empty. I finally spot him in the corner near the door, dancing with Henry Kim and looking like he’s won the lottery (which he kind of has, in Finch Gay Quarter terms: Henry Kim is famously the triple threat of cute, rich, and smart, and Dai has been lusting from afar as long as I’ve known him).
The Coat suddenly feels too appropriate, in all the wrong ways. I’m an accidental perv, trapped here staring at a roomful of people getting it on, because there’s not really anywhere else to look. The only other person in the room who isn’t coupling up (or trying to) is Model Yuliya, who is yawning over her can of Diet Coke and flicking through a magazine.
I check my watch. I begged and pleaded until the Mothership promised I could stay until 9:30 tonight. It’s only just after 8.
I remember my Bubble Wrap bag’s at my feet. Betsy lent me an Agatha Christie novel, so I could practice my detecting skills. Maybe now would be a good time to whip out Agatha and read?
OK, that’s definitely not the strangely attractive kind of geekiness.
I could go and find Dad Man, in his little cubbyhole of an office. The Mothership might have finished setting up down at the pool already: She could leave early, take me back down the hill to my poky little attic bedroom. I could watch the Mycroft Christie Investigates season 3 finale again, in bed, with that Snickers bar that I sneaked into the shopping trolley while the Mothership was fussing over whether bananas counted as Amber on her Traffic Light diet regime.
I reach down for my bag to get my phone, and when I come back up, the seat next to me is no longer empty. Etienne Gracey. He’s a Shroom, or he was: one of the Lower School bands, though he must be Upper School now. They played at the End of Year Ball. He sang.
“You’re Heidi, yeah?” he says, shouting, over the music. He’s leaning in very close.
“Etienne, right?”
He smiles, nodding. I can see a little frost of stubble on his chin and his upper lip, glowing blue, then pink in the video light. I feel something touch my back, and try not to jump. It’s his arm, sliding along the back of the sofa.
“Let me get you a drink,” he says, and the arm disappears from my back.
“Oh My God Heidi!” whispers Ludo in my ear, apparently coming up for air. “You are SO lucky! He’s, like, so TOTALLY gorgeous.”
I suppose he is. I mean, he’s not as pretty as Little Leaf Teddy. Not anywhere near as pretty as Mycroft Christie. But he’s sort of a Finch pinup. He’s dated Scheherezade. And now he’s settling back onto the couch next to me, pressing a can of Coke into my hand and sliding his arm back into position.
Ludo’s elbow jabbing me excitedly in the rib area is not helping me to get my brain around this scenario, but Peroxide Guy distracts her again with a little more casual hand/boob interfacing, and it’s like we’re alone together, me and Etienne.
Heidi and Etienne.
Is this how it works, then? You just kind of sit there, and wait for some boy to turn up and kiss you? I’ve been serving cups of tea to nice old ladies all summer: This all feels ultraweird. But I suppose it’s OK. It’ll get it out of the way. I’m not fourteen anymore. I’m fifteen. This is what fifteen-year-olds do.
I take a sip out of my can, and try not to cough as the whatever-it-is goes down. I don’t really do alcohol. I’m probably drunk already.
“Thanks,” I say, tilting the can at him.
Etienne just nods, bobbing his head slightly as the music changes. Madonna thrusts her scary manlegs at me, in a not-especially-sexy kind of way.
I drink some more, in case my mouth tastes of anything weird. Because Etienne’s going to kiss me. I think. I wonder if he’ll feel prickly. I suppose he is quite pretty, up close.
Maybe you don’t just sit there and wait? I didn’t see anyone else having trouble getting to the kissing part of the evening, but I’m definitely doing something wrong. Talking, maybe? Are we supposed to that first?
“So…any new Shrooms songs since last year?”
“Shrooms? We split. Creative differences, you know? I’m working on some solo material now, though.” He snarls at the TV screen. “Real music, y’know?”
“Mhmm,” I say into my Coke. “I’d love to hear it. Sometime. If you’d like?”
“Yeah?” He keeps bobbing his head. “Cool.”
The ultraweird keeps on growing. I think I just asked him on a date, sort of. This is not standard behavior. This is not Heidi. There actually really truly is love potion floating in the air, making everyone moronic, and I am not immune after all.
“So, your Dad is, like, the security guy at night, yeah?”
“Night porter, yep.” I try a goofy shrug. “Kind of embarrassing.”
“What? Oh, yeah, I guess. Anyway, me and the guys were wondering: Could you, like, distract him tonight or something?”
I look up, and see “the guys” hovering b
ehind Etienne, looking hopeful. Big looming Upper Schoolers from Lake: Dave something, Jules Harper, some guy I don’t know at all.
“The real McCartney party’s supposed to be up in Toni’s room in Stables, only she says your Dad was, like, patrolling all over down there, so we ended up down here with the kiddies in Baby House.” He waves his can at the room, eyerolling. “No offense.”
I swallow a big gulp, and taste the whatever-it-is, sticky on my teeth.
“No offense, yep,” I mumble.
“So, could you, like, go pretend to be ill or something, just to, like, keep him busy or whatever?”
He leans in again, arm still round my shoulder, fingers just lightly stroking the top of my arm.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “Whatever.”
“Awesome.”
He gives my arm a squeeze, hops off the sofa, and he and “the guys” vanish.
OAK.
HEY.
Emergency Protocol #4. Ejector seats engaged. Alert, alert, incoming. When I say run, run.
I fumble for my bag, but Ludo’s amazing ability to get her face snogged off and still see what’s going on next to her is still in place. Her hand closes round my wrist again. I pull away, vaguely shaking my head, and climb over various writhey wriggly arms and legs to get out, out into the corridor.
It’s cool and bright. No sweaty people, no stinky pizza, just a nice ordinary school-like corridor, with a notice board about netball practice times and when the nurse will be available. The real world, back where I know the rules.
Ludo bangs the door on the unreal world of the common room, and scoots up to dangle off my shoulder, eyes like two fried eggs.
“Oh My God, what WAS that? I mean, WHAT? I mean, OH MY GOD!”
“Ryder, baby, what gives?”
Not-So-Big Dai appears, his face pink, a huge smile on his face, Henry close behind him.
“I KNOW! He was, like, all over her, and then FOOM, GONE.”
“Etienne Gracey. Heidi, you turned down Etienne Gracey. That’s…that’s a parallel universe.” Dai remembers Henry lingering at his shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”
Henry shrugs. “It’s Etienne Gracey. No offense, but I’m right there with you.”
Ludo grins her tiny pearly grin at me. Then her eyes suddenly get wider. Huge. Fried eggs times twenty. She starts swatting her hands, slapping her palms against me and Dai like we’re on fire, and making little squeaks.
“OH MY GOD. I get it. I totally get it. Don’t you get it?”
Dai looks at Henry. They don’t get it.
I don’t get it either. So much for my fledgling detective skills.
“DUH! Only possible explanation? She’s totally SEEING someone already.”
Dai gasps. Actually gasps.
“No!”
“TOTALLY. Right, Heidi? Right?”
Before I can get a word out, Ludo wraps her arms around my tummy and hugs me so hard I feel my elbows click. Dai joins in, pressing my head into his shirt. Henry wraps a cashmere-clad arm round me, too, even though I don’t really know him well enough for hugging, and the three of them squish me even tighter, with Ludo making small “eee” noises and jumping up and down.
“Anything of interest?”
They break off. Fili’s leaning on the wall, Gothboy just behind, looking bemused.
“Ryder here has just turned down the tongue services of one Etienne Gracey, on account of having—drumroll please—a secret boyfriend.”
Ludo nods her head superfast, mouth wide open.
Fili quirks a brow. “Seriously?”
I look at Ludo, lipstick smeared into a doughnut round her mouth. I look at Dai, Henry’s hand resting ever so casually on Dai’s belt. I look at Fili, and how close Gothboy is standing, fingers twining in hers.
New season. New lineup. Leftover Squad: The Boyfriend Years. No room for Frog Girls here.
Well, honestly, what would you do?
Recipe for an Imaginary Boyfriend
INGREDIENTS:
A name
A haircut
Eyes (two, of improbable color: seafoam green, topaz, etc.)
Stylish yet attainable clothing
An adorable “How We Met” anecdote
Reasons why he is loveable
Reasons why he thinks I am loveable
Reasons why he is very far away and unlikely to phone me up
Hobbies (NOT SCRABBLE)
METHOD:
• Procure ingredients from Heidibrain.
• Watch lots of Mycroft Christie Investigates for valuable insight into boylike behavior.
• Shape the mixture into vague appearance of Monsieur Le Sexay (exact biological accuracy not required—let’s not even go there).
• Snog (imaginarily).
“An imaginary boyfriend?” Betsy breathes in through her nose. “OK. That’s…uh…”
“The most amazingly brilliant idea in the history of the universe?”
“I was going to say ‘creative,’ honeypie. But hey, he’s your imaginary lovemonkey. Maybe you’ve seen a side to him I’m missing.”
It’s the Saturday after the first week of school, and I’m back in my apron, playing waitress at the Little Leaf café. If the Finch is one step sideways from normal, then the Little Leaf is a bus ride away. If you don’t look too closely, it’s a perfect picture-postcard tearoom on the village green. It sells homemade scones with jam and clotted cream, twenty-four different kinds of tea, and only one kind of coffee (instant and horrible), and there are still lacy tablecloths on half of the tables. There’s even a shelf running round the ceiling displaying novelty teapots in the shape of red London buses. Traditional British Hospitality.
Only Betsy is American, with her own take on what counts as “traditional.”
So the walls are tangerine, sky blue, and pink—one of each, with a dusty black wall behind the counter that we use as a chalkboard for the day’s specials, Teddy’s daft little doodles of customers, and the Daily Wisdom: SMILE! IT MAKES ME REMEMBER TO WASH MY HANDS BEFORE SERVING YOU. EAT A CAKE! OR THE KITTEN DIES. There are squashy sofas and armchairs infiltrating their way between the lace tablecloths. The shelf with the buses also has dragons, a bust of Shakespeare with a red plastic clown nose, and a selection of novelty hats, from Deerstalker to Top. There’s even a picture of the Queen (and you can only see the felt-pen moustache if you stand on a chair).
Tourists eat it up. Tourists take photos of themselves pointing at the menu. Locals go to the Big Bean coffeehouse opposite for venti mochas.
I still smile every time I walk through the door anyway. Betsy’s been the provider of sanity (and cake) all summer. If anyone’s going to understand the logic of my sudden need for an imaginary boyfriend, I reckon it’s her.
She slides a trayload of scones and tea across the counter, and I dutifully deliver it to a concertina-spined elderly couple by the Little Leaf window. The place is deadsville again: September is back-to-school time for the tourists, too. It’s raining. Even the Daily Wisdom (TODAY’S MUFFINS ARE ROUND FLAT BREADY THINGS: THOSE OTHER ONES ARE JUST CUPCAKES WITH EGOS) seems a bit glum. The first week back in Finchworld hasn’t been a breeze, either. Mr. Prowse has already rejected my Poem on an Autumn Leaf homework and demanded I do it again for next week, on pain of being reported to Mrs. Kemble, the Demon Headmistress. The Mothership’s decided we’re on a Red Foods Only phase on the Traffic Light diet, now Dad Man’s back to sleeping up at the Finch six nights a week and isn’t around to demand fish fingers and chips. The post-McCartney Party fallout is still ongoing, what with Etienne Gracey glaring at me for failure to distract, Jo-Jo Bemelmans getting busted with a pillowcase full of empty vodka bottles, and Flick Henshall having ended up in a clinic after having her stomach pumped. Dad Man had to drive her out there at 4 in the morning. He looked all stringy the next day. I’m sworn to secrecy, of course, which in reality means I have to sit there pretending I know nothing while everyone else talks about it, because Flick Henshall
does this about twice a term, and her completely empty bedroom is sort of a giveaway. Basically, my own parents are making me lie. No wonder I’m entering the subterfuge business.
And then there’s…the other stuff.
“We going to have the company of the gang from up on the hill today?” Betsy asks, dusting invisible crumbs off the green velvet sofa, as if that’ll magically make some customers appear on it.
“Not sure if they’ll make it, actually. They’re all pretty busy. With, you know, homework. And…things.”
Betsy peers out at me from beneath her hair, narrows her eyes, and pointedly sets us up with a large pot of English Breakfast.
“Feeling a little left behind, hon?” she says gently.
OK, maybe not that good. She’s a bit clever, Betsy.
“It’s just not how I pictured the first week back, that’s all.”
I’m being an idiot, I know it. It’s not as if over the summer my little room magically flew five miles closer to school, so I could spend my evenings being exposed to Bad Influences and Extreme Teenage Behaviors like everyone else, and come home at curfew on the Bike o’ Doom, by myself. And we hadn’t actually made plans to watch kittens on YouTube when everyone got back. Fili never promised to be perching on the end of the balance beam at the end of every day, waiting to lend me an earbud. We’re still hanging out, like we used to, kind of: the Leftover Squad, plus extras. I am not Frog Girl.
I pick up the tufty end of my left braid, and glare at it. “It’s like everyone else got a different script, you know? And I’m having to make it up as I go.”
“Including a boyfriend?”
“Including a boyfriend. And don’t look at me like that! It’s not because I’m jealous. I think it’s nice that all my friends have hooked up with people. They’re happy, I’m happy.”
That part is totally true. Dai’s so giddy about having snagged Henry he keeps walking into doorframes. Ludo is even squeakier than usual over her Peroxide Eric. Fili and Gothboy float around in matching outfits (and since Gothboy has turned out to be Simon Grove, who last year was a wispy blond guy in a “Jesus Saves” T-shirt who used to fall asleep a lot in Biology, his transformation into her perfect twin seems like some extra-special romantic gesture). It’s kind of amusing to observe.
