by Day, Susie
Betsy’s still looking unconvinced.
“I’m just mucking about, honest. It’s not like I set out to make up a boyfriend. Ludo got the wrong idea: I didn’t put her right. Actually it’s pretty entertaining, working out what he should be like. Like…pick ‘n’ mix. Only with body parts.”
She’s smirking now. “OK, honey, I’ll buy it. I wish my first boyfriend had been imaginary. Then I could go ahead and unimagine him again. Along with the acne, and the poison breath, and the creepy kid sister who used to stare in at us through his car window…”
“See? This is why it’s the most amazing idea ever. Imaginary Boy is not going to have any of those.”
After all, I am kind of an expert at this. I’ve been having imaginary boyfriends since I learned how to turn on a TV. So far, I’ve had theoretical romantic shenanigans with:
The Milkybar Kid (I was eight. He was (a) equivalent to me on the dorkage scale and (b) had chocolate: (b) was totally the clincher)
The kilt-wearing man on the porridge oats advert (KILT! No further explanation required)
Carson Kressley (sigh)
Peter from off of Narnia
Ellen Page (obligatory girl crush)
Peter Petrelli (shirtless)
MYCROFT CHRISTIE ♥
I’m practically a slut. Etienne Gracey would probably turn me down all over again, due to my intimidating sexual prowess.
“So, does he have a name? Because ‘Imaginary Boy’ is kind of a giveaway, hon.”
“Still working on it.”
Names are surprisingly tricky. All of the good ones are taken. And I can hardly call him Mycroft. I don’t think my imagination is up to fake-dating a Mycroft, let alone anyone else’s.
“Anything but Rupert!” comes a muffled voice from the kitchen.
Teddy. Teddy, who is usually still asleep at this hour of the morning (apparently, occasionally, I may have noticed in passing), creating his beautiful extra-fluffy curly bed hair. Fabulous tousled Teddy, seventeen-year-old god of baking, who is apparently not asleep, but in the kitchen, listening to my pathetic lack of a life.
ODE.
EAR.
I don’t know why I’m embarrassed: Teddy’s quite aware of how hopeless I am already. He’s seen me doing sweaty karaoke to Katrina and the Waves at closing time cleanup, after all. And anyway, I happen to know he’s a Teddy who is secretly not a Teddy at all, but a Rupert. (Betsy thought it sounded like a nice British name, until they moved here, and found out it translates locally as “hit me, hard, many times.” There aren’t even any Ruperts at the Finch. So: Rupert, Rupert Bear, Teddy.) He’s kind of touchy about it. If he wants to start a mockery war, I have ammunition.
“I’ve got an outstanding ‘How We Met’ anecdote all mapped out, though,” I say, quickly, because Betsy’s starting to look unconvinced. “Can you check it for plot holes? Because Ludo’s starting to invent her own version, and I’m running out of enigmatic coy looks.”
“Have at it,” she says, pouring more tea.
I settle myself on the stool, and take a deep breath.
“OK, so, we met at Paddington station. Buying gummy bears. I mean, I was buying gummy bears. Only I was running late, and I heard the train arrive so I ran for it, and I must’ve left my purse in the shop when I did, because just as I was about to get on the train, someone grabbed my arm. And he was all breathless because he’d been running to catch up with me, so he couldn’t get the words out to say, ‘Here is your purse,’ and then the train doors went BEEP BEEP BEEP and closed, and the train left, and we both just stood there. And he went, ‘You missed your train,’ and I went, ‘Nnnnnnnngh,’ because he was all tall, dark, and leather-jackety. And holding my purse, which is the purple felt one with the flower on it that’s falling off a bit. So he gave it back to me, and I said, ‘Thank you,’ and probably our fingers brushed together with sparks of electricity, though I might skip that bit? And we just stood there, on this train platform, just the two of us. So I offered him a gummy bear and he said, ‘Only if I can have a red one, they’re the best,’ and I said I liked the green ones best anyway, and then we just carried on talking, and la la la snogs, the end.”
I take a big swig of tea.
“So, what do you think?”
“Adorable,” says Betsy. “A little too adorable, maybe? But hey, that’s what fantasies are for, right?”
“I could ditch the gummy bears?”
“I like the gummy bears. Nice detail.”
“The ending needs a little work.”
“Yeah, but still, it’s a good beginning. Love the leather jacket.”
“OK, stop, I can’t take any more!”
Teddy appears in the kitchen doorway, tousled bed hair in place (lightly dusted with flour), apron on over the top of stripy pajama trousers and monster-feet slippers.
“Nobody’s going to give a crap about the leather jacket and the gummy bears,” he says, wagging a spoon at us and dripping icing on the floor, “not when the rest of it doesn’t make any sense. Heidi, if you left your purse in the shop, how did you get through the turnstile onto the platform? Are you at Paddington train station or underground station? What are you even doing in London? I mean, don’t you have somewhere to go? Doesn’t he? And seriously, if some strange guy steals your purse and grabs your arm at a train station, you want to push him onto the tracks, not kiss him. Just a suggestion.”
He grabs the chalk, doodles a gummy bear with a sad face on the wall, and heads back to the kitchen with a grin.
“My son, the death of romance,” sighs Betsy.
“Nope, he’s right. It’s not exactly realistic, is it?”
I decide not to mention the previous draft versions I came up with in Chemistry, when I was meant to be doing experimental things with potassium permanganate. There were pirates. And giraffe riding. And he had a beret.
Apparently imaginary boyfriend–construction is harder than it looks.
“Maybe you should keep it simple,” Betsy offers. “There don’t need to be fireworks. Just go with something you’ll be able to remember. Something familiar, you know?”
I spend the total lack of a lunchtime rush contemplating alternative locations for Imaginary Boy to share my gummy bears. Then I decide he (Michael?) is a vegetarian, and so we strike up a conversation about how gummy bears contain bits of dead cow. Then I decide that discussing bits of dead cow is probably not the ideal date conversation, and actually that he (Mikhail) is kind of a jerk for even mentioning it, in fact, ruining my gummy bears. And who does he (Mickey) even think he (Mikey) is, coming and hassling me in the park?
By the end of the day, I’ve dumped him (Artemis) about seventeen times, before we’ve even properly met. And he still doesn’t have a name that isn’t stupid.
“Inspiration for you,” says Betsy as we close up early, sliding me a paper bag along with the little brown envelope of cash that I really obviously haven’t earned.
“What’s this?”
I peer inside the bag and find a warm, solid gingerbread man; his iced-on eyes and buttons still slightly soft.
Betsy looks innocent.
“The Perfect Boyfriend. And he’s not even imaginary.”
Boarding school Dining Halls are not what you imagine. I’ve seen six, and I can tell you now: Forget what the pictures in the brochures say, and put all Hogwarty thoughts from your mind. There will be no mahogany paneling, or portraits of old dead guys, or feasting on roasted wild boar by candlelight. The Finch Dining Hall is strip-lit, smells of beans, and looks a bit like a posh McDonald’s. The food is just as enticing: Oil Pie, Lettuce in Soup, and the ever-popular Armored Pizza. (If the Mothership’s Red Peppers stuffed with Red Lentils, Red Onion, and Red Cabbage don’t kill me, their Fish Surprise will.)
I used to have other reasons to hate lunchtimes, obviously. Arrive in the middle of a term? You’re already screwed, because every little gang has already planted an invisible flag on their own table. Occasionally cause the Mothership, a
ka Mrs. Ryder the PE Witch, to come over “just to see how you’re doing, babes?” No one’s going to offer you that spare seat. Get a reputation for potentially coming to lunch with a half-dissected amphibian attached to your bag?
WELD.
UH.
Fortunately, these days I have my pre-reserved spot just like everyone else, so I line up with my plastic tray and shuffle through the line. There’s not a lot left, and somehow I end up with nothing but four different kinds of potato on my plate by the time I’ve made it through the toxic food sludge. I grab an apple (green, just to add to my Traffic Light rebellion), then weave through the tables, following the sound of Ludo’s giggles.
Our official Leftover Squad corner is looking a little crowded these days, even with Ludo sitting on Peroxide Eric’s lap, wrapped up in the ends of his military coat, and Fili and Simon sitting so close together they might as well be sharing one chair.
“Ryder!” shouts Dai, waving me over. “At long last. We were starting to think you’d turned into the invisible woman.”
Henry stands at once, and offers me his seat.
“Isn’t that the mysterious Yuliya’s job?” he asks, lounging against the back of Dai’s chair, while Dai beams with pride.
Yuliya, the stick insect Russian model, has managed to not turn up to a single class I’m in so far. I’m starting to think I imagined her, too.
“OH MY GOD, like, leave her alone?” Ludo flicks her hair, not noticing that some of it is now tangled in Peroxide Eric’s nose ring. “She probably has to sleep a lot to maintain her complexion.”
“She’s not going to come in here anyway,” says Dai, hovering a hand over my plate, and deciding to steal my apple instead. “Models don’t eat. Well, not food.”
I waggle Potato Variety #1: The Soggy Chip at him. “Don’t think this qualifies.”
“That is SO stereotypical,” says Ludo, swinging her hair again.
There’s a faint groan from behind her. I wince on Peroxide Eric’s behalf. He gives me a grateful grin, as he disentangles himself.
The Mothership has instructed me not to be friends with “the new boy with all the metal in his face,” but then she says that about everyone. So far, he seems to be sitting back and observing Finchworld with a kind of bemused smile, and I can get behind that.
“I’m just saying, she’s probably got her reasons, which are probably, like, none of our business? And she’s Fili’s new roomie, you know? So we should TOTALLY be making her feel welcome.”
“Very true,” says Dai, through a mouthful of apple. “So what is she like, then?”
We all look at Fili.
Fili patters her fingertips on the table, and narrows her eyes. Then she seems to notice that everyone’s staring, hanging on her words. “She’s…tall,” she says eventually.
We wait, but that seems to be all we’re getting.
(I understand, though. She means: I think things I don’t want to say right now. Fili-code isn’t so hard to follow once you know her. Sometimes she likes to work things out in her head properly before committing them to the open air, that’s all. She can come out with whole paragraphs when it’s just us two, swinging our legs on the balance beam. We still haven’t got around to doing that yet this term, but, hey, it’s been busy, with the new classes, and settling in, and Simon. There’s not really room for three of us out there.)
“Simon? Anything you’d like to add? Like, actual information of some kind?” says Dai.
Simon frowns, and says slowly, “She has really big hands.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Finch gossip scandal of the year.”
“Unless there’s a thrilling story about how he found out she has really big hands?” suggests Henry, nudging Dai with his elbow.
Simon frowns again, blinking apologetically at Fili through his wispy black hair. “I just…looked?”
Fili pats his hand, reassuringly, and he looks a bit less terrified. It’s sort of adorable, how puppylike he is.
Dai sighs heavily. “It’s so worthwhile, knowing the people with the inside scoop.”
“She’s doing PAG,” says Fili, softly.
“OH MY GOD!” squeaks Ludo, eliciting another pained grunt from Peroxide Eric as he rubs ruefully at his ear. “Really? That’s so awesome! We’ll be, like, best friends! There’ll probably be press photographers coming to see it and everything!”
I stab a lump in my gray mash. “PAG?”
“Performing Arts Group,” says Henry. “We put on the Wassail show? With Venables?”
I nod. Everyone was still talking about the Wassail show when I arrived last January. It’s the Christmas play, really, but the Finch likes to think it’s progressive and embraces all cultures (as long as they can pay the fees), so they can’t call it that. There are still photos all over the music rooms of the Main Hall set up with the posh auditorium seating that sort of folds out of the walls, with Henry in a purple cloak peering out from behind a curtain, and Big Dai dressed up as the Cowardly Lion. Dai looks more like a Cowardly Koala, but there’s a Tin Man and a Scarecrow and Gillian Gerhardt in gingham, so I’m assuming the continental detour was an accident. And I know Venables, even though I’ve managed to escape his classes so far. He’s got a little love posse who follow him round adoringly, and quite possibly leave apples on his desk. Even the Mothership’s always going on about how hilarious he is in the staff room. I don’t really get it. All I see is one of those teachers who wears skinny jeans even though he’s going bald, wants everyone to call him Phil, and likes to sit cross-legged on the floor so he can “feel the vibe, man.”
“Auditions, next Wednesday,” says Dai.
“Can you believe there were only, like, TWENTY places on the sheet for the Lower School? And you just KNOW that Scheherezade Adams was going to put herself down for, like, ALL of them.”
“But, Mr. Venables!” lisps Henry, tilting his head into a scarily accurate impersonation, only with a bit less cleavage. “It simply wouldn’t be fair on the people who’ve bought tickets if I didn’t play heroine and hero! It’s so much modern that way.”
“Don’t worry, Ryder, I signed us all up.”
Peroxide Eric sweeps Ludo’s hair aside, and raises a hand. “Not me. Not exactly my scene.”
It’s not exactly my scene, either. I give good audience. I am well trained in the art of viewing. Participation, not so much.
But maybe that’s the old Heidi talking. I’m Heidi-with-a-boyfriend. Heidi-with-a-boyfriend could be in a play.
“They have non-speaking roles,” says Fili, softly.
“Scenery, lighting, music…” Dai has his best encouraging face on.
“Costume!” bellows Ludo, tugging on The Coat gleefully and nearly yanking my head off.
I squish down the tiny inner mumble of disappointment that even Heidi-with-a-boyfriend is not expected to wow the school with her undiscovered acting talent. A good detective should be watching from the wings anyway. It’s like Mycroft Christie says in episode 1.11, “Noises Off”: One can’t see who’s pulling the strings if one is one of the puppets.
Dai’s phone beeps. “Sorry, kiddies, must fly,” he says, chucking my half-eaten apple back on my tray. “The weights room is calling. Time to get sweaty.”
Henry smirks, and murmurs something in Dai’s ear.
“You can’t go now!” Ludo’s bobbing about on Peroxide Eric’s knee, like a five-year-old who needs a wee. “I know a thing about the thing!”
Fili glances at me, then gives her a stern look. “Ludo?”
“We’re not talking about the thing,” says Dai sternly. “The thing is none of our business, remember? Unless the thingee wants to share?”
They all look at me.
“I’m a thingee?”
“Oh, come ON,” moans Ludo, her knees jiggling up and down. “The BOY? The super-mysterious secret boyfriend? The more gorgeous than Etienne Gracey boy we’re all dying to know about, WHOSE NAME I MIGHT HAPPEN TO KNOW?”
They all look
intrigued. “They” includes me.
Ludo strangles me again, hauling on my collar and thrusting the inner lining of The Coat at Dai.
“HELLO? The coat OBVIOUSLY belongs to the super-mysterious secret boy, because, duh, why else would she be wearing it? And what does it say in the coat?”
Dai leans in. I crane my head around to see the neatly sewn nametape under the hanging loop that I’ve never really paid any attention to.
“Hartley,” he reads.
“How romantic,” says Henry.
Hartley. It sounds sort of familiar. I’ve probably seen it written there before without really noticing, the way you walk past the same row of shops all the time but couldn’t put them in order without them right in front of your nose.
“So, Ryder, does Hartley have a first name, or are you two sticking with the kinky boarding school thing?”
I take a deep breath.
They continue to all stare at me.
I can’t do it: not lie straight to their faces. I’m coming clean. I’m telling the truth.
We all simply want to belong.
“Ed,” I say. “His name’s Ed.”
I have no idea where it came from: The words just pop out before I can inspect them for Paddington stationesque plot holes. But I like it. I picture the little gingerbread dude Betsy gave me. I’ve saved him: propped him up on my bedside table, guarding Agatha Christie.
“Aww, look, she’s gone all girly,” squeaks Ludo, and I realize I’m grinning.
Ed Hartley. My boyfriend’s name is Ed Hartley. Gingerbread Ed.
EX.
SELL.
LEANT.
Now that he’s got a name, the rest of the ingredients are going to just fall in my lap. I can feel it. I’m not just audience now. I get an executive producer credit. I’m the show runner for Heidi!, the heartwarming yet hilarious tale of a plucky gal and her imaginary friend (not to be confused with that thing up a mountain, with the goats).
