by Holly Smale
After several hours of industrious productivity, during which I tell Nat all about the awesome trip to Japan that I won’t be going on, I say, “Seriously, Nat, what am I going to do without you? At least you’ll be in France. I’m going to be stuck here on my own.”
“And Toby. Don’t forget Toby.” Nat wrinkles her nose at me so I hit her with the magazine. I said small doses. “I’ve got it worse. I’m staying on a farm. An actual working farm with animals in it and stuff. What’s the prison on that island called?”
“Alcatraz?”
“Yeah. I’d rather have been sent there. At least I could have jumped out and swum to the shops in San Francisco. I’m going down in style though.” She holds up a lipstick. “I’m going to look like one of the women who works behind a beauty counter in John Lewis by the time I’m finished.”
“Are you going to milk cows and make butter and collect eggs?”
“I most certainly am not.” Nat shudders. “You realise eggs come out of chicken’s butts, right?”
“They don’t, Nat,” I laugh, cutting through another piece of paper. “They’re actually called cloacas, and all birds and amphibians and reptiles have them. For joint reproductive and digestive purposes.”
“Ew. That’s actually more gross.” Nat sits on the bed next to me, looking miserable. “Oh, God, Harriet. This summer is a total disaster. I bet there’s going to be some disgusting boy on the farm with a little wispy moustache and a habit of accidentally walking into my bedroom while I’m getting changed.”
I giggle. “And every time you take a shower he’ll lurk outside so when you come out in a towel he’s right there.”
“Yeah,” Nat says, starting to laugh. “And he’ll ask for the salt at the dinner table with, like, meaning.”
“And every ten minutes he’ll offer to give you a massage with olive oil he stole from the kitchen.”
“I bet he wears shiny green lycra cycling shorts around the house and his T-shirts are too short.” We’re both giggling uncontrollably now, and rolling around on the bed making vomiting sounds.
“I’m going to have to run away,” Nat says decisively. “I’m going to steal a pig and ride it into Paris.”
My phone beeps and I grab it out of my pocket. “Pigs can trot at up to eleven miles per hour at top speed,” I say, clicking on a message from an unknown number. “It’s definitely faster than walking.”
“Or a tractor. I can’t drive but I reckon if you’re in a tractor everything else gets out of the way for you. Do you think a tractor has gears, like a car …”
Nat continues chattering but I can’t really hear her any more.
The human brain consists of eighty per cent water, and for the first time in my life that’s exactly what mine feels like: as if it’s swishing and swirling around inside my head. My ears fill with the roaring sound you get when you sit at the bottom of a swimming pool.
Because I’ve just received this:
Hope you smashed your final exam. Would love to talk. Thinking of you. Nick x
Reasons Not to Think About Nick
He told me not to.
I have much more life-changing things to think about.
It’s all I do.
January 22nd (156 days ago)
“A seagull,” Nick said, leaning his head against the rope of my tyre-swing.
We were both wrapped up in big coats and scarves; I was wearing the big furry hat I got from Russia with the flaps in the sides. I leant back and looked at him, pointing at the faint scar just above his eyebrow. “A seagull gave you that?”
“Yeah. So I wrestled it to the ground with my bare hands. Then another seagull joined in so I fought that too. By the end there were, like, fifteen seagulls, all totally defeated. They called me Seagull Dundee after that.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How old were you?”
“Four. I was a very strong little boy.”
I laughed. “Now tell me the truth.”
Nick’s mouth curved up at the corner. “I cannot believe you don’t trust that I wrestled fifteen seagulls with my bare hands before I was out of kindergarten. What kind of rubbish girlfriend are you?”
“The kind with quite detailed knowledge of seagulls, unfortunately for you. No knowledge of boys but it balances out.”
He shouted with laughter. “I knew I should have gone for the girl on the Dolce & Gabbana shoot.” Then he pushed my swing a few times while I stuck my tongue out at him. “OK. What actually happened is I ran away from my parents when we were collecting rocks at the beach. I was pretty tiny so I didn’t get very far, but a massive seagull freaked me out and I fell over and smacked my head on a rock. When I woke up a few minutes later, it was standing on my chest.”
“Were you scared?”
“No. Heroes don’t get scared.” Nick thought about it. “One of us definitely pooped, though. I’m pretty sure it was the seagull.”
I laughed again. “I hate seagulls. Did you know that they’re so smart that they hang around bridges so they can steal the heat coming off the roads, and that they tap on the ground with their feet and pretend to be rain so earthworms come out?”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all. They’re so sneaky.”
“How big was this one?”
“The size of a tiger. Comparatively, anyway.”
I tried to imagine Nick small and frightened, but I couldn’t quite do it. “So what gave you the scar? The rock or the seagull?”
“The rock. Although the seagull got really close to my face too. Really, really close. Like, this close.” Nick suddenly stopped the swing and put his face near mine.
I held my breath. I could see the different shades of black and brown in his eyes, and the tangle of black lashes underneath them. I could see my hat reflected in his pupils. I could see the little mole on his cheek and smell the greenness which – I had finally managed to establish – was the result of a fondness for lime shower gel combined with a tendency to constantly sit on wet grass in his jeans.
“That’s pretty close,” I just about managed to say as he put his hand gently on my cheek and brushed away a bit of hat fluff.
“Yup,” Nick said with a smile that went up in one corner and seemed to stretch out forever. His hand stayed where the fluff had been. “But not quite close enough to hurt me.”
And he leant in and kissed me.
cientists say that music can literally change the speed of a heartbeat. They failed to add:
So can a text message.
It’s as if Nick is suddenly in the room with me.
I drop the phone.
“Harriet? What’s going on?”
Humans are supposed to have 70,000 thoughts a day; I’m about to hit my limit in four and a half seconds.
“It’s Nick,” I summarise.
“Seriously?” Nat grabs the phone off me and reads the message. Then she chucks it back to me, jumps off the bed and starts folding a jumper messily.
I’m breathing too fast and my heart is starting to skitter around like Bambi on a frozen lake. My entire body is suddenly full of a triumphant, almost painful buzzing sensation. What did I tell you? It wasn’t a matter of if he was going to change his mind. It was just a matter of when.
Although I’m going to be honest: he really took his time. We’re not Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester, for goodness’ sake. I could have set up an entire school since we last spoke.
I jump off the bed, spin around the room and start hugging my phone to my chest. “Should I ring him now, Nat?” I say breathlessly, breaking off just long enough to kiss my phone and start hugging it again. “Or should I text? What do you think he wants me to do? Do you think he’s coming straight here from Australia?” My eyes widen and I fly to the window. “Oh my God, Nat. What if he’s already here?”
I push the window open and then remember that I’m at Nat’s house. He’s very unlikely to come here first. I need to go home and get ready right now. I need to wash my hair. I need to clear away my chemistry kit.
I start putting my shoes on.
“How long should I wait until I reply to look cool?” I continue breathlessly. “Five minutes? Ten minutes? An hour?”
I’m so excited I can’t get my shoelaces to tie up properly. “Or should I just ring now? I don’t want him to get the wrong impression.”
I look at the text again. The answer to these questions must be in here somewhere. Maybe it’s in code. Maybe it’s a haiku. Allegory? For goodness’ sake, I’ve studied English literature for five whole years. I can analyse the imagery in Macbeth and the symbolism in Hamlet. I should be able to work this out.
“You know what?” I decide. “I think I’ll just ring him straight away. I can’t wait any longer.”
My phone abruptly disappears.
“Like hell you will,” Nat snaps, and before I know it she’s standing on her bed, violently waving my mobile in the air like some kind of rectangular hand grenade. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
I stare at my best friend. It’s only now that I notice her cheeks are bright pink, and her hands are shaking. Her angry rash is starting to climb up her chest. And it’s only now that I notice she’s folded and unfolded the same jumper five times. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You’re not contacting Nick,” she says loudly. “I’ll eat this phone if I have to. And the charger.”
I’m not sure that’s even physically possible. “What? Why?”
“Because you need to wake up, Harriet.”
I blink and then look down at myself. “I’m pretty sure I’m awake, Nat.”
“This isn’t an epic romance. It’s just a boy who used you. A boy who made you forget about everything that was important to you before he came along. You’ve read so many books you can’t even tell the difference between fiction and reality any more.”
I flinch. Just because I sometimes use the words ‘thou’ and ‘mayst’ for fun does not mean I think I’m in an Austen novel. Not all the time, anyway.
“I can,” I say indignantly. “I am well aware of the difference between what’s real and what isn’t.” I’d be prettier in a book, for starters. “Give me my phone right now.”
I jump for her, like some kind of killer whale trying to get a particularly nice seal.
“Harriet,” Nat says urgently, moving a little further away. “Nick hasn’t contacted you for two months. He dumped you weeks before the most important exams of your life and ran away. That’s not what somebody who cares about you does. You have to believe me. I understand boys better than you do.”
I flinch again and something in me pinches slightly. “You might know boys in general,” I say defiantly. “But you don’t know Nick. He cares about me. I know he does.”
I jump for her again and miss.
“He doesn’t,” Nat says, moving until she’s pressed against the wall and holding me back with a foot. “He’s an idiot and I’m not letting him suck you back in with his pointy cheekbones and his pointy hipbones and his stupid pointy hair. No.”
Fury suddenly surges through me. My best friend is acting like some kind of crazy, masterminding puppeteer. She’s calling my Lion Boy an idiot. She’s just reminded me about his lovely hipbones.
And – most of all – I’m furious that a very tiny part of me suspects she might be right.
“Natalie!” I yell. “Nat! Give me my phone NOW!”
“Don’t make me do this,” Nat shouts, and her cheeks get even pinker. “For once in your life just listen to me, Harriet.”
“Give me my phone!” I shout again, and – with a lurch of my stomach – I suddenly know what Nat’s going to do.
If she gets rid of that text, I will have no way of contacting him. I deleted Nick’s number so I wouldn’t be tempted to text him after he left. He doesn’t ‘do’ social media. And I can’t remember his email address.
He’ll give up on me.
And if that happens, I’m not sure our ten-year friendship will survive. More importantly, I’m not sure Nat will. There’s a really good chance I’ll just kill my best friend on the spot.
There’s a red dot in the centre of each of Nat’s cheeks. “I’m doing this for you,” she announces, tapping the screen. “I honestly am.”
“No!” I yell, and bundle myself at her legs in an attempt to desperately wrestle my phone out of her hands. Nat scrabbles away while I hold on to her feet, and the next thing I know she’s only wearing one sock and there’s yet another rip in my bridesmaid’s dress.
By the time I’ve finally managed to claw my phone back, we’re huffing and puffing and scratched and bright red all over and it’s too late.
The message has gone.
My last chance with Nick has gone with it.
You really don’t want to know what I say next.
Let’s just put it this way: in no way do I leave my feelings about the situation open to interpretation. I am very clear about every single one of them.
I end the conversation by telling Nat I hope she doesn’t get eaten by French chickens in a way that very much intimates the opposite, and then storm out of the house.
“Harriet?” Nat yells out of the window as I stomp down the road, silk dress rippling after me. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper! I shouldn’t have done that!”
“No,” I yell back, without turning round, “you shouldn’t!”
Then I keep stomping. What kind of friend does that?
Who the sugar cookies does Nat think she is?
or the next couple of days, I simply refuse to leave my room.
There’s no point. The alternative is to watch my parents take all my impeccably arranged books out of the study and pile them in a not-even-vaguely alphabetical order outside my door.
By the time it gets to Friday afternoon, I’m so sick of hearing Dad say “another book of random quotations? Seriously?” I decide to go for a long, cathartic walk. My ex-best friend will be in France by now, getting chased about by Mr Green Lycra Cycling Shorts.
Good. Serves her right.
I hope he doesn’t even use proper virgin olive oil, and opts for low-grade cooking oil instead.
Unfortunately my stress-reducing exercise efforts are ruined within two minutes by a small, fluffy-headed figure creeping from tree to tree in front of me. I have to keep looking in the opposite direction so I don’t hurt his feelings.
“Toby,” I finally say as I turn back on to my road. He flattens himself behind a lamp-post considerably thinner than he is. “I can see you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure, yes.”
“Oh dear,” he says sadly. “My homemade camouflage stalker kit may need some more work.” He points at his grey T-shirt and grey trousers. They have faint black lines drawn on them in criss-crosses.
I stare at him, and then totally give up. “What on earth are you camouflaged as?”
“Pavement.” Toby lies down on the floor and holds himself very rigid and still. “See? It’s only for urban settings, obviously. It wouldn’t work in the countryside.”
I laugh and carefully step over him.
“Harriet,” he says, jumping up and running after me. “Are you and Natalie OK? I couldn’t help overhearing a small amount of very loud fighting the other day when I was sitting in the rhododendron outside her house waiting for you to come out.”
Clearly Toby hasn’t moved on quite as much as I thought he had. “I’ve had an unexpected best-friend position open up,” I say tensely. “Would you like it?”
“Would I?” Toby shouts, jumping up and down. “I mean, I would. Just to make that clear.”
“Great,” I say sharply. “We’re now Best Friends. We can go and get some badges made up or something.”
Toby bounces along next to me in contented silence, and then sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t think I can take the job, Harriet,” he says sadly. “You and Natalie are soulmates, except you don’t kiss. It would be wrong to try to ever separate you.”
I make an amb
iguous snorting noise. Soulmates are usually happy for each other when supermodel ex-boyfriends text them. “Either way, now I’m not going to Tokyo, it’s just you and me this summer.”
“Actually, maybe not,” Toby says solemnly.
I’m already thinking about my abandoned Summer of Fun Flow Chart. Maybe I can re-use it after all. I just need to find the right colour pen so I can cross out Nat and replace it with Toby and my holiday will be none the wiser. “Hmmm?”
“I think you already have a visitor.”
My stomach suddenly flips and every hair on my body stands on end. Nick?
I look up. There’s a bright pink Beetle parked outside my house.
The hairs flatten back down again. Oh no. No no. No no no no – I turn around and start walking in the opposite direction.
“Harriet?” a voice calls. “Come and give your favourite old person a nice big cuddle.”
And there – standing in the doorway covered in bells and sequins, like some kind of summery Christmas tree – is my grandmother.
I just want to make something perfectly clear.
There are many, many other old people I prefer to this one. My grandad, for instance. Nat’s grandad. Nat’s grandma. My old piano teacher, Mr Henry. The ancient lady who works in the local newsagent and gives me free sweets without being asked.
It’s not that I don’t love my grandmother. I just don’t really know her very well.
Or at all, actually.
“Sweetie!” she says as I approach with tiny steps, the way you might a rampaging hippopotamus. “Your hair is even redder than it used to be!” She sweeps me into her arms and all the bells on her wrists tinkle like she’s an enormous cat. “From a distance it looks like your head is on fire!”
I think I’m about to get an embroidered daisy imprinted permanently on my forehead. “It’s strawberry blonde,” I tell her left breast as politely as I can. She smells of wood and beetroot.
“Look how mucky you are!” she laughs, pulling back and spitting on her long wizard-like sleeve. Before I can escape she starts scrubbing it hard on my nose. “Oops. No. They’re freckles, just like Richard’s. Adorable! How long has it been since I saw you last? Five months? Six?”
