I frowned and flipped through the pages of the yearbook. Jack Horwicz had been my thirty-seventh interview. I only had one possible candidate for loveshyness so far, but then I was only halfway through the Year Ten boys. There were still heaps of opportunities to find PEZZimist. It didn’t have to be Shaun Davies. I wondered absently why the idea of it being him bothered me so much. Was it because I knew that, if it was him and I had to save him there wasn’t much I could do? He was short and unfortunate-looking and had terrible posture and absolutely no charm or personality. I knew PEZZimist had more in him than that. He was an ugly duckling, just waiting for me to help him transform into a swan.
I opened Firefox and a new post from PEZZimist appeared in front of me.
15:18
Some mornings I wake up and I know that getting out of bed is just going to make it all worse. I’m so tired. This morning I told my mother that I wasn’t going to school. She wasn’t happy, but she couldn’t force me. I stayed in my room all day, because I knew she was in the house and I didn’t want to talk to her. I waited until she’d gone out before I went to the toilet. Then I watched TV before going back to bed. She’s back now. I can hear her in the kitchen. She makes me sick. Maybe if she’d ever done anything to help me meet a girl then I wouldn’t have to hide here at home, pretending that the girl is here with me, winding her hair around her finger and smiling, her eyes dancing. We could just lie here together, on my bed. Just touching a little bit, nothing crude. Just being together. Me and her. Safe from the world.
Instead I’ll just lie here all day, staring out the window at our back garden, which I hate. My mother had an astroturf lawn installed a few years ago, so she’d only have to look after the front garden – after all, that’ s the one other people can see. The backyard is just a big square of ugly green plastic, utterly devoid of life. A fake garden to go with our fake lives. One day I’m going to have the most beautiful living garden, full of secret green places.
He hadn’t gone to school. He hadn’t been in his French class.
PEZZimist wasn’t Shaun Davies. Thank goodness.
I read PEZZimist’s post three more times. He obviously didn’t have a great relationship with his mother, but why not? Was she cruel and unloving? Or maybe it was him. Maybe he shut her out and she was hurt. And what about his father? Were his parents still together? Did he have any siblings?
Maybe if she’ d ever done anything to help me meet a girl then I wouldn’t have to hide here at home.
What kind of teenager actually wants their parents to intervene in their love-lives? Was he really so desperate that he wanted his mum to set him up with a girl? And he went to our school! Our school, which contained nearly five hundred totally eligible girls. Finding girls clearly wasn’t his problem. Talking to them was. And I couldn’t see how having your mother hovering over your shoulder would help with that particular situation. It was all starting to feel very Norman-Bates-in-Psycho, so I shut down my laptop and went into the living room.
Dad and Josh were sitting at the dining table, drinking gin and tonic and bending over a large jigsaw puzzle. The picture on the box was a science-fictiony sort of thing: a bronzed man wearing a very short toga and sandals, face to face with a unicorn, with the Death Star in the background, all surrounded by pink hazy clouds. It was seriously the ugliest image in existence.
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked, frowning at the picture over Dad’s shoulder.
Dad looked up and gave me a hug. ‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ he said, gazing back at the puzzle as if it were a work of art.
‘It is many things,’ I replied. ‘But fabulous is definitely not one of them. It’s hideous.’
‘That’s the point,’ explained Josh. ‘We’ve decided to try and find the ugliest jigsaw in the world. It’s going to be like a quest.’
I raised my eyebrows. Perhaps Josh was a bad influence on Dad. ‘I think the quest is over. Also … why?’
‘Something to do on a Friday night.’
‘We’re inventing a scoring system,’ said Dad. ‘Puppies, kittens or any sort of baby animal scores five points. If the baby animal is in a bucket or flowerpot, or wearing a hat – that’s an extra ten points. Windmills and bicycles are worth fifteen points, and little girls with oversized heads get twenty. A unicorn is the holy grail of ugly-puzzledom, worth a full thirty points.’
I shook my head. ‘I still don’t get it. You’re doing a jigsaw. On a Friday night. For fun.’
Dad and I used to play Scrabble on Friday nights. But Josh can’t spell, so we stopped.
‘Do you want to help?’
‘Isn’t there some kind of nightclub or something you can go to?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you want to engage in any kind of morally dysfunctional, risk-taking behaviour?’
‘Not really,’ said Dad. ‘Why, is this setting a bad example for you?’
I looked back at the jigsaw. The man’s toga really was very short.
‘We ordered pizza,’ said Dad, leaning away from the jigsaw to give me another squeeze around the shoulders.
‘The really spicy Mexican one?’
‘With extra jalapenos.’
I poured myself an orange juice and clicked a few pieces of pink cloud into place before I realised what I was doing.
‘Do you have any plans for the weekend?’ Dad asked.
‘Any hot dates?’ added Josh with a grin.
I put down the piece of Death Star that was in my hand. Josh was nice, but I didn’t like it when he joked around as if he were part of the family.
‘No.’
‘It’s a tragic thing,’ said Josh, ‘to see such a pretty girl stay home on a Friday night.’
I scowled at him. ‘Says the man doing a jigsaw puzzle.’
‘Touché.’ Josh sipped his gin and tonic. ‘But seriously, Penny. The boys must be falling over themselves to ask you out.’
I picked up another puzzle piece, half pink cloud, half unicorn tail. The truth was, no one had ever asked me out. Not that I wanted to date any of the boys at my school – especially not after having spent the week talking to them. Going on a date with a boy was absolutely the most boring thing I could imagine. If they weren’t crying about how their girlfriend had dumped them, or trying to smell my hair, they’d be talking about cars or football, or making fart-noises under their arms.
And the whole idea of dating was so antiquated anyway. Who went on dates anymore? As far as I could tell, teenagers nowadays just got drunk at parties and hooked up with whoever was closest. And I certainly wasn’t doing that, not with the current epidemic of infectious mononucleosis sweeping our school. Ew.
Still. It would be nice to be asked occasionally.
‘There’s no rush, is there, sweetheart?’ said Dad. ‘You’ve got all the time in the world.’
The doorbell rang and he fished his wallet out of his pocket.
Dad was right. I did have all the time in the world. And there were much more important things to focus on now, such as my loveshyness story. And pizza.
By Wednesday evening, I’d been searching for PEZZimist for a week and a half. My yearbook was covered in pink highlighter, with the occasional hopeful splodge of green crossed out later.
I’d been to Maths Club, Chess Group, the Beekeeping Society, the Biodiversity League, the Code-breaking Circle, Art Club, Drama Club, the School Choir, Madrigal and Barbershop Quartet; the Swing Band, Orchestra, the Christian Circle, Economics Society, Fencing Ring, Foreign Film Society, History Club, Jewish Union, Medical Ethics Society, Philosophy Alliance, the Gay–Straight Alliance, Photography Club, Stage Crew, Swim Team, Table Tennis League and the Ultimate Frisbee Society.
I was exhausted.
And I had no suspects. There were two or three green highlighters, but they were total long shots. And not a speck of yellow.
I’d even gone back to Ms Leroy’s French class – or at least I’d tried to. Ms Leroy had frowned at me and shut the door in my face. I’d had a glance around, though, and couldn’t
see anyone I hadn’t already crossed off my yearbook list. Maybe PEZZimist didn’t take French at all. Maybe whoever I’d spooked in the library had just been curious. Maybe he (or she!) had a friend who was loveshy. Or a sibling?
What if he was lying about his age? If he wasn’t in my year level … there were approximately five hundred boys at my school who I hadn’t interviewed. Five hundred and fifty stinky, scratching, grunting boys. And I didn’t know most of the other year levels. I mean, I knew the Year Elevens and Twelves, but who knew anything about Year Sevens? Surely they were too young to be loveshy.
I sighed and opened the yearbook again. I must have missed someone. Or maybe PEZZimist was just an accomplished liar. Maybe he had fooled me.
No. My journalistic instinct was better than that. I know I would have recognised him if we’d spoken face to face.
‘Penny?’ It was Dad, with the phone in his hand. ‘It’s your mother.’
I felt something bunch up inside me. ‘Tell her I’m busy.’
Dad raised his eyebrows. ‘But you’re not busy.’
‘Tell her I’m not in.’
‘But you are in.’ He put on his most serious face. ‘Penny. You can’t lie to your mother.’
I wanted to say Why not? You did. For fifteen years. But that wouldn’t be fair. Dad tossed the phone to me and I glowered at him. He gave me a sad sort of smile and headed back into the living room. I looked at the phone. Stupid phone. I sighed and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, sweetheart.’
‘Hi.’
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. Good. Great.’
I hated talking to my mother. I hated the way she always tried to sound bright and chirpy, as if everything were wonderful. I hated the way she made it sound as if she had to move to Perth for work. I hated the way she sounded as if she didn’t have a choice, that there was no way she could have possibly stayed in the same city as us.
And I hated the way she never asked about Dad.
It wasn’t like he chose to be gay. What would she rather, that he’d just kept it a secret? And been miserable for the rest of his life?
I’d always thought she was open-minded. She had a climate-change bumper sticker and listened to ABC radio. She bought recycled toilet paper and worried about the state of public education. I never would have imagined she was homophobic.
Dad said that she was just upset. That she had every right to be angry with him. That it was understandable that she needed space. But it’d been two years. She wouldn’t speak to him, except to ask for me when he answered the phone. She wouldn’t come here to see me – I’d have to go to Perth. That song on Dad’s Sting album said if you loved somebody, you should set them free. I never understood that when I was little – why would you dump someone if you loved them? But now I thought I got it. Surely if Mum loved Dad, she’d want him to be happy?
‘So I thought maybe you could come and visit me during these school holidays,’ said Mum.
Fat chance.
‘Penny?’
I closed my eyes. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘It depends on what’s happening with the paper. And my swimming. I can’t miss any training sessions. I’ll get out of shape.’
‘We have swimming pools here, you know,’ said my mother, jokingly. ‘And an ocean as well. Very nice for swimming.’
I scowled at the phone. ‘I’ll talk to Dad about it.’ I knew that would shut her up.
Her voice went wobbly as I said goodbye, just like it always did.
I felt tears pricking my eyes as I put the phone down on my desk, which just made me more irritated. How dare she emotionally manipulate me?
The yearbook stared at me, screaming my failure in great fluorescent slashes of pink highlighter. I shoved it into a drawer and turned off my computer.
Dad was hovering in the kitchen, waiting for me to return the phone to its cradle.
‘How is she?’
‘Fine.’
I examined the contents of the fridge. Leftover Chinese food, a shrivelled avocado, half a watermelon, some yoghurt. We were totally overdue ordering groceries.
‘And … ?’
I found some marinated olives up the back and ate one straight from the jar, licking the oil from my fingers. Dad continued to look expectant. I spat the pit into the bin.
‘I don’t know, Dad. The usual. Everything’s fantastic. She loves the climate in Perth so much. She’s really busy at work. Who cares?’
‘I care.’
I ate another olive. ‘I don’t know why. She doesn’t seem to care at all about you. She certainly never asks about you. I don’t understand where she gets off on being so wounded and hurt and moral-high-groundy when she doesn’t seem to miss you at all!’
Dad leaned on the breakfast counter. ‘Well, I miss her.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘She was my best friend for fifteen years, Penny. Just because I don’t want to be married to her anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still care about her.’
‘So don’t you think she should feel the same way about you?’
Dad shook his head. ‘She’s allowed to be upset. I betrayed her.’
‘It’s not like you cheated on her,’ I said, putting the olives back and closing the fridge door with a little more force than was necessary. ‘You didn’t meet Josh until over a year after Mum left. And it wasn’t like you knew you were gay when you married her.’
‘It’s complicated, Pen,’ said Dad. ‘And I understand that she needs time. I wish you’d cut her a little more slack.’
‘Well, I wish she’d cut you a little more slack.’
‘Just promise me you’ll give her a chance, okay?’
I stuck my tongue out at him and flopped onto the couch. The chances of there being something acceptable on television were slim, but right then I’d have watched just about anything in order to escape that conversation, and the book filled with pink highlighter in my room.
I went to bed without checking PEZZimist’s blog. I was giving up. No, not giving up. I was freeing up my time to pursue different goals. Yes. That was better. I hadn’t failed. Who wanted to read about some loser who couldn’t get a girl anyway?
I read a few chapters of Catcher in the Rye for English. Who needed stupid old PEZZimist? There were other stories out there. Surely Nellie Bly started plenty of stories she didn’t finish because it turned out they were boring.
I switched off the light, but I couldn’t sleep. Dad had gone to bed and the apartment felt very quiet.
For some reason – probably because of Mum’s phone call and that stupid conversation with Dad afterwards – I was reminded of the first few nights after Mum left. Dad had just wandered around the house staring at strange things like the orange lampshade on my bedside table, a half-empty packet of basmati rice and the floral-covered ironing board. He’d looked as though he’d finished a marathon and didn’t know whether to laugh with relief, or collapse in a heap because it was over. I think most of the time he’d come down on the side of collapsing.
The only problem with living in the city was that it was never truly dark. The wooden venetians blocked out a lot of the city light, but my room was always illuminated with an artificial orange glow, no matter how late it was.
I turned onto my side. The sleep light on my laptop was pulsing on and off. Had PEZZimist posted anything new? How was he feeling? Had he managed to talk to the brown-haired girl?
I wasn’t going to check. I was abandoning that story. It was never going to go anywhere.
But what if he’d said something that would help me figure it out? The missing piece of the puzzle?
He was still out there. Still full of loneliness and suffering. He needed me.
I rolled out of bed and woke my laptop.
23:02
Today was bad. I was nervous and jittery all day, like I’d drunk too much coffee.
The only time I felt calm was at lunch, when I could watch my girl.
She sat in her usual place with her usual group of friends. They were all looking at something on a mobile phone, passing it around and laughing. I hate mobile phones. The telephone’s the most stupid invention ever. I hate the way you can’t see the face of the person you’re talking to, so you have no clue whether they’re making fun of you, or listening at all. It’s hard enough talking to people in person. Although I suppose text messages might be okay. I like writing things down. I think I could say more in a text message to my girl than I could to her face. But I never will, because I don’t have her number. Or a mobile phone. Maybe I could email something to her school email address. But then what if she laughed at me?
I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
He really was a massive drama queen. I was just about to re-read it to see if it could really be as soppy as my initial impression, when I noticed a little green online spot next to PEZZimist’s name. He was online. He was there, in his own bedroom, sitting in front of his own computer, looking at the very same page on the very same website that I was.
Without realising I was doing it, I brought my cursor up to his name and clicked. A window popped open: private chat between GUEST and PEZZimist.
I could just ask him, right now, and get an answer to the whole thing. I placed my hands on the keyboard and noticed they were trembling. I swallowed.
GUEST: hello?
GUEST: are you there?
GUEST: i need to talk to you. i think i can help.
Love-shy Page 5
