GUEST: please.
I waited. There was no reply. Maybe he was typing out an essay-length response. Or maybe he’d gone to the toilet. Or maybe he was too shy to say anything at all.
But then the little green spot disappeared. I’d scared him away.
I climbed back into bed, my mind full of mysteries and hidden faces.
5
ON FRIDAY, I FORGOT THE NAME of Othello’s wife in English, didn’t hear anything Ms Wilding said in Biology about the Linnean system of binomial nomenclature, argued with Hugh Forward about the price of helium balloons for the social and bombed my Maths quiz (I was facing a B, a letter I was totally unfamiliar with). It was a total write-off of a day. Of a week, really. Stupid PEZZimist.
The only good part of the day was lunchtime swimming practice, where I beat my personal freestyle record. But my good mood was short-lived – I spent too long in the pool and didn’t have time for a shower before class.
When the bell rang at the end of a somewhat chlorine-scented final period, I inwardly groaned with relief for probably the first time in my life. I felt as if I were in one of those ’80s High-School-Sucks teen films and would spill out the front door in a wild joyful rush with the rest of the student body.
Instead I traipsed to the train station.
It was one of those afternoons that seemed warm and sunny, but where the wind was so icy it chilled your bones. I shuffled from foot to foot on the platform and wished I’d worn a thicker jumper. A voice sounded over the PA, announcing that city-bound trains were delayed approximately fifteen minutes, due to a fallen tree on the tracks. This was hardly a promising way to begin my weekend.
I trudged up the platform against the wind, and queued at the coffee cart, hoping that the warmth of the cup on my hands and the liquid in my mouth would override the disappointment of what I was sure would be a decidedly average cup of coffee. The guy in front of me ordered a skinny mochacino with whipped cream and extra chocolate sprinkles, and I wanted to smack him in the head. Had he no sense of culture?
The coffee-cart woman handed his coffee to him with a sneer (you know you’ve ordered the wrong thing when you get attitude from someone wearing a magenta-and-lime floral apron), and as he turned away I felt a jolt of recognition. I watched him shuffle away.
‘Yes, love?’ Floral Apron was staring at me in a bored sort of way.
‘Flat white, please,’ I said, still watching the guy. ‘Extra strong.’
He went to my school. He was short and pudgy, with metal-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down his nose. He was wearing grey slacks (slacks!) and a white collared shirt with a black knitted vest. I remembered Shaun Davies’ horrible brown jumper, and considered starting a new internet meme called Hipster or Geek. This boy was definitely Geek. He had rather dirty earbuds in, and was clutching a thick fantasy novel in one hand and his disgusting creamy sugary beverage in the other. His face looked as if it had been cobbled together from leftover bits – he had heavy eyebrows and a wide jaw, but a small, freckled nose and quite feminine blue eyes. His cheeks were mottled red from the cold wind, and he bobbed his head up and down a little to his music, which made him resemble one of those bobblehead dolls.
Why hadn’t I interviewed him? I studied the guy more carefully and realised he was in the year above me. But he did look very young. Maybe he skipped a year.
It was a long shot. It probably wouldn’t lead anywhere.
But what was the harm? It wasn’t as if I was going anywhere in the next ten minutes. It’d take my mind off the sour, watery burnt-milk taste that this alleged coffee beverage was coating my tastebuds with.
SUBJECT UNKNOWN
Eye contact: None.
Overt signs of loveshyness: LOTS.
ME: Hey, um, excuse me?
HIM: (NO RESPONSE)
ME: Hey! There’s a couple of things I want to ask you.
(SUBJECT REMOVES EARBUDS WITH A DEGREE OF TREPIDATION.)
ME: Thanks. Hi, I’m Penny. I go to East Glendale too. You’re in Year Eleven, right?
HIM: (NODS. FROWNS.)
ME: What’s your name?
HIM: (MUMBLES)
ME: Speak up.
HIM: Hamish Berry. What do you want?
ME: Hamish, do you have a girlfriend?
(SUBJECT SHAKES HEAD AND GOES A FUNNY COLOUR.)
ME: Have you ever kissed a girl?
HAMISH: Screw you.
(SUBJECT RETREATS TO THE OTHER END OF THE PLATFORM.)
ME: Wait! I wasn’t finished.
(INTERVIEWER CATCHES UP.)
ME: Do you feel uncomfortable talking to girls?
HAMISH: (VEHEMENT) I’m not gay, you know.
ME: I never thought you were. I think you’re shy.
HAMISH: Get lost.
ME: Loveshy.
HAMISH: (FREEZES)
ME: You are, aren’t you? You’re loveshy. I know all about your condition. I want to help you.
(SUBJECT’S FACE GOES ALL CRINKLY.)
Verdict: LIKELY LOVESHY.
I’ d found him.
‘Just leave me alone, okay?’ He still wasn’t making eye contact.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
I made a mental list of things I’d need to fix about him. Some elocution lessons, to start with, because he had a slight lisp and his diction was dreadful. A haircut. Facial wash to clear up his skin. New clothes. I’d be the Henry Higgins to his Eliza Doolittle. Except for the part where they fall in love.
Hamish’s eyes darted around, searching for someone to rescue him. I seriously doubted he’d have a Kate Pittman to come and maul him like Nedislav had. Hamish clearly realised this too, because his face fell.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to help you. I want to fix you.’
‘I’m not broken!’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I think you are. You totally fit the profile. I can tell you so much about yourself.’
‘Go on, then.’
I’d been reading about loveshyness for two weeks now, and was close to being an expert.
‘You listen to classical music and old school Broadway showtunes. You prefer citrus fruits to other kinds. You like sweet things. You like romantic films, but not romantic comedies. You’re spiritual, but not religious. You have a weird relationship with your mother. You don’t have any sisters. You’ve never felt comfortable around other boys. You hate sport. You want a girlfriend with long brown hair and a pretty face. You’re probably allergic to milk or wool.’
Hamish was shaking his head as though I were crazy.
‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ I said.
‘You’re wrong.’ He pulled his iPod out of his pocket and showed me the song he’d been listening to: ‘Hurt’, by Nine Inch Nails. ‘I don’t like fruit at all. I like science-fiction films. I’m an atheist. My mother is fine, and I have three sisters.’
I took a half-step back. How could that be? He didn’t fit the profile at all. ‘What about the rest?’
‘So I don’t have a girlfriend and I can’t catch a ball,’ he said. ‘Big deal. It makes me a loser, not a psycho. And what the hell does having a milk allergy have to do with it?’
‘Do you have a milk allergy?’
‘No! I’m not allergic to anything, apart from weird bossy girls who ask intensely personal questions. What is wrong with you?’
This wasn’t going at all the way I’d planned. ‘But you visit loveshyforum.com, right?’
Hamish looked around to make sure no one else was listening. ‘Once or twice,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘But I’m not like them. I just want to meet a nice girl, that’s all. I’m not a freak.’
‘But you post on there all the time.’
‘I’ve never posted anything on loveshyforum.com.’
‘But I’ve read it!’ Why was he still lying to me? ‘You’re PEZZimist!’
Hamish froze for a moment, his face as shocked as if I’d said he was Superman. Then he began to laugh.
&n
bsp; ‘What?’
‘I’m not PEZZimist,’ he said. ‘No way. I wish.’
What? There was another student on loveshyforum.com? Was it possible?
‘What do you mean, you wish? Do you know who he is?’
Hamish looked a little more confident, now he knew something that I didn’t. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know who he is. But why should I tell you? You’ll just go and pester him like you’re pestering me.’
‘I’m not pestering you,’ I said. ‘I’m researching. I want to write a piece on loveshyness. I want to help PEZZimist and document the whole process. It’ll be huge! It’ll bring the whole condition out into the open, get loveshys the support you need.’
‘They need,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m not one of them.’
‘Then why did you go to the website?’
‘I told you, I want to meet girls. I thought someone on there might have some advice.’
‘And did they?’
‘No. They’re all a bunch of self-obsessed psychos. It makes me feel better though, knowing I’m not as crazy as them. I’m just ordinary shy.’
He didn’t seem shy to me. I was finding him quite rude and obstructive.
‘Tell me who PEZZimist is,’ I said.
‘Why did you think he was me?’ asked Hamish, ignoring my question.
I told him about the yearbook and the coloured highlighters, and how I’d run out of Year Tens. He started to laugh again. I noticed he still hadn’t managed to look me in the eye. He might not think he had a problem, but he clearly needed help.
‘How do you know who he is?’ I asked.
Hamish shrugged. ‘When you’re as much of a loser as I am, you spend a lot of time watching other guys for clues on how to be less lame. It wasn’t that hard to figure it out.’
‘Tell me who he is!’ I said. ‘Or else I’ll never leave you alone.’
Hamish seemed genuinely frightened by that, but he shook his head. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘All I can tell you is … the yearbook was a good idea, but it’s a bit out of date.’
Out of date? What did that even mean? While I was puzzling over it, Hamish’s train pulled up and he took his opportunity to escape.
My train arrived on the opposite platform, and I got on, still confused.
The yearbook was a good idea, but it’s a bit out of date.
It was last year’s yearbook. There wasn’t a more recent one. This year’s wouldn’t come out until December.
Hamish had said something else, too, when I’d said he was PEZZimist.
No way. I wish.
But he’d spent the rest of our conversation (interrogation, I suppose I should call it) saying how much he despised the loveshys, because they were all freaks and psychos. So why would he wish he were PEZZimist?
Something was niggling at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t quite snag it.
It’s a bit out of date.
Maybe I’d give up on PEZZimist. Hamish clearly had plenty of problems. I could focus on him.
But it was PEZZimist who’d got me into this whole thing, and I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d solved the mystery.
When I arrived home, I threw my swimming towel into the washing machine and rinsed out my bathers.
I heard Dad’s key in the front door. ‘Penny? Are you home? Josh found us the best jigsaw ever. It’s a chimpanzee. Wearing a baseball cap. Riding a bicycle. Can you imagine anything more perfect?’
Josh followed him into the living room. ‘Only if there’d been a cricket sitting on the baseball cap, waving a tiny flag. Are you going to help, Penny? Your dad ordered quesadillas.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve got homework.’
I went to my room, but could still hear Josh and Dad talking as they clicked puzzle pieces into place. Dad was in a good mood, which meant an airing of his seemingly endless collection of dreadful plumber jokes.
‘Did you hear,’ I heard him say, ‘that someone broke into the local police station and stole all the toilets? Now the cops have nothing to go on.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Josh’s voice was muffled, as if he had his head in his hands.
‘You know a good flush beats a full house every time.’
‘Stop!’ groaned Josh. ‘Please! I’m dying. My brains are leaking out my ears. Quick, pass me a napkin so I can catch my occipital lobe.’
There was a tap at the door.
‘That’s weird,’ said Dad. ‘I didn’t hear the buzzer. I wonder if someone let him in downstairs.’
‘Who cares,’ said Josh. ‘I have never been so thankful to hear the courteous and melodious knock of the quesadilla man. Plumber! Fetch me my guacamole!’
I heard Dad open the door, and distant voices.
‘Penny,’ he yelled. ‘Someone to see you.’
I felt a flicker of excitement. Was it Hamish? Had he had a crisis of conscience and come to tell me who PEZZimist was?
It was Rin. She stood shyly in the doorway, smiling at her shoes. Of course it wasn’t Hamish. He wouldn’t know where I lived. Nobody knew where I lived. Except Rin.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Oh,’ said Rin. ‘Yeah, everything’s fine! I just wanted to give you this.’ She proffered a red box of Pocky. ‘I know you liked it the other day at lunch.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the Pocky. Rin flashed her shy grin. We stood there awkwardly for a moment.
‘Penny?’ called Dad. ‘Is your friend coming in?’
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come in?’
Rin beamed as if I’d offered her a million dollars, and ducked her head in a nod. I led her into the living room.
‘This is my dad, Allen, and his boyfriend, Josh.’
I quite liked introducing Josh as Dad’s boyfriend and seeing how people reacted. Rin didn’t bat an eyelid. She gave a little bow.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘My name is Rin Tamaki. I live in the apartment next door.’
I poured Rin a glass of lemonade. Dad examined the Pocky box with interest, and Josh had to take it away to stop him sampling one.
‘Not until after dinner,’ he said, sternly.
Dad stuck his tongue out at Josh.
‘So, Rin, are you going to help us with our jigsaw?’ asked Josh. ‘This one is a real find, worth forty points.’
‘I don’t think Rin wants to join in your lame Friday-night debauchery,’ I said.
Rin approached the table, and Josh explained the ugly puzzle scoring system. She giggled and snapped a piece of chimpanzee backpack into place. I felt a prickle of annoyance. Now I was going to have to join in on this jigsaw nonsense as well, to be polite. I thought longingly back to the days when it was just me and Dad and the Scrabble board.
‘Tamaki,’ said Dad. ‘Is that Japanese?’
Rin nodded. ‘My parents moved here in the ’80s.’
‘I’ve never been to Japan,’ said Dad. ‘I’d love to, though.’
‘I’ve never been there either,’ said Rin.
‘I have,’ said Josh. ‘I went on a school exchange in Year Ten. It was awesome. Best food I ever had.’
Rin beamed.
The buzzer rang, and this time it was dinner.
‘Have you eaten, Rin?’ asked Dad. ‘We ordered plenty.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Rin. ‘I couldn’t. I can’t just turn up to your house and eat your food. I wasn’t even invited.’ She glanced at me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You should stay. We’re going to watch Back to the Future later.’
‘And eat Pocky,’ said Dad, eyeing the red box.
So Rin stayed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a friend over. I generally only socialised in groups – at parties and other organised events. I didn’t really hang out with anyone. Too much one-on-one small talk made me uncomfortable, and anyway, I was always busy with SRC and the paper and swimming and debating.
I was surprised to learn that it was actually kind of fun. Even the puzzle.
R
in didn’t seem embarrassed by Dad and Josh’s daggy Friday night antics, and she was pleasantly surprised with her quesadilla. Dad nearly cried when she said she’d never had Mexican food before (except for nachos, which doesn’t count). She tried to eat it with her usual precise neatness, but quickly learned that it was physically impossible to eat a quesadilla without ending up with salsa and sour cream all over your face. She dabbed at her chin with a serviette, giggling.
We finished the puzzle in record time, largely due to Rin’s wholehearted support for my sorting-into-types jigsaw strategy (separate out the corners, then edges, then all the pieces of backpack, all the pieces of chimp fur, all the pieces of blue background, and so on). Dad and Josh were more ad hoc, randomly pulling pieces and trying to see where they might fit. Very inefficient.
But Rin and I made a great team. I liked working with her. We chatted about school, and teachers, and Rin told me about how one of her friends had pretended to faint in Ms Leroy’s French class in the hope that Nick Rammage might catch her and ask her to the social, but that he’d been staring out the window, totally absorbed in his music.
Rin even stayed for the movie, which she’d never seen. She laughed at all the right moments and applauded Josh’s Michael J Fox impression, and I chewed on my Pocky and decided that George McFly was totally loveshy.
After the movie, Rin thanked Dad for dinner, and I walked her to the door. She paused shyly.
‘Penny?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m glad we’re friends. I’m so glad I moved here.’
22:57
I had the most vivid dream last night. I was at this church camp, the one my parents sent me to when I was eleven, except I was sixteen and all the other kids were still eleven. The camp director explained that I hadn’t done it right the first time, and I was going to have to stay at the camp until I could learn to behave like a real boy. He handed me a football and took me to the edge of the lake, where there was a boating ramp. And he pushed me off the ramp into the cold water.
It was so cold, the coldest water I’ve ever felt. I sank down, down, lower and lower. I couldn’t move my arms or legs to swim to the surface. I just kept sinking, for what felt like hours. Then at the bottom of the lake there were all these girls, with long floaty hair and eyes the colour of the sea. They swam around me, gently tangling me up with seaweed.
Love-shy Page 6
