by Kate Gordon
“Why?” Jed raps me on the head with an especially long chip. “Why won’t you let me talk about Viggo? Why won’t you let me tell you—”
“Because you already told me he doesn’t want to get back together with me,” I mumble. “That was bad enough. I don’t want to know any more. It hurts too much.”
“Talking about the memories isn’t hurting enough?” Jed asks softly.
I shake my head. “They were good times. Hopeful times. In-love times. While I tell you about those times, I get caught up in what I’m saying and I can sort of relive it and pretend … that now isn’t happening. You were right, Jed—saying this stuff out loud is helping me. But you telling me how Viggo is now—especially how he doesn’t want to be with me and how angry he must be at me—that doesn’t help.”
“But what if I told you—”
“No.”
The word silences Jed. He stuffs a handful of chips in his mouth. While he’s chewing, I take the opportunity. “I’m going to tell you another memory now,” I say. “Okay?”
Jed nods. “Mkerr,” he says through a mouthful of chips.
“Okay, so, where did I get up to?”
Fourteen
Memory 6
I left Viggo’s house after about an hour. Viggo was in the middle of an epically comprehensive explanation of quantum physics when he looked at his watch and announced that, as it was nearly six-thirty, he had to go and cook dinner for his family.
“You cook dinner?” I asked. “What, every night?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Unless I have a meeting or event to appear at. I like it. I make a point of attending classes with the best international chefs when I travel overseas. Most of the world’s top chefs are male, you know. Not that I intend to become a chef, but it might impress at dinner parties, with foreign dignitaries or the like.”
“Wow. Just … wow,” I breathed. I felt as if I was having heart palpitations.
And I know—I know—I’d transformed in the space of a week from Connie Chase, nerdy tomboy to Constance Chase, character from a Bad Regency Novel, the sort of person who would have completely bemused the old Connie, but …
He could cook. And he was smart. And he talked to me like I was smart too.
And he could cook.
I couldn’t cook to save myself. Apart from bake-in-the-oven chips and microwave waffles. And I couldn’t sew, though I was a demon with a bedazzler and a badge press.
“I could teach you,” Viggo said, as if reading my mind.
“To cook?”
“And to sew. You could mend my shirts for me.”
If anybody else had said that exact thing, it would have sounded so misogynist, but the way Viggo said it, with a twinkle in his eye and a wry smile … it was sexy. In a retro, American TV sitcom husband kind of way.
“I’m joking, of course,” he went on, though. “There is nothing worse than the look of a darned shirt. I just ask Catherine to order a new one when one of mine tears.”
“Do your shirts often tear?” I asked.
Viggo just raised an eyebrow and smirked at me. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have said that the look on his face was … almost flirtatious.
But then he clapped his hands. “Well, sorry to shoo you off, but I really must get cracking on dinner. I would invite you to stay, but I don’t have enough ingredients this time, and I only have a very humble dish of ratatouille planned. Peasant food. Definitely not salubrious enough for an elegant young woman such as yourself.”
I couldn’t answer. I just gulped and stood gawping like a goldfish. Me? Elegant? Was I actually living a dream?
That night, I barely slept.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Viggo.
I knew I had as much chance of him actually liking me as Amy Pond had against the Weeping Angels (Spoiler alert: zero and zilch), but still …
It was nice to dream. Nice to think someone like Viggo MacDuff might actually like someone like me. Nice to imagine I could be …
Better.
Fifteen
Memory 7
The next day at school, after a sleep that felt more like a blink, I looked and felt a wreck. So of course the first person I saw as I stumbled along the corridor—dressed in my lamest old Barenaked Ladies tee-shirt and ripped jeans, extra-large mocha in one hand and packet of Cheezels in the other—was none other than Sir Twinkle-Eyes himself.
He was leaning against my locker, holding a shiny black paper bag with ribbons for handles. “Well, good morning,” he said. He looked me up and down. “Interesting outfit.”
I mumbled something about running late. It was all I could do not to cry. If I’d had any chance with Viggo before, I definitely didn’t now.
“Well, don’t feel too bad,” Viggo said. “Because I may just have saved your sartorial bacon.” He handed over the bag.
“What is it?” I asked.
He nodded at my hands. “Look.”
I wiped Cheezel dust on my jeans and reached inside. I felt fabric between my fingers. I pulled out a crisp white shirt. I held it up. It was beautiful. It felt like linen, or really expensive cotton.
“I guessed the size. I’m assuming I did well?”
I nodded in reply, thinking, what sort of guy is able to guess a girl’s dress size?
“There’s more,” Viggo said, smiling.
I reached in again and pulled out a navy skirt—definitely linen—and a matching navy scarf.
“What is all this?” I whispered.
Viggo shrugged. “My sister was having a clean out, following a new health regime that has seen her drop two dress sizes. She was going to send these to a charity shop, but I rescued them. I thought they’d be just perfect for you.”
“Wow,” I breathed. “But they’re so …” I looked at the label again. Yves Saint Laurent. Even I had heard of him. “Snazzy,” I finished. “And I’m not sure they’re exactly… me.” I gestured down at my clothes. “I’m more a jeans-and-tee-shirt kind of girl. You know? I’d look silly in those fancy things.”
Viggo shook his head. He stepped closer. “I think you’re selling yourself short, Constance Chase. I think you’ll look marvellous in these clothes. You are an intelligent, elegant, worldly young woman, capable of great things. And yet you dress like a teenager.”
“I am a teenager,” I protested.
Viggo laughed. “Well, yes. But you know what I mean.”
I didn’t. Not really. But I smiled and nodded anyway.
“Will you wear the clothes?” Viggo asked. “For me? And for yourself. You deserve nice things, Constance.”
“Um …”
Viggo smiled. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Now …” He looked at his watch. “You have five minutes before class begins. That’s more than enough time to get changed. Would you like me to hold your coffee? Oh, and by the way.” He pulled out another parcel. “A new bag. One that is less … homemade. It’s Louis Vuitton. You may thank me later by finally showing me those Steinbeck notes of yours. Well, what are you waiting for? Go!”
And so I went into the girl’s loos looking like Connie, Nerdfighter, nineties’ indie music fan, general geek-about-town, and emerged looking like …
“An air stewardess,” Jed grumbles. He raises an eyebrow. “What? I remember that day. I came looking for you at recess and I wouldn’t have recognised you at all if it wasn’t for your trademark awesome hair.” He sighs. “Not that your awesome hair lasted much longer either.” He reaches over and twirls a strand of my newly-sapphire locks between his fingers. “I’m glad it’s back.” He nods at my satchel. “And your not-Louis-Vuitton bag.”
“The überclones liked my outfit,” I point out. “When I came out of the toilets, Kacey and Karen were in the hallway and Kacey raised an eyebrow and asked ‘who’ I was wearing. I didn’t understand the question. I said Viggo bought them for me. She laughed and said, ‘You look good.’”
“And since when did you care about Kacey’s Kuusela’s opinion? You look
good now.”
“I look like a teenager again,” I mumble. “After it happened … after we broke up, I dressed properly for, like, an hour. But it felt like I was pretending. Like I was pretending Viggo and I might still have a chance.”
“And pretending to be someone you’re not. Someone you never were,” says Jed.
“I could have been that person!” I argue. “Smart and worldly and stuff. Elegant. I was that person, when I was with Viggo. You are so down on him for some bizarre reason, but you have no idea how incredible it was being his girlfriend. It was like a whole other world.”
“You changed long before you became his girlfriend, though,” Jed’s voice is flat. “I mean when did you turn into the stewardess? It was, like, August? September? And you two didn’t get together until December.”
“I had to prove myself,” I mumble. “I had to show him I was good enough.”
“You sound like an idiot,” Jed snaps. “You’re not an idiot, Connie. You’re smart.”
I shake my head. “Viggo is smart. Patience is smart. I am an idiot.”
Jed lets out a noise like an angry bear. He stands up abruptly. “I’m sick of this,” he says. “Time for adventure. Let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, following him down the garden path.
“I’d say ‘shut up and follow me’,” Jed says. “But then I’d sound too much like Viggo MacDuff.
Sixteen
“How much further?”
“How many more times are you going to ask me that, Connie? Bangarra isn’t that big.”
“I feel like I’ve walked to Smithton.”
“Yep. That’s it. I’ve taken you to Smithton. Here we are at Dismal Swamp …”
“Seriously, Jed. How—”
My phone buzzes. I snatch it from my pocket.
Jed groans. “Viggo? Don’t reply.”
“It’s from Em!” I protest, showing him my screen. “Oh, Ben Folds. I was meant to call her back.”
“Oh. Sorry. You can look at your phone if you want. Call Em. It’s fine. I don’t want to tell you what to do, Connie. You’ve had enough of that.”
“Can we make a pact to stop saying bad things about Viggo?” I ask. “Seriously. He’s your best friend. And seriously, Jed. You’re really getting on my goat.”
There’s a pause, in which I glower at Jed and he glares back at me. Then one corner of his mouth twitches. “Getting on your goat? Who says that? Oh no, wait. Let me guess. Does his name rhyme with Figgo FacFluff?”
I shrug. “I guess I picked it up.”
Jed takes my hand. “Connie, I’m sorry if my badmouthing Viggo has upset you. Okay? I promise to stop. If you get your skates on right now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I am hurrying.”
“No, I didn’t mean it metaphorically,” Jed says, shaking his head. He points at the nondescript brick building in front of us. “I mean literally. We’re here.”
I peer through the dark four am light at the sign on the building. “Bangarra Skaterama? Jed, you know I love me a rollerblade as much as the next nineties’ nerd, but it’s the middle of the night-slash-un-Ben-Foldsly-morning. How are we going to get in there?”
“So you know my sister, Margrete?”
“Vaguely,” I say sarcastically. I’ve known Meg for as long as I’ve known Jed. So, like, forever.
“Just got a job here,” Jed says.
“And what, you stole her key?”
Jed does a little bounce and produces a square of plastic from his front pocket. “Keypass. Yes. Or, rather, I borrowed it. She owed me a favour or ten.”
“And you just knew we were going to go skating tonight?” I ask incredulously.
He shrugs. “I thought it was a possibility …”
I watch as Jed walks towards the door of the skating rink. He has a nice walk—I’ve always thought that. Sort of slow and loping and careless. Viggo always walks with purpose. He walks as if he was on his way somewhere important. Which he usually is.
Jed walks for the sake of walking.
Jed does a lot of things for the sake of doing them. He sits in his backyard for hours, watching the birds. He wanders around parks, rubbing leaves between his fingers, picking up sticks and bending them, swatting at the grass. He finds smooth stones and rolls them in his palm. He gets in Tallulah—when she’s functioning—and just drives. Not to anywhere in particular. Wherever the roads take him. He sits for whole mornings, playing with Beezus, smoothing out the velvety fur on her belly, scratching behind her ears. He could spend all day just being with her.
And his music …
Some of the songs he listens to are twenty minutes long. Whenever Jed would put one of them on, Viggo would curl his lip and say, “Is this another ten-hour-long epic about druids and robots? Because, if so, I have somewhere I have to be.”
Jed is slow, while Viggo is brisk.
Viggo is excitement and energy. Jed is—despite his love of thumping, racing, pounding, galloping music—calm.
Laid back.
Comfortable.
I feel comfortable with Jed in a way I never felt with Viggo.
But then, what I liked—loved—about Viggo was that he pushed me out of my comfort zone. He challenged me to be better. He wanted me to improve myself.
Jed is satisfied with me just as I am. I’d never better myself if Jed and I were …
I shake myself. If Jed and I were what? What in the actual Jabba The Hutt am I thinking about Jed and I being anything for?
Anything other than best friends, that is.
I am way overtired, obviously.
But he does have a nice walk.
And I’d forgotten how much I like his hair. It may be Vikingly long, but it’s always super clean and shiny and sleek like a horse’s mane.
Sometimes, when we sat together on the couch at his house or mine, I’d curl up beside him and run my fingers through his hair, untangling knots and enjoying the satin-ribbon smoothness between my fingers.
Sometimes, I’d annoy him by weaving it into little, girlish braids that made his hair kink and frizz when he unwove them.
I smile at the memory.
I’ve missed doing that. We haven’t hung out together—just the two of us, lazy and slothful and content—for months.
Since Viggo MacDuff arrived.
We haven’t gone bowling, either, or to the park for a picnic of pizza and chips.
Or skating.
We used to come here all the time—during less vampish hours. He’d hold my hand and guide me around the rink, challenging me to speed skate and egging me on to try jumping. I could never do it, no matter how many times I tried. But I always tried.
Now, I’m not sure if I should even put the skates on.
What if I fall? What if I hit my nose or get a black eye? What if I break my wrist?
I am already wearing Vans. I already have blue hair. That’s probably enough to guarantee that Viggo will never look twice at me again, but if I am all bruised and beaten up, he never will, for sure. He always sneered at tomboy girls with ruddy skin and grazes on their knees. He thought they looked “unladylike” and … uncouth.
No.
No, I haven’t skated for so long. I’m out of practice. I could fall just doing normal skating, let alone jumps or turns or …
“Jed,” I call out. “Um, I’m not sure I should—”
“And we’re in!” he calls out. He turns around and performs an elaborate bow. “The only thanks I expect is for you to share a packet of breakfast Cheezels with me when we’re done. And maybe you could do one or two highly dangerous jumps.”
“Yeah, about that …” I’m all ready to turn on my scuffed rubber heel and walk away. I mean, breaking into a skating rink in the early hours of Boxing Day morning? Doing jumps when I haven’t skated for over a year?
Madness.
Or, as Viggo would say, “Not at all sensible.”
But then Jed holds out a hand, and the look on
his face …
He’s so excited. And whenever Jed is excited about something, I can’t help getting excited too. It’s infectious. I take his hand and let him lead me from the dawning light into the darkness inside.
“Might have been an idea to ask Meg where the light switches are,” I suggest.
“We could just go skating in the dark?” Jed begins humming. It takes me a while to recognise the song.
I laugh. “Can’t start a fire without a spark!” I sing. “You are such a dodgy metal fan, quoting Bruce Springsteen.”
“You are a dodgy nineties’ indie music fan. You knew exactly what I was talking about. We can suck together, hey? You and me, kid. We’re, like, in total harmony.”
“Like ebony … and ivory!” I sing.
“Yeah, now that’s just going too far. Springsteen I can handle. Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney?” Jed shudders. “Although, CMJ did say Blackwater Park was a ‘metal fusion of Pink Floyd and The Beatles’, and it’s hands down my favourite Opeth album. Although, you know, in comparison it’s definitely more Lennon Beatles than McCart—”
I have to interrupt. Jed on metal can last for hours.
“Hey, Opeth! That leads in nicely to my next memory.”
Jed nods. “Tell me while I find these damned light switches.”
We’re still wandering around in total blackness. I can hear Jed, walking ahead not far away. I creep towards the noise of his footsteps.
Suddenly they stop, but my feet take longer to process this information than my brain does. I keep walking and smack straight into Jed’s back.
“Whoa there, Connie-girl,” Jed says, reaching out to catch me before I fall backwards.
For a moment we stand, his arms around my waist, breathing together in the darkness.
It feels nice, being held by Jed.
Comfortable.
Safe.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” I reply.
I reach up and I can feel Jed’s smooth hair beneath my hands. He’s breathing heavily and I realise I am too.
