Signs of Love - Love Match

by Melody James

In my mind, I’m already on the sideline, Jeff wide-eyed beside me as he watches Treacle hammer down the wing and score a breathtaking goal from halfway down the pitch.

  ‘Did you see that?’ I bounce excitedly at Jeff’s elbow, but he’s speechless. Treacle’s magical playing has wowed him. He’s watching her as her teammates swarm round her. When the sunlight glints off her glossy hair, the admiration in his gaze melts suddenly into love . . .

  Tomorrow is going to be the best day ever.

  By the time the ref blows the half-time whistle, Jeff Simpson will be head over heels for Treacle.

  The form room’s stuffy, even though January sleet is slapping at the windows. The class is crammed for Friday morning registration. I’m perched on a table next to Treacle by the radiator. I unbutton my jacket, swamped by the heat. Miss Davis has ticked her attendance boxes and is briefing us on our class assembly.

  ‘The History of St Valentine’s Day.’ As she announces the theme, Ryan Edwards, class clown, calls across the room. ‘Hey, Savannah! You’ve had plenty of valentines, why don’t you handle this one by yourself?’

  Savannah’s sitting beside Josh. She scowls at Ryan. ‘You handle it by yourself.’ She presses closer to Josh. ‘I prefer to work in pairs.’ She looks at me and winks.

  Josh shakes his hair out of his eyes and stares Ryan down like a well-trained watchdog.

  ‘Hey, Miss.’ Chris McLaren shoots up his hand. ‘Is St Valentine the one with wings and a bow and arrow?’

  ‘That’s Cupid, stupid,’ Bilal Khan snorts.

  ‘Same thing,’ Chris argues. ‘Some geezer trying to hook people up.’

  ‘That’s a very astute analysis, Chris.’ Miss Davis tries to channel the bickering back to the topic. ‘Let’s think more about what St Valentine represents.’

  ‘Love, Miss.’ Sally Moore glances up from the pocket mirror in which she’s checking her make-up.

  ‘Exactly.’ Miss Davis looks relieved to be on firmer ground. ‘Our assembly will be focusing on the history of St Valentine’s Day. How do you think we can make that interesting for the audience?’

  Ryan’s feet are fidgeting like he’s forgotten to take his morning medication. ‘We could get Savannah and Josh to give a snogging demo,’ he suggests.

  Savannah snaps round, eyes flaring, but Miss Davis leaps in before she can reply.

  ‘Ryan,’ she cautions, ‘leave Savannah alone.’ She throws a pleading look at Anila Zajmi. ‘How do you think we might explore the history of St Valentine’s day, Anila?’

  Anila is every teacher’s dream – she doesn’t suck up, but all the teachers know she’ll be there with a relevant answer when lessons start to fray. She’s helped them out of so many jams, she should get a cut of their salaries. ‘We can show how love has changed over the years,’ Anila answers obligingly. ‘How we went from arranged marriage to internet dating.’

  ‘Great idea.’ Miss Davis looks very relieved. Boosted, she tosses a follow-up question at the class. ‘Where could we look if we want to find out how people thought and felt about love in the past?’

  ‘Match.com?’ Bilal calls.

  ‘In . . . the . . . past, Bilal,’ Miss Davis reiterates slowly.

  ‘What about looking in old books?’ Sally’s suggestion is tentative.

  Miss Davis leaps on it like a fox on a rabbit. ‘Old books! Very good! Where else?’

  While my classmates fling ideas at each other, I shrink into my backpack. Assemblies aren’t my thing. I’m staying quiet and leaving this performance to the X Factor wannabes.

  Wannabe Number One, Chelsea Leeson, is leaning against the window sill throwing poisonous eye-darts at Savannah.

  I nudge Treacle. ‘Is it my imagination or is Chelsea looking a little green this morning?’

  Treacle scratches her nose. ‘I’m not surprised, she’s been wanting a slice of Joshy-pie for months.’

  Savannah’s too busy fluttering her eyelashes at Josh to feel Chelsea’s scorching gaze. I’ve not had a chance to ask her, how her date went but, from the knowing way he’s grinning at her I’m guessing it went well.

  Poor Marcus. He’s watching from the back of the class, his shoulders drooping.

  ‘Marcus looks like someone ate his homework,’ I whisper to Treacle.

  She glances over her shoulder. ‘Poor Marcus.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sympathy pricks me. ‘It must’ve taken a lot of courage to ask Savannah out.’ Marcus is sweet-looking, but he’s not in Josh’s league. He’s gazing at Savannah while Savannah gazes at Josh. Josh sniffs and inspects his fingertips, then flicks dirt out from under a nail.

  Miss Davis taps her desk with her pen. The class have wandered off topic again. Sally is arguing with Bilal. ‘Asking someone out via text is so not cool.’

  Miss Davis breaks it up. ‘Don’t forget that St Valentine was a martyr. It might be nice to focus on the sacrifices we sometimes have to make for people we love.’

  I think of Ben. And the holiday we didn’t have last year because he needed a tilt-table for his physio. We could all have used a holiday. But, like Mum says, you can’t have your cake and eat it.

  Miss Davis raises her voice over the background chatter. ‘Perhaps we could focus on some great love stories or poems,’ she suggests. Her eyes are misty behind her owl-glasses. She sounds wistful. Is she single? I check out her fingers: no wedding ring. Maybe she’s got a boyfriend. She could probably get one. She’s not that old, though she’d look younger if she gave up the bun and sensible shoes. Maybe she babes it up when school’s out. I try to imagine her in a tube dress and heels. Not bad. DD as Savannah would say – Definitely Datable.

  ‘Do you think Miss Davis gets many valentine cards?’ I whisper in Treacle’s ear.

  ‘I bet she gets more than me.’ Treacle winds a long wisp of hair round her finger and sighs.

  ‘You never know.’ I smile to myself. If everything goes according to plan at the webzine, Treacle might be getting her very first card from Jeff.

  ‘Right.’ Jeff hands me a notepad and pen. ‘You log the stats.’

  ‘I what?’ I squint at him through the freezing rain.

  ‘Just make a note every time someone makes an attempt on goal, offsides, fouls, saves, how many corners. All the important stuff.’

  I take a look at the windswept pitch. ‘Well, there are four corners . . .’

  ‘Ha ha.’ Jeff shakes his head, but I wasn’t joking. What does he mean, how many corners?

  The teams start to file on to the pitch. Anila, from our class, is first on, followed by Karen Marsden from another Year Nine form with her mates Erin Slater and Jing-Wei Wu. Where’s Treacle?

  I didn’t warn her Jeff was going to be watching. She was so nervous about the game. I didn’t want to make it worse. But I know that, once she’s on the pitch, her pre-match jitters will disappear. They always do. After that, even Jeff Simpson won’t distract her from the game.

  I huddle deeper into my duffle, flinching from the biting wind snapping at my cheeks. Jeff’s wrapped in a scarf, his dark-blond wavy hair plastered around his face. I can see why Treacle likes him. Even half-drowned, his nose red with cold, he’s DD. Not my type (although I’m not even sure I really have a type?) but Definitely Datable.

  Treacle jogs on to the field and I wave. She must be freezing even though she’s wearing leggings under her baggy strip. She waves back, her hand stalling in the air as she spots Jeff. I grin at her madly. She must be so pleased he’s here.

  The teams fan out into position and the ref blows his whistle.

  I write Cup Match: Green Park v Tiptonville High on the notepad and start scanning the game for stuff to write down. There’s a lot of running as the teams punt the ball around, but no one’s near a goal. My gaze sneaks sideways to Jeff. Is he watching Treacle? He cups his hands round his mouth and yells encouragement to the Green Park High team.

  There’s a smattering of spectators, hunched against the icy wind at the edges of the pitch.

  ‘Come on
, Treacle!’ I whoop.

  Treacle glances at me as she thunders past, sliding to tackle the ball away from a defender on the other team.

  ‘Isn’t she great?’ I nod at Jeff.

  He’s watching her dribble the ball over the muddy grass as she heads towards the other team’s goal. ‘Yeah.’ His eyes are fixed on Treacle’s legs as she hammers the ball towards the net. It veers in the wind and slices past the post.

  ‘Missed.’ Jeff shakes his head.

  I write, ‘Goal attempt by Treacle.’ My fingers are trembling and not just from cold. Jeff was really watching her! I want to jump up and down with excitement. My plan’s working. Come on, Treacle, impress him!

  Imagine if this was the beginning of something big. My pen drifts across the soggy page, drawing a love heart. What if they fall in love? What if they get married? Flowers and hearts trail from my pen, twining between the lines. I doodle a wedding dress, sketching Treacle’s head at the top, her jet black hair gathered in ringlets. As I start work on the bouquet, Jeff lets out a massive groan.

  ‘What?’ I look up.

  Through the rain, I see the players clustered round the goal at the other end of the pitch.

  ‘Tiptonville scored,’ Jeff sighs.

  ‘Does that count as an attempt on goal or a goal?’ I say.

  He gives me a look that could shrivel plastic. ‘Goal.’

  ‘OK.’ I smile and scribble it down then go back to my bouquet and add a fringe of roses before starting work on Treacle’s veil. As I lengthen the soft lace with a swirl of my pen, pooling it around her feet, the crowd roars. I look up like a startled squirrel. The Green Park players are whooping. Goal? I look for Treacle. She’s bouncing with delight at the edge of the whoopers. Someone must have scored.

  Then I realise Jeff’s not beside me any more. Has he gone home and left me in charge of stat-logging? Please, no! Fear-sparks snap in my brain; I’ve only made three match-related notes and one of those is so entwined with roses it’s hardly legible any more. I need him to fill me in on the game.

  With a whoosh of relief I spot Jeff keeping pace with the linesman. He’s watching the players as they fan out and restart play. Treacle punts the ball downfield. Anila heads it down and starts dribbling towards the goal. As she prepares to fire, the ref blows his whistle for halftime.

  Treacle jogs over to their football coach, Miss Bayliss, who’s handing out oranges to the players on the far side of the pitch. Sucking on a slice, Treacle scoops up a rain-soaked towel and wipes her blotchy, wet face.

  I hurry over to Jeff. He’s chatting to the linesman – Mr Chapman, my geography teacher. Glasses. Beard. Totally hopeless, but sweet. Twice a week he tries to convince me that maps hold the key to all knowledge. He hasn’t won me over yet, but it’s nice of him to try so hard.

  ‘Good job Green Park equalised before half-time,’ Jeff observes.

  ‘It gives them a chance to come back.’ Mr Chapman takes off his rain-spattered glasses and rubs them with the hem of his jersey.

  So it was a goal after all. ‘Who scored?’ I ask innocently.

  ‘Number seven,’ Jeff answers.

  Anila. I jot it down under the sketch of Wedding Treacle then duck between Jeff and Mr C and interrupt. ‘So what do you think of the game so far?’ I ask Jeff.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Treacle’s pretty fast, isn’t she?’

  ‘For a girl.’

  I punch him in the arm. ‘What do you mean for a girl?’

  Jeff looks nonplussed. ‘I mean she’s fast for a girl. She’s a top team player. Good striker too.’ I make a mental note to warn Treacle that Jeff’s a WYSIWYG (what you see is what you get) kind of guy. He may lack tact, but she’s not going to have the hassle of second-guessing anything he says.

  The ref blows his whistle and Mr Chapman starts bobbing along the sideline doing whatever it is linesmen do.

  As play begins, I start doodling love hearts round the edge of the page and, keeping one eye on the game, link them with a pretty chain of daisies. Sometimes, when I spot Treacle with the ball, I point her out to Jeff. Not too much. I don’t want to make him suspicious. But I don’t want him to forget she’s on the field either.

  As I draw a garland of buttercups round a freshly sketched heart, I wonder if Treacle will let me choose my own bridesmaid’s dress. Pale green would totally highlight my eyes and I’d wear my hair up, princess-style.

  ‘Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?’

  Tears prick my eyes as Treacle passes me her bouquet and lets Jeff take her hand.

  ‘YESSS!’

  Jeff’s roar makes me jump. I look up from the notepad.

  ‘Go, Treacle!’ Jeff’s punching the air.

  ‘She scored?’ I stare. ‘She scored!’ Go, Treacle!

  ‘The winning goal!’ Jeff’s clapping as the ref blows the final whistle. ‘They’ve made it through to the next round.’

  I grab his arm. ‘Let’s go and interview Treacle!’ This is even better than I’d planned.

  I don’t give Jeff chance to answer, but head straight across the pitch.

  Treacle’s swamped by teammates, jumping round her, screaming. I wait for them to calm down, keeping one eye on Jeff in case he bolts. The rain’s cleared, but the wind’s still icy. I’m shivering in my duffle. This matchmaking requires commitment.

  ‘Treacle!’ I leap forward as the rest of the team head for the changing rooms. ‘Great match.’ I jerk my head towards Jeff, grinning. ‘We’ve come to interview you, as you scored the winning goal and everything.’ I flip over a fresh page on my notepad and wait to take notes. ‘Go on,’ I coax Jeff. ‘Ask her what it’s like to win a Cup match for your school.’

  Treacle’s staring at me. Is that gratitude I can see in her eyes? The wind has whipped her ponytail across her face. She looks kind of flushed and her football strip is soaked. She scrapes dripping hair away from her mouth. ‘Thanks, Gem.’ Her teeth are gritted against the cold.

  ‘Nice goal,’ Jeff says. ‘I was beginning to think it’d go to penalties.’

  ‘The first half was a bit scrappy.’ Treacle stares at his boots.

  ‘But you broke the deadlock.’

  ‘It was Jing-Wei’s cross that did it.’

  Jeff’s nodding. ‘That Tiptonville defender nearly deflected it though.’

  Who cares about Jing-Wei and the Tiptonville defender? He’s here to interview Treacle. I decide to interrupt. ‘Did you know Treacle’s been playing football since she was three years old?’

  Jeff ignores me. ‘I thought you were going to score in the first five minutes,’ he says. ‘When you made that break.’

  ‘Treacle’s got two brothers and she can beat them both,’ I interject.

  Treacle’s eyes are still fixed on Jeff’s boots. ‘I guess I didn’t allow for the crosswind.’

  ‘Crosswinds can be unpredictable,’ Jeff agrees.

  Weather? What is wrong with them? I try and steer them back on topic. ‘What are your plans for tonight now you’ve got through to the next round?’ I ask Treacle.

  Treacle blinks at me. ‘Homework?’

  ‘I mean are you planning to celebrate?’ Come on, Treacle, take the hint! ‘Maybe go out somewhere? With friends? Anyone you’d like to invite?’ My eyes swivel towards Jeff.

  Jeff looks at me. ‘Are we interviewing her about the game or planning her social diary?’ He turns back to Treacle. ‘Did you think the ref’s decision on Erin Slater’s foul was fair?’

  ‘I don’t think she meant to foul that Tiptonville winger,’ Treacle answers. ‘Her boot just clipped her heel as she went down.’

  ‘Have you had many football injuries?’ I ask Treacle. Her eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘What about that scar on your knee you got when you were ten,’ I go on. ‘Why don’t you show Jeff?’

  Treacle backs away. ‘Look, my teammates will be waiting for me.’ She grabs my wrist and drags me close. ‘What are you trying to do?’ she hisses. ‘
Could you be more obvious?’ She glances at Jeff, her face getting redder by the second. ‘And why would I want to speak to him now? I look like I’ve been coughed up by a dog.’

  ‘Sorry!’ I look at Treacle’s bright-red face and rain-soaked hair. Oh, no! Why didn’t I think about that? ‘Don’t worry,’ I whisper, ‘I’ll get rid of him.’

  I pull away from Treacle and start to steer Jeff towards the sideline.

  But he’s already launched into another question. ‘I thought Green Park had lost it at the beginning of the second half,’ he says. ‘When Morley latched on to that back pass from Petersen.’

  ‘Me too,’ Treacle calls over her shoulder, heading for the school. ‘Good job Morley took too many touches. Anila intercepted and cleared . . .’ The wind whips away the rest of her words.

  I turn to Jeff. ‘Great match, huh?’

  ‘Yeah. Can I have your notes?’ He holds out his hand.

  ‘Notes?’ I swallow. The doodled notepad is suddenly burning my hand. ‘They’re a bit scrappy. Why don’t I type them up for you?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He grabs the notepad and flicks back a page. I quietly die as he gazes at it. Hearts and flowers cover every line.

  ‘You didn’t even make a note of Slater’s foul!’ He’s staring at me like I just ran over his phone.

  ‘Sorry.’ I smile sheepishly. ‘The wind kept whipping my hair into my eyes and the . . .’ I’m fumbling for excuses. ‘. . . the rain was really . . . distracting. It was kind of hard to concentrate and the doodling sort of helped me to focus I guess . . .’ My voice trails away. ‘I’m not good with sports,’ I concede.

  He waves the notepad at me angrily. ‘But luckily, you’re great with hearts!’

  As he turns and marches away, I huddle deeper into my duffle.

  Great with hearts? If only that were true. He still sees Treacle as a footballer and Treacle’s probably looking for another best friend right now. I get out a tissue and wipe my frozen nose. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried playing Cupid after all.

  ‘You’re not working?’ I dance round Dad. It’s the first Saturday morning he’s not worked since Christmas. Mum can’t work because she needs to be at home for Ben so Dad takes all the extra shifts he can. Reality is: we need the cash, especially now Mum’s thinking Ben should have a maths tutor because he’s missed out on so much school.