Then I notice Fab dancing his way towards us, singing the words at the top of his voice.
‘Oh, God,’ I say, shrinking behind Hilary.
Despite the fact that I’m obviously trying to hide from him, Fab carries on pointing at me and doing his wavy-armed dance and singing until the track ends and he says, ‘Annie, that was our song. Let’s celebrate our song being played in the common room by going on a date!’
I narrow my eyes and shake my head. ‘Fab, we don’t have a song.’
‘We do. That was it.’
‘Sorry. “Wuthering Heights” may be an awesome power ballad but the answer’s still “no”.’
‘For today,’ he says with a mysterious smile. Then he wanders over to the coffee shop to flirt with Peggy.
‘Ahhh,’ says Hilary.
‘No, Hilary, not ahhh. More urrgh. Fab’s stalking me.’
‘He’s wooing you!’
‘Is there a difference?’ I say.
On Tuesday, Miss Caudle gets us all to set up Twitter accounts and form a Wuthering Heights study group. When we’re supposed to be writing succinct definitions of the Gothic, Fab sends me a GIF of a tap-dancing fox with the words umówisz sie ze mna shaved into its fur.
Google Translate tells me I’ve been asked out again, so I reply with a GIF of a parrot shaking its head.
‘Stop mucking around, you two!’ calls Miss Caudle from the front of the room, and that’s when I realise Fab included our study group’s hashtag when he sent me the fox.
Five minutes later, I discover Miss has also been on Google Translate because when I look up, I catch her smiling at us fondly.
I narrow my eyes and shake my head.
‘Sorry,’ she mouths.
On Wednesday, I get a message tucked under my waffle (he must have got Peggy to help him with that one).
On Thursday, it’s a simple Post-it note stuck to my wheelchair with Annie + Fab = randka? written on it. Randka, I discover, means ‘date’.
I tell Hilary about the Post-it note during lunchtime on Friday.
‘Bit creepy?’ she asks.
‘No, I’ve started to enjoy being asked out on a daily basis,’ I say, and it’s true – I have. I like working out how Fab’s going to pop the question, plus he’s asking me in such silly ways that I don’t feel any of the panic I felt on the night of Sophie’s party. It’s almost become a game and I guess he’s doing this to prove to me that going out with him would be fun. ‘But he hasn’t asked me out today and he’s already spoken to me three times.’
‘Maybe he’s saving it up for the barbecue.’
The barbecue’s happening after college to raise money for Amnesty International.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
Hilary sighs. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s given up.’ She sips her coffee sadly. ‘Man, I hope he hasn’t. You guys are my OTP.’
‘Your what?’
‘My One True Pairing.’
I laugh. ‘Well, sorry to ruin your ludicrous romantic fantasy, but I think he’s finally got the message.’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise that, like Hilary, I’m feeling disappointed too, which is odd because I really should be feeling relieved. The thing is, Fab’s relentless attention might be a bit embarrassing, but it’s still flattering.
I gulp my coffee down, knowing it will cheer me up. This week Hilary and I have got very into our coffee, having a couple every break and lunchtime. I need to cut back. Last night my mind was buzzing so much that I found myself cleaning out Alice and Mabel at midnight, singing along with Kate Bush to ‘Wuthering Heights’. Since Fab played it in the common room, I’ve had it on constantly. Not that I’m telling Fab that.
All the way through English, I can’t help being on tenterhooks, looking out for a message or note from Fab. At one point, while we’re reading in silence, he nudges me and slides his notebook towards me, and I feel my heart speed up and a tingle of anticipation.
What is ‘disquietude’? he’s written.
Feeling anxious, I write back, my heart returning to its normal speed.
At the end of the lesson, when we’re packing up our bags, and Fab still hasn’t asked me out, I realise it’s time for me to accept that my week of Fab attention is over. He’s finally given up on me.
I feel tiredness wash over me and I’m grateful I’ve brought my wheelchair to the lesson. I wonder if the cafe is still open. Despite my good intentions, I suddenly have an overwhelming desire for a cappuccino.
‘Annie!’ Fab calls as I release the brakes.
I turn round. ‘Yes, Fab?’
‘Can you take these sausages down to the field?’
He passes me a bulging plastic bag. ‘Er, why?’
‘For the barbecue.’
Perfect. Instead of a quirky request for a date, I’m holding a bag of dead pig. For a vegetarian, this is a double blow.
‘Did you forget?’ he asks, thinking my look of disappointment is one of confusion.
‘No, I was just thinking of popping to the coffee shop, but I can take the sausages down.’ I’m slightly cheered by the fact that Fab’s asked me to help him. So often people’s eyes skip over me when they need a favour. Although this is a particularly gross favour. The bag is heavy in my lap. The meat feels cold and, well, a bit fleshy through the thin plastic.
‘Let’s go to the coffee shop together,’ he says, picking up a cardboard box. ‘We can get to the field that way.’
‘Great!’ I fix a smile on my face and follow him out of the room.
For me, the barbecue turns out to be one burnt vegetarian sausage, something fizzy and blue, and a heck of a lot of crisps, but it’s fun lounging around on the field with everyone else from our year. Faces and names are becoming more familiar and there’s this relaxed vibe that only gets better as the afternoon fades into early evening, and more and more people turn up. Even when the food’s finished no one wants to go home. Speakers send music drifting across the field and it’s one of those late summer evenings, when the sky is perfectly blue and it’s still too warm for coats.
I’m sitting with Hilary and the boys on the grass when Fab comes over. ‘So, guys,’ he says, slapping his hands together. ‘There’s a rounders game taking place. Who’s playing?’
Jim’s eyes dart in my direction. Since the party last Saturday, I’ve had the feeling he’s being extra careful with me. I haven’t got a clue if he remembers passing me over in the dance-off, but there’s been something slightly over the top about the way he’s talked to me, like he’s desperate to prove he doesn’t care or even notice that I’m disabled. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘We’ll play, right?’
‘Why not?’ I say.
‘Great!’ says Fab, giving Jim a matey pat on the back that nearly knocks his drink out of his hand.
Then Fab goes to find more players, Hilary goes to find more coffee and we take up our positions on the rounders pitch.
When Hilary gets back, I ask her to be backstop with me. Partly, this is so I have someone to get rid of all my excess chat with, but I also want her to do the running for me. Catching and throwing I’m OK at – running not so much.
It’s the most relaxed rounders game ever. No one keeps track of the score, people who should be out stay in, and the teams are constantly changing. Hilary and I chat or taunt whoever’s batting depending on how well we know them, and Fab runs around keeping everyone motivated and declaring things are ‘amazing’ far too often.
Before long it’s his turn to bat.
‘You two can sit down because this ball is going to fly,’ he says, squinting into the distance. ‘It might reach Poland.’
‘Or it might land in my hands,’ I say. ‘Get ready, Hilary. I’ve got a powerful feeling Fab’s going to miss this.’
‘Hello, ice-cream van …’ says Hilary, drifting away from us.
‘Hilary! Get back here!’
But she just mutters something about needing a ninety-nine and keeps
walking across the field. If caffeine makes me loud and chatty, it makes Hilary quiet and dizzy.
Fab does a few trial swings with the bat. ‘Seriously, Annie. Go with Hilary. Take it easy. I’m extremely good at this sport.’
‘Fab, what sport are we playing?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘Circles?’
I laugh. ‘Would I be right in thinking this is the first time you’ve ever played rounders?’
He shrugs. ‘You would, but it seems the same as baseball and I’ve played that.’
Ahead of us, the bowler tosses the ball up and down, waiting for us to stop talking.
‘OK. Here goes.’ Fab blows twice into his cupped hand. ‘Come on, Fabian, pokazż im!’
Then he crouches down low, as the bowler jogs forward and sends the ball flying towards us. I cup my hands, Fab swings the bat and then there’s a mighty thwack as the ball soars into the air.
Fab punches his fist in the air. ‘AMAZING!’
But instead of legging it to the first post, he turns and faces me. ‘Go out with me, Annie.’ He thumps his chest with the bat. ‘Just once. Look how I hit balls!’
And I’m so happy that he’s asked me out just when I’ve given up on him, and so much caffeine is spinning through my bloodstream, that I ignore the voice of reason that’s hidden inside me shouting, No, Annie. No, NO! Instead I laugh and say, ‘OK, why not?’
‘Tak!’ says Fab, then he throws down the bat and runs round the entire pitch, roaring and high-fiving every fielder he meets. He slides into the final post a fraction of a second before the ball makes contact.
And the crowd goes wild.
‘Got you an ice cream,’ says Hilary, thrusting the cone under my nose. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Fab scored a rounder.’
‘Huh,’ she says, nibbling the Flake sticking out of her ice cream.
‘And I agreed to go out with him.’
Hilary starts to laugh.
I scowl. ‘It would never have happened if you hadn’t had to get an ice cream.’
In the centre of the pitch, Fab’s running around with his shirt pulled over his head and I can just make out Jackson chasing him, also with his shirt over his head. They both rugby-tackle Mal and knock him to the ground.
‘They taste good though, right?’ says Hilary.
I smile and take a lick of my ice cream. ‘Very!’
TWENTY-TWO
My caffeine-fuelled good mood stays with me all the way to the station (I fly down that hill!), the whole journey home (I thrash Jackson at two-player Tetris!) and halfway into Friday evening (Mum’s back early!).
But around the time Mum’s dumping a pizza in front of me, niggling doubt has crept into my mind and I’m wondering what I’ve let myself in for.
‘What’s up with you?’ asks Mum, sitting next to me on the sofa and putting on the TV.
‘We’ve run out of ketchup,’ I say.
No way am I telling her about the whole Fab date thing. She’d be way too excited. She’s desperate for me to go out with someone. She says it’s because ‘first love is just the best’, but I suspect she just wants concrete evidence that I’m not a loner. Having Hilary round has reassured her considerably, but a boyfriend really would be the ultimate proof for her.
So I keep quiet until I’m upstairs, then I message Hilary.
Regretting Fab date …
Why? It’ll be a laugh!!
Hmmmm …
What does that mean?
I’m expressing my uncertainty about the whole date situation through a noise: hmmmm.
Mate, he hasn’t asked you to MARRY him. It’s a date! Relax! Woof!
He asked me on a date, which, from my POV, is the same as marriage. Who even asks people on dates these days?? No one, except Fab, the boy I’ve agreed to go on a date with! I feel like I’ve time-warped to the 1950s. Hang on … Are you expressing encouragement via the sound ‘woof’?
Woof woof!
Despite Hilary’s woofs, all weekend I fail to relax.
Why have I agreed to do the one thing I specifically did not want to do? Every time I try to imagine the two of us on the date, I get this claustrophobic panicky feeling inside, like I’m in a hot room with too many people, and the radiators are on full blast, and I’m wearing a polo-neck jumper (made of polyester) with a vest and a T-shirt … and then someone hands me a cup of tea. A really hot cup of tea.
Basically, I feel trapped, and I haven’t even been on the date yet.
It’s such a bad feeling that on Monday morning when Fab sits next to me in English, I try to tell him I’ve changed my mind.
‘Look, about this date, Fab –’
‘I have it all planned out,’ he says, pulling out his yellow notebook. ‘What is your address? On Saturday, my uncle Emil will pick you up at two p.m.’
I use Wuthering Heights as a fan. ‘Right, about that. Fab, this isn’t a date date. You know that, right?’
Fab laughs. ‘It’s cool, Annie. Don’t worry. We’re just two friends who are going to pick blackberries. You’re going to love it!’
‘Blackberries?’
‘Yes, the fruit that grows on bushes.’
‘Fab, I know what blackberries are. It’s just … not what I was expecting.’
He frowns. ‘You don’t want to go?’
I think for a moment. Actually, picking blackberries sounds fine. Fab’s been going on about this date for so long that I assumed we’d be doing something embarrassingly intense and couply, like a eating in a restaurant with tablecloths and candles, or holding hands in the back row of the cinema.
‘Blackberry-picking is fine,’ I say, ‘as long as you’ve thought through what I can do.’
‘What can you do?’
‘Well, I can walk, obviously, just not too far. And I get tired at the weekend.’
‘It will be perfect,’ he says. Just then, Miss Caudle walks into the room and Fab jumps to his feet. ‘Miss Cuddle, I have your apples.’ He pulls a paper bag out of his rucksack and puts it on her desk. ‘And this Saturday, Annie and I will be picking blackberries so we will get some for you.’
‘Oooh,’ she says. ‘Apple and blackberry crumble is my favourite.’
‘You are welcome to come if you like,’ says Fab, spreading his arms wide. ‘My mother knows a top-secret spot that is full of blackberries.’
As Fab chats to Miss Caudle, I tune out. Now Fab has invited our teacher on our ‘date’ and the last hint of romance has vanished. This is good. Really good. Blackberry-picking doesn’t feel like the start of something big; it just feels like hanging out with a friend. All the invisible pressure disappears and, when Fab sits back down, I realise I’m actually looking forward to going.
‘She didn’t want to come?’ I ask.
Fab shrugs. ‘She has a yoga workshop.’
‘Have you thought of inviting the rest of the class? Or maybe Peggy?’
He thinks for a moment.
‘Fab, that was a joke! You, me and your uncle Emil will be fine.’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘There might be one or two other members of my family there. You see, there are a lot of blackberries.’
TWENTY-THREE
I decide to leave telling Mum about my blackberry-picking date until the last possible moment. As in, the moment when a green van roars down our road, pulls up on the kerb and Fab and his uncle climb out.
Mum and I are in the front garden trying to fix the roof on the bird table when this happens.
‘What the … ?’ says Mum, as Fab clears the flower bed in one leap and strides towards us.
Fab does look quite alarming. He’s wearing a black leather jacket over black shorts with flames licking around the hem, and it doesn’t help that his uncle Emil is wearing a suit jacket with jeans and smoking a roll-up. It’s all a bit rock and roll for our road.
Fab takes Mum’s hand and gives it a hearty shake. ‘It is very good to meet you, Mrs Demos!’
‘It’s Ms Mitchell, actually,’ says Mum
, then she turns to me, eyebrows raised expectantly.
‘Mum,’ I say, ‘this is my friend Fab, from college, and this is his uncle Emil.’ Uncle Emil nods and sucks on his cigarette. ‘And we’re all going blackberry-picking.’
‘It is perfect weather, no?’ says Uncle Emil, staring up at the blue sky.
‘Yes, perfect,’ says Mum, recovering quickly. It takes a lot to ruffle her feathers. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’d love to hear a bit about you, Fab.’ OK, she says this a bit pointedly and shoots me a look at the same time.
‘I’m afraid we must get going, Ms Mitchell. We have to light a barbecue and make kebabs.’ Fab pauses to tap the loose roof on the bird table. ‘But first we will mend this little house.’ Then he turns to Emil and delivers some instructions in Polish.
‘You’re Polish!’ says Mum. ‘Cześć!’
‘Dzień dobry,’ replies Fab.
‘I’ve got three Polish students in my class and they’ve been teaching me all the important words,’ says Mum.
Then, while she tries out her Polish on Fab, Emil attacks the bird table with a cordless drill. By the time I’ve gone into the house and got my coat, the bird table is fixed and Emil is loading his tools back into the van.
Fab drops his arm around my shoulder. He does this to everyone at college, even Miss Caudle, but it still makes Mum raise her eyebrows.
‘Well, have fun,’ she says. ‘Annie, don’t you think you should take your wheelchair?’
I probably should – I don’t know where we’re going or how long I’m going to have to be on my feet – but the fact that she’s thought of it and not me makes me shake my head.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
Fab’s eyes flick between us. ‘We could take it in the van. Then, if you want it, Annie, you can say.’
‘Fine,’ I say, with a wave of my hand, and the wheelchair is brought out, folded and dutifully loaded into the back of Emil’s van.
And then it’s my turn to be loaded into the van. It’s a big step up, but Fab and Mum know me well enough to leave me to it.
Truly, Wildly, Deeply Page 8
