by Beth Garrod
I rubbed my arms to get a bit warmer. Zac noticed.
“Shall we head off? I’d forgotten you had the body temperature of a Cornetto.”
I shuddered at the thought of heading to the SOS. Scene of snog. The MOT. Moment of truth. I stood up, dusting the grass off my clothes, as he watched. Could I stall for time? I rummaged in my bag for inspo and spotted the perfect thing. My pride and joy. My camera. It might be cringe asking, but a photo of Zac AND time wasted was too good to not try for. I tried to sound as casual and college-studenty as I could.
“Before we go, while you, er –” DON’T SAY LOOK PARTICULARLY FIT – “have such, er, good light, could I grab a photo of us?”
I pulled it out of my bag before he could say no.
“Wow, that’s some serious kit.”
I nodded proudly.
The one thing I owned that wasn’t broken – or borrowed from Jo. I’d won it in a school comp last year and since then I’d taken it everywhere with me. The photos from it – of Mumbles, and feet in sand, and early morning sunrises on the playing field, and a really great sandwich I once made – were strung up all over my room (with spaces where the ones of Tegan and Rachel had been). Still, a pic of us could fill the space way better than their faces ever had done. Although, so could another sandwich.
Zac polite-coughed, reminding me I’d got distracted. Better hurry before he changes his mind. I fiddled with the F-stop, set the focus and in a move I’d practised to perfection, swivelled the camera round and stretched my arm out. Zac leaned in, but the shock of him putting his arm round me made my finger snap down, unprepared. We looked at the picture. Him grinning, me blinking. Lucky SD cards don’t melt, because he looked all kinds of hot, whereas people like me are why cropping was invented. Hello, new phone background/pillow case/duvet set/ bedroom wallpaper.
Zac looked pleased. I felt like I’d just created a Picasso.
“Approve?” I could only nod back. The photo was so good it’d rendered me temporarily mute. Zac reached out towards my camera to get a closer look. In a panic I yanked it away from him. He looked a bit put out but one wrong left click and he’d get an eyeful of my earlier bum selfies, from when I was checking out today’s outfit choice.
“Got any college work on there I could look at?”
“NO!” I didn’t mean to shout. He looked scared. I looked happy my mute-ness wasn’t permanent after all. “As in, yes I have. But no you can’t see them. You know how it is? Creative control. Art. Want to edit them before I share.”
Truth was I couldn’t swipe right either, as it was the photoshoot Rachel and I had done last month of our upside-down heads with faces drawn on our chins. And chin-face probably isn’t the challenging new college art concept Zac has in mind.
“Wow, you take it seriously, don’t you?” He seemed impressed. Had I finally carried off something vaguely cool? He took his phone out. “Your turn then.” My nostrils flared, like an inbuilt facial panic alarm. Taking photos, I love. Having a photo taken, I hate. I can never make my face look right. That’s why selfies were invented, not you-lfies.
“Do you have to? I look like Mr Potato Head in photos. Well, Mrs. But only just.”
He pointed to my camera.
“Fair’s fair. I get something to remember today by too.”
I couldn’t think of anything worse, but the fact that he wanted a memento made me feel a bit fuzzy inside, like someone was running a warm bath in my vital organs.
“Well, OK, but if I say delete, you delete.”
“OK, OK, diva! Next you’ll be telling me you have a best side?!”
I do. It’s my left side, but now I totally couldn’t tell him that. I’d just have to manoeuvre it so it worked out that way. I took a sly glance at my reflection on the back of my phone. Great, I’d laugh-cried all my mascara off and I had at least twelve twigs lodged in my hair. Unless Zac had a thing for goth scarecrows, this photo was already doomed.
He held up his phone. Breathe in, Bella, shoulders back, smooth hair, tilt chin down, smile with your eyes. He pressed the button and . . . laughed.
He literally creased up with laughter.
“Zac, show it to me. What’s so funny?!”
I grabbed at his phone, but he’d clutched it to his chest. Had he only just realized the true extent of my nostrils? They are exceptionally uneven.
He fanned his face with his other hand like you do when your laughing overrides your breathing.
“Look whatever it is, you’re deleting it, OK? You promised.”
“L-l-llll –” he was trying, and failing, to speak between laughs – “loo. . .” gasp, fan, bit of breath, “. . . oook!”
He held out the screen. There I was, standing awkwardly, my smiling eyes looking more like squinting. Sure, it wasn’t my best photo, but was I really that gross? He jabbed his finger above my head. There was a weird black streak above it. I looked up at the tree – nothing there now. He zoomed in. What was it? All there was above me was just branches. Branches with birds on. . . Oh no, am I really this unlucky?
I put my hand on the back of my head. Affirmative. Wet and slimy. The one photo Lord Swooningham of Swoonshire owned of me and I was mid being bird-pooed on.
Zac was crying with laughter. I too was almost crying, but for totally different reasons.
“I’m sorry, Bells. But it’s SO funny. You can actually see . . . see. . .” more laughing, “. . . you can see the poo!”
Mortifying. I stop fancying boys when I see them eating crisps in a funny way – how on earth was I going to get through this!? Should I style it out? Run off and cry? Should I hold a bird at ransom until it poos on Zac’s head? Should I poo on a bird’s head, so it could see how unfunny it was?
I tried to dab the evidence off, but this was no ordinary fly-by-pooing.
“OH MY GOD. IT MUST HAVE BEEN SOME SORT OF DINOSAUR. HELP ME, ZAC. HELP ME. IT’S GOING DOWN MY NECK!” I started running in tiny circles, flapping my arms as if moving would help me get further away from the thing on my head.
“CALM DOWN.” He tried to regain some composure. “A bit of poo never killed anyone. . . Well, other than millions through the spread of disease and bacteria.”
AND POTENTIALLY ME – I was at serious risk of dying of shame. I grabbed a handful of grass to scrape it off, but just gave myself bird poo lowlights.
“DELETE THAT PICTURE NOW.”
If only I’d been born before technology existed. Before being born existed.
Zac opened up his bag.
“Here, have my top – put the hood up. No one will ever know.”
“But I don’t want to poo-up your hood.” When I’d planned what I was going to talk about with Zac, I can safely say this wasn’t on my list of alluring phrases. Oh well.
I pulled on his top, ignoring my hair, which had now started to crust. It smelled amazing (his top, not the hardened poo). I stood patiently as it took another couple of minutes before Zac had stopped laughing enough to form whole sentences.
“Sorry. I think I’m OK now.” He took a deep breath in and said “Woooooo” as if breathing out the last of his laugh. “Bright side? We’ve definitely missed Count to Trois, so we can go sit in a dark, low-bird-poo-visibility room, and watch your choice of film instead.”
This was a glimmer of good news in all the crap. Literally. With my camera safely back in my bag, and the photos synced to my phone in case of mugging/ falling in river, we walk-jogged to the cinema. By the time we got there, the only film that had tickets left had just started. Zac bought the last two, grabbed my hand and marched us in. It was packed. As in, you’d think this was the X-Factor-final-featuring-a-naked-One-Direction-reunion-special packed. I pulled his hoodie up further to hide my face as he pulled me towards the only empty seats. The snog-repellent second row. Maybe I would be spared finding out if I could actually kiss any more? Although then I might never get to snog Zac ever again. Argh! Why was life so complicated? Why was snogging so terrifying? Surely it’s just like
chewing – but with another person attached?
As the film blared out I tried to relax and stop thinking about crusty poo hair, attempted snogging or lack of attempted snogging. The plot was so painfully unfunny the cinema was entirely silent, all except one person who explosively laughed like a horse every 2.5 minutes. And that one person was Zac. So much for loving foreign cinema.
“Oi,” Zac prodded me in the leg. I stared straight ahead, didn’t want him thinking he was more important than the film, even though he was x one million.
“Bellllaaaaa,” He prodded again.
“Oh . . . yeah?” You said something? Why, I’d been so wrapped up in the hilarious scene with a cat having its hair crimped that I hadn’t noticed.
“Just wanted to say thanks for today.”
Wow. My first genuine smile of the whole film. As they started to straighten the hair of a hamster, I felt something. Something on my actual knee. He’d only put his hand right there. On MY leg – like a COUPLE! Alert people! Life-altering moment happening in seat 2F right now. What should I do? Put my hand on his hand? Put a hand on his knee? Put my other knee on his hand?! Help! Why does no one teach you these things?!
He gently pulled my leg towards his. Uh-oh. Was I mistaken or was this going to be an SOS after all!? What could I do? I scanned left and right. BUMBALLS. I can’t even dash off for a fake loo trip without tripping over at least ten people. C’mon, Bella. Just sit, breathe and pretend there aren’t about two hundred people about to see you not able to deal with whatever is about to happen. But I didn’t have much time to compose myself. Slowly, calmly, Zac leaned in. And he kissed me. And I kissed him back.
Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy. It felt nice. Even nicer than hand on knee. Nice enough to decide that I didn’t care what anyone else thought, or what anyone else saw. Here I was with the most amazing boy in the UK/probably world and we were kissing. He was kissing me!
Even though my lips felt dry on his, my head was swivelled round like some sort of human-owl and I was getting cramp in my right shoulder, this was, without doubt, the hottest moment of my life. Take that, rules of cinema dating – you thought snogging was all about the back row, well guess what? Bella and Zac are in town, and tonight it’s all about row two.
My stomach felt like it had been replaced with helium. Here I was watching a romantic comedy, and my actual real life was one billion times more happy-ending-y. We carried on half-film-watching/half-kissing until the overly loud exit music shook us back into the real world.
Zac switched on his phone. And as it came to life he shot out of his seat.
“Crap. I’ve got to run. Like run run. My train’s in ten.”
Thank goodness I’ve already been initiated into the cinema fire-exit-exit. It’s one of those rights of passage that once you know, makes everyone leaving the normal way less cool. Older people would argue it’s pointless walking down dimly lit stairs and dark alleyways, but that’s why they’re wrong. And that’s why they’re old.
I dragged Zac double-speed along the row, out the door, and across the road to the station. We dashed up the stairs, getting to the platform just as his train pulled in. ‘Yay’ for him not missing the train, ‘Aaaaaargghrubbish’ for this being the end of the evening – and him noticing that I gave myself a hiccup trying to hold in my out-of-breath-puffing.
Without time for a proper goodbye he jumped on-board. “I’m so sorry to run off like this. It’s been great seeing. . .”
The beeping of the train doors drowned out his words, so instead he waved and walked down the carriage. He sat as near to where I was standing as he could, settling in beside an old lady who seemed to be reading a tutorial on knitted seagulls. I threw her a look to say ‘hands off he’s mine’, with a bit of ‘and also I didn’t know you could knit a bird, that’s quite impressive’.
Seconds later the train roared into action, and with no words left to be said, Zac smiled and waved. So did the old lady. Probably trying to get him on her good side before she made her move. I used both hands to wave them both off, and carried on waving until the lights of the train disappeared into the distance. I felt as empty as the platform.
I stomped back down the steps feeling sorry for myself. Everything here already seemed so boring without him, and he’d only been gone seventeen seconds. I wished he hadn’t gone, but stealing people isn’t legal. And I’m not good at carrying.
My phone buzzed – probs Mum wondering where I am. Open message.
There it was. Me all in all my pre-bird-poo glory.
Hey Poohead. My new fave pic. Z x
And this was now my new fave message. I wandered to the bus stop, thinking of how to reply. But despite missing him already, I couldn’t help but smile. Against all odds, had I managed to undo my cereal-box/Jo damage and make Zac like me? I’d even trebled my TSS (time spent snogging). Maybe something more could happen between us? Maybe he might want to see me again? Maybe getting him to prom wasn’t such a crazy idea?
A light flashed in my face as a car screeched into the bus stop. It was Mum and Jo. Good timing. I jumped in the back.
“Darling. What are you doing?! You know I don’t like you hanging round bus stops late at night.”
“Maybe you could increase my allowance so I don’t have to?”
“Maybe you could come home earlier so it’s not an issue?”
I quickly moved the convo on. I didn’t want to dwell on the details of this evening.
“So, er, how was soap making?
“Oh, Bella – it was excellent. Which was just as well, as we’ve had the most dreadful evening. Jo and I went to see a truly terrible film. Not only was it really unfunny. . .”
Jo interrupted.
“As in, a-hamster-going-to-a-hairdresser-unfunny.”
Wait. As in – the-exact-same-film-as-me-unfunny?! Where was this going?!
Mum carried on.
“. . . but there was this couple in the second row who spent the whole film kissing.”
What the what the WHAT?! Seeing as Zac and I were sitting beside a Scout trip, SHE COULD ONLY MEAN US. How could this be happening?! Had we really been that noticeable?! Actual inward spew. I spluttered some words out.
“That. Sounds. Awful.” Not a lie. It was entirely awful that the two people I was most closely related to had been less than two metres away from the most romantic encounter of my life. Thank goodness I’d had that hoodie up, if they worked out it was me, I’d be in deeper poo than I had been earlier.
Jo twisted round in her seat and peered through the headrest.
“Srsly. Mum’s not even being mum-ish. They slurped the entire way through the film.” I felt dizzy with bad luck. Had we really been ‘slurping’? This could not be happening. Did Zac think I was a ‘slurper’?
“Jo’s right. The only good thing was that when the boy’s mouth was covered it stopped his horsey laughing. It was positively a bray. I mean, who finds a cat falling into a bin funny?”
Should I set a phone reminder of ‘Never let Zac meet and/or laugh/bray in front of my family’? Thank goodness there had been nothing funny when Jo kind of met him, so she didn’t recognize his unique sound.
“Still, we did treat ourselves to a pizza before. I can’t believe they now do ones with hamburgers in the crust! What’s next, fish fingers instead of straws?”
That made no sense, but relieved that the conversation had moved on, I let Mum chat away, as I zoned out, staring out of the window and thinking about Zac. Maybe he could be the one thing in my life that could finally go right? The one plan that goes to plan. All I had to do was not mess it up – and stay away from all birds. And somehow get a second opinion on my ‘slurping’.
But my plan had forgotten the one thing that could derail it most of all. Luke. And in less than two weeks I was going to find out just how much damage a loser ex-boyfriend could do.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
It turns out that a substantial part of the fun of a date is the telling other peo
ple every sordid detail (date-tail?). So, in the days after what I now refer to as ‘Love Zac-tually’, in the absence of best mates, I told pretty much everyone else. Including a girl who I only knew because I once got my fringe caught in her rucksack buckle.
Zac had mentioned he didn’t use PSSSST any more, so I’d even been sharing details on there. Seven posts later and my likes were still going up. WORLD BE ON ALERT. One of the basic laws of existence was turning on its head. I, Bella Fisher, might potentially be rebranding as a fit-boy-snogger, normal-life-haver and internet-sensation. Hold on to your hats. Gravity will be the next thing to go.
I leaned against my locker and scanned the corridor for teacher danger. All clear. Perfect for a check on this morning’s Zac date post – it was on track to break my PB with 250 likes.
WHEN IS A DATE NOT A DATE? WHEN IT’S A
RAISIN.SRSLY, THOUGH. HAVE YOU NEEDED
TO PLAY IT EXTRA COOL ON A DATE WITH A
MEGA HOTTIE? WHEN YOU’RE NOT EVEN SURE
IS TECHNICALLY A DATE? WELL, IMAGINE THAT.
THEN IMAGINE SHOWING THE MEGA HOTTIE THE
TIME ON YOUR PHONE – JUST AS A MESSAGE
POPS-UP SAYING ‘HOW’S YOUR DATE WITH THE
WORLD’S FITTEST MAN????’
WELCOME TO MY LIFE.
I cringed at the memory. I should never have given Sarah my number. Zac had been sweet about it, though, and pretended not to notice.
I scrolled down. Better than I’d even hoped. 400 likes. And quite a few comments.
LILDRUMMERBOY: I CAN GO ONE BETTER.
IMAGINE BEING ON AN ‘IS THIS A DATE’ DATE,
WHEN YOUR EX COMES OVER TO THE TWO OF
YOU AND YELLS, ‘I THOUGHT YOU
SAID YOUR DATE WAS HOT?’
I nose-snorted. How reassuring that other people were also a danger to society. And a boy too.
“Ms Fisher. Is there a rrreason you think you’re exempt from the rrrrule of not using phones? Or is ‘chatting with online friends’ now an emergency?”
Wow. Misery magnet strikes again. Could my timing be any worse?
