I take another good look at Ben. He is gorgeous. He makes the school uniform stylish and debonair. He’s just the right height. We’ll look so good together. We’ll parade the school grounds every recess and lunch, holding hands. People will sigh with jealousy. I wonder what he’ll wear to our wedding. We’ll have a holiday house by the sea and our beautiful children will play in the sand and we’ll sit up on the deck wearing cable-knit jumpers and drinking wine. We’ll be photographed for a home decorating magazine.
Tahni is leaning forward, staring Ben’s books as if they’re going to explain this unlikely turn of events.
Hah! Who’s got the amazing boyfriend now, eh Tahni? No more teasing about V-plates, no more jokes about being old and crocheting little coats for my seven hundred cats.
There is clearly such a thing as karma, because while I’m thinking these uncharitable thoughts, Tahni frowns.
‘I thought Midge said your surname was Hopkins?’ she points at Ben’s diary, which has Benjamin L Wheeler written on it in black Sharpie.
The game is up. The party is over. The fat lady has handed in her invoice and called a taxi. At least I got to kiss a boy once before I died of shame. Ben does the cute eyebrow thing again. And he winks.
‘My parents just broke up,’ he says, smooth as butter. ‘I’m using my mum’s name now. That’s why we moved here.’
‘Oh,’ says Tahni. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ben shrugs. ‘It’s no big deal.’
Definitely superpowers. The corridor is almost empty now, everyone’s gone to class.
‘So what does the L stand for?’ asks Tahni. ‘Midge said your middle name was Oliver.’
Come on, Ben. Help me out here.
‘Um,’ he says, shrugging.
No. Not after we’ve come so far.
‘He has two middle names,’ I say quickly. ‘Oliver and …’
‘Luke,’ says Ben.
‘Luke!’ I repeat. ‘Luke and Oliver. His two middle names.’
Tahni glances from Ben to me suspiciously. I hold my breath for approximately seven squillion years. Then Tahni and I speak at the same time.
She says, ‘So why don’t you–’
Just as I yell out, ‘BLOW!’
Tahni and Ben both look surprised.
‘When he changed his surname, it meant that his initials were B. L. O. W. Blow. Which isn’t good, is it?’
They both shake their heads. Thank you, Grade 6 spelling bee. Thank you.
‘And,’ I say, now on a spelling-roll. ‘If he’d used Oliver, then it would have been B.O.W. Which would have been Bow. Like bow-wow, a dog. That’s why he started using his other middle name.’
I blush. Ben raises his eyebrows.
‘You just remember everything, don’t you, sugar?’ he says.
Tahni is disappointed. It’s like she doesn’t want me to have a boyfriend.
‘I’ll see you at recess,’ I say. It’s a brush-off, and a mean one, but she needs to stop interrogating Ben.
‘Right,’ she says. She has a funny expression on her face. ‘Nice to meet you, Ben.’
‘Likewise,’ he says as she walks off.
And then I am alone. Alone with my No Longer Imaginary Entirely Perfect Boyfriend. What do I do now?
‘We should talk,’ he says.
I nod, suddenly feeling the wave of shame again. I can feel my face growing blotchy and red. He stares at me, waiting. The half-smile is still there. He’s so gorgeous. I wonder what would happen if I just started kissing him again. Maybe I could just kiss him forever, and we’d never have to have this conversation.
‘Well?’ he says.
‘Um,’ I say, my voice hoarse. ‘Maybe we can talk at recess.’
If I can ever escape Tahni’s clutches.
Ben looks at me like I’ve just suggested we join an acrobatic troupe.
‘Recess?’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘It’s at eleven, after third period.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Why wait till recess?’
I laugh nervously. ‘Because we have form assembly now? Then classes? The teachers get kinda antsy when there are no kids in the classes. It’s part of the student/teacher symbiotic dynamic.’
‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’
I’ve never wagged school before. I know that sounds insane, but I just haven’t. I like school. Even the boring classes. I figure it’s all stuff I’ll need to know one day. Except for those stupid ‘practical’ Maths problems that ask things like, ‘You are travelling north at 25 kph in a blue car. You have a chicken. How many eggs will the chicken have laid by the time you reach the red car?’ Practical in the sense of not at all.
While I’m doing this mental babble routine, Ben turns and walks down the corridor. It’s a really nice walk. Smooth and graceful and strong. I weigh up my choices.
If I stay, he’ll think I’m a square. And then he might not like me any more and he’ll tell everyone my secret and I may as well just quit school and learn how to crochet.
If I go, I might get caught. I might miss out on some Important Learning. But I also might get to do some more kissing.
I follow him. I wonder where we’ll go. The library? A broom cupboard? A boiler room? (Does this school have a broom cupboard or a boiler room? Or are they just rooms for TV schools so kids can go and have secret trysts and get attacked by vampires?) Hide down behind the bike sheds?
Where do all the other kids go to wag? Is there some secret bunker where they hang out, smoking rollie cigarettes and playing poker?
He’s almost at the front door of the school.
‘Wait!’ I say. ‘Where are you going?’
Ben shrugs. ‘Out.’
I think I am having a heart attack. ‘That’s the front door,’ I explain. ‘Someone’ll see. If you want to leave, you should at least sneak out the back way or something. There’re some bushes that cover the back fence near the portables. If you give me a boost I can climb over. Unless Mrs Peck is doing fitness testing in P.E. – then there’ll be kids on the oval and they’ll be able to see us. Maybe we could change into P.E. uniforms and pretend to be running laps, but then swerve off when she’s not looking, and duck behind the toilet block.’
Ben turns and saunters back to me. He stands very close. I thought boys were supposed to smell bad? Ben smells very, very good. ‘You’re funny,’ he says, brushing a piece of hair away from my face. ‘I like that.’
He likes me. He touched me. I feel like jelly – wobbly and transparent. He takes my hand (my hand! We’re holding hands!) and leads me out the front door.
The whole time, I’m expecting sirens to sound, and attack-dogs to spring from nowhere, and creepy black vans with no windows to screech to a halt outside Reception as bulletproof-vested commandos drop from the trees. We’re going to get caught. I’ll be expelled. I’ll have to beg for a job in the chicken and chip shop on High Street and I’ll have six kids all to different fathers by the time I’m nineteen and there’ll be photos of me in all the trashy magazines, falling out of taxis with no knickers on. Such a shame, everyone’ll say. She had so much promise, what with the Spelling Bee and all. What happened?
I don’t say any of this to Ben, of course. There’s a fine line between ‘You’re funny, I like that’ and ‘Get away from me you crazed lunatic freak’, and I’d like to stay on the side of that line that includes hand-holding and kissing.
We don’t get caught. We waltz out the front door and down the steps, and right out the gate onto the street. Bold as brass. And nobody even notices.
If I’d known it was this easy, I might have done it before.
We go to a cafe (‘Little Coffee in the Big Wood’s’), and I order hot chocolate and immediately feel like a child when Ben asks for a long black. He’s so sophisticated. I pay, in the hope that caffeine-related-bribery will make me seem like a mature, confidant lady-pays kind of girl.
We sit at a black laminex table. I fiddle with the sugar sachets and wonder if I
should tell the waitress about the errant apostrophe in ‘Wood’s’.
‘So,’ he says.
‘So,’ I reply. I suddenly feel sick. This is embarrassing. He’s hot and sophisticated and I can’t stop looking at his lips.
‘How did you know I was moving to your school?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t,’ I answer. ‘How could I? We’ve never met. I just–’
And then it all pours out. I tell him about how I’ve never had a boyfriend, and how Tahni teases me, and how I made up Ben from England, and then there he was. He listens, nodding and doing his gorgeous little eyebrow thing. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he’s not laughing at me, which is a start. He also hasn’t run away screaming, or called an ambulance to escort me to a mental hospital.
‘So this is all some kind of weird coincidence,’ he says at last.
I nod. ‘Thanks for covering for me.’
Our drinks arrive and he stirs sugar into his coffee. Maybe he really does like me. Maybe he understands. Maybe he’s never had a girlfriend. Although I’m sure no one could be such a good kisser without putting in some serious practice hours. Maybe he’ll find my eccentric imagination endearing. Maybe he’ll fall in love with my mind.
‘So you made me a MySpace page?’ he says with a grin.
‘Yep.’
‘This was a pretty elaborate scheme of yours,’ he says.
‘If you’re going to do something, may as well do it properly.’
‘Can I have the address?’ he asks. ‘I might have a few suggestions.’
I write the address on a napkin for him. He picks up the napkin, then puts it down and slides it back across the table.
‘You’d better put your phone number on there, too,’ he says.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
7 al·i·ment
–noun; 1. that which nourishes; nutriment; food.
2. that which sustains; means of support.
– A Wordsmith’s Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words
I can smell it from the driveway. My mouth waters. The smells get stronger and stronger as I open the door and slip into the hallway.
Food. Real food. Garlic and onions and meaty smells.
Mum’s home.
I walk into the kitchen and stop, shocked.
It’s like Martha Stewart exploded in here.
There are bowls of sugar and whisked eggwhites and cutup strawberries and actual real fresh vegetables and pots and pans and delicious, sizzling sounds. Mum is standing in the middle of it all, wearing an apron, her hands dusted with flour.
‘Hi, darling,’ she says.
I stare at her and all the food, swooning a little at the wonderful smells. ‘Is this some kind of Funniest Home Kitchens reality show?’
She laughs. ‘What are you talking about?’
I wave a hand to take in the craziness of our kitchen. ‘When did our house turn into the set for a cooking show?’ I narrow my eyes. ‘Is Jamie Oliver hiding in one of our cupboards?’
Mum stirs something smooth and brown and gravy-like on the stove with one hand, and opens the oven with the other and peers inside.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Stop the presses. You’re cooking a roast?’
Mum looks at me. ‘Yes, I am’ she says. ‘What’s the big deal?’
What’s the big deal? She asks. The big deal? The last roast Mum made was a tofu and nutmeat loaf. (Yes, it was revolting. Yes, Dad and I snuck out to McDonalds afterwards. Yes, there are still leftovers in the freezer.). Mum hates cooking meat, especially red meat. Especially a big hunk of meat that was once a cow. Now she’s stirring something pale and creamy that looks like cake mix.
‘You’re making a cake as well?’ I ask.
‘Lord, no,’ she says, and I sigh with relief. It is my mother after all, not some creepy culinary cyborg.
‘No,’ she continues, still stirring. ‘This is for Yorkshire puddings to serve with the beef. We’re having pavlova for dessert.’
I am actually speechless. My mouth hangs open. This is not my mother. This is someone else’s mother. This is the kind of mother who makes sandwiches with normal fillings, like peanut butter or cheese and vegemite. The kind of mother who slices carrots into sticks and bakes muffins and buys white bread. Not the kind of mother who makes her poor only child eat tahini and home-grown sprout sandwiches on wheat-free soy and linseed bread on her very first day at school.
Mum starts spooning the Yorkshire pudding batter into an oily muffin tray.
‘Mum,’ I finally manage. ‘Someone died, didn’t they? And you want to break it to me gently. Just tell me, okay?’
Mum shakes her head, smiling. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Imogen,’ she says. ‘I thought it would be nice to have a family dinner. I’ve been working a lot recently, and I wanted to make it up to you and your father by cooking something special.’
She passes me a basket of fresh crusty bread rolls.
‘Put these on the table, will you?’
The phone rings during dinner. I remember Ben has my phone number, and I hastily swallow my mouthful of roast potato in case it’s him. What if it is? What will I say? I’ll have to be witty. He likes it when I’m funny. But not too witty, because I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard. My hands tremble.
Dad answers the phone.
‘Hello?’ he says, and then listens, his eyes flicking to me. ‘Yes, but she’s having dinner at the moment. She’ll call you back when she’s finished.’ He pauses, listening again, and then gropes for a pen. ‘Uh-huh,’ he says. ‘Okay. Bye.’
He hangs up, sits down again, and helps himself to another serve of beans. My fists are clenched so tight that I have little half-moon dints in my palms where my fingernails have dug in.
‘Who was it?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.
Dad winks at me. ‘Another boy,’ he says, and then shakes his head, grinning. ‘You’re growing up so fast.’
Oh. Oh. ‘Was it the same boy as the other night?’ I ask. ‘Or a different boy?’
Dad shrugs. ‘It’s so hard to keep track,’ he says.
‘Wait,’ says Mum. ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Imogen?’
I feel myself go red. ‘No,’ I say, as I have a particularly vivid flashback to The Kiss this morning.
Mum and Dad share this meaningful Oh, we’re so proud our daughter is growing up to be a functioning heterosexual member of the adult species, and she won’t spend the rest of her life crocheting little hats for seven million cats look.
I stare at my plate for a moment, but I have to know.
‘So who was it, Dad?’ I ask.
‘Who do you want it to be?’ Dad replies. ‘Do you have a crush?’
He and Mum titter. I’m about ready to throw the gravy boat at Dad’s head, but before I have the chance, the phone rings again. Dad raises his eyebrows.
‘Hello?’ says Dad. ‘Yes, she’s here … No … She’ll have to call you back later … Okay …’ He scribbles on the notepad again. ‘Okay. Bye.’
‘Another boy?’ asks Mum, as Dad sits back down in slow motion, looking ready to spring into action if the phone rings again.
Dad grins. ‘They’ll be breaking down the door soon.’
‘Gosh,’ says Mum.
‘Who was that?’ I ask, trying not to clench my teeth.
‘Prince William,’ says Dad. ‘He has a glass slipper he wants you to try on.’
I shove an entire potato into my mouth. ‘Okay,’ I say, chewing furiously. ‘I’ve finished. Thanks for dinner, Mum, it was lovely. I’ve got a ton of homework.’
I leave the room, deftly swiping the message pad from the phone-table.
As I walk up the stairs to my room I glance at it.
George 9078 1423
Ben 9093 7288
He called! Ben called me! I should call him back. No. Wait.
I need a plan.
I sit cross-legged on my bed and strategise. Charming, but not sycophantic. Funny, but not weird. Available, but not desperate.
<
br /> I’m going to bring all the roast back up. I’m trembling and sweating and there is something inside me jumping around. I never really understood that phrase butterflies in my stomach. Now I do, except instead of butterflies, I have elephants wearing butterfly costumes bouncing about with the Yorkshire puddings and roast potato.
I do yoga-breathing. I am the essence of calm. My chakras are resonating on the frequency where serenity resides. I am in control.
I glide, serene and peaceful as a swan, outside to the landing and grab the cordless extension. Clutching the message pad page in one sweaty hand, I press the ‘talk’ button, only to hear my mother’s voice in the receiver. Crap, she’s on the phone.
‘I can’t, Jason,’ she says. ‘Not tonight.’
They seriously want her to go into work now? It’s eight-thirty! There is no way I’m ever becoming a lawyer.
‘Alice, please–’ says a male voice, but my mum cuts him off.
‘No, Jason. I need to spend time with my family.’ She hangs up.
Hah! Take that, Jason. Evil lawyer scumbag. He probably wanted her help throwing poor people out of their houses. Or kicking orphans in the shins. Or knocking down little old ladies when they’re crossing the road.
I am inspired by Mum’s firm attitude. I dial Ben’s number, and he answers on the third ring. My calmness dissolves like Aspro Clear – leaving a bubbly, fizzy feeling instead.
‘Hi,’ I say. My voice sounds like I’m being strangled. ‘It’s Midge.’
‘Hi,’ he says. I love his English accent.
I wonder what his bedroom’s like. I know he must live around here somewhere, but I picture him in a charming whitewashed English cottage, surrounded by rambling trails of ivy and hedgehogs and men with pipes and waistcoats.
‘So I’ve been checking out my MySpace page,’ he says. ‘And I’ve got a couple of changes I need you to make.’
‘Um, okay,’ I say. This is weird.
‘I hate the Beatles,’ he says. ‘And I have absolutely no idea who Leonard Cohen is.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, laughing. ‘Me either.’
Although I do quite like that Hallelujah song he sings.
‘Okay,’ I say again. I sit down at my desk and log on to MySpace. ‘So what music do you like?’
Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend Page 4
