Mr Moss scratches his head. A few dandruff flakes drift onto the shoulders of his suit-jacket. ‘What you did was unbelievably stupid,’ he says. ‘Agreeing to do Ben’s homework for him in exchange for him pretending to be your boyfriend was undignified and foolish, and gives me serious cause for concern about your sense of self-respect. What’s more, attempting to expose him for a crime he didn’t commit in front of the whole school was inappropriate and incredibly immature. I hope that in the future, you will exercise a little more wisdom in your conduct, Imogen.’ He sighs. ‘However, I’m willing to concede that between the lewd pictures, the extra work you’ve done to cover for Ben, and the judgement of your classmates, you’ve been punished enough.’
I nod, swallowing. He’s got a point.
‘Unless you would like to spend some time away from school,’ Mr Moss adds. ‘I can suspend you if you want some time to contemplate your actions.’
‘No,’ I say, hurriedly. ‘I’m fine. And I don’t want to press charges.’
Mr Moss nods, and makes a note. ‘Thank you, Imogen,’ he says. ‘Could you please send Tahni in on your way out?’
Tahni is sitting outside Mr Moss’s office. Her face is red and blotchy.
She looks up at me and everything is Awkward.
‘Mr Moss wants you now,’ I say.
‘How did you know it was me?’ Tahni asks.
I shrug. ‘You spelt ‘friends’ wrong on your secret.’
She looks at me, blankly.
‘I’m in love with my best freind’s boyfreind, and it makes me hate her. You spelt “friend” wrong. Twice.’
Tahni raises her eyebrows. ‘What are you, Nancy Drew?’
‘There were other things as well. The way you flirted with Ben. How you hate George so much.’
She bites her lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You looked so happy. I wanted that. Everything is always so easy for you.’
‘You think?’ I say. ‘I made up an imaginary boyfriend, my real boyfriend was just as fake, I revealed both of those things to the entire school, and my best friend hates me. Oh, and did I mention my mother is having an affair?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tahni says again.
‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘You can’t help who you fall in love with.’
As I say it, I realise how true it is. I sigh. This isn’t going to be easy.
‘Well,’ says Tahni, standing up. ‘I’d better go.’
I nod.
‘See ya,’ she says.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone you knew about me and Ben and the whole imaginary boyfriend thing?’
Tahni frowns. ‘I didn’t know,’ she says.
‘Then who was listening at the door when I told Ben I wasn’t doing his project any more?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ says Tahni. ‘If I’d known, things probably would have been much worse.’
I go home and climb straight into bed. I really, really want to fall asleep and forget that the last few weeks ever happened. I can’t even think about Mum and Dad, or Tahni, or Ben and the horrible pictures of me and George. In fact, all I can think about is how horrified George was when he saw the presentation I’d made for Ben. And how he looked when I told him about getting revenge. I don’t know why I care what he thinks of me; after all, he’s the guy who wears the school shorts, and dresses up like a knight and tries to kill dragons. But I do. I hate the thought that he’s disappointed in me.
I have never been so glad to wake up and realise it’s Saturday. When I finally crawl out of bed, I find Mum sitting at the kitchen table. She’s wearing a jumper I haven’t seen before, and jeans. I haven’t seen my mother wear jeans in … well, ever.
I don’t want to see her.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He’s gone to see your grandma,’ says Mum. ‘And I came to see you.’
I open the fridge, but there’s nothing in there except for sad bendy vegetables and milk that passed its use-by date about a week ago.
‘Mr Moss called me,’ says Mum.
I suppose now I get a Lecture. I don’t say anything.
‘I’m not unaware of the irony here,’ says Mum. ‘You pretend to have a boyfriend when you don’t. I pretend not to have a boyfriend when I do.’
‘Wanna swap?’ I ask. I don’t look at her.
Mum sighs. ‘I should punish you,’ she says. ‘What you did was really, really dumb. And you should have talked to me about it. But I realise I haven’t been very available lately. And I know things have been difficult for you this term. With everything.’
I sit down at the kitchen table.
‘And I think it would be hypocritical of me to ground you.’
She’s right. It would be totally hypocritical.
‘So,’ she says, smiling. ‘Just make sure you keep your imaginary friends strictly platonic from now on.’
I don’t smile back. ‘Does that go for you too?’ I ask.
Mum looks serious all of a sudden. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you,’ she says.
This is it. This is where she tells me she’s moving in with Jason and I will never see her again and she’s going to buy a sports car and Dad will become an alcoholic and I will officially be a child from a Broken Home.
‘I’m not seeing Jason anymore,’ she says. ‘We broke up.’
I hold my breath. Really? The affair is over? She can come home, and be normal and cook tofu burgers and nutloaf and I will eat it happily. (Or at least pretend to.)
‘So you’re coming home?’ I ask.
She takes a deep breath. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m not.’
I don’t think I can handle living on this emotional roller-coaster. I want to get off.
‘I need to figure some stuff out,’ says Mum. ‘Things are clearly not working between your father and me.’
‘Because you were having an affair,’ I say. ‘Now you’re not.’
‘I had the affair because I was unhappy,’ says Mum.
‘Why?’ I ask, starting to cry. I feel like a five year old. ‘Why were you unhappy?’
Was it me?
‘Sweetheart, I don’t know,’ she says. ‘That’s what I need to figure out. I need to figure out who I am. What I want.’
‘What about what I want?’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘What about what Dad wants?’
Mum bites her lip. ‘You don’t want this,’ she says. ‘You know you don’t.’
She’s right. I don’t want the secrets and the whispering and the fake family dinners. I don’t want to come down to the kitchen in the middle of the night to find my father crying at the kitchen table.
‘But I don’t want you to go,’ I say.
Mum starts to cry too, and she gets up to hug me. ‘Neither do I,’ she says.
I bury my head in her new jumper. She still smells different.
‘So don’t,’ I say.
But I know she has to. I hug her as tightly as I can and we cry. If this were a TV show, I’d tell her how much I love her, and she’d tell me that she was so proud of me. But it isn’t, so we don’t.
After a while, things feel a bit less insane, I make tea (black, because I don’t trust the milk) and we sit and drink it together. I still don’t like it, but it feels like the right thing to do so I try not to screw up my face as I sip it.
‘So,’ I say, stirring sugar into my tea. ‘Does this mean I get twice as many Christmas presents?’
Mum laughs. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘But half of them will be imaginary.’
‘I think I’ll pass,’ I say. ‘I’ve had enough of imaginary for a while.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with imaginary,’ says Mum. ‘Imaginary is good. Just don’t take it too far.’
I nod.
‘Did you really feel that bad you didn’t have a boyfriend?’ says Mum. ‘Did people give you a hard time about it?’
I nod again and
bite my lip. ‘I just wanted to be a normal girl.’
Mum gives my arm a squeeze. ‘You’re an amazing girl,’ she says. ‘And you have the rest of your life to find the perfect boyfriend. Any day now they’ll be lining up at your door.’
I snort. ‘Not after the stunt I pulled today, they won’t.’
‘The right one won’t care,’ says Mum. ‘He will love you for your brilliant imagination.’
‘I won’t hold my breath,’ I say.
‘Just be patient,’ says Mum. ‘Your knight in shining armour will turn up one day.’
We talk for a bit longer, then Mum gets up and carries our mugs over to the sink. She rinses them, and I dry with the last clean tea towel.
‘I’m going to start looking for an apartment tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Do you want to help?’
‘Sure,’ I reply.
She kisses me on the cheek and hugs me once more. Then she swings her bag over her shoulder and perches her sunglasses on her head. She actually looks pretty good in those jeans.
‘Mum, wait!’ I yell, and follow her down the corridor. She’s standing by the front door.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘You’re wrong,’ I tell her. ‘About being patient. About waiting for my knight in shining armour to turn up.’
Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘What?’
I laugh. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She shakes her head, smiling, and walks out the door.
18 par·rhe·si·a
–noun; freedom or boldness of speech: outspokenness.
– The Wordsmith’s Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words
George’s mother opens the door. She’s wearing a different apron, and she’s carrying a wooden spoon. The biscuity smell is stronger than ever and makes me hungry and happy and nervous all at the same time.
‘Ah! Giorgos’s friend,’ she says, smiling broadly.
‘Hi, Mrs Papadopoulos,’ I say. I’m about to ask her if George is home, but it doesn’t quite happen, and before I know it, I’m sitting at her kitchen table again, drinking thick black coffee and eating crescent moon biscuits. Not that I’m complaining. The biscuits are good, really good.
‘Um, is George home?’ I ask, after my third biscuit. I feel a bit stupid for waiting so long to ask.
‘No,’ says Mrs Papadopoulos. ‘He is out all day today.’
I bite my lip. ‘Do you know where I can find him? I really need to talk to him.’
Mrs Papadopoulos shakes her head. ‘Sorry, matia mou.’
‘You don’t know? Or you’re not going to tell me?’
‘Giorgos is busy today. He has a special hobby and he is very dedicated. But he doesn’t like me to boast about his hobby.’
‘But why not?’
She opens the oven and the delicious, garlicky smell nearly knocks me to the floor. ‘Some people, they don’t understand. They make fun of my Giorgos.’
‘I do,’ I tell her. ‘I totally understand.’
She shakes her head again.
‘Please, Mrs Papadopoulos,’ I say. ‘I need to see George. I need to tell him something. It’s important.’
She is bent over the open oven, but she turns her head and looks up at me. I can tell she’s considering it.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I did something stupid. Actually, I did a whole lot of things that were stupid. And I need to apologise to George, and tell him …’
I’m not quite sure I can say it in front of his mother.
‘… tell him the truth.’ I finish lamely.
She closes the oven door and stands up.
‘You’re a very pretty girl,’ she says. ‘My Giorgos is special.’
‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘That’s why I need to talk to him.’
She nods. ‘He has a class,’ she says. ‘In the city.’
She writes down the address. Her handwriting is exactly the same as George’s.
‘Thank you,’ I say, standing up. ‘And thanks for the coffee. Your biscuits are amazing.’
I catch a train into the city. It’s busy, with lots of people running around with shopping bags and pointy elbows. Everyone seems to be in a hurry, even the people sitting outside cafés seem to be chugging down espressos like it’s a race to see who can consume the most caffeine in under a minute.
The address Mrs Papadopoulos gave me turns out to be a building in the financial district. It’s one of those old art-deco buildings with a crazy lift that’s operated by a real person and has a cage door that rattles and clangs closed before the lift can go up or down. The foyer is musty and dimly lit – it feels like a movie set. I check the information board that lists the building’s occupants. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. There’re so many strange names – the Victorian Spiritualist Investigator’s League, Kanzen Kimono Fabrics & Accessories, the Australia China Friendship Society, Buttonmania, University of the Third Age – it could be any of them.
I consider the possibility of the Victorian Drama Association, then I see: L8 LARP Battle Workshop Training Hall, and I get a strange trembling feeling in my stomach. Although that might just be from Mrs Papadopoulos’s coffee.
I press the call button for the lift. Nothing happens for a moment, then there’s a terrible clanking and groaning noise, and a good five minutes later, the lift arrives.
The operator is a middle-aged man with a ginger beard perched on a high stool. He wears a proper bellboy hat, and a Sex Pistols T-shirt. The walls of the lift are covered in flyers and photos and ticket stubs.
‘Buttons?’ he says.
I blink. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Are you here for buttons?’ he says. ‘Most young ladies are.’
‘Um, no,’ I reply. ‘Level eight, please.’
He nods, and cranks the big metal lever. The lift shutters and squeals, and we slowly start to rise. I wonder if I will get out of here alive.
‘Frockfairies,’ says the ginger man suddenly.
‘Sorry?’
He shakes his head. ‘Fan Fiction Writers of Victoria? Lupus Australia Association? Not the Asbestos Information Service?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m going to the Battle Workshop Training Hall.’
Ginger raises his eyebrows, then looks me up and down, taking in my jeans and T-shirt.
‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t have picked that. Not in a million years.’
Which is about how long this lift ride is taking.
‘You’re a Larper?’ he asks, a suspicious edge to his tone.
‘No,’ I say, although I have no idea what a Larper is, and could well be one without knowing. I doubt it though. It sounds like a disease. ‘I’m just looking for someone.’
He frowns. ‘I don’t like your chances today,’ he says. ‘It’s dead quiet up there.’
Good. George and I will have some privacy.
‘Looking for your boyfriend?’
What is he, a mind-reader? ‘Um, sort of.’
Ginger nods. ‘Right. Not your boyfriend yet. You need to tell him how you feel. An Ain’t no Mountain High Enough moment.’
I stare at him. Is he crazy?
‘Like in Bridget Jones,’ he explains. ‘Where she runs through the snow with no pants on to tell Mr Darcy she loves him.’
Okay. Now I’m terrified. I’m trapped in a small metal cage of dubious construction, with a ginger-bearded, Bridget-Jones-loving mind-reader. I want to get out now.
‘Make sure you’ve got the right person,’ Ginger says. ‘It’s hard to tell with that lot, once they’ve got their gear on. And while a hilarious mistaken-identity moment would be a great beginning for a romantic comedy of errors, I suspect you’d rather that this was the end of the movie, not the beginning.’
I wish this was the end of this elevator-ride, I can tell you that much.
The lift finally squeals to a halt, and Ginger pulls the wire cage door open. ‘Good luck,’ he says.
When I step out into the corridor, I know somethi
ng is amiss. Mostly because the lights are off, and it’s pitch black. I turn to ask Ginger if I’m on the right floor, but the lift has already sunk down out of sight with suspicious speed and silence.
I can’t see a thing. I grope my way forward, and feel wood panelling. A wall. Good start. I feel along the wall, until I reach a door. I try the handle, but it’s locked. I keep going. The third door I come to opens. There must be a window somewhere in the room, because dim light vaguely illuminates strange shapes lining the walls. Suits of armour. My heart beats faster. I’m in the right place.
I finally locate a light switch, and flick it. The fluorescent lights plink on, and I have to close my eyes for a moment, because it’s so bright.
When I open them, I keep blinking to make sure what I see is real. There are racks of armour on one wall. An armoury of swords and spears and other weapons on another. A huge banner hangs over them. It says LARP Battle Workshop Training Hall. It smells dusty and sweaty, a bit like the gym at school.
But there’s no one here. No George. No knights. No dragons. No anyone.
So much for my Ain’t No Mountain High Enough moment. I switch off the light, and fumble my way back to the lift.
‘No luck?’ says Ginger.
I shake my head. Typical. This is just typical. I go for the grand gesture, and what do I get? Nothing. A lift-ride with a crazy redhead.
‘Oh well,’ says Ginger. ‘Plenty more armour-plated fantasists in the sea.’
The lift rattles and shakes down to the ground floor, and I try not to cry. Ginger hops off his stool and drags the lift door open.
‘Hey,’ he says, ripping a flyer down from the wall and handing it to me. ‘Say hi to Mr Darcy for me.’
On the flyer is a picture of a knight holding a sword, and a wizard with a staff. I recognise the drawings – they’re just like the ones George doodles at school.
19 con·quest
–noun; the overcoming of a problem or weakness –a person whose affection has been won.
– The Wordsmith’s Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words
The train takes forever to get to Diamond Valley. I feel like I must be at the edge of the universe (I hope the universe is in a good mood, we haven’t exactly been getting on lately).
Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend Page 12
