One I could imagine Leo laughing at, but now I can also imagine him telling.
Man, it was hot the other day. So hot. I threw open the freezer, took great handfuls of whatever I could find: frozen peas, Ben & Jerry’s, you name it, and just shoved it all down my shirt. And pants.
Lay face down on the floor just enjoying the cold on my skin.
I mean, I know it’s probably not great for the food or anything, but man, it felt good.
You understand, right? ’Cause the Aldi’s manager sure didn’t.
I sneak around the corner, check no one’s looking, and then post it through the gap at the side of his locker.
And I stride away triumphantly down the hallway.
And with this one truly heroic act she saved humanity from the impending disaster of a Leo-less comedy stage!
Then the full force of my utter dumb-nuttery begins to hit me.
Oh…holy…crapballs.
And I walk to my class on shaky legs, the harsh sting of regret hitting me a little more with each step.
What oh what the hell was I thinking?
CHAPTER EIGHT
For the rest of the day, I’m just a big sack of sweaty nerves. Why, why, why did I think that was a good idea? He’s going to open his locker, read out the crappy joke to his friends, who’ll all laugh along with him—not at the joke but at the strange, sad muppet who must have left it to try to get his attention.
Oh God, they might even know it’s me!
“I bet it’s that big girl—she looks just like the sort of desperate weirdo that would do something that crazy,” they’ll say.
Ugh! Why am I such an incessant ball-bag of muppetry!
But at the end of the day, desperate to somehow kill the turmoil in my head, I find an excuse to leave Kas and Chloe and head down to the lockers. Maybe if I see the look of hatred in his eyes as he reads the joke it will put a stop to this stupid crush once and for all and I won’t care any more. Or maybe it’ll miraculously fall out of his locker and land on the floor, and I can subtly pick it up and trash it before any damage is done? Or maybe there’s a part of me that thinks I deserve to be laughed at for being such an idiot in the first place and I’ll get some sort of closure on any hopes I might have of being anything other than a dumbass loser.
Who knows? But, for whatever reason, my feet have taken me here. To the lockers. There are dozens of students milling around, so at least I’m not noticeable as I lean up against the wall, staring down at my phone, pretending to be engrossed in something other than Leo’s locker which I can just about see around the corner.
The sound of squeaking shoes on the floor, laughter and chattering, and, cutting above it all, the opening and slamming of metal doors fill the air. Then Leo’s voice. He’s with a group, as always. My heart leaps. I try to keep my eyes fixed on my phone, but they keep flicking up to him.
Stupid eyes.
Still chatting to his friends, including a tall girl with shiny braces on her huge teeth who keeps touching his back (who is she? How dare she touch him!), he opens his locker door. My note doesn’t fall on the floor. He picks it up. He looks at it.
Oh God, he’s actually looking at it.
I can’t hear what he’s saying. I don’t think he’s saying anything. He turns. He’s…laughing. Holding the note and laughing. Not a big belly laugh, just a cute, chesty chuckle. A private laugh. Oh halle-frickin’-lujah, this is just amazing!
He’s looking around, maybe trying to identify the note’s author. I stare down at my phone.
Don’t look up. Don’t look up, stupid eyes, I beg you.
Then I do. Dammit. But it’s OK—he’s not looking my way. He’s putting the note in his back pocket. I can’t quite hear, but I think the tall, toothy girl next to him asks what he was laughing at.
“Oh, nothing,” I see his lips say, still a smile on them as a leftover after his laughter. Laughter I gave him. Straight from my head to his. Just like I’d always imagined.
I turn and walk away, unable to stop the smile forming on my own lips.
That. Was. Hella. A-ma-zing.
My brain still glowing like I’ve been plugged into an outlet, I pretty much skip home from school, actually quite glad that Kas and Chloe are both busy for the weekend with their families as I don’t think I could hide my Leo-based mood from them. I pick up Noah from school, still on a high. I tell him the pictures he’s done today are the best I’ve ever seen (though between you and me they are, of course, still really quite terrible). I tell him we’re going to read all his books this weekend. And play whatever games he wants. And go to the park. And that tomorrow he can have an extra-long, extra-bubbly bath.
“Until my fingers look like brains?” he asks excitedly.
“Yes!” I answer. “Until all your fingers look like tiny wrinkly brains! And you know why?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Because today is a good day!”
“I thought today was a Friday?” he says.
When we get through the front door, I can’t wait to give Mum a big old hug on the sofa and share my blindingly brilliant mood.
But instead I hear two voices from the living room. My mum’s and…a man’s. A random man I’ve never met before.
He says something and then she…oh, my good Lord, she’s actually giggling. Like actual girlie giggles. All high-pitched and breathy. They say that laughter is the best medicine, but hers right now is causing me to feel nauseous.
“Mummy!” Noah shouts. “Haylah, Mummy’s here with a man!” and he runs down the hall toward her disgustingly girlie cackle.
“Right,” I say. “Brilliant.”
CHAPTER NINE
Like a crime scene officer arriving at dimly lit, ominous surroundings, unsure of what gruesome sight lies before me, I gingerly enter the living room to see my mother on the sofa hugging Noah while beaming a sickening, lipstick-clad smile at a strange man sitting in our armchair. I fight the urge to recoil.
“Haylah, this is Ruben.”
Well. Firstly, what the hell kind of a name is Ruben? I mean, has he just walked straight out of the Old Testament or something? We already have a Noah in the house—what’s next, Nebuchadnezzar?
And secondly what is up with his facial hair? The man’s face derping up at me is all beard. I can barely make out any features behind it, it’s so all-encompassing. It’s like a matted squirrel landed on the man’s face and he’s never got around to detaching it.
Plus, everything about him is some shade of beige. The beard, the clothes, I assume the personality—and from the beige sleeves of his beige jacket sprout thick beige hair from his wrists. Like the straw stuffing of a badly dressed, poorly constructed scarecrow.
Of course I don’t say any of this. I just give him a “Hey” and then shoot a questioning look at Mum.
Determined to ignore my look, she sheepishly says, “Ruben’s a friend from work. I’m just going to go and make us a cup of tea.” And then she sashays out of the room, leaving me and Noah alone with this bearded nutter.
“Oh,” I say. “Are you a doctor then?”
“No, I’m a Play Specialist,” he says, in absolute total seriousness.