Everyone’s in hysterics now, and Leo’s friends are whooping and hollering as he thanks the audience for being “so awesome.” He’s smiling and he looks at ease, like this is what he was made to do. Like the laughter is feeding his soul. And, as he walks offstage, I realize I don’t want him to go.
I want to see more of him, hear more of him.
I want him to make me laugh again.
I want to make him laugh.
An electric shiver runs down the length of my spine at just the thought of his eyes on me, his laughter being the result of something I’ve said. I want to make him laugh more than anyone else I’ve ever known.
I clap so much my hands sting, and just before he reaches the stage curtain he turns…and I swear he looks right at me. Which seals the deal.
I’m in love with Leo Jackson.
Hopelessly,
stupidly,
in love.
Balls.
CHAPTER FOUR
Of course I remember quite quickly after leaving the hall that this is ridiculous.
Leo is good-looking, popular, two years older than me, and is no more likely to look at me, let alone talk to me, than he is to sprout wings and declare himself the Fairy King.
And the thing is, that didn’t bother me yesterday. Yesterday I was quite happy admiring him from a distance like everyone else, but now…now it’s different. And all because…what? He made me laugh? I mean, is that how it’s going to be from now on—I fall in love with every guy who makes me giggle? Because that just sounds exhausting.
And look, I’m just not that girl—I’m not the girl who has pathetic crushes. I’m not the girl who draws pink love hearts in the back of her schoolbooks with boys’ initials inscribed in glitter pen inside them. I’m REALLY not the girl who fantasizes of a Disney ending where magical sparkles surround my floating body as it transforms into a beautiful princess and the prince puts down his microphone and picks me up instead, passionately kissing me while fireworks explode behind us. Seriously—I AM NOT THAT GIRL!
But oh, he was funny.
In fact, he was the funniest person I’ve ever seen in real life. I mean, sure, Mum’s funny, Noah’s unintentionally hilarious, and my friends make me laugh a lot—but Leo was different. He was actually doing comedy successfully and I just, I don’t know, I guess it’s like suddenly this world, the world of comedy that I love and always dreamed of being a part of in the future, when I’m at college or whatever, has just zoomed in closer like a rocket. A Leo-rocket I want to jump on and let it launch me right off into space.
No wait, that sounds wrong.
“Are you all right, Pig?” Chloe asks me as she leans over to copy my work.
“Leo-rocket!” I blurt before my brain tells my mouth to shut up.
“What?” says Chloe.
“What? Nothing! I didn’t say anyth—what?”
She laughs as I look back down at my math book and put all my efforts into my cheeks not glowing red.
Stupid cheeks.
I always let Chloe copy my work in math. I’m not great at it or anything, but I’m OK, which is a lot better than Chloe. Kas is really good, so good she’s not even in this class with us: she’s been siphoned off into the advanced math set. In fact, she’s in the advanced set for everything. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s an actual genius or because she just works really hard, but either way we massively tease the hell out of her for it. As all good friends should.
Mum says I could be in the top set for everything too, if I only “knuckled down” to my schoolwork instead of thinking up jokes all the time. But then where’s the fun in that?
“You don’t mind, do ya?” Chloe says as she scribbles down into her book exactly what’s in mine. I don’t even think she reads what she’s writing. I genuinely think I could write “I, Chloe Jenkins, smell of rotten hamster poo” over and over and she’d still happily copy it all down and proudly hand it in, possibly with a “nailed it!” wink to Mr. Haynes as she did so.
“Course I don’t mind. You can’t help being a big old thicko,” I say with a wink.
Chloe twirls her perfectly styled hair in her fingers and laughs.
“Oh, don’t look now,” she says suddenly. “Stevie’s looking this way.”
Of course I do look now, which is exactly what she wants me to do, and sure enough, over the other side of the classroom, staring at Chloe, is the tiny, spiky-haired Stevie. A boy who I don’t believe either of us has ever heard speak, let alone had a conversation with. He’s holding his math book up in front of his face and peeking over the top of it. Dylan, at the desk behind him, seems to be doing exactly the same thing. They both look away sheepishly when I glance over. Pathetic.
“Yep, you’re right,” I say.
She gives a tiny squeal of excitement. “It must be working!”
“What?”
“My sister says if you want the guy of your dreams…”
I gape at her. “Hang on. Seriously? Stevie’s the ‘guy of your dreams’?”
“Yeah!”
“Little Spiky Stevie?” I glance over at him again, tilting my head to the side, and squinting, trying to work out what it is that Chloe sees, but I just can’t. I’m still just looking at the pocket-sized, nervous boy with ridiculous mountain-range hair on a head hunched lower than his shoulders as he cowers behind his math book. When I look at him, my overriding feeling is not one of passion, but rather one of concern for his welfare as I notice that the window above his head is open and I can only hope that a gust of wind doesn’t rush in and flatten the boy.
“Yeah! I must have told you I liked him?”
“I may have chosen to block it out…”
Chloe sweeps her hair behind her ear, gracefully ignoring me. “AS I WAS SAYING—to get the guy, you do this thing where you kind of ignore them, then give them just a sideway glance every two days. Drives them crazy apparently. Must be working.”
“Yeah,” I murmur as I look over at him again. And I really don’t think this frail boy would have the ability to be “driven crazy” by anything, though possibly, at a push, mildly unhinged.
I sometimes wonder if Chloe intentionally makes dating more complicated than it needs to be. Unlike me, she’s pretty and popular and could easily go out with whoever she wanted, but where’s the fun in that? Much more interesting to pretend there’s sport in it.
“The thing is, Chloe, ignoring him, not ignoring him—I don’t think it’s going to make all that much difference to be honest. I think what you’re missing is the fact that you could pick your nose and wipe it on their faces and most guys in our year would think that was just adorable and want to date you more.”
“That’s rubbish, Pig,” she purrs, glowing from the compliment.
“It’s not and, FYI, I think Dylan might have the hots for you too,” I say.
“Eew, not Dylan.”
“What’s wrong with Dylan? I mean, he’s a bit of a loudmouth, I guess, and he seems to hate me, but he’s kinda funny and he’s gotta be more interesting than Stevie.”
She waves this away. “Dylan’s way too big for me—he’s like six foot, right? And pretty wide too.”