Love-shy (17 page)

Nick went pale. ‘I don't think I'll ever be able to do that. The very idea of having a conversation with a girl makes my blood run cold.'

I laughed. ‘Well, I hate to frighten you,' I said, ‘but in case you hadn't noticed,
I'm
a girl. And we've just been having a conversation for over half an hour.'

Nick blinked. ‘Really?'

‘Yep. And you're doing an excellent job. We'll have you kissing girls in no time.'

He scratched his elbow and stared at an illegible piece of graffiti on the step beside him. ‘I've never kissed anyone,' he said. ‘Or been kissed.'

‘Except by your mum.'

Nick shook his head. ‘I don't remember my mother ever kissing me.'

‘Seriously?' My mother had her flaws,
plenty
of them. But I'd never felt I lacked affection from my parents. Never.

‘And what about your dad?' I asked.

‘He never kissed me either.'

‘Have you ever tried telling him about your problem?'

Nick laughed in a colourless sort of way. ‘My father doesn't like to talk about personal matters.'

‘He never sat you down and gave you the Talk?'

‘What talk?'

‘You know,' I said. ‘The
Talk
. About sex.'

‘What?' Nick looked surprised and offended. ‘No way! God. No.'

‘But you do . . .
know
. . . about sex. Right?'

He made eye contact with me for a long moment, the longest he'd ever looked at me for. ‘Yes, Penny,' he said, and I was momentarily surprised that he knew my name. ‘I know about sex. I do have the
internet,
you know. I may be an anxiety-ridden emotional cripple, but that doesn't mean I'm a total idiot.'

I laughed, and Nick's face cracked a tiny bit. Just a hint of a smile changed everything about him. His sullen aloofness lifted and he looked boyish and hopeful and . . . kind of beautiful. I could finally see why all the girls thought he was hot. His eyes opened up, and they were soft and greenish-brownish-grey, like a misty morning high up in a mountain forest. Something squeezed inside me. This was new.

Then he saw me watching him and blushed, and the smile was gone and his face was locked away again behind his Nick mask.

‘But . . . ' His face screwed up as though he were tasting something bitter, and he closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I am . . . ' He swallowed.

‘Yes?'

He bit his lip. ‘Promise you won't tell anyone?'

I nodded, adding in my mind that the article didn't count, because I wouldn't be using Nick's real name.

‘I'm . . . ' His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I'm a
virgin
.'

I couldn't help bursting out laughing. Nick went bright red and started to tremble.

‘Nobody can know,' he said, between clenched teeth. ‘It'd be too humiliating.'

I shook my head. ‘That's your big secret? That you're a virgin?'

Nick glanced around, a hunted look in his eyes. ‘Don't say it so loud!'

‘Nick,' I said. ‘We're in Year Ten. Statistically, only about 40 per cent of the people in our year have had sex. You're in a healthy majority.'

‘Does that mean . . . ' His voice cracked. ‘Are you . . . ?'

‘A virgin? Of course.'

He blinked. ‘Really?'

‘Really. Teenagers are massively prone to exaggeration. Contrary to popular belief, Con Stingas doesn't have regular sexual relations with Luke Smith's mum.'

Nick seemed ridiculously pleased.
Boys.
They were all the same, more or less.

‘I should go home,' he said. ‘My mother will be expecting me for dinner.'

‘I want to meet your parents,' I said.

Nick barked out a short laugh. ‘No way.'

‘Why not? They'd probably be overjoyed if you brought a girl home.'

‘
No
.'

I'd never heard Nick say anything so firmly. Usually he ducked his head when he spoke, and there was always a faint tremor in the back of his throat, as though he could cry at any moment. But that single
no
had been said with total force and confidence. It only fired up my curiosity even more.

I
had
to see Nick's home and meet his parents. It would be essential to my article, and to my understanding of him as a person. Upbringing was clearly such a major factor in love-shyness. It wasn't enough for him to
tell
me about his parents – I had to make an independent assessment.

It was time for some journalistic sneakiness.

I pulled out my iPhone and pretended to check my email. ‘I'd better go too,' I said. ‘Dad wants to try this new Moroccan place for dinner.' I made a show of looking off to Nick's right, away from me. ‘Hey, is that Amy Butler over there?' I pointed.

Nick's head whipped around, and he peered at the gaggle of girls by the canteen. ‘No.'

‘My bad.' I zipped up the pocket to my bag and slipped off the bench. Nick didn't seem to notice that I was no longer holding my phone.

When I got home, I made a beeline for my laptop. I logged into my account and clicked on the Find My iPhone button. A map of the city popped up, with a pulsing blue circle that zoomed in until it centred on one suburban home.

‘Found you,' I said, scribbling an address on a post-it.

‘Going somewhere?' asked Dad. ‘We found the most incredible jigsaw of a
poodle
groomed to look like a
dragon
. It's got to be worth at least sixty points.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘Sorry. I'm going to a friend's house for dinner.'

‘You're going next door?' He nodded his head towards Rin's apartment.

‘No, another friend. His name's Nick. But don't get excited,' I said, as Josh opened his mouth. ‘He's
just
a friend. He's helping me with an article I'm writing.'

10

I
T WAS AN UNREMARKABLE HOUSE
in an ordinary street in a leafy suburb not far from school. It was large, brick, and would have been very elegant when it was built in the 1980s, with lots of windows and a well-maintained lawn. It didn't look like the house of horrors that Nick had darkly referred to.

A middle-aged woman opened the door. She had curly blonde hair and was wearing a simple yet expensive-looking blue dress and well-applied makeup. I thought she resembled a mum on an American soap opera, pretty and bland and nurturing. She seemed mildly surprised to see me.

‘Mrs Rammage?' I held out my hand. ‘Hi, I'm Penny.'

Mrs Rammage shook it, still confused. ‘Are you selling something?'

‘Pardon?' I said, laughing. ‘No, I'm Nick's friend. He didn't tell you he'd invited me for dinner?' I put my hand over my mouth in mock dismay. ‘Oh, I am
so
sorry. He said he'd check with you first. He must have forgotten.'

Mrs Rammage's polite confusion had been replaced with a frown. ‘My son invited you here? For dinner?'

I feigned embarrassment. ‘He did,' I said. ‘But it's
totally
okay, Mrs Rammage. I'll just go home. I wouldn't want to impose on you without any warning.'

Nick's mum continued to stare at me as if I'd told her I was from another planet.

‘It was lovely to meet you,' I said, trying to appear polite, responsible and confused all at the same time. ‘But I'll just go, shall I? I'm really sorry to have bothered you. Silly Nick.'

I turned and started walking back towards the gate, counting silently in my head.
Say something, lady!

‘Wait,' said Mrs Rammage, and I turned, relieved. I adopted a politely questioning expression.

‘Of course you should stay,' she said with a tight smile. ‘It's lovely to meet one of Nick's friends. Please come in, I'll tell him you're here.'

She ushered me through the door, and invited me to sit in the living room before she disappeared to find Nick. I gazed around and realised that, despite its normal exterior, all was not okay in this house.

Everything was covered in plastic. There was a clear rubbery runner over the hallway carpet, and the couch was covered in the kind of plastic that movers use to protect fabric. The TV had a plastic cover, and on top of it, two remote controls nestled in styrofoam holders. On the mantelpiece was a collection of blown glass birds with long, thin necks and pointed beaks. They looked cruel. The house smelled of disinfectant and air freshener. It made my eyes itch. The only sound was the loud ticking of an ugly gold clock above the mantelpiece.

The faintest whisper of a presence behind me made me turn. Nick was standing in the doorway to the living room, an expression of total horror on his face.

‘Hi, Nick!' I jumped up off the couch with a squeak of plastic. ‘I can't
believe
you forgot to tell your mum I was coming over!'

Nick said nothing. He looked like that screaming Edvard Munch painting. Or a sex-doll.

‘I like your house,' I said. ‘It's very . . . clean. And you're right, it wasn't hard to find it at all – it's so close to the train station. Are you going to show me your room?'

I advanced towards him, and he backed away as if I were going to stab him with one of the glass birds.

Mrs Rammage glided back in with a tray bearing two glasses of lemonade.

‘You kids sit down,' she said. ‘I'll let you know when dinner's ready. It won't be long.'

She put the tray on the coffee table and ushered me back to the couch. Nick sat in an armchair as far from me as he could possibly get. He wouldn't look at me.

Mrs Rammage disappeared from the room again, her heels clacking softly on the plastic runner. I wondered if she was going out after dinner. Who wore high heels in their own home?

‘So . . . ' I said. ‘This would be a good opportunity for practising small talk in awkward situations.'

Nick said nothing. I could hear his breath coming in shallow pants, the way it did when he was especially anxious.

‘Look,' I said. ‘I'm sorry I came here without your permission. But you need to be exposed to new challenges, otherwise you'll never get better. And I wanted to meet your family.'

Nick leaned forward and took one of the glasses of lemonade. He drained it in one breath, like the desperate cowboy does in the saloon before he goes outside to meet the troublemaker at ten paces. He broke his stoic silence by belching loudly, and blushed.

‘Nice.' I helped myself to the other glass of lemonade.

We sat there in strained silence for what felt like hours, until Mrs Rammage came to say that dinner was served.

The dining room on the other side of the hall was just as sterile and weird as the living room. The heavy dark wooden table was set with good white china, silver knives and forks, and embroidered cloth napkins. But the whole effect was spoiled by the plastic tablecloth with its tacky daisy print.

Mr Rammage was already sitting at the table. He was a big man, wearing a suit and tie. (Dad wouldn't have approved. Too big-shouldered and power-suity. Very 1990s.) He nodded at Nick, and then stared at me.

‘This is Penny,' said Mrs Rammage. ‘A friend of Nick's from school.'

Mr Rammage raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. Clearly they weren't a very chatty household.

‘It's nice to meet you, Mr Rammage,' I said, holding out my hand.

He hesitated, then stood and leaned over the table to shake it. ‘Hello,' he said.

Well, it was more than I'd got out of Nick.

There was an entree of salad with cold ham. There was so much dressing on the salad that each piece of lettuce dripped as I picked it up. My mouth grew fuzzy from the salty dressing and sugary lemonade. Nick ate mechanically, not raising his eyes from his plate. Nobody spoke.

I thought of Rin's family, who were also quiet and polite, but in an entirely normal and human way. This was like having dinner in Stepford. Any minute now Mrs Rammage's robot head would explode and she'd try to kill us all.

‘May I please have some more salad?' asked Nick, his voice barely a whisper, his head down.

This was crazy. The salad was right in front of him. Did he really have to ask
permission
to eat more vegetables? My mum used to
pay
me to eat vegetables.

‘Of course you may,' said Mrs Rammage, and to my astonishment she stood up, walked to the other end of the table, and served Nick some salad.

‘Thank you,' said Nick, still not looking up.

‘You're welcome.' Mrs Rammage returned to her seat.

I couldn't believe this. Was this what every dinner was like? Or was it a special performance for my benefit? I half expected Mrs Rammage to burst out laughing, and for Nick to tell me I'd been punk'd.

‘Um,' I said loudly, trying to fill the air with the sound of something other than chewing. ‘Did anyone see that report on the ABC last week about climate change? I think it raised some really interesting points.'