Love-shy (23 page)

I perched on a swing in the playground outside the community centre and took some halfhearted notes for the love-shy article. I hated waiting. I wondered what Nick was talking about in there. Would he talk about me?

My phone chirped. It was a text message from Rin, asking if I wanted to come to her house for dinner. She probably wanted to talk to me about Hamish. I tapped out a quick reply to tell her I was busy. I had to support Nick – I didn't have time for matchmaking. I'd introduced her to Hamish, given them an opportunity to get to know each other, and the rest was up to them.

Nick reappeared after an hour and came to sit on the swing next to mine. He shut his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.

‘How did it go?' I asked after a few moments had passed.

‘Okay. Very hard, but okay.'

He kicked his heels against the tanbark and leaned back in the swing, letting the sunshine melt into his face.

‘Do you . . . want to talk about it?' I asked.

He shook his head. ‘There's just so much . . . stuff. That I always thought was normal.'

‘What do you mean?'

He swung in silence for a moment. ‘When I was eight, I told my parents I wanted a Lego pirate ship for Christmas. I'd seen it advertised on TV and I wanted it more than anything. My father said I could have it if I played sport every Saturday for the rest of the year.'

‘And did you?'

Nick nodded. ‘I chose Little Athletics, because there were no balls and I didn't have to be in a team. I still hated it, though. The other kids all laughed when they had to delay a race because I hadn't finished the previous one yet. The only time I ever got a ribbon was when all the kids except me and two others got disqualified for not staying inside their lanes. And I still came third.'

I'd done Little Aths too. I don't think I'd ever
not
got a ribbon. ‘But you got your Lego pirate ship, right?'

Nick dug his feet into the tanbark, halting himself mid-swing. ‘Oh, I got it. On Christmas Day.' He smiled bitterly. ‘Every single brick in place.'

‘Wait, what? They put it together?'

‘They stayed up on Christmas Eve and put the pirate ship together, so I wouldn't make a mess.'

‘That's just
wrong
.'

‘That's not all,' said Nick. ‘They superglued it together.'

I stared at him in horror. ‘Your parents
superglued
together a Lego pirate ship before they gave it to you.'

‘Yes.'

‘And you thought this was normal.'

Nick shrugged. ‘I thought it was mean at the time. I just didn't realise other people would find it so shocking.'

‘So what did she say? The therapist, I mean.'

‘Um.' Nick's knuckles whitened as he gripped his knees. ‘She thinks I should . . . ' He took a deep breath. ‘She wants us to have counselling together as a family. And that maybe if that doesn't work I could go and live in a residential care facility until I finish school and can either live on campus at university or get a job where I can support myself. She says I need cognitive behavioural therapy. I don't really know what that is. She also says I could try anti-anxiety medication, but she wants to see if I can get better without it first.'

He drew another deep, shuddery breath.

‘Wow,' I said, aware that as a reaction it was rather lacking.

‘Wow,' repeated Nick. ‘Yeah. Wow.'

‘Do you think your parents will do it? Have counselling?'

‘I don't know. I think they'll be angry with me when they find out I went to see her.'

Nick sat for a moment, looking like a lost little boy.

‘So,' I asked, trying to keep my voice gentle. ‘How do you feel?'

‘Terrified. I always thought I knew what my life would be like. I'd always live with my parents, because I'd never be able to get a job. I'd always be shy and useless. Nothing would ever change. But now . . . now it's all wide open. I don't know what's going to happen, who I'm going to be.'

‘Who do you want to be?'

Nick's eyes grew distant and a flicker of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘Anyone but me.'

‘Rin stopped by,' said Dad, looking up from Dostoyevsky. ‘I said you'd call her when you got home.'

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘I'll do it later.'

‘Are you okay?' He put down the book and stood up to give me a hug. ‘You look tired.'

‘I'm fine,' I said, breathing in his Dad-smell and closing my eyes for a moment. ‘Had a long day.'

‘What was it tonight?' Dad pulled back from the hug and studied me. ‘No wet hair, so it wasn't swimming. Debating? SRC?'

‘Working on an assignment for the paper.' It wasn't quite a lie, but I still felt bad for not telling Dad everything.

‘You work too hard,' he said, ruffling my hair.

‘So do you,' I retorted. ‘What are you doing home so early? Isn't it Tuesday?'

‘Meeting was cancelled. I made pasta. Yours is in the oven.'

‘You
cooked
?' I reached up to feel his forehead. ‘Is everything okay?'

Dad shrugged. ‘I wanted bolognese, and La Cucina isn't open on Tuesdays.'

I gave him a suspicious look, but pulled my plate out of the oven and took it to my room. It was surprisingly good.

I shot a guilty look at my empty music stand and unopened oboe case, then opened my Chemistry textbook to the problems we were supposed to do. But my eyes glazed over and lines for the love-shy article kept popping into my head. Now that Nick was getting professional help, my article had all sorts of exciting new angles. I wondered if there was a way I could interview his counsellor, or whether that would be unethical. I pushed the Chemistry textbook aside and started making notes.

Nick bailed me up the next morning at recess.

‘I need to talk to you,' he said through clenched teeth.

‘Sure,' I said. ‘Do you want to go outside?'

‘Not here,' he muttered. ‘After school. I can't talk here.'

‘Okay, I'll see you at that bench,' I said, bemused. I watched him hurry off, his shoulders hunched and his head down, without his usual fake-swagger. It was as though he was really shaken about something. Had he told his parents about the therapist?

I wondered about it all through my classes, and bolted out to the bench as soon as the last bell went. Nick was already there; he must have skipped class again. He seemed about to have another panic attack. His breath was all panty again and tears rolled down his face as his body shook with silent sobs. What had happened? I imagined Nick's father grinding one of his terrariums to dirt and glass shards under his heel.

‘Calm down,' I said. ‘What's going on?'

‘It's – it's—'

‘Tell me,' I said. ‘Actually, breathe first. Then tell me.'

Nick took a gulping breath. ‘It's Amy,' he said, all in a rush. ‘She – she . . . ' He squeezed his eyes shut.

What had she done? Had he spoken to her? Had he realised how boring and shallow she was?

‘Nick,' I said. ‘What happened with Amy? Did you guys talk?'

Nick shook his head. ‘I can't – I can't ever talk to her again.'

‘Again? You never
did
talk to her.'

He glared at me through his tears. ‘Well, now I never will.'

‘Why? What happened?' Had Amy got together with Youssef?

Nick breathed deeply for a moment, his face stricken.

‘
She cut her hair
.'

I blinked, then laughed. He shrank from me as though my laughter were some kind of poison.

‘Don't mock me,' he said. ‘Don't you
dare
.'

‘But I don't understand why you're upset,' I said. ‘Just because a girl you like cut her hair?'

‘You haven't seen it.'

‘Does it look bad?'

‘I can't even begin to explain,' he said. ‘Just tell me something. You're a girl.' He eyed me as though this was a bit of a revelation.

‘I believe so, yes.'

‘Why do girls cut their hair short?'

‘It's easier to look after.' I inadvertently reached up to feel my own short hair. ‘And it's cute on some girls. Pixie-like. Some faces are suited to short hair.'

‘
Boys'
faces,' said Nick. ‘Not girls'. I hate it when girls cut their hair. They're so pretty with it long, and then they get it cut and all the other girls flock around and tell them how
cute
they look. It makes me sick. Why do they lie like that?'

I frowned. This wasn't a side of Nick I was particularly charmed by. ‘How do you know they're lying? Maybe they really
do
think it looks cute.'

‘How can they? It ruins a girl's prettiness. It makes her look disgusting, like a boy. The prettiest girl can turn dog-ugly just by having her hair cut.'

I scowled at him. ‘
I
have short hair, you know. In case you hadn't noticed.'

‘So?'

‘So you basically just jumped up and down and told me I was dog-ugly. If you ever want to get a girlfriend, then follow this red-hot tip: don't tell a girl she's dog-ugly. It won't get you very far.'

Nick waved a dismissive hand. ‘You don't count.'

‘Why not?'

‘You just
don't
.'

‘But Amy Butler does.'

‘Did. Amy Butler
did
. Not anymore.'

‘Because she had a
haircut
?'

Nick burst into a fresh flood of tears.

‘Listen to yourself!' I said, clenching my jaw. ‘You get all high and mighty because the girls think you're hot, but then won't want to talk to you when they find out you're shy. And you call
them
shallow.'

‘They
are
shallow.'

‘And you don't think it's shallow to suddenly not like the girl of your obsessively romantic dreams, just because she got a haircut?'

‘That's different.'

I folded my arms. ‘How is it different? Enlighten me, because I'm
very
curious.'

‘Those girls don't
understand
me,' he said. ‘They'd judge me if they knew what I was really like. They wouldn't be able to see past my condition.'

‘Like you can't see past Amy Butler's haircut.'

‘No,' he said. ‘I can't help being love-shy. But Amy did that to herself. She
chose
to do that. It's like she doesn't
care
about looking pretty and attracting the right boy.'

‘Well, maybe she doesn't.'

‘Then she's just lazy.'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Amy was a bit boring, sure, but nobody deserved to be talked about that way. ‘Maybe
looking pretty and attracting the right boy
isn't a priority for Amy. Maybe she'd rather concentrate on swimming, or getting into university, or doing something to make the world a better place.'

Was I talking about Amy or myself?

‘But why can't she do those things and look pretty at the same time?'

I shook my head. ‘You sound like a creepy misogynist. Women don't exist just to look pretty. Women are
people
, and they want things and need things the same way that men do. We're not
dolls
.'

‘I'm not a misogynist,' Nick said. ‘It simply isn't fair that girls get to be beautiful, and then just throw it away. Boys aren't
allowed
to look pretty, so their only option is to look at pretty girls.'

I wanted to smack him in the face. I wanted to tell him that he spent too much time on
loveshyforum.com
with all the other weirdos . . . except Nick still didn't know that I knew that.

‘Do you want to look pretty?' I asked. ‘Then look pretty! This is the twenty-first century, Nick. If you want to wear makeup and a dress to school, then yeah, people will think you're weird, but they already think that, so what's the difference?'