Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend (8 page)

I float away on my cloud of happiness, until George slides into the seat next to me. He's dimming my glow. I wish he'd just disappear. How come I had to get
this
New Guy for my project?? Why can't I do mine with Ben? What if George chops me up into little pieces? Ben will die of grief and it will be totally
Romeo and Juliet
.

George pulls out the proposal we wrote for Mr Mehmet last week. Mr Mehmet thought it was a fantastic idea. Unfortunately we still haven't figured out what our online component will be. I sneak a peek at his folder and am silently impressed that he spelled ‘acknowledgements' correctly. It's a toughie.

‘Maybe we should look at the way secrets interact with technology,' says George.

‘Maybe,' I say, thinking it sounds complicated. ‘Like how we used to write stuff in real-life diaries with locks and keys, and now we do it on a blog or a MySpace page where anyone can see it.'

‘Yeah,' says George. Then he laughs.

‘What?' I say.

‘Never mind,' says George, still smiling.

‘No,' I say. ‘Tell me.'

‘When I was little, my sister gave me her old Care Bears toy. It was called Secret Bear.'

I laugh. ‘You had a
Care Bear
?' I say. ‘That's not very masculine.'

‘It was a hand-me-down,' he says defensively. ‘I had lots of Lego as well.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Anyway,' says George. ‘It had this cord in its back. And when you pulled it, it said things like
I'm Secret Bear
and
Do you have a secret?
and
I promise I won't tell
.'

George says all these things in a hammy American accent.

‘Technology,' I say. ‘Secrets. I'm with you.'

He nods. ‘I used to tell all my secrets to Secret Bear,' he says. ‘And then one day I was playing with him in the garden, when my sister said that if I told him too many secrets, he might get sick and explode with them all.'

I raise my eyebrows. ‘This is why I'm glad I'm an only child,' I say.

‘I was really upset,' says George. ‘I ran inside, leaving Secret Bear in the garden. It rained that night.'

‘Oh dear,' I say.

‘The next morning, he was all wet, and there was a slug on his nose. I told him I was sorry, and then pulled his cord to see if he'd forgiven me.'

‘And?'

‘And he sounded like this,' George clears his throat, and talks in a slow, gravelly voice like a zombie. ‘I-I-I'm See-ee-ee-cret Be-heh-heh-ear.'

I burst out laughing. Mr Mehmet glares at me.

‘And I thought he was sick because I'd told him too many secrets.'

‘So what did you do?' I ask.

George shrugs. ‘I put him in a box and never told him a secret again.'

‘That's a very sad story, George,' I say, still laughing.

‘I really missed having someone to tell my secrets to,' he said. ‘Someone who I knew would keep them no matter what . . .'

He frowns, as if he's just thought of something. His forehead goes all wavy and his long eyelashes quiver.

‘What is it?' I ask.

‘I think I'm having an idea,' says George.

‘Don't strain yourself,' I reply.

‘Do you know about PostSecret?'

I don't.

‘It started as a project this guy did where he left blank postcards in public places, addressed to himself, and a note encouraging people to write down a secret and post it back.'

‘What kind of secrets?'

‘Everything. People wrote about how they were cheating on their wives, or that they ran over their neighbour's cat, or that they liked the smell of their own farts.'

‘Gross,' I say.

‘He got heaps of responses. But the amazing thing was, when the blank postcards ran out, people kept sending him secrets. They still do. Thousands and thousands of them. He's got a website.'

‘What does he do with the secrets?' I ask.

George shrugs. ‘Publishes the good ones,' he says. ‘And keeps the others.'

‘So what's the point?'

‘It gives people a chance to reveal things they're scared to admit. Without fear of judgement, because it's all anonymous.'

‘But they're not really telling anyone. It's not like they know him.'

‘That's not the point. Just the act of writing it down and posting it makes people feel better.'

Sounds a bit strange to me.

‘So what's your idea?' I ask.

‘We do it. We set up a website where students can upload pictures or draw or write about their secrets.'

Actually, that's not bad.

‘We can analyse them to see what issues are concerning teenagers,' I say. ‘Like dressing the right way, and being thin, and being popular.'

George nods. ‘And we can send an email to everyone in the school telling them about it. We can also have a page where you can read other people's secrets. It's visual, dynamic, interactive and fun.'

I smile. ‘George, it's a fantastic idea.'

He actually blushes. ‘So, do you want to get together after school and work on it?'

At this point, I'm reasonably sure that George isn't a serial killer. But there's no point taking chances.

‘Um,' I say. ‘I think I have something on.'

George looks awkward. He can probably tell I'm lying. ‘Oh,' he says. ‘What sort of something?'

‘I'm not sure,' I say. ‘I left my diary at home. But I remember I had something I had to do.'

‘Well, do you want me to come by your house this evening after you've done it?'

I once saw a movie about how you should never invite a serial killer into your home. Or was that vampires?

‘We're having our floors re-sanded,' I improvise. ‘It's really gross at my house.'

George raises his eyebrows. Then he tears a sheet of paper out of an exercise book and scribbles something on it.

‘This is my address and phone number,' he says. ‘I'll be home all evening if you want to do some work.'

Very funny. As if I'm going to the house of a serial killer. I'm not stupid.

At recess, I can't find Ben anywhere. So I go and sit with Tahni. I tell her about talking to Ben on the phone and how he kissed me this morning. Tahni's a bit quiet. She's probably jealous because all of a sudden I'm the one with the Boy-stories. Either that or she's got her period. Actually, she's been strange all week. Maybe she's mad because I was supposed to call her last night, but I called Ben instead.

I'm telling her about the way Ben's mouth curls in that little half-smile right before he kisses me, when I catch sight of the man himself. And he's headed straight for me.

I quickly fluff my hair, and debate whether to apply lip gloss. If I do, I'll look cuter, and he's more likely to want to kiss me again. But if I do end up kissing him, I don't want to get him all smeared with Juicy Berry. While I'm still mentally debating this (who thought boys and dating and kissing would be so hard!?), it all becomes irrelevant because he sits next to me, draping his arm around me. I can feel his leg pressed up against my leg. He nods at Tahni.

‘Morning ladies,' he says, then nuzzles my neck.

I am in love. Any doubt I had about this has gone.

Imaginary Ben can just rack off. Imaginary Ben would never have
nuzzled
my neck like this. Imaginary Ben might have written me a poem, which would have been nice. But it wouldn't make me feel like I feel now.

An entire symphony orchestra explodes inside me in a sparkling shower of fireworks.

‘Hi, Ben,' says Tahni, turning her most dazzling smile onto him.

‘Hey,' he says, pulling away from my neck. I feel like I've lost a body part.

I'm not really sure how she does it, but in an instant Tahni manages to transform from sullen and bored to bright-eyed and gloss-lipped. She's shifted position slightly to accentuate her curvy hips and breasts, while still managing to show off her tiny, tiny waist. I frown. Is she
flirting
with my boyfriend?

‘So are you settling in?' she asks him, fiddling with her hair.

‘Yeah,' says Ben. His hand slides around my waist. Hah. Take that, Tahni.

‘How are you going with your IT assignment?' Tahni asks.

They have a
subject
together? That's so unfair. I don't have any classes with Ben. Or with Tahni, for that matter. Just with stupid old
George
.

‘Not bad,' says Ben. ‘The Photoshop stuff is easy – I did that at my old school. But I'm not so good at Flash animation.'

‘Oh,' says Tahni with another thousand-watt smile, ‘Flash is easy. I'm really good at it, so let me know if you need any help.'

‘Thanks,' says Ben, smiling back.

I scowl. How dare she flirt with my boyfriend like that? Isn't there some kind of girl code? That you stay away from your best friend's boyfriend? I know I'm not that experienced in the whole boyfriend-girlfriend-social-politics thing, but I know that what she's doing is not okay. And he's
smiling
at her! There's no way I can compete with Tahni and her super-curvy-thousand-watt flirtiness.

‘It's so unfair,' I say. ‘You're in a class together, and I have to be in a class with stupid old Hannibal Lecter.'

‘Who?' says Tahni.

‘The New Guy,' I say. ‘You know. George Papadopoulos.'

Tahni frowns. ‘Why did you call him a Lecturer?'

‘Lecter,' I say. ‘Hannibal Lecter. From
Silence of the Lambs
?'

Tahni looks baffled. She glances at Ben, who shrugs and shakes his head.

‘I never know what she's talking about,' he says.

This is really annoying. ‘
Silence of the Lambs
,' I say. ‘You know, that famous old movie about the serial killer who removed people's skin? It had Jodie Foster in it?'

‘I'm really not seeing the connection, Midge,' says Tahni. She turns back to Ben. ‘So do you have that new FX Photoshop plug-in?'

‘Remember you said that stuff about the New Guy being weird and a possible killer at his old school,' I interrupt.

Tahni manages to convey concern and scorn at the same time. ‘That's hardly something you should be making jokes about, Midge.'

I sigh. ‘Never mind.'

George would have understood the reference. Although he probably wouldn't have thought it was funny, what with it being about him and all.

But then Ben leans over and whispers into my ear, in a low, private voice that is only meant for me.

‘Do you have a dollar?' he murmurs.

‘A what?' I say, delirious.

‘A dollar. I want a Mars Bar, but I don't have enough money.'

‘Of course,' I fumble in my pocket. The poor boy. A Mars Bar probably costs twenty-five pence or whatever in England. He has to get used to a new currency as well as a new school and new friends. I am so happy I can help him, it doesn't matter that now I won't have enough money for a pie at lunchtime. I hand over the coin.

‘Thanks,' he says. ‘See you later.'

He kisses me swiftly, then saunters away.

I watch him go. Who cares about the pie? I will never have to eat again. I am sustained by my love for him. That kiss will keep me going until at least dinnertime.

‘He looks so hot in school uniform,' I say to Tahni. ‘What is it, about some boys? Most of them look terrible in it, but Ben looks like it's been personally tailored for him.'

‘Do you think we could possibly have a conversation about something other than Ben?' says Tahni.

Wow. She just killed those watts like flicking off a light-switch. She's back to grumpy and snide. And how can she say that about Ben after she just turned the full charm offensive on him? She really is testy. It's definitely jealousy. As if I haven't been in exactly the same position, listening to her go on for ever about some Boy she met at Luna Park or Nando's. Man.

‘Fine,' I say. ‘What do
you
want to talk about then?'

‘Actually,' says Tahni, ‘I have to go to the library.'

She gets up and walks away. I watch her, stunned. Tahni, go to the library? I bet she doesn't even know where it is.

When I arrive at my History class, I'm feeling guilty about Tahni. I should be more understanding. She's single. Probably lonely. I should be grateful for this opportunity to perfect being empathetic, rather than just plain old pathetic. But by the time I walk out again to go to French, I'm just plain old angry.

She's supposed to be my friend! She should be happy for me. So what if I want to talk about my new boyfriend for five minutes?

I decide to avoid her at lunchtime and seek out Ben instead. I need some kisses to sustain me.

As I make my way down the corridor to his locker, I'm stopped by Nina Kennan. At first I don't think she's actually talking to me, so I look behind to check who else is around. But it is me. Nina Kennan has never spoken to me in my life. Nina Kennan and I have been going to the same school since we were five, and she has never once spoken to me. People like Nina Kennan don't speak to people like me.

Nina is the kind of girl who never would have done anything so unglamorous as be born. She was never a squalling purple creature covered in gunk. She just appeared one day, floating down from the clouds in a pale pink cashmere blanket carried by white doves.

Nina has perfect blonde hair. Perfect blue eyes. A smattering of freckles across her perfect nose. She smells like lily-of-the-valley and has perfectly straight white teeth.

‘Midge,' she says, and I'm surprised that her words aren't echoed by a chorus of nightingales.

How does she even know my name?

‘Hi, Nina,' I say.

‘My parents are going away this weekend,' she says, flicking back her shampoo-commercial hair with a pale and perfect finger. ‘I'm having a party. You should come.'