Signs of Love - Love Match (2 page)

‘Could they look any smugger?’ Savannah sniffs as Pete Croft and Laura Parkes emerge into the sunshine, hand in hand. But I can’t help smiling as I watch Pete offer to carry Laura’s schoolbag. They’ve been going out for over a year now, which is practically marital status at Green Park High. It’s been sweet watching their relationship blossom and grow. But I don’t know what they will do if the Head sticks to his plan of demolishing the old shed and putting up shiny new bike racks. There’ll be nowhere left for sneaky snogging sessions.

An idea for my first webzine article explodes into my head like a camera flash. Pete and Laura aren’t the only ones to use the shed as cover for a bit of break-time one-on-one. Everyone’s dating activities will be seriously curtailed if the shed is destroyed.

OMG! I can just see the headline now.

SOS! Save Our Shed!

And with one well-written article, I could spearhead a campaign to save the old building. And bring back hope to the hopeless and love to the—

A flying football stings my legs. ‘Hey!’

As it bounces away, Treacle stops it neatly with her foot.

Savannah’s smiling. ‘Look who’s coming to get his ball back,’ she whispers.

Treacle looks up as Jeff Simpson skids to a stop beside us.

‘Sorry,’ he grunts. ‘Ball got away from me.’

Treacle hooks her toe under the ball and flicks it up to his chest.

‘Nice.’ Jeff knocks the ball down, catches it on his foot and balances it there.

‘Yeah, uh, you too,’ Treacle mutters.

‘Thanks.’ He lofts the ball then plays keepie-uppies for a moment before lobbing it back towards Treacle. She catches it on her foot and deftly kicks it back to him. It’s like watching one of those nature programmes on TV. I can just hear the voice-over in my head.
We are now witnessing the dating ritual of the football fanatic, who like to woo each other with their fancy footwork and dribbling techniques.

Jeff cocks his head and looks at Treacle. ‘Impressive.’

I can see Treacle heading for a blush and prepare to cut in. But Jeff’s still talking.

‘We could use someone like you on our team.’ He bends and picks up the ball. ‘Shame you’re not a boy.’

As he turns and heads away, Treacle stares after him. ‘He wishes I was a
boy
!’ she wails.

‘At least he’s noticed that you’re a girl . . .’ I say, trying to be encouraging.

Savannah picks up her bag. ‘He’ll work it out eventually.’ She breezes away towards the entrance. ‘They usually do.’

‘In the early 1600s, German astronomer Johannes
blah
mathematically analysed known astronomical
blah
in order to develop three laws to describe the motion of planets about the
blah
. . .’ Mrs Murray’s voice drones over the classroom. Beside me, Treacle yawns. I pick up my pen.

The Head wants to demolish the bike shed. He says bike racks will add more space to the playground. But what sort of space?

‘Of course, Newton tells us that the magnitude of the
blah
is in inverse proportion to the square of the distance from the
blah
.’

I hardly hear Mrs Murray.

Public space, that’s what.

This article’s going to rock.

Snogging is not a spectator sport. People need privacy not prying eyes.

Mrs Murray turns and starts writing on the whiteboard. My pen is flying across my jotter.

No one would build a staffroom with glass walls. Take away our shed and you take away our right to romance.

The bell rings.

‘For homework,’ Mrs Murray calls as the class begins scraping back its stools, ‘read chapter
blah
.’

I slide my jotter into my bag at breakneck speed. ‘I’m off to the webzine meeting,’ I say to Treacle. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘You won’t need luck,’ she replies. ‘You’re a brilliant writer. You’re going to knock ’em dead.’

I smile at her and not for the first time feel massively relieved that she is my best friend. ‘Well, if I do ever make it as a journalist, I’d better get the exclusive interview with you when you become captain of the England women’s football team.’

Treacle high-fives me. ‘You bet.’

I jump to my feet, nearly tipping my chair over, and make my way to the door.

‘Don’t forget to phone me to let me know how it goes!’ Treacle calls after me.

‘OK!’ I charge out of the classroom and mount the stairs two at a time. There is no way I am going to be late for this meeting. My whole future in journalism could depend on it.

The old storeroom that has been appointed the webzine HQ is over on the other side of the building. So by the time I arrive I’m red-faced and breathless. The musty smell of damp hits my nose as soon as I open the door.

Mr Harris is sitting on a chair by the door, cleaning his glasses with his tea-stained tie. As always, his curly black hair is sprouting from his head like telephone wires. He looks at me and smiles. ‘Hello, Gemma.’

‘Hello,’ I pant back at him. Then I see Cindy Jensen sitting at a desk at the head of the room, a pen poised in her perfectly manicured hand.

‘Glad you could come,’ she says in the least ‘glad’ voice I have ever heard in my life. She jots something on the clipboard in front of her. Blonde, icy and a year above me, it seems she’s already taken control of the meeting. My heart sinks. I hope there will be other people from my year coming.

The door squeaks behind me. I turn and see Jeff Simpson walk in. Oh my God. This is a brilliant development. If Jeff is going to be working on the webzine I’ll have plenty of opportunity to get to know him better. And if I can get to know him better then I’ll be able to pass on vital information to Treacle, like whether or not he’s single and what he likes to do other than football.

And I’ll be able to make him see that Treacle is an even better match for him than the Cup Final.

Jeff squeezes past me and takes a seat beside Mr Harris. The room’s cluttered with unwanted tables piled high with tattered textbooks.

‘Thank you for coming, Jeff,’ Mr Harris says.

Jeff sighs and mumbles something about not having a choice.

‘We’ll get those English grades back up in no time,’ Mr Harris continues, oblivious.

So Jeff is here as some kind of punishment. My initial excitement starts to fade. If he doesn’t
want
to be here, he may not talk much and I’ll never find out any juicy titbits for Treacle.

I look for a space to sit. Mr Harris, Jeff and Cindy are using all the chairs that aren’t stacked behind the table clutter. I spot a stool between two old desks and sit down, realising too late it’s only about half a metre high and I’m sitting so low I can hardly see over the stacks of Jane Austens and GCSE maths textbooks towering either side of me.

The door opens and Will Bold saunters in as if he’s a rock star who has just parked his motorbike in the hall.
Another Year Ten
. I hug my schoolbag and wish for a Year Nine to arrive. I really don’t want to be the youngest one here.

Will pushes his hand through his dark tousled hair and it falls into place like it’s straight from a shampoo ad. How does it do that? My hair will look like it’s starting its own ecosystem by now. No matter how long I spend with the straighteners before breakfast, by the end of school, the curls are back and crowding my face like kids round a chip shop.

I try to imagine my curly hair away. I try to picture myself with perfect straight hair like Savannah. I can’t do it. I’m going to die unkissed. After all, what boy wants to be seen with a girl who can go from babe to yeti in less than three hours?

Will looks down at Cindy. His gaze stops at her clipboard. ‘Taking names and numbers already?’ he asks.

‘There’s nothing wrong with being organised,’ she retorts.

Will laughs. ‘That what all dictators say.’ He heaves a chair from behind one of the tables and sits down.

‘Gemma?’ Mr Harris beckons to me. ‘You look like you’d be more comfortable on one of these.’ He drags a chair from a stack and puts it beside Will’s. ‘You’ll get a better view from here.’

I blush as I slide out carefully from between the textbooks. I’m not sure I want a better view if it means sitting so close to Will. I knock the pile of Austens. It totters dangerously till I slap my hand on the top copy. ‘Oops.’ A grin freezes on my face. No one comments, but Mr Harris smiles at me encouragingly. I cross the room, really envying the Invisible Man.

Jeff’s busy picking a bit of dried mud off his shoe. Cindy’s eyeing me like she’s watching a toddler bash the square block against a triangular hole. I don’t even look at Will, but I
feel
his gaze as I take my seat. Then he speaks.

‘A Year Nine?’ He sounds surprised. ‘Got a name?’

‘You may find this shocking, Will, but
all
Year Nines have names.’ A new voice makes me jump. Sam Baynham – lead singer of the best band in the school and another Year Ten – is standing in the doorway. He flicks his shaggy blond hair away from his face and smiles at me. A small silver earring glints in his left ear. ‘You’re friends with Savannah, right?’

I slide my bag to the floor, then feel naked without it and drag it back on to my lap. ‘Yes. G-Gemma,’ I stutter. Savannah’s so cool, everyone knows who she is. I wish she were here right now.

Cindy’s face has turned from ice queen to cheerleader. She’s beaming. ‘So glad you could join us, Sam.’ And she sounds like she actually means it this time. She points at a pile of chairs. ‘Grab a seat.’

As Sam makes himself at home, I stare hopefully at the door, leaning forward as it opens.

Phillip and David Senior walk in. Identical twins. Identically nerdy. And identically in Year Ten. I slump back. This time when the door opens, I don’t even bother to move.

Barbara Tweed walks in. Barbara is Cindy’s best friend and, surprise, surprise,
another
Year Ten. Her blue eyes look like saucers behind her super-thick glasses, and her mousey hair is twisted into two uneven plaits. No one knows why über-babe Cindy Jensen is best friends with a sweet but undeniably fashion-challenged geek like Barbara Tweed. Savannah reckons that Cindy likes to hang out with someone who makes her look pretty. Treacle says that’s a dumb explanation – Cindy doesn’t
need
help looking pretty. Her theory is that Cindy likes having someone she can boss about. I just think they’ve been friends since
way
before it mattered who’s cool and who’s pretty; that’s a bond even high school can’t break.

As Mr Harris grabs a chair for Barbara, Cindy looks at her watch. ‘I guess that’s everyone then.’

Everyone?
Did I get it wrong? Were people outside Year Ten even invited? I try to picture the flyer on the English Department noticeboard. It’s red. It says
WEBZINE
in big letters at the top. I feel sweat form icy beads on my forehead as I try to remember the wording underneath.
Storeroom. Wednesday. 3.45 pm. Email Cindy Jensen if you need more details.
But what else did it say?
Everyone welcome
? Or was it
Year Tens only
? My heart’s racing. Maybe it didn’t need to say Year Tens only. Maybe, if I’d bothered to email Cindy, I would have found out. Duh! Why am I so dumb? I clutch my bag closer to my chest. I shouldn’t be here. It’s obvious. I feel like an idiot. Why did I assume I—