My Invisible Boyfriend Page 14
I wait for him to say something, but he keeps his eyes lowered, almost as if he’s too shy to look up.
“So…you and Ludo broke up, then?”
“You heard?”
I shrug. “I’ve got ears.”
“They hear anything else?”
He looks through me, past me, to the gray of the lake. He’s nothing like the guy who sat here weeks ago in ITP, curling his lip over Girl A and Girl B. He looks nervier somehow, like a spooked horse.
Maybe Ludo yelled at him. She can be pretty terrifying when she loses it.
I ought to be on her side, I realize, all moral indignation and grrlpower and yay sisterhood! She was the dumpee. She’s my friend. All I know about Peroxide Eric is his taste in hair dye and his usage of the word “bazoinkas.” And that he smokes, and knows where to get alcohol, and I kind of want his coat because mine supposedly belonged to my ex-boyfriend so I’ve left it at home, and now it’s beginning to rain.
He flicks his eyes at me, then, and I remember he asked me a question.
“I didn’t hear anything else,” I say.
He smiles sadly, and burrows down a little in his collar.
“What? What should I have heard?”
He stays nestled in the warmth of his coat, but his eyes track back to mine. Gray eyes: gray like the lake, gray like the sky.
“Nothing, Heidi. Nothing at all.”
Would Miss Ryder please come to the departure lounge? The Clue Bus is now ready to depart.
I’m starting to think I must have been missing a lot of Clue Buses lately. Standing at the wrong stop, on the wrong side of the road, with last year’s timetable.
Could Mysterious E be…Mysterious Eric?
It’s kind of obvious. If I were coming up with a cunning disguise so I could wind me up for a little while, I’d probably not call myself H.
But what if he wants to be obvious? E’s pretending to be a bit of a Mycroft Christie himself, after all. He’s got to give me a couple of clues to go on.
I wait for the Mothership to drive me home in a giddy daze, waiting to be swept away from my stupid braids, from the Finch, from Heidiworld completely. I run up to the attic and read his e-mails again, hunting for more clues.
Until circumstances allow, I shall have to be content with playing your game, with the rules you devised.
Until circumstances allow.
Until after he’s broken up with his girlfriend, perhaps?
Until he knows his Girl B has broken up with her gingerbread man?
The Clue Bus is now pretty much running me over, tootling helikesmehelikesmehelikesme on its horn. (Clue Buses can do that. Like ice-cream vans playing “Greensleeves” all wonky.)
Peroxide Eric sits at The Logs, in the cold and the rain, where I’m guaranteed to walk on my way back from the music rooms, and makes meaningful conversation of the sort I totally didn’t get at the time but now seems made of purest meaning.
I definitely detect circumstances. Multiple circumstances. Circumstances coming out of all the orifices.
I mean, it’s not exactly how I pictured Mysterious E. I haven’t been thinking of Peroxide Eric in that way at all before now: He was with Ludo, for starters, and I’ve been completely boyfriended up for quite some time now and very happily, thank you for asking. But this isn’t the same as Gingerbread Ed. This is a real boy: the very first real boy who has ever, in my entire life, liked me. More than liked me. He could probably have three heads, and I’d still be doing cartwheels, and Peroxide Eric doesn’t have three heads at all. He’s pretty cute. I mean, he’s not Teddy. But I probably always thought he was cute. I like his coat. The hair and the piercings and the snarly way he smiles. He’s got those stubby fingers from where he’s bitten his nails down too much: I noticed it in the Little Leaf that first time he came in there, when he was twirling his lip stud around. You don’t notice fingernails of people you aren’t at least curious about. Or lips.
He’ll taste like cigarettes when we kiss. I’m OK with that. It’s not a deal breaker. Maybe we can discuss those patch thingies.
Maybe I’m getting a teensy bit ahead of myself.
He only just broke up with Ludo. I have Friendly Responsibilities to her: ice-cream consumption, crappy rom coms, lots of stern pouting at the mention of his name.
He doesn’t want to be unmasked yet. He’s enjoying the dance. Who is Dearest Heidi to stop him doing the woo-the-girl boogaloo?
And I don’t know know it’s Peroxide Eric. I just kind of sort of definitely know it’s him.
Fortunately, I’m on excellent terms with my ex, who’s pretty good at finding things out on the sly.
to: bloodwinetears@letterbox.com
from: gingerbread_ed@frogmail.com
dear fili,
sorry to hear things aren’t go so well between you and that simon guy. heidi always thought of you two as the perfect couple, did you know? but i suppose things are never really the way they look from the outside. they definitely weren’t with me and her. i think she’s seeing someone else, now, actually.
are you feeling any better? if there’s anything anyone can do, just ask.
take care,
ed
to: gingerbread_ed@frogmail.com
from: bloodwinetears@letterbox.com
Dear Ed,
I’m probably not the person to ask about Heidi’s present love life: seems like you know more than I do. Did she really see Simon and me as perfect? That explains a lot. I love her (I hope she knows) but she is awfully naive. I’m almost envious.
Sadness is my default setting: sorry. I emerge blinking into sunlight from time to time, but there are usually clouds in my sky. At least this time I have good reason to be dripping with self-loathing. It doesn’t make it any easier to get out of bed in the morning, but the pure rationality brings its own strange sense of consolation.
I hope I’m not boring you. It must get dull, all this moping.
Fili
Message from: gingerbread@ed
ok, so i feel like a dork for asking this, but i was wondering how h is? i know, i know, pathetic ex-boyfriend syndrome. you don’t have to reply if it seems too weird.
ed
Message from: dai_fawr
No sweat, mate. I know how it is, you get used to talking to someone every day and then suddenly they aren’t there anymore, right?
She’s fine anyway. Looks like she’s moving on, if you know what I mean? Though I’m not exactly thrilled about the direction she’s moving in…
Later dude.
gingerbread_ed: hi honey
ludovica_b: hey
gingerbread_ed: how are you?
ludovica_b: still dumped :(
ludovica_b: you?
gingerbread_ed: same here
ludovica_b: we should make a club lol
ludovica_b: breakups suck
gingerbread_ed: i noticed that
gingerbread_ed: so how come you and eric split?
gingerbread_ed: was he seeing someone else?
ludovica_b: don’t know
ludovica_b: he better not be
ludovica_b: will have to find that bitch and cut her lol
ludovica_b: hello?
gingerbread_ed: hey
gingerbread_ed: i don’t know
gingerbread_ed: can’t change how you feel about someone
gingerbread_ed: better not to pretend, i think
ludovica_b: i spose
gingerbread_ed: want her to be happy
gingerbread_ed: even if that’s with someone else
ludovica_b: i spose
gingerbread_ed: would be nice if you could feel like that about eric
ludovica_b: yes it would
gingerbread_ed: aww, poor ludo
gingerbread_ed: you’ll find someone
gingerbread_ed: someone who makes you feel special
gingerbread_ed: someone perfect
&nb
sp; ludovica_b: :)
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest Heidi,
I know your schedule is terribly full, but it’s a challenge to dance this particular tango alone. Perchance you’re simply so overwhelmed by my charm that I’ve rendered you unable to respond? If so, I do hope it’s not permanent: The Heidi I’ve fallen in more-than-liking with is quite the talker.
Not even a gingerbread crumb of fond attention for your real boy? You’re a tease indeed.
Nevertheless, you still have my
love & affection,
E
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
Dearest E,
OK, OK! My fond attention is all yours.
(I am so not a tease, btw.)
H
Mrs. Ashe’s Secrets Box could get filled up pretty quickly if it accepted multiple submissions.
Did Fili always think I was naive?
If he doesn’t like the direction I’m moving in, did Dai never like Peroxide Eric?
Does ickle pretty Ludo actually go round cutting people?
Does this include me?
Might I actually deserve that for moving in on her ex?
How long does the ex-boyfriend-hands-off rule apply anyway?
And have I got this whole thing totally wrong, because I totally tried to give Eric a gingerbread crumb of attention yesterday after lunch and he was the one hiding from me, and I think perhaps this is not a very secret secret now at all?
I linger in the doorway of the ITP classroom, trying to figure out what to write on my card before we embark on today’s thrilling wall display construction (Things That Make Us Happy—which apparently may only include pictures that can be cut out of Mrs. Ashe’s prehistoric dodgy magazine collection, so there’s going to be a suspicious absence of nipples, alcohol, and Mycroft Christie in favor of knitted baby bootees and Great Recipes To Lower Your Cholesterol). Fili, Yuliya, Honey, Jambo, Brendan, and The Ashe are flipping through the magazines; Fili using hers as a sort of face mask so she doesn’t have to meet my eye.
No Eric, I notice with a little pang.
No Henry, either, until he appears, breathless, coming from a lead cast PAG rehearsal, and dropping down beside me to share his own little secret.
“Finally I get you on your own,” he says, dipping his head close. “Bless him for it, Dai’s not an easy guy to shake off. Anyway, you know it’s his birthday in December? I want to do something. A party? But I could use a hand with ideas, and I feel like you’re closer to him than anyone else here.”
Another little pang. According to what he’s told Ed, Dai is actually kind of narked with me right now. But I guess this is my chance to redeem myself. And I know one thing: Dai doesn’t do birthday parties. Not since he was ten and he ended up celebrating by being shoved in a bin and rolled down a hill till he smashed into a lamppost and cracked his skull open. It’s not a story he tells very often. Not one he’s told Henry, either, apparently.
“Party? Not such a good idea. But he’d like you to do something, I bet. Actually he’d probably be gutted if you didn’t. Just not anything too…birthdayish.”
Henry nods, slowly. “Right. So, a birthday party, without a party, or any reference to birthdays?”
I nod sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ll think of something?”
Then Ashe bellows at us both to sit down and do the Happy-Making Things, and Henry gets dragged off to sit with the guys.
Eric shows up ten minutes late, strolling in like he wants everyone to know he’s just dropping by because he feels like it, but I can tell he’s bluffing extra hard. The swagger’s not so convincing if you keep your coat on like some kind of comfort blanket, and take a seat near Mrs. Ashe, where no one’s going to go and join you. He keeps his eyes lowered, just darting them around occasionally, like he doesn’t want to risk any eye contact.
I miss his eyes. His deep, pool-like gray eyes. But he has nice eyelashes, I discover. They’re long: sort of girly. But in the good way.
And I get it anyway. I’m probably doing the same thing: not quite knowing where to look. Halfway between smiling goofily and running away.
I cover up by cutting out a picture of a severely dubiouslooking bloke with a handlebar moustache, and gluing him enthusiastically to the paper, adding the caption SEXY FACIAL HAIR.
Even Fili smiles at that.
Mrs. Ashe comes over and demands I stick another picture over the caption, which starts Henry off on an Ashe-baiting freedom-of-expression spree, followed by a lengthy debate on the sexiness of moustaches versus the sexiness of beards (conclusion: Santa Claus is one hot piece of ass). And then I find a picture of an orange teapot with purple cows on, which so genuinely Makes Me Happy I sort of have to stick it on.
We waste a little time staple-gunning the lunatic wall chart to the wall (Cooper never used to let us do that: staple guns and Finches are an unholy combo), then we’re pushing the tables back to sit on the floor in a circle, because apparently Sharing is always best performed uncomfortable.
I make sure I’m sitting next to Fili, so I won’t catch her eye when we get to mine. Which somehow leaves me bang opposite Eric, eyelashes and all.
OOPS?
We make short work of My roomie is a phantom farter (undeniably Jambo, whose roomie is Dunc The Monk and is the guy you don’t stand directly behind in the line for lunch) and My cat died and they won’t even let me go home, and my sister says they’re going to bury her under the croquet lawn (Ashe: They’re going to bury your sister under the croquet lawn? Honey: No, they’re going to bury Pom-Pom under the croquet lawn. Us: You fail at being secret. Pom-Pom? Obviously this is deeply sad, but seriously, Pom-Pom?).
Then it’s I might more-than-like you, too, and I’m suddenly very aware of my heart, sending all those red blobs spinning round my veins.
Agent Ryder looks casually out of the window, while also looking very casually at everyone else, as if curious to identify the secret-keeper, while also entirely giving herself away to the one person in the room who’ll understand. Well, in theory. Actual Ryder doesn’t have that many eyes.
Brendan suggests something filthy enough to distract all attention.
I take my chance. I make myself look up.
Eric’s not looking at me.
But is he not looking at me in that effortful concentrated way that actually is kind of the same as looking at me?
Definitely.
Mostly definitely?
The eyelashes flutter for a moment, dusting his cheeks, then he tugs at his coat sleeves and ruffles his bitten-down fingers through his hair. Shuffles his feet around. Half looks up at me, then drops those lashes again. Tugs on his lippiercing.
Definitely definitely.
Next it’s I’m frightened to sing (duh, Yuliya), one censored one that makes Ashe look like she sucked a lemon and stubbed her toe while a rat ran up her skirt, and I wish I could blame you instead of me, which is universally slated for being too successfully secretive.
And then?
Girl B is all I can think about.
And there’s more eyelashing and ruffling and shuffling and definitely definitely definitely.
OHM.
EYE.
GOD.
to: arealboy@letterbox.com
from: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
Dearest E,
I just wanted to say that unless I’m completely confused and stupid (which I really hope I’m not) then I obviously know who it is you remind me of. But you already know that, right?
If I’d known these would be the rules then I would totally have come up with better ones.
H
to: heidi.ryder@goldfinch.ac.uk
from: arealboy@letterbox.com
Dearest Heidi,
As it happens, I rather like your rules: I’ve always been fond of dancing. But something tells me our respective paths may cross one another q
uite soon.
In the meantime, it is, as always, a delight to hear from you.
love & affection,
E
Romantic entanglement with non-biscuit people turns out to be very similar to going out with Gingerbread Ed.
I’m still juggling plenty of who-knows-what-about-who-and-why, which means I spend most of my day at the Finch ducking out of sight behind pillars and doorways, trying to remember whether I’m meant to be being sympathetic, or friendly, or not being anything at all. And back at the attic, I still seem to be spending my time making up conversations with someone who isn’t there. Eric might not have a squished eye made of icing or a tendency to lounge around on invisible furniture, but his being A Real Boy isn’t making much difference.
I do see him in real life, of course: The Finch doesn’t make for avoidability. But he’s always on the edges. Lingering at The Logs, chewing his fingers. Smoking outside the music rooms, when Venables just happens to have called an emergency PAG meeting. Keeping the required safe distance from Ludo: hovering attentively enough to let me know he’s there.
I kind of love the way he does that.
But it means by the time we actually end up in the same space as each other, alone, I’ve already had seventeen conversations with him about Gingerbread Ed and how very loveable and non-weird his existence is, and the importance of coats, and whether season 3 of Mycroft Christie Investigates would’ve been better without the Evil Wife (answer: yes). We’ve accidentally brushed fingertips. Held hands. Benchsnuggled. There may even have been kissing rehearsals.