40 Things I Want to Tell You (2 page)

Some of these questions were really hard. I wasn’t sure I had anything to say to Nikki about her situation—it sounded
complicated.
What if
she
was calling
him
a hundred times a day? Maybe he was right not to always answer her. I went to get myself a cup of coffee and came back to sit in front of the screen a little longer. I could do this. I could figure out how to fix things for Nikki.

I posted my reply. I had gotten up early, as always, and after I’d finished with the website, I showered, straightened my hair, dressed in the clothes I’d laid out the night before and collected my bag.

As I pulled back the curtains, I noticed that the clouds outside were thick and stormy. Surprisingly, Mum was standing by the front gate with her camera in her hands. She had the same wild blonde curls as me, and they bounced around in the wind. She was curvy, with milky skin and freckles. Looking down at her, I realized how much we looked alike, even down to our changeable eyes and almost invisible blonde eyebrows. Both of us were often told by people that we
needed a little sun.
This morning, Mum wore a plain black dress and wool coat that bleached her out even more than usual, making her look ghostly in the faint light that was finally coming up. She held
the camera to her face and snapped a shot of the front of the house. I waved down at her but she didn’t see me. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen her taking photos. Forever ago. I felt weirdly sad. Huh. Glad she was back at it.

I scooted downstairs and hurried past Dad, who was reading the newspaper online in his office. He grunted something about coffee, but I was on my way out the door. I called over my shoulder, “See you later, Dad. Love you.”

I stepped out of our brick house and was whipped by the wind. I looked around for Mum, but she had vanished. I noticed that Griffin’s curtains were still shut: lazybones. Pulling my jacket tight, I tried to tuck away strands of my hair, silently begging the rain to hold off until I got to school. At Coffee Grounds—my favourite local café—I ordered my usual non-fat latte, which I drank as I dodged the traffic to get to the small park near my school. The sound of cars and the morning rush hour faded as I hurried along the path by the lake. The water danced in small metallic waves, shaken up by the approaching storm. The clouds grew darker as I darted from the park into the small front entrance of the stone block where the sixth form classes were held. Just inside, I turned right to get to the first-year sixth-form Common Room of Harton’s High School.

I said hi to Neen Patel and Gracie Atkins—this early there were only a few students around—threw some stuff in my locker and went to do a little reading at the library.

About half an hour later, Griffin came over and covered my eyes with his cool hands. “Guess who?”

I pushed back my seat and kissed him. He tasted of minty toothpaste. I said, “How was the morning?”

He swept his black floppy hair off his face. “Same old. I miss walking with you.”

“G, I
told
you: it’s not personal. I just want to get in early to do a bit of extra work.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t study at home and then walk in with me like we used to.”

“I explained it already: the library’s a good place to work. I want to take this year seriously. You know the plan.”

“Right, the plan.” He grimaced.

“What?” He was the worst person in the world at talking about what was wrong—he just liked to pretend everything was okay all the time. Things with his mum were a perfect example of that. “Tell me.”

“Be honest, Bird.” He put his hand up to the side of his neck, his fingers lightly touching the skin. I knew the gesture meant he was nervous. He sighed, and then the words came out in a rush. “You didn’t want to see me last night, and again this morning. Like you don’t think it’s normal for me to want us to … you know?”

“Griffin, nothing’s
wrong.
This isn’t anything to do with sex.”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “If you’re not ready—”

“That’s not the issue.”

“Well, I don’t get it, Bird.”

The conversation was starting to slide out of control. God, we were having our first real—uh—
disagreement
as a couple.

I snapped, “It doesn’t help having you pressure me all the time.” Wow, I was being a total bitch. Griffin didn’t deserve me being so grumpy. I looked up at him and the muscles of my face smiled automatically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you’re stressed about school and applying to Oxford and everything. But by telling me we have to wait until your birthday, well, I was thinking about it and it’s not very— Well, it’s not very spontaneous.”

“Why does it have to be spontaneous? This way we can look forward to it.”

He softened. “You’re so … so
you
, Bird. So predictable.”

Predictable. That was me.

He bent close. “Come here. Give me a kiss. We’ll figure it out.”

The bell rang. The word
saved
popped into my head. Some of what Griffin had said was still sneaking about uncomfortably under my skin. I kissed him lightly, grabbed my books and said—perhaps to reassure myself as much as him—”It’s all fine, I promise. Come on, we’ll be late.”

IN FIRST CLASS, MRS. LIVERMORE WAS SAYING IN HER HIGH VOICE,
“You need to think about your exams. This isn’t about fun. This is about the future.”

No one was really listening. I doodled in a notebook, jotting down some ideas for my website.

It took a second to register that something was going on, but quickly the ripple of interest in the room made me pay attention. I raised my gaze to see a guy lounging against the open doorway. I couldn’t help but notice that he was
really
hot. I glanced at Cleo, who was sitting there with an expression of pure admiration on her face. I swivelled back to the guy. He
was older than us. He wore jeans and a black shirt with the words
Born to Die
scrawled over it. His sandy blond hair hung slightly long, like he hadn’t got round to cutting it, and he had stubble on his jawline. He managed to look like he didn’t care about his appearance at all, yet he was one of the— No, he was
the
most gorgeous man who’d ever walked into our school. God, the last thing I needed was a teacher like him around. Totally distracting. I’d have to work doubly hard to concentrate if I had any classes with him. I wondered who he was replacing in the middle of term.

The guy folded his arms over his chest, totally at ease, as if he were modelling for a photo shoot. Then he turned his eyes upon me and everyone else vanished. I tried desperately to drag my gaze away.

Mrs. Livermore’s voice cut loudly through my mind. “Pete Loewen. Finally. You’re late. Not a good start, young man. Take a seat.”

Oh my God. He was a
student.
No way was he sixteen. The rest of us looked like kids compared to him.

“Morning,” he said. “My alarm didn’t go off.”

“That is not
my
fault,” she squawked. “Sit down, just there.” She signalled to a desk a couple of rows to the left of me. I watched him walk across the room, an inner pinching deep in

my gut.

He sat, shrugging his bag to the floor.

I thought how amazing it was that this gorgeous guy was sitting so close to me. If I cranked my neck around, I had a great view of the side of his head. Hmm. Even the side of his head looked good. He turned to the right and caught me gawking
at him. Caught me out a second time. He leaned back in his seat and winked at me. Winked! Like we were in some cheesy movie. I sat up straight and tried to listen what Mrs. Livermore was saying, ignoring the new guy completely. Sort of.

AT LUNCH, CLEO AND I HUNG AROUND IN AN EMPTY CLASSROOM. SHE
leaned her hip against a desk, her black hair straightened and sleek. She wore a denim shirt-dress and black leggings with knee-high boots, making her look skinny and pretty. As always.

She said, “Your hair isn’t enjoying the weather.”

I thought of the time I’d spent straightening it. Time when I could have been studying. My unruly blonde curls were the bane of my life. “Stupid hair.”

She said, “All the work is worth it. It still looks good.”

“Sure.” I ran my hand over my head, feeling how the moisture in the air was making me frizzier by the minute.

“That guy is hot,” she said.

“Who?” I pretended I had no idea who she was talking about. I didn’t want her to know I’d been sneaking peeks at him in every class for, like, the whole morning.

“Come on, Bird. You’d have to be blind not to notice.”

“The new guy?” I tried to be casual. The image of him winking at me appeared in my head.

Her iPhone vibrated. “You’re just so loved up with Griffin you didn’t even see him. Hang on.” Her big liquid eyes concentrated on reading a text. She said, without looking up, “Hmm, I thought she’d know him. She knows everyone.”

“Who? What are you talking about now?”

“Hello, Bird.” She rapped me lightly on the head. “The hot new guy. The one who started school with us today: Pete Loewen.”

“Oh, him.” I tried to be nonchalant by changing the subject. “
Who
knows everyone?”

“Becca.” She held up her phone and flicked through Facebook. “She has all the gossip on Pete.”

“So what does she say?”

“Read this.”

Cleo said, “I know you don’t like Becca that much, but you’ve gotta admit, she always knows
everything.
”

“It’s just … I’m not sure how being into drugs and getting expelled makes him so fun that everyone
looovvves
him,” I said stiffly.

Cleo rattled on. “Anyway, I have Dan and Joe to think about for now. No time for hot new guys just now. So, Miss Take-Control, tell me what to do.”

“Shh, don’t call me that here.”

“No one’s listening.” She gestured around the deserted room. “I need your advice. Look—” She tapped through to show me two texts. One from Joe Friesen in the year above us and one, almost identical, from Dan Swain in our Computing class.

“Uh, Cleo. They both want to see you on Saturday night. You can’t be two places at once, no matter how good you are at dazzling men.”

“One for dinner and one later—or is that terrible?”

I giggled. “Definitely terrible.”

“Really?
Terrible
terrible? Let’s say I do it anyway, what should I wear?”

“For supper or for later? Will you have time to get changed?”

She smiled wickedly.

I threw up my hands and said, “That black dress with the long sleeves for Joe. Show off your legs. Levi’s and your silky top for Dan. He’s more, you know, casual. And what happened to Xavier? Didn’t you see him just yesterday?”

It was a moment before she spoke. “Yeah, except he didn’t show up.”

“You know I hate that guy, right? And the way he makes you feel.” I squeezed her arm.

“Anyway, that was all before Dan and Joe texted.”

I could tell from her voice that she was more hurt than she wanted to let on.

Griffin came into the room. As usual, we kissed. His mouth was soft and he pulled away quickly, shyly. Not for the first time, I wished he’d be a bit more confident when he showed me physical affection, more certain of what he was doing.

He gave me a look that was hard to read and wandered over to the far side of the room, where he hauled himself up onto a desk. He picked up a pen and tumbled it from one finger to the other so it was in constant movement—a trick his dad taught him when we were young.

Cleo chatted on about something while I watched Griffin. He looked tired and grumpy. And I should know—I knew him better than anyone in the world. I thought about the first time I’d seen him—the day his family moved next door to mine, when a skinny boy appeared at the hole in the fence at the end of my garden. At the time he was a goofy-looking, glasses-wearing kid, with black hair hanging all the way to his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he asked that first day in an accent I placed immediately.

“Are you American?” I rubbed my dirty hands on my T-shirt and pulled a twig from my crazy, frizzy hair.

He nodded. “I am. From Montana. What’ve you done to your leg?” He pointed at the plaster wrapped tight around it.

“I flew out of a tree.”

He looked at the blue sky. “I don’t think I’d like flying very much. Did it hurt?”

But before I could answer, his dad called him away.

Later I’d watched from my window as Griffin’s father scooped up the skinny boy in a side hold, swinging him round with a meaty laugh.

Griffin’s dad died three years ago of a heart attack. Life sucks like that sometimes.

Cleo interrupted my nostalgia by asking, “So do you two want to go get lunch?”

Griffin said, “From the cafeteria?”

“Gross,” I said. “But it’s raining, so there’s no choice.”

Griffin and Cleo carried on discussing it, and I thought about the day Griffin and I kissed for the first time. We’d been sitting
in his room, studying, and suddenly his hand covered mine on the carpeted floor. I felt him leaning closer.