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“Nonsense. Anyway, he’s not my type!”
Aha. That said it all. Well, I was Lesley’s best friend, I’d known her forever, and that reply wouldn’t have thrown anyone off the right track, even Cynthia.
“Come off it, Lesley. Who’s going to believe that?”
Lesley finally looked away from the announcements on the bulletin board and gave me a grin. “So what? We can’t both afford to be suffering from hormonal softening of the brain at this particular moment, can we? It’s quite enough for one of us not to be responsible for her actions.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“But it’s true! You think of nothing but Gideon, so you simply don’t see how serious the situation is. You need someone who can think straight, like me. And I’m not about to be taken in by that Frenchman.”
“Oh, Lesley!” I gave her a big hug. No one, no one else in the world had such a wonderful, crazy, clever friend as I did. “But it would be terrible if you had to give up your chance of being lucky in love because of me.”
“There you go, exaggerating again.” Lesley lowered her voice and breathed into my ear, “If he’s anything like his brother, he’d have broken my heart after a week at the latest.”
“So?” I said, giving her a little tap on the hand. “It’s made of marzipan, so you can reshape it anytime you like!”
“Don’t laugh at me. All that about marzipan hearts is a metaphor, and I’m really proud of it.”
“Of course. One day you’ll be quoted all over the world. ‘Hearts can’t be broken because they’re made of marzipan.’ From The Wit and Wisdom of Lesley Hay.”
“Wrong, I’m afraid,” said a voice beside us. It belonged to our English teacher, Mr. Whitman, who was much too good-looking for a teacher.
I’d have liked to ask what he thought he knew about female hearts, but it was better not to answer Mr. Whitman back. Like Mrs. Counter, he was apt to hand out extra homework on way-out subjects, and casual as he might seem, he could be very strict.
“Wrong about what?” asked Lesley, throwing caution to the winds.
He looked at us, shaking his head. “I thought we’d gone over the difference between metaphors, similes, symbols, and images quite sufficiently. You can call it a metaphor to speak of broken hearts, but how do you classify marzipan?”
Who on earth was interested? And since when did classes begin out in the corridor? “A symbol … er … a simile?” I asked hopefully.
Mr. Whitman nodded. “Yes, although not a very good one,” he said, laughing. Then he turned serious again. “You look tired, Gwyneth. You’ve been lying awake all night brooding, at odds with the world, am I right?”
So what business of his was it? And I could do without his sympathetic tone of voice too.
He sighed. “All this is rather too much for you.” He was fidgeting with the signet ring that he wore as one of the Guardians. “That was only to be expected. Maybe Dr. White could prescribe you something to help you at least to sleep at night.” I cast him an indignant glance, whereupon he gave me an encouraging smile before he turned and went into the classroom ahead of us.
“Did I fail to hear properly, or did Mr. Whitman just suggest giving me sleeping pills?” I asked Lesley. “Right after letting me know I looked terrible, I think.”
“Just like him!” snorted Lesley. “He wants you to be a puppet of the Guardians all day and then drugged out of your mind at night so as to keep you from getting any ideas of your own. Well, he’s not fooling us.” She energetically brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “We’re going to show those Guardians that they underestimate you.”
“Hm,” I said doubtfully, but Lesley was looking at me with grim determination.
“We’ll draw up our master plan at first break in the girls’ toilets.”
* * *
ANYWAY, MR. WHITMAN was wrong. I didn’t look tired (I’d checked in the mirror in the girls’ toilets several times), and oddly enough, I didn’t feel tired, either. After our nocturnal treasure hunt, I’d soon fallen asleep again, and this time the nightmares stayed away. It could be I’d even had a nice dream, because in those magic seconds between sleeping and waking, I’d felt confident and hopeful. Although it’s true that when I was fully awake the gloomy realities came back into my mind, first and foremost: Gideon was only pretending to love me.
However, a little of that hopeful mood had lasted into daytime. Maybe that was because I’d finally had a few hours’ uninterrupted sleep. Or possibly it had occurred to me, even in my dreams, that galloping consumption could be cured these days. Then again, it could just be that my tear ducts were empty.
“Do you think it’s possible that maybe Gideon set out to make me fall in love with him, but then he really did fall in love with me himself, kind of by mistake?” I cautiously asked Lesley when we were packing up our things after classes. I’d avoided the subject all morning, so as to have a clear head when we were drawing up this master plan, but now I just had to talk about the idea or I’d have burst.
“Yes,” said Lesley after a moment’s hesitation.
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“Maybe that was what he still had to tell you yesterday evening. I mean, in films we always get so annoyed with those artificial misunderstandings that are meant to heighten suspense before the happy ending, although a few words could clear them up for good.”
