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If I had to guess, I’d say that the girl was religious and waiting for marriage. Although the thought of Lucas caring for someone that much — waiting and waiting and waiting for her — makes me feel strange. Almost…sad and…jealous. I’d never admit that out loud, though.
Lucas forces his lips upwards in a sad smile. “You’d be surprised, Charlie.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Then
The closest I got to romance (if I can even call it that) before Cleo was in Year 9, when I was fifteen. It had been two years since Lucas and I had our friendship breakup, and he’d grown increasingly mean. Year 9 was arguably when he was the worst though. I think everyone in our year level was a bit of a dick, reaching the peak of hormone-fuelled nastiness. I wasn’t an exception — I also would complain about everything, roll my eyes at my parents and refuse to participate in class. That was probably the age I was most negative. The age I hated everything and everyone.
Except for one person: Joan.
Like me, Joan spent her lunchtimes by herself. She still wore her seventies style glasses and no makeup, and while other girls were usually nice to her, it was clear that they thought she was strange because she didn’t seem to care about being popular or putting effort into her appearance.
The difference between Joan and I, though, was that I secretly wished I fit in more, whereas Joan genuinely didn’t seem to care. She didn’t linger around the lockers, like she was waiting for someone to talk to. She didn’t survey every classroom, searching for the best place to sit. She just walked to and from class like she was off in her own world.
Slowly, Joan and I became acquaintances, if not friends. In most classes, Lucas and the other popular kids would sit at the back. Everyone else would sit in the middle rows. Joan would sit in the front, at one end, and I’d usually sit at the other end. When we had to do partner work, we’d end up together.
In sports, when we played games like dodgeball or softball, we’d quickly get out and sit on the sidelines. During lunchtime, we’d run into each other in the library. We’d talk about the books we were borrowing and we’d give each other recommendations. Then we’d start playing card games and chess.
By then, we were definitely friends, especially when we started opening up about deeper topics. Joan told me that she hated the way girls in our year level could be so judgemental. They’d make passive aggressive comments if you had an old phone model, or if you spent too long talking to a boy they deemed popular. Joan told me one time, on casual clothes day, one of the girls complimented her for not caring about what other people think of her outfits. Joan said she acted unaffected but admitted that the comment hurt, deep down. “It’s so stupid how much people care about other people’s opinions. Everyone’s so fake. They’re just acting the way they think other people want them to act.”
“You don’t act like you care about what other people think.”
“Because I don’t. But sometimes I do.”
I stared out the library window. On the oval, a crowd of boys were playing soccer. Lucas was the tallest among them, his head visible above the mass of bodies. “I don’t think it’s stupid to want to be liked.”
“Yeah, but people decide whether they like you for the stupidest reasons. Like how you style your hair or how many people have crushes on you or whether you go to parties on the weekend. They don’t care if you’re a decent person, or any other important quality. If you show that you care about something, you’re cringe and a try-hard. If you study, you’re a nerd. If you put effort into your appearance, you’re an attention whore, and if you don’t, you’re lazy. If you tell the truth or offer criticism, you’re mean, but if you’re nice, then you’re a liar and a push-over.”
“Do you like me?” I asked. The question blurted out of me before I could think better of it.
“Yes,” Joan said.
I blinked. “Why?”
“You’re honest. I can trust you, and you don’t judge me the way others do. So, I feel like I can say what I want around you. That’s why I like your company so much.”
And in that moment, Joan suddenly became the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. It was instantaneous, the way I suddenly noticed how big and bright her eyes were, the elegant way she sat, the pinkness of her lips.
My crush was intense and obvious, because in less than a week, the other boys would throw pieces of paper at my head when they caught me staring at her in class. They’d ask, amongst raucous laughs, when I was going to ask her out. On more than one occasion, they’d forge fake love letters from her and slip them into my locker.
Dear Charlie,
I think you’re hot. Your acne and shortness really get me going. Do you want to do the deed with me?
XO
Joan.
I knew the letters were fake, if not from the content, then definitely from the handwriting. Anyway, the teasing got so bad, especially when they’d do it when Joan was present, and I knew I had to make my move soon.
So, I did, on Valentine’s Day. Our school had a system where you could mail love letters to someone’s locker. In student reception, there was a big cardboard box that had been painted red and decorated with heart stickers. All you had to do was write the recipient’s name on the envelope and the letter would be delivered. It was optional whether to sign your name. I didn’t. I figured it would be obvious to Joan that I was the author of the letter, especially since I’d written, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you.
When I stepped into student reception, my envelope in hand, I ran into the worst person possible: Lucas. To be honest, I didn’t know what he was doing there. Probably trying to get a nurse’s note to get out of art class, since he thought it was a waste of time. He said so loudly every time we had it, but for some reason, the art teacher always ignored him. Most teachers let Lucas get away with crap.
As soon as he saw me, his lips curled into a nasty smile. He started taunting me, asking who the lucky girl was. I ignored him and batted off his hands when he tried to take the envelope off me. Quickly, I shoved the letter through the slit in the red box and walked off.
It was only once I’d returned to my locker, I wondered whether mailing my love letter and leaving was a good idea. What if Lucas opened the box, rifled through the letters, pulled out mine and read it?
