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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lucas
Age 15
Sometimes I do stupid things, and I know it’s stupid before, during and after I do it, but I still do it anyway. It’s like I can’t help myself.
Today’s stupid thing was writing a Valentine’s Day love letter, which is literally disgusting. It makes me sick. Yesterday, the boys and I were talking about how gross and cringey the whole love letter thing is at our school. Yet, I still found myself writing one last night anyway. Mum has a whole stack of blank Valentine’s Day cards that she can’t use now. She always bought Dad chocolates and teddies and flowers. I don’t think Dad ever bought her anything in return.
Anyway, I started writing in the card without thinking, and the words just came out. At least I remembered to change my handwriting. I wanted the letters to look like they’d been typed by a computer. I pushed the letter into the dumbass mailbox thing in student reception this morning when he came in. I thought he’d know what I was up to, but he barely noticed me, to be honest. I had to start the conversation first, as usual, and when I noticed he had a letter in his hand, my heart started to race. I asked him who the lucky girl was, but his cheeks just turned red and he didn’t say anything. So, I thought, maybe it wasn’t a girl after all. And why was he so embarrassed to tell me? Maybe it was…
I won’t tell anyone this, not even on my death bed, but I checked my locker like every fifteen minutes. The people in charge of the love letter delivery did not do a good job because everyone’s letters only arrived at the end of the day. Let me tell you, I practically ran to my locker. Okay, I didn’t run, because that would be embarrassing, but I did walk faster than usual. Two girls were in front of my locker, waving their letters, and I barked at them to get out of the way. When I opened my locker, a whole bunch fell out. I think there were eight or nine? Most of them were from twelvies — I mean, I don’t know for sure, since they were anonymous, but the handwriting suggested they were — and I chucked them out immediately. I looked through the rest.
None. Not a single one had his handwriting. And even if he disguised his handwriting the way I did, I would still know it was him. I know the way he phrases things, the kind of words he uses.
But no. His wasn’t there.
I could only be depressed for so long, because the other guys wandered over and started wolf-whistling and reading the letters I received, and I didn’t even care, because none of them were his. If I did get the one I wanted, there’s no way I’d let anyone else touch it.
That’s when some of the guys started yelling about Charlie receiving a letter, and I looked over to where he stood by his locker, and that’s when I thought about killing myself. Especially when Charlie heard us shouting and looked over at us and into my eyes, then scrunched up the letter. My letter.
Later, he threw it into the bin by the bus stop. I don’t know why he did that. Okay, it wasn’t the most grand, elaborate confession of love. English is my worst subject anyway, it’s not like I was going to write something incredible. But it was honest. When he threw the letter away, it felt like he kicked me in the chest.
I thought about crawling up into a ball. Then, I thought about shoving him. But the temptation to crawl into a ball was stronger, and so I had to focus on the anger, the hot embarrassment, to keep a straight face.
I marched up to him and showed him the letter that Joan wrote me, and under the satisfaction of making him feel as terrible as he made me feel, was the sick realisation that he cared about Joan. That he liked her the way I liked him.
I’m going to date Joan, then dump her in about a week, just to make a point. I’m being a dick, but at least I’m self-aware. Besides, this is the only idea I have to stop feeling so shit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Now
“How’s Lucas?” Jemima asks from across the table.
It’s been three weeks, and Lucas and I only speak when we have to, with overly polite words. Yesterday, when I was looking for disinfectant spray under the kitchen sink, Lucas said “excuse me” as he leaned over me to fill up his water bottle. I’ve never heard him say “excuse me” before in his life. I’d be less shocked if a dog got up on its hind legs and said, “I beg your pardon.”
When I noticed him, I jolted so much that I almost buried my face in his thigh. I ended up crash-correcting a little too much, leaping back and bumping the back of my head against the dishwasher.
“Ow,” I said automatically. Lucas looked down at me for a second that felt like an hour. His mouth parted, but he seemed to think better of it and left the kitchen.
That was just one example. Every interaction I have with Lucas is so awkward, it makes me want to squeeze my eyes shut and groan.
“That bad, huh?” Jemima says when an eternity has passed and I still haven’t replied.
Jemima insisted on catching up today because, in her words, that’s what family does. When I met her at this cafe, she seemed normal enough. Her hair was decorated with one cherry barrette above one ear, and a strawberry barrette above the other, and like aways, she convinced me to be the one to talk to the waiter. But the way she’s looking at me now, similar to the way a GP looks at you when you’re describing a rash, makes me wonder if this is some sort of interrogation.
“As soon as I mentioned Lucas, your face twisted up like you tasted something bad,” she explains.
“He’s just annoying,” I mutter. “I’m sick of living with him.”
“Is that why you look so depressed?” she asks.
“I look depressed? I’m not depressed,” I add.
“You look exhausted, you haven’t smiled once all morning, and Mum said that every time she’s called, you sound like a robot.”
My shoulders slump. “Jemima, don’t tell me Mum put you up to this.”
