Drop (4 page)

“Check.”

“Spatula.”

“Coming at ya.” I smile, then inwardly groan at saying such a dorkish thing.

Finn scoops some bubbles onto the spatula, holds it in the Bunsen flame and, CRACK! They explode with a bang.

“This is why I like Chemistry, tiger.”

I stand outside the lab, paralyzed from the waist down. Panic. Everyone has disappeared to their next lessons. The bell’s about to ring, but I have no idea where to find the English room. There’s a map on the wall and I’m frantically trying to find E3. I glance from my timetable to the map and back again.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Finn puts a hand on my shoulder.

I point to my timetable. “E3. It doesn’t seem to be on here.”

“That’s because it’s
not
on there. You know what? This map is old. E3’s in the new wing.” He traces a finger over an oblong shape. His watch catches the light. Looks expensive. “This part of the building was demolished, like, six months ago. Come on, I’ll show you where E3 is.”

“It’s like this school is conspiring to make things as difficult as possible for new students. Invisible rooms. Identical corridors. Non-existent buildings.”

“Yeah, they don’t make it easy.”

“Won’t you be late for your lesson?” I ask.

“Mr Wilkinson will live. Come on. It’s this way.”

“Is that your thing? Late for everything?”

“One whole morning and she has me all figured out!” Finn shrugs. “Let’s just say, I run to my own schedule.”

I follow him along the corridor and through a set of cobalt-blue doors.

“Thanks,” I say. “I was starting to get the fear.”

“It’s lucky I’m never on time for anything then. It means I can go around being the hero, saving girls from perilous situations like facing the wrath of ” – he glances at my timetable – “Mr Rochester.” Finn smiles an easy smile. “So how come you’re only just joining the year?”

“My mum changed jobs. We moved from Nottingham on Saturday.”

“You don’t sound very northern,” he says.

“We weren’t there long. Less than a year. I was born in Southampton, but we moved around a lot. What about you?”

“London. Born and bred. OK, I’m from Watford originally. But close enough. So if you need a guide, maybe I could show you what magical delights London can offer? Teach you some Cockney. Although I’d have to learn it myself first. And I promise I won’t pounce on you.”

We walk through a maze of blue corridors and although I should be making a mental map for later, I find myself distracted by Finn, tucking my hair behind my ear one too many times, smiling coyly, attempting to make jokes and cringing inside at every word that falls from my mouth.

“Thanks. I could do with some help fitting in.”
Cringe.

“I think you’ll fit in just fine.”
Smile.

“Here we are.” Finn puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me through some more blue doors, “I Adam and Eve it’s up the apple and pears, and to the right,” he says in an appalling East End accent. “Be careful, Mr Rochester can be a pain in the bottle and glass.”

“I thought you didn’t know Cockney.”

“That’s the best I’ve got to offer.”

“Well, Tom Hanks.”

“Huh?”

“Thanks. Tom Hanks. Rhyming slang for thanks.”

“Right. If you say so. See you later, tiger.”

When I get home, Dad is stacking boxes in the garage.

“Look what I found.” He pulls out a canvas with a purple flower painted on, another with a boat on a choppy sea, then an underwater scene with a seahorse.

“Oh, here’s a good one.” A penguin and a rabbit frolicking on a hillside.

“I never was that great with geography.”

“Pity penguins aren’t native to England. You used to take commissions, you know. Tenner a canvas. Rather enterprising at seven years old.”

“How much would you pay now? I could do with some new jeans and maybe an iPad.”

“You’ll be lucky! As it happens, I already own several masterpieces. So, sorry, no iPad today. How was your first day?”

“I survived.”

“I should hope so.”

I tell Dad about my teachers and Lauren and Sienna. He seems satisfied that the transition to school number eight has been relatively painless.

“I thought we could have baked potatoes and salad for tea.”

“Great.”

I don’t bother asking where Mum is. It’ll be the same old story. She’ll probably pop up on the news later, reporting some story about a newly discovered subatomic do-hickey or a goat that’s given birth to a duck or something.

Later, Dad and I sit down to tea together. Ravenous after the not-so-filling half-roll I had for lunch, I eat it in, like, five seconds flat, then crash out on my bed, exhausted.

My first week draws to a close. Finn and Havelock have locked horns a few times. Nothing major. Seems to me Finn’s just the chatty type. With a slight timekeeping issue. Mostly Havelock ignores him. Maybe he’s given up on him. But I think he just plain likes him. Maybe Finn has won him over.

It must be kind of empowering to get one up on a teacher. We’re sixteen and seventeen after all. Sixteen is almost fully fledged, one-hundred-per-cent adult. We’re able to make our own decisions and do whatever we want. Get
B
s instead of
A
s. Score sixty-five percent rather than seventy-five.

Not me. I pile so much pressure on myself to achieve. I always have.

I envy Finn. He seems free. I’d like to be assertive like him.

By Thursday, I’m accepted into the seventy-five-per-cent-or-more club, with Lauren and Sienna, a small urban family of three. Actually they are pretty interesting. Lauren is down-to-earth and intelligent. Sienna is really driven. I like them a lot.

But I keep thinking I want something more. I feel drawn to Finn and his crowd like Juliet to Romeo, spaghetti to meatballs. Here I am, ready to make potentially lifelong friends, vocal talents permitting. I bloody well want to be cool for once. Not uber-popular, just stylish, interesting … not afraid to be myself… Only, I’m not quite sure who “myself” is.

At lunch on Friday, Lauren invites me to watch the hockey game that evening. Hockey is big at Thorncroft and there’s a match against Chainey Lane, another school in the borough. I’m chuffed to be asked. I feel there’s a real possibility of a friendship lasting longer than six months. Bonus. But while I’m glad to be making friends, something twists in me when we arrive together pitch-side. Doubt creeps around my middle and tightens. I feel
terrible
. Lauren is just the sort of mate I ought to be making, but…

Finn’s crowd stands on the sidelines, watching Greg thrash his hockey stick about on the AstroTurf. Violet drapes an arm around Finn’s shoulder. He’s more interested in the game. And me, apparently. I catch him glancing my way more than once.

I don’t know why I’m getting this attention. I’m not complaining, quite the opposite, but it puts me on edge. I’m torn between two worlds. Lauren could be a great friend, so why do I want to jump ship and swim as fast as I can to Finn’s island? It’s more than a physical attraction, it’s his confidence, knowing that people accept and respect you…

Greg expertly weaves the ball through the opposing players. There are some violent tackles.

Lauren’s phone rings. She answers it, then wanders away from the pitch in order to hear better.

I open my sketchbook and begin to draw. I work quickly, doing loads of rough drawings, trying to capture the sense of movement. Then I start sketching Finn. His long legs, his T-shirt clinging tightly to his torso, the scratches on his arms. I notice another graze on the side of his high cheekbone.

“What are you drawing?”

Lauren leans in to see what I’m doing and I instantly snap the book shut.

“Nothing.” She shoots me an “if you say so” look. “Honestly, it’s nothing. Just the hockey players.”

Greg rushes past us, as if on skates.

“He’s really fast,” I say. The other players can’t match his pace. It’s easy to see why he’s captain. I open my book again and continue sketching, filling in shadows, totally engrossed.

“Carla.” Lauren nudges me on the arm.

“What?” I look up.

“When I said you could draw me any time, I wasn’t serious,” Finn says, a twinkle in his eye. He taps the page. “This is really good.”

I’m mute, crushed with embarrassment. I open and close my mouth like a gormless fish.
I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself
.

“See you on Monday,” says Finn, turning to wave as he jogs off, probably back to some glorious mansion.

“Smooth,” Lauren says sarcastically.

I can’t speak. The horror of Finn catching me drawing him is too much.

Greg passes the ball to another attacker, who pelts it between a defender’s legs and back to Greg, who’s run into the circle, near the goal. The angle seems too tight but Greg whacks it to the back of the net. Unstoppable. The goalie doesn’t have a chance.

I wish I was like that, invincible, right on target, heading for a new life. Instead, I’m a
mentalist stalker
who secretly draws people she’s just met.

I’m never going to get over this,
ever
.

HE CAUGHT ME DRAWING HIM. OHMYGOD, I’M SUCH A
LOSER
.

By Monday morning, after beating myself up all weekend over it, I still can’t get the sketching incident out of my head. Walking to school, watching my feet, I’m desperate to disappear, or for school to disappear so I don’t have to face Finn. Cyclists zoom past. As one clips my arm, I realize I’ve strayed into the road and jerk back onto the pavement, cursing the bike as it speeds off.

And then I see them, Finn and his brother, standing among waist-high bushes between two buildings. Are they trying to hide, or get caught, or signal danger to the next tribe? UNDER-AGE SMOKERS HERE. Neon lights.

Finn leans against the brick wall of the doctors’ surgery, eyes closed as he sucks a rollie like milkshake through a straw. He looks so good. His blue T-shirt, pushed back by the wind, accentuates his skinny but toned torso. I see a new set of scratches on his forearms. Maybe the Masterson household is a cat household. An evil, scratchy cat household.

Then I get why they’re standing like that. They’re there for us normal people to admire as we shuffle past, trying not to miss the bell.

I hope to whatever deity is up there that he doesn’t see me.

“Hey! Hey, Carla!” Finn calls. Busted. Why would he possibly want to talk to me after Friday?

1. I’m about as interesting as a pot plant.

2. Lest we forget, I fucking
drew
him.

3. He caught me doing it.

Then I think about it. Maybe it’s time to become self-assured, like him. Is this my chance? Start anew as Carla Mark II? Tomorrow’s another day and all that? I take a deep breath.

“Hey, tiger!” Finn yells.

I stop, turn, and head straight for him. Nearing the bushes, I take in his baby-face features, long eyelashes and hairless chin. Impossibly handsome. My stomach feels like it’s been teleported out of my body onto the roof. Somehow, I walk steadily over, keeping eye contact, like I’m being pulled on a thread. Not tripping up like I’m Ugly fucking Betty. Without my jeans spontaneously falling down. Without, like, accidentally serenading him. It’s a freaking miracle.

“Hey,” I squeak.
This is it, Carla. Get a grip.
“You like Chemistry.” I manage to exhale a lame statement.
Great.

Finn doesn’t seem to notice. Am I red? I feel like I’m totally tomatoed.

“You wanna twos me?” he asks.

“I don’t smoke,” I say. But confidence rises from nowhere and I take the rollie, hold it for a second, then take a drag. Boldness jolts me upright. Something awakens inside me. Like I’ve taken a teeny step from uncool kid to something better. I like it. I feel a bit sick, but I like it. I don’t cough.

My rebel gene is kicking in.

“Are you sure about that?” he asks. “Looks like you do.”

I shrug, not knowing what to say, and hand the rollie back.

Finn takes a pack of tobacco from his back pocket, flicks it open and pulls out a clump, along with a paper and a filter, which his fingers magically transform into a rollie. I go to take it, but he pulls his hand away. Cocking an eyebrow, he slips the rollie behind my ear, pushing back my hair.