Love-shy (4 page)

MS DARLING: When you're quite done there, Jamal.

JAMAL: Sorry, Ms Darling.

Verdict: Not love-shy.

In the breaks between pieces I also interviewed the bassoonist, and two of the male clarinettists. No joy there. The bassoonist assumed I was doing an article for the paper, and droned on and on about how the bassoon was such an overlooked instrument, yet essential to the overall tone and timbre of an orchestra. The two clarinettists had nothing of interest to say, but they didn't seem uncomfortable talking to me, and judging by the obscene gestures they were always making with their clarinets, they were definitely not shy about expressing their alleged familiarity with the female anatomy. As everyone packed up their instruments, I pulled the yearbook out of my bag and drew big crosses in pink highlighter over the faces of Jamal, the bassoonist and the two clarinettists. Not even one yellow ‘maybe'. Still, each face I highlighted in pink was one face closer to
PEZZ
imist's true identity.

I had a free period after lunch, so I headed to the library to finish an article I was writing for the school paper about gender imbalance in our English syllabus. I picked a seat where I could also stake out the computer where I'd first discovered the love-shy website. Maybe
PEZZ
imist would come back.

I scribbled a few sentences for my article in my notebook, then googled ‘love-shyness' on my phone. I could write the gender imbalance article later.

I wanted to know why love-shyness only applied to men. Didn't women get love-shy too? The article explained that the
effect
of shyness was different for women, because society had determined ages ago that men had to be the proactive partner in relationships. Equal rights were swept aside when it came to dating. It was the guy who was expected to ask the girl out – and it was also the guy who was supposed to
propose
to the girl. So shy girls would still get asked out and proposed to, but shy guys wouldn't.

The article also claimed that relationships were more important to a man's wellbeing than a woman's. A study of male medical students showed that the ones who got married in their early twenties were happier and more successful than those who were single throughout university. Another study took married and unmarried men and women in their fifties, and found that the unmarried women were the happiest, and the unmarried men were the least happy. This was because women had nurturing, emotional relationships with their friends, and could have proper deep-and-meaningfuls with them while eating ice-cream, whereas men were rubbish at talking about their feelings.

Fair enough, I supposed. Although I wondered where men like my dad fitted into this theory. He was sustaining an intimate, personal relationship with another man. Could gay boys be love-shy?

‘I hope you're working on the introductory speech for tomorrow night, Penny.'

I glanced up to see Hugh Forward, my Year Ten co-captain and fellow debater, with a Biology textbook in one hand and a battered paperback of Walt Whitman poems in the other. He was automatically crossed off my love-shy list because at a cast party for the school play last year he'd tried to stick his tongue in my ear. I'd politely convinced him that this was not a good idea. With my knee. His eyes still watered a little whenever he looked at me, but that was a good thing, because it made him a total pushover when it came to drafting class policies or allocating budgetary resources for social events.

‘What?' I said, craning past him to see if anyone had sat down at the love-shy computer.

‘Tomorrow night,' he said. ‘The Debating semifinal. You didn't forget, did you?'

I laughed with just the right amount of scorn. ‘Don't be ridiculous. It's all under control.' I was pretty sure I could walk in there totally unprepared and still debate the pants off everyone else.

I expected Hugh to walk away, but annoyingly he didn't. ‘What are you doing?' he asked, trying to see the screen of my phone. I quickly turned it over.

‘Writing an article for the
Gazette
,' I said. ‘Did you know that in Year Ten we only study one text written by a woman? And there are no female protagonists on the syllabus from Years Eight to Ten. I mean, what kind of message does that send to our students? Are women's stories not worthy of study? Are the works of women writers not interesting or brave or strong?'

Hugh's eyes began to water at the word
strong
. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Fascinating. Er, I'd better go.'

He scuttled away as I rolled my eyes. Boys. So predictable.

Nobody came to use the computer I was watching.

We were paired up in Chemistry to make formic acid out of oxalic acid and glycerol. I made sure I was paired with a boy.

JESSE KING

Eye contact: Sporadic.
Overt signs of shyness: No.

ME: Have you ever had a girlfriend?

JESSE: Yes. Pass me the filtration flask.

ME: You're doing it wrong. The condenser goes in like
this
. Do you ever experience feelings of anxiety or depression? Do you have any allergies or sensitivities?

JESSE: I'm allergic to onion. It gives me a rash.

ME: How many hours a day do you spend daydreaming about girls?

JESSE: Um. I thought this was Chemistry, not Psychology. Where's the distillation flask?

ME: You're putting in too much oxalic acid! It's only supposed to be 10 mg. Let me do it.

JESSE: Give it
back
! Are you seriously going to do this entire experiment on your own?

ME: I think that would be best, don't you? I mean, if I do it, it'll be
right
. Everybody wins.

JESSE: I think the point of this experiment is to
learn
, not to
win
.

ME: And that is exactly why I am going to go on to have a fabulous career, and you will probably end up underpaid in a dead-end job, too overwhelmed by the bitter reality of your existence to even work up the energy for a mid-life crisis.

JESSE: Hang on. Is that a Dictaphone app? Is it recording? What's going on?

(INTERVIEW TERMINATED BY SUBJECT)

Verdict: Not love-shy.

When I got home, I checked
PEZZimist.blogspot.com
for new posts. Nothing.

I sat at my desk and transcribed today's interviews. Then I pulled out my diary and recorded today's summary:

Interviews: 5
Possible love-shys: 0

I considered adding a third column entitled Brain-addled Morons
,
because clearly I would be meeting plenty of them. But it was a journalist's job to remain objective, so I would just have to rise above the idiocy of my male classmates and continue my search. I felt sure I knew
PEZZ
imist now, from his blog posts. I knew he was different. He wasn't like the rest of the monkeys at our school.
He
lived on a higher plane as well. If only I could
find
him, then I could rescue him from his loneliness. I'd bring his condition to the attention of the world, and when I became rich, maybe I could start some kind of charity or foundation for helping other love-shy boys.

I pulled out my Maths textbook, but I couldn't concentrate on integers and tangents. I kept refreshing
PEZZ
imist's blog and the love-shy forum for new posts. I needed a clue.

The sound of the front door opening, combined with the aroma of a Malaysian banquet, lured me out of my room and into the kitchen. Dad was opening plastic containers and getting plates and chopsticks, while Josh poured two glasses of wine, and a mineral water for me.

Josh looked up as I came in. ‘Hey, Penny.'

I waved at him and grabbed a spring roll to chew on while he and Dad finished unpacking dinner.

‘How's life?'

‘Interesting,' I told him. ‘I'm doing a story for the
Gazette
that involves interviewing every boy in Year Ten.'

Dad and Josh exchanged a Look. ‘Are you hoping to find something in particular?' Dad asked.

I didn't really want to tell them about the whole love-shy thing. Not until I had a better handle on it. ‘It's a sort of anthropological study,' I said, spooning kung pow chicken over my combination fried rice. ‘Just trying to get a breakdown of what makes the Teenage-Boy mind tick.'

‘And it's just boys?'

I nodded.

Dad narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Penny?'

‘Yes?' I snagged a couple of chicken wings. My plate was growing dangerously full. The problem with banquet meals is there's too much deliciousness, and you have to sample all of it.

‘Are you trying to find a boyfriend? Because in my limited experience, shoving a dictaphone in a boy's face is not the best way to get him to like you.'

I grinned as I carried my teetering stack of banquet to the couch. ‘No, Dad. I'm not trying to find a boyfriend. If there's anything I've learned from my first day of interviews, there is no creature more utterly uninteresting than the Teenage Boy. With a
single exception
,' I added, as Dad and Josh exchanged another Look. ‘And that's the Teenage
Girl
.'

After dinner, Dad and Josh settled on the couch to watch
Iron Man 2
, but I pled homework and escaped to my room. I refreshed
PEZZ
imist's blog. Bingo!

19:22
There's a girl. I know what you're thinking. There's always a girl. But this one is different. There is no girl like her. I live and breathe her.
She's the prettiest girl in school. She has long brown hair and kind eyes. She sits with her friends at lunch and I watch her. She has a beautiful smile. I watch her whenever I can, in class, at recess and lunch. Every time I look at her, it feels as if my blood has turned to boiling mercury or icy-cold mineral water. I'm heavy and weightless and hot and cold and fizzy all at once. And I have to look away for a moment. Then I want to run and run and run until I fall down dead. It's always been like this with me. Sometimes I just
feel
so much, I can't believe that the world can contain all of me. I'm afraid that if she ever did love me back, I'd pour so much of myself into her that she'd break apart.
I know what bus she catches and sometimes I can't help catching it too, even though it goes in the opposite direction from my house. I sit behind her and smell the scent of her hair, like sunshine. I imagine walking her home, holding hands. Talking sometimes, and sometimes just being quiet. Smiling.

I didn't have any more luck on Thursday. We had a mock-exam in English in the morning (which was so easy it was insulting), so I didn't get a chance to interview anyone during class. At recess I talked to a few boys playing downball against a wall near the boys' toilets, but they weren't shy about telling me what I could do with my dictaphone. In Physics, I discovered new evidence to suggest that all boys are witless morons.

ZACH HAUSEN

Eye contact: Yes.
Overt signs of shyness: No.

ME: Hey, Zach!

ZACH: Henny Penny Lane, how are things?