My Invisible Boyfriend (4 page)

I used to have other reasons to hate lunchtimes, obviously. Arrive in the middle of a term? You’re already screwed, because every little gang has already planted an invisible flag on their own table. Occasionally cause the Mothership, aka Mrs. Ryder the PE Witch, to come over “just to see how you’re doing, babes?” No one’s going to offer you that spare seat. Get a reputation for potentially coming to lunch with a half-dissected amphibian attached to your bag?

WELD.

UH.

Fortunately, these days I have my pre-reserved spot just like everyone else, so I line up with my plastic tray and shuffle through the line. There’s not a lot left, and somehow I
end up with nothing but four different kinds of potato on my plate by the time I’ve made it through the toxic food sludge. I grab an apple (green, just to add to my Traffic Light rebellion), then weave through the tables, following the sound of Ludo’s giggles.

Our official Leftover Squad corner is looking a little crowded these days, even with Ludo sitting on Peroxide Eric’s lap, wrapped up in the ends of his military coat, and Fili and Simon sitting so close together they might as well be sharing one chair.

“Ryder!” shouts Dai, waving me over. “At long last. We were starting to think you’d turned into the invisible woman.”

Henry stands at once, and offers me his seat.

“Isn’t that the mysterious Yuliya’s job?” he asks, lounging against the back of Dai’s chair, while Dai beams with pride.

Yuliya, the stick insect Russian model, has managed to not turn up to a single class I’m in so far. I’m starting to think I imagined her, too.

“OH MY GOD, like, leave her alone?” Ludo flicks her hair, not noticing that some of it is now tangled in Peroxide Eric’s nose ring. “She probably has to sleep a lot to maintain her complexion.”

“She’s not going to come in here anyway,” says Dai, hovering a hand over my plate, and deciding to steal my apple instead. “Models don’t eat. Well, not food.”

I waggle Potato Variety #1: The Soggy Chip at him. “Don’t think this qualifies.”

“That is SO stereotypical,” says Ludo, swinging her hair again.

There’s a faint groan from behind her. I wince on Peroxide Eric’s behalf. He gives me a grateful grin, as he disentangles himself.

The Mothership has instructed me not to be friends with “the new boy with all the metal in his face,” but then she says that about everyone. So far, he seems to be sitting back and observing Finchworld with a kind of bemused smile, and I can get behind that.

“I’m just saying, she’s probably got her reasons, which are probably, like, none of our business? And she’s Fili’s new roomie, you know? So we should TOTALLY be making her feel welcome.”

“Very true,” says Dai, through a mouthful of apple. “So what
is
she like, then?”

We all look at Fili.

Fili patters her fingertips on the table, and narrows her eyes. Then she seems to notice that everyone’s staring, hanging on her words. “She’s…tall,” she says eventually.

We wait, but that seems to be all we’re getting.

(I understand, though. She means:
I think things I don’t want to say right now.
Fili-code isn’t so hard to follow once you know her. Sometimes she likes to work things out in her head properly before committing them to the open air, that’s all. She can come out with whole paragraphs when it’s just us two, swinging our legs on the balance beam. We still haven’t got around to doing that yet this term, but, hey, it’s
been busy, with the new classes, and settling in, and Simon. There’s not really room for three of us out there.)

“Simon? Anything you’d like to add? Like, actual information of some kind?” says Dai.

Simon frowns, and says slowly, “She has really big hands.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Finch gossip scandal of the year.”

“Unless there’s a thrilling story about how he found out she has really big hands?” suggests Henry, nudging Dai with his elbow.

Simon frowns again, blinking apologetically at Fili through his wispy black hair. “I just…looked?”

Fili pats his hand, reassuringly, and he looks a bit less terrified. It’s sort of adorable, how puppylike he is.

Dai sighs heavily. “It’s so worthwhile, knowing the people with the inside scoop.”

“She’s doing PAG,” says Fili, softly.

“OH MY GOD!” squeaks Ludo, eliciting another pained grunt from Peroxide Eric as he rubs ruefully at his ear. “Really? That’s so awesome! We’ll be, like, best friends! There’ll probably be press photographers coming to see it and everything!”

I stab a lump in my gray mash. “PAG?”

“Performing Arts Group,” says Henry. “We put on the Wassail show? With Venables?”

I nod. Everyone was still talking about the Wassail show when I arrived last January. It’s the Christmas play, really,
but the Finch likes to think it’s progressive and embraces all cultures (as long as they can pay the fees), so they can’t call it that. There are still photos all over the music rooms of the Main Hall set up with the posh auditorium seating that sort of folds out of the walls, with Henry in a purple cloak peering out from behind a curtain, and Big Dai dressed up as the Cowardly Lion. Dai looks more like a Cowardly Koala, but there’s a Tin Man and a Scarecrow and Gillian Gerhardt in gingham, so I’m assuming the continental detour was an accident. And I know Venables, even though I’ve managed to escape his classes so far. He’s got a little love posse who follow him round adoringly, and quite possibly leave apples on his desk. Even the Mothership’s always going on about how hilarious he is in the staff room. I don’t really get it. All I see is one of those teachers who wears skinny jeans even though he’s going bald, wants everyone to call him Phil, and likes to sit cross-legged on the floor so he can “feel the vibe, man.”

“Auditions, next Wednesday,” says Dai.

“Can you believe there were only, like, TWENTY places on the sheet for the Lower School? And you just KNOW that Scheherezade Adams was going to put herself down for, like, ALL of them.”

“But, Mr. Venables!” lisps Henry, tilting his head into a scarily accurate impersonation, only with a bit less cleavage. “It simply wouldn’t be fair on the people who’ve bought tickets if I didn’t play heroine and hero! It’s
so
much modern that way.”

“Don’t worry, Ryder, I signed us all up.”

Peroxide Eric sweeps Ludo’s hair aside, and raises a hand. “Not me. Not exactly my scene.”

It’s not exactly my scene, either. I give good audience. I am well trained in the art of viewing. Participation, not so much.

But maybe that’s the old Heidi talking. I’m Heidi-with-a-boyfriend. Heidi-with-a-boyfriend could be in a play.

“They have non-speaking roles,” says Fili, softly.

“Scenery, lighting, music…” Dai has his best encouraging face on.

“Costume!” bellows Ludo, tugging on The Coat gleefully and nearly yanking my head off.

I squish down the tiny inner mumble of disappointment that even Heidi-with-a-boyfriend is not expected to wow the school with her undiscovered acting talent. A good detective should be watching from the wings anyway. It’s like Mycroft Christie says in episode 1.11, “Noises Off”:
One can’t see who’s pulling the strings if one is one of the puppets.

Dai’s phone beeps. “Sorry, kiddies, must fly,” he says, chucking my half-eaten apple back on my tray. “The weights room is calling. Time to get sweaty.”

Henry smirks, and murmurs something in Dai’s ear.

“You can’t go now!” Ludo’s bobbing about on Peroxide Eric’s knee, like a five-year-old who needs a wee. “I know a thing about the thing!”

Fili glances at me, then gives her a stern look. “Ludo?”

“We’re not talking about the thing,” says Dai sternly. “The
thing is none of our business, remember? Unless the thingee wants to share?”

They all look at me.

“I’m a
thingee
?”

“Oh, come ON,” moans Ludo, her knees jiggling up and down. “The BOY? The super-mysterious secret boyfriend? The more gorgeous than Etienne Gracey boy we’re all dying to know about, WHOSE NAME I MIGHT HAPPEN TO KNOW?”

They all look intrigued. “They” includes me.

Ludo strangles me again, hauling on my collar and thrusting the inner lining of The Coat at Dai.

“HELLO? The coat OBVIOUSLY belongs to the super-mysterious secret boy, because, duh, why else would she be wearing it? And what does it say in the coat?”

Dai leans in. I crane my head around to see the neatly sewn nametape under the hanging loop that I’ve never really paid any attention to.

“Hartley,” he reads.

“How romantic,” says Henry.

Hartley.
It sounds sort of familiar. I’ve probably seen it written there before without really noticing, the way you walk past the same row of shops all the time but couldn’t put them in order without them right in front of your nose.

“So, Ryder, does Hartley have a first name, or are you two sticking with the kinky boarding school thing?”

I take a deep breath.

They continue to all stare at me.

I can’t do it: not lie straight to their faces. I’m coming clean. I’m telling the truth.

We all simply want to belong.

“Ed,” I say. “His name’s Ed.”

I have no idea where it came from: The words just pop out before I can inspect them for Paddington stationesque plot holes. But I like it. I picture the little gingerbread dude Betsy gave me. I’ve saved him: propped him up on my bedside table, guarding Agatha Christie.

“Aww, look, she’s gone all girly,” squeaks Ludo, and I realize I’m grinning.

Ed Hartley. My boyfriend’s name is Ed Hartley. Gingerbread Ed.

EX.

SELL.

LEANT.

Now that he’s got a name, the rest of the ingredients are going to just fall in my lap. I can feel it. I’m not just audience now. I get an executive producer credit. I’m the show runner for
Heidi!
, the heartwarming yet hilarious tale of a plucky gal and her imaginary friend (not to be confused with that thing up a mountain, with the goats).

Time for me to put my detective skills to work, starting with the basics: interrogation.

Mycroft Christie shines bright light in the eyes of the guys he’s fleecing for information. I don’t see why nonsentient baked people should be any different. I take the gingerbread man from his perch beside my Pinocchio alarm clock and prop him up against the base of my desk lamp. One of his eyes got a bit squished while I was bringing him home, and he’s starting to look sort of sweaty, but we can put that down to my intimidating detective demeanor. He still smells delicious, though. I’d be tempted to eat him, if that didn’t open up a whole can of associated dodge now that he’s my boyfriend.

Interrogation #1 goes something like this:

A tiny cell. Heidi sits on her chair backward. The gingerbread man stays standing, due to his legs not being bendy.

HEIDI: Hello, sexy. Please inform me of your vital statistics.

GINGERBREAD MAN: (enigmatic silence)

HEIDI: OK, perhaps the “sexy” thing is a bit forward. Please don’t sue me for sexual harassment?

GINGERBREAD MAN: (enigmatic silence)

HEIDI: Although, come to think of it, you are technically naked, so we’re probably about even on the inappropriate behavior front.

GINGERBREAD MAN: (enigmatic silence)

HEIDI: So, what kind of music are you into? Who would win in a fight: astronauts or cavemen? Boxers or briefs?

GINGERBREAD MAN: (enigmatic silence: possible sarcastic expression)

Mycroft Christie makes this look easy. But he has a leather-clad sexy sidekick to help him. And maybe my Gingerbread Ed’s like Mycroft: one of those stoic noble types, who gets tied to a chair and thumped about once a week, till he just wriggles prettily and then escapes.

Or maybe Mycroft Christie has just never tried to interrogate a gingerbread man.

OK, this is getting embarrassing.

FOE.

CUSS.

Betsy said to keep it simple. To stick to something familiar. I’m going about this all wrong: trying to come up with a brand-new imaginary person, when I can just borrow one. Trying to
be
the hero, when the hero’s what I’m hunting. After all, there’s one person I already know inside out and backward. And he’s definitely the type to wear The Coat.

Interrogation #2:

A dimly lit penthouse, belonging to time-traveling gentleman detective Mycroft Christie. He returns home to find a young lady mixing him a cocktail. It’s not his usual colleague, Jori Song, but the equally foxalicious Miss Heidi Ryder.

HEIDI: Good evening, Mycroft. I’m from the Time Bureau, here to give you your new assignment.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Time Bureau? Madam, there’s no such thing!

HEIDI: Ooh! That’s from episode 1.4, “Lost in Metropolis,” the scene in the Chinese restaurant where the evil journalist woman tries to expose you. Right before you pour soup all over yourself so you can run away. I love that bit.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (attractive crinkly smile) It appears you know me rather well.

HEIDI: Episode 1.13, “Cavalry,” when it looks like you’re about to tell Jori everything, and then don’t. And yes, I do know you rather well. Almost as if I’m some sort of scary obsessive fangirl with your entire life on DVD. Or something. Anyway, this new assignment. I need you to go undercover as my boyfriend.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I can’t cook. I’m terribly afraid of the dark. I have a severe allergy to bee stings, shrimp, and unrequited love.

HEIDI: Perfect! I am taking notes. No quoting from season 3 allowed, though. That’s when you grew The Horrible Beard. Ed can’t have a Horrible Beard.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: When I was just a little older than you, I fell off my hoverbike and broke my leg in three places.

HEIDI: No hoverbikes, either.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I was nursed back to health by the most charming young woman.

HEIDI: Bingo! I smell a potential “How We Met” anecdote! You’re pretty good at this. Anymore?

THE MOTHERSHIP: Hi, babes!

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (breaks chair over her head for interrupting)

HEIDI: Er. Don’t do that. Well, do, but not right now?