Super Awkward (15 page)

“That was
yesterday
Mum; this is
today
. We've all moved on. Accidents happen.”

“If you say so. . .”

We both knew she wasn't convinced, but we both also knew that if she carried on the questioning, there might be an unwanted bladder-based carpet puddle situation.

As we drove, I did what I'd been doing since Zac had first arranged meeting up. Running through what would happen at 10.01. The first sighting since Black Bay. How would we greet each other? My usual awkward wave? No, shameful. A handshake? Too parental. A kiss on the cheek? Too forward? Argh?! What were the rules here? It was times like this I really could have done with some advice from Tegan. Although she would have probably suggested a massive stab in the back.

Mum pulled up at the bus stop. I opened the car door.

“Thanks for the lift. See you later.”

“When can I expect you back?”

Why
couldn't she have asked me all this before I was halfway out of the car and at risk of being spotted mid mum-lift?

“Dunno, seven. Ish. Eight?”

“Well, let me know. I'll be at a goat-milk-soap-making workshop until four but can pick up messages.” Fingers crossed none of that soap ever makes it home.

“Cool, good luck. Soap it goes well.” I smiled at her. See – happy Bella! Nothing-to-worry-about Bella! So-you-can-leave-me-alone-now Bella.

“Oooh, is that them over there?” She pointed to the alley by Sainsbury's.

“No, Mum, I think they're homeless people.”

“Oh right, I can never tell these days. I thought that sort of hair was fashionable again. It's so wild, I love it!”

The give-away clue should have been that wild hair or not, keen players of netball probably don't sleep outside TK Maxx. Unless there's a mega sale on. Oh well. I waved her off and sat on the bench. Ten minutes. Tick tock. Please don't let him be early. That would be unfair.

Do I look relaxed enough? Got to stop tapping my foot. Do I look OK? Did I check for any foundation lines? Or Cheerios stuck in my teeth? My spot feels
bigger
than when I left. Has the cover-up made it go flaky and more noticeable than if I'd just left it alone?

I looked at my watch. Eight minutes. This is torture. I'm never being early/on-time for anything again. Is he here? Still no. Got to stop looking up every five seconds. I rummaged in my bag and tapped at my phone like I was reading an imaginary message. What a very funny imaginary message it was. Hahahaha. Imaginary thinking face for an equally hilarious response. Pretend typing. Pretend send. Pretend satisfied face. Phone back in bag.

Seven minutes.

What am I going to say to him when he actually gets here?
If
he gets here. I looked back at my revision notes: some sort of weird political scandal about mortgages, what mortgages actually are, the Brontë sisters (who I'm imaginary-college studying, along with my imaginary art course, and whatever imaginary option pops out of my mouth), Alex Turner songs past and present (Zac mentioned he ‘quite liked' the Arctic Monkeys), Andy Warhol (big hair, paints soup), and towns in the UK (that I may or may not be hypothetically going to for Uni). Must remember Leeds is in the north, but Leeds Castle is south. Why do map people try and confuse
me
so?! I put my phone away, all the info instantly disappearing with it.

Five minutes.

I reapplied my free magazine lipgloss even though I'd applied ten layers in the last two minutes. Stop putting more on, moron.

Four minutes.

What if my mind goes blank and I can't think of anything at all to talk about and we have the world's longest ever awkward silence? Oh crapballs, it might never end. It could be a record breaker. Night could fall and everything and we'd still be here on this bench, in silence, me looking at my feet and sporadically replying to imaginary messages.

“Boo!”

Aaaaaargh! I threw my lipgloss on the floor. Zac! The Zacman! He's here! And I'm totally unprepared!

“Zaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaac!” I screeched back, sounding more like small bat than alluring female. Interesting technique – avoid awkward silence by being awkward loud instead. I leapt up from the bench. Wowsers, even in full daylight he was still the most gorgeous boy I'd ever seen – and I like to think the internet has enabled me to see at least ninety per cent of all boys.

“
Well, are you going to give me a hug hello?”

“Er, yeah?! Huggalo, here I come!” Oh dear. That was meant to be a brain-thought, not a mouth-shout. He stretched out his arms and I flung mine around him brushing my hand against some sort of actual six-pack action. My knee buckled with the intense swooningness of this contact, resulting in me then pretending I had a small bit of grit in my shoe. It could only get better if an open-top bus tour of Worcester (which doesn't exist as there's nothing to see) pulled up alongside us and pointed out, using a loud hailer AND laser pointer, to the tourists on-board (which would include Tegan, Rachel AND Luke) that I, Bella Fisher, was currently in a full-body embrace with a totally hot older boy.

Zac stepped back and smiled. His grinning, cheek-dimpled face and deep brown eyes seemed genuinely happy to see me. The fact that I was trying not to dribble on myself proved I felt the same.

He broke the conversation ice.

“Sooooo . . . long time no see. What's been happening in your world?”

“Er, you know. Things.” I thought back to my notes. “Just working on some art projects, getting pretty caught up in it all, you know how it is. You?”

He
nodded, not picking up on my shaky delivery. “Sort of similar. Although, long story, I might have to finish my last few weeks of term up in Birmingham. That's why I'm here, checking out colleges, so thought I'd jump on the train and see you before I went back. It's only an hour away.”

I'm so glad chins were invented or my jaw would have dropped off. Was Zac, Black Bay Zac, telling me he was going to moving within train-able distance from me?! I put my hand on a bin to steady myself. Serious plus point to mission get-Zac-to-prom. And to my entire life. I couldn't
wait
to hear the long story. Every detail.

Where was he going to live?

Why was he moving here?

Would he mind if I licked his face?

Which college had he looked at?

Would he life-partner me?

But all I could do was blink. Lucky he was still good at saying words.

“Which college did you say you were at again?”

My jaw un-fell. Reality struck. Long stories meant details. And questions. And detailed questions about details. There was
no way
I could pull off convincing college lying if he'd been doing research into the area.
I
had to change the subject, and quick. The long story could wait till he was thirty-two and I was thirty, and then the age difference wouldn't seem so bad.

“Well, that'd be telling, wouldn't it?!” I tried to look mysterious, even though it made no sense, as that whole point of asking a question is for someone to reply with some telling. “Let me know if I can help though. . .” Vague, good. Now what?! Think of the notes, quick?! I shuffled awkwardly on to fake-grit foot. “So, er, pretty crazy news this week, huh? With the, er, mortgage scandal and stuff?”

His forehead scrunched.

“Really? Is something kicking off?” Uh-oh he was meant to be the one that knew this sort of stuff.

“Yeah, it's just been pretty big news, in the, news.” Not a strong start. “That's what the newsreader said?” I thought back to one of the assemblies from last week. “I mean Emmeline Pankhurst didn't die so people like me couldn't keep up with politics and vote.”

“But we
can't
vote yet. We're not old enough.”

Must pay more attention in assembly.

“Well no, of course. But metaphorically?”

This was something Jo said when she talked to people about intelligent things and no one ever seemed to reply, but in a good way. It did the trick. He smiled,
although
potentially more in confusion than agreement. I needed safe ground.

“Anyway, I can't believe I got dragged away from Black Bay. How was it after we left?”

I outwardly sighed with relief as he threw himself into holiday chat, launching into a story about his trip to the beach with Keith the dog – who ate a stranger's picnic. I wanted to smile, but could only manically grin, lips stuck together, as I was painfully aware that I never got to do my final check for any teeth nuggets. But, just like before, he wasn't phased by my total weirdness.

Thanks to my terrible planning, we ambled round nowhere in particular, him politely not pointing out we'd walked in at least twelve circles. On our second walk down the alley that smelt of fish, he asked me what had happened with Jo and the whole Luke drama. My insides buzzed with happiness at him remembering life details about me – even though technically he thought they were about my shouty sis. This was a good sign, right? But as I reeled off the edited highlights, he looked puzzled. And sort of revolted (although still fit-revolted). Had I been rumbled? Did they even have canteens at college?! What had I done?!

“Are you OK, Zac?”

His wrinkled nose fell back into position.

“
Oh, sorry! Yes. I could just smell . . . well it just smells, well . . . really fishy.”

RELIEF. It was mackerel, not me that was freaking him out.

“Oh –
that
! The massive fish smell. I guess I'm used to it.” That came out wrong. “Not as in
I
smell of fish, as in, this part of town does. Smell of fish.” Still wrong. “It's just right next to the indoor fish market, you see. So it's nothing fishy. Well it is, but as in, nothing dodgy. I mean, I'm literally called Fisher, if
anyone
knows about fish it's me. But not because I smell of it.” Great, if there's one word to repeat on a date, it's ‘fish'. I shut up for a bit.

We didn't walk past the fish market again.

Since we last (and first) saw each other, Zac hadn't had any dramas like me – but he had been up to loads. He was major buzzed that he'd done so well on his course that he'd been shortlisted for the most amazing sounding summer tour round Italy, to work with all their top art colleges (personally I was more vibed by the thought of a holiday that guaranteed daily lasagne, but either way I could share his excitement). As part of his application he'd even made a new music video for Velvet Badger. I tried to ask as many questions about it as possible, so he didn't suss that the best evening
I'd
had recently was solo-re-watching my old
Pitch Perfect
DVDs, complete with karaoke sing-a-long. So much of the stuff he'd been up to sounded so cool that I was running out of responses, other than just repeating ‘Wow', ‘Awesome' ‘Amazing', ‘OMG' and ‘wowawesomeamazingomg'. He was like the inverse of me, chatting away as if making conversation was a normal thing to do.

After loop fifteen, I suggested heading to the river. I really should have spent more time planning the day, rather than not learning about house buying. We carried on chatting and ambling – chambling – and slowly meandered down to the quiet towpath. It was one hundred per cent dreamy. Maybe this was how Jane Eyre felt? I'm not sure who she actually was, but she definitely sounds like the sort of person that would go for walks along rivers with boys.

“OK then, seeing as you've taken the time out to show me around your town” – he politely didn't add ‘FIFTEEN TIMES ON ROTATION LIKE SOME WEIRD GROUNDHOG DATE' – “I thought I could return the favour and take us to see a film later? My last train back's about tenish. . . So, have you got plans or can I steal you till then?”

WHAT THE WHAT?! He wanted to evening-hang
too?!
He could steal me, squash me into a suitcase, take me to Yemen and I'd still be happy.

“Yeah. That sounds cool. I've got nothing on that I can't cancel.” I had nothing on at all, and that's really easy to cancel. I messaged Mum, telling her I was going bowling with my netball buddies. It was harder for her to say no if I didn't give her a choice.

“There's a film that looks awesome,
Count to Trois
. Sort of French cinema meets Saw. Can you imagine?”

I could, and it was terrifying. Who knew we'd have such different taste in films?! I'm such a wimp that I keep my eyes closed in anything that's a 12+, so reading the subtitles was going to be logistically impossible. So unless all they do is ask for cheese baguettes, the way to the swimming pool, or any of the other nine French GCSE sentences I can remember, I wasn't going to understand a word. Although, GULP – an even more terrible thought hit me. Zac could easily pass as eighteen. What if I got ID-ed in front of him?

Agreeing to this film was the worst idea ever?! Could I backtrack?!

“Well, why don't we just see what's on when we get there?”

His cute face fell at my lack of enthusiasm.

“But it's meant to be ace. Honestly. It's a gore
thriller
– the first one was amazing. It'll be fun, I PROMISE. And it's proper scary so it won't be packed with kids either.”

Kids like
me
. But his ‘please' face so was damn sexy, it dissolved my logic and resistance.

“Fine. Fine. You're the guest. It'd be rude not to.” It'll be ruder if I run out of the cinema screaming – either from getting IDed or from seeing someone get decapitated – but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

He ran his hand through his hair, making him look even taller than his six-footness. “Merci beaucooup. I owe you one. And if the film gets too scary, we could . . . we could always do something to take our minds off it?”

Did he share my favourite cinema pastime? Extreme popcorn eating. I once did a large bucket by the end of the third pre-film advert – I threw up into said bucket before the film started.