The Boy from France (9 page)

’m still smiling about my conversation with Dad as I walk into my classroom. He’s all right, my dad,
even if he does sometimes say things that make me squirm. It’s good to know that he likes Xavier and that he wouldn’t mind if something happened between us. Not that it’s going to
. . . I can still feel the imprint of Xavier’s kisses on my cheeks. I wonder what he said about me to his friends. I wonder what they said to him. Nothing, probably. Do I look OK today?
Stupid question – I’m wearing my school ‘uniform’ of skinny jeans and a grey sweatshirt (we don’t have an actual school uniform), with my hair tied in a ponytail and
no make-up. It’s what I always wear but, somehow, today, it feels very plain and boring. Maybe I’m finally growing out of the tomboy stage. Rosie and Sky are always saying I should make
more of myself. Still, Xavier said he likes my ‘hairs’ . . .

I can’t sit next to Rosie because everyone who has a French exchange student has to ‘look after’ them in joint lessons, so Manon has my usual place. Instead, I end up at a desk
at the front of the classroom, next to Katy Owen, whose French exchange went down with glandular fever last week and had to cancel her entire stay. Poor Katy. She looks really miserable. Mind you,
so do some of the other girls in my class, who clearly aren’t getting on with their French exchanges. Imagine having to look after someone you can’t stand, day and night, for four whole
weeks. I am so lucky.

As we file out for breaktime, Lucy Reed stops me. She’s wearing a big, fake grin. I know what’s coming.

‘Hey, Vix,’ she purrs. ‘So how’s your French boy, then?’

I don’t know what to say. Part of me likes the attention but, at the same time, I don’t like it. What I like is being interesting for once in my life, and not just part of the
classroom furniture. I’m the sort of girl who everybody gets on with – friendly, clever enough but not too clever, or too good at sport. I’ve never been bullied, or left out, or
picked last, or anything like that. But nobody – apart from my friends – has ever been all that bothered about me, certainly not the loud, supposedly cool girls, like Lucy. I suppose
I’ve never done anything to merit being interesting. On the other hand, her prurience makes me uncomfortable. The way I feel about Xavier is personal, something I’m still trying to work
out in my head. If I’m honest, I’m not totally clear how I feel about him. I’m certainly not sure how he feels about me. And Lucy is the last person I want to discuss this
with.

‘He’s nice,’ I say, making it sound like I have no opinion one way or the other.

Lucy snorts. ‘I got a good look at him at the station the other day. “Nice” isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe him. More like super fit. Don’t tell me
you haven’t noticed!’

‘It’s none of your business,’ I tell her. It’s the stupidest thing I could say. It shows her she’s getting to me and makes it look as if I have something to
hide.

‘Ooh la la! Touchy. So you have noticed!’

I sigh. ‘Yes, he’s fit. He’s also a really great person. We had a fun weekend together. What else do you want me to say?’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says, putting her hand on my shoulder, as if we’re mates. ‘I wasn’t having a go. I’m just interested, that’s all.’ She smiles.
I think she must be angling for an introduction. I’m not going to offer one.

‘No problem, Lucy.

So how’s your French exchange?’ She looks over her shoulder. Her exchange student, a small, mousy-looking girl, is standing in the corridor, waiting patiently for her.

‘She’s OK, a bit dull. I barely understand a single word she says.’

I shrug. ‘Bummer. Listen, it’s lovely chatting and all, but I really need to catch Rosie before breaktime ends.’ She won’t give up. ‘Sure . . . So I guess the party
is at yours, then? And maybe you can get your guy to bring some of the other French boys. If you don’t want to share him . . .’

I laugh. ‘I don’t think so, Lucy.’ I really don’t. I’ve never had a party at home and I’m not planning on starting now. Imagine Mum’s face if half my
year (and half of Facebook) turned up at my house, where everything has to be tidy and in its place, so she doesn’t trip. Sick mums and house parties don’t go together too well.
Especially as I’d be the one clearing it all up afterwards.

‘Well, if you change your mind, or feel like a night out sometime, let me know. We can all hang out. I can bring supplies.’

By supplies, she means alcohol. She’s actually trying to bribe me with alcohol! I can’t be bothered to tell her that it wouldn’t impress Xavier. He’s already told me that
he’s been having a small glass of wine at dinner with his family ever since he was eleven. He can’t see the point of drinking to get drunk, like some English teenagers do.
Alcohol’s not a big deal to him.

‘OK, I’ll let you know.’

‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Do.’

Rosie is waiting for me outside. Alone, thankfully. She says Manon has gone to the loo, so we’ll only have a couple of minutes to chat.

I give my best friend a hug. ‘I miss not sitting next to you in class.’

‘Yeah, me too. But it’s only for a few weeks, and Manon’s cool. It’s not like we don’t see each other all the time.’

‘Yes, true. Listen, while she isn’t here, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘It’s Xavier.’ I’ve been dying to tell her how my feelings have been developing, how I think I’m genuinely falling for him in a big way and how I suspect, just a
tiny bit, even if I don’t dare to admit it, that he might like me in return. What with Xavier staying at my house, and Manon at hers, we haven’t had much time for our usual late-night
messaging chats. I need to ask her advice on my next move. She’s much more experienced in these things than me. ‘I know we’ve all been joking about how gorgeous he is, and you and
Sky have been teasing me, but I think I really like him. I mean LIKE him. In a “something could happen” way.’

Her reaction takes me by surprise. She stiffens. ‘I’d keep your distance, Vix. Keep him as a friend. You don’t want to get hurt, do you?’

‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘I mean, he’s only here for a month and if you fall for him you’ll get your heart broken. It’s not worth it.’

‘You’ve changed your tune. You told me to go for it. You were egging me on.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about it and I just don’t think it’s a good idea to start up something with someone you probably won’t ever see again.’

This isn’t like Rosie at all. Usually, she’s so encouraging, especially when she thinks I might be interested in someone. She’s been telling me for years how much she’d
like me to have a boyfriend. Just last week she was saying how great it would be if we could go out on double dates.

‘Oh . . . I . . . I thought you’d be happy for me.’

‘I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I just stood by and watched you get hurt, would I?’

‘No, I guess, but . . .’ Manon is coming back. This isn’t something I want to talk about in front of her. ‘Anyway.’

Rosie squeezes my shoulder. ‘We’ll talk about it more another time, OK?’

‘OK.’

I’ve gota very strong feeling that there must be more to this, something that she isn’t telling me. But what?

It gnaws at me all afternoon but I have no opportunity to talk to her alone again. At lunch, we’re joined by Manon and some of her French friends. Manon is as frosty with me as ever. She
does say hello and she gives me two grudging air kisses, but she barely speaks to me after that. I understand that she’d rather catch up with her friends from home, in her own language, but
still. It’s ignorant.

I think I’m going to stop making an effort soon. I’ve tried complimenting her on her clothes, asked her what she likes doing at the weekends in Nice and attempted to find out about
her family. All my questions are met with monosyllabic answers and a dismissive, patronising smile. Now, I’m running out of ways to begin a conversation with her. It’s too much like
hard work. I suppose I’m just going to have to accept that, for whatever reason, she doesn’t like me. Well, guess what,
Mademoiselle
Up Yourself, the feeling is mutual. If only
Rosie didn’t seem to like her so much. They keep giggling together, like old friends, and I’ve noticed that Manon is wearing one of Rosie’s favourite bracelets today. One that she
was even loathe to lend Sky, when she asked, a few weeks ago.

I go straight home from school, even though Xavier won’t be there. He’s spending the evening with some of the other French boys and one of the parents is going to drop him back
later. Dad won’t be there either – he’s got a work dinner – so I’m cooking spaghetti bolognese for Mum. I wish I hadn’t promised her that now. I’ve got
tons of coursework to do (which I didn’t get around to at the weekend) and I don’t feel very hungry. There’s too much on my mind. I’ll give myself a tiny portion and hope
Mum doesn’t notice.

She doesn’t. Or if she does, she doesn’t mention it. After dinner, I wash up as quickly as I can, then excuse myself and come up to my bedroom. I try to work, I really do, but after
half an hour sitting staring at my textbooks, getting nowhere, I give up and go on to Facebook instead.

I need to talk to a good friend about everything. Ideally, I would chat to Sky, but she’s staying with her half-sister Katie tonight and I don’t want to interrupt their time
together. They haven’t known each other for long, but Sky’s been so much happier and so much more confident since they met. She’s stopped worrying about her stupid nose and
she’s got no time for the immature, rubbish boys, like Rich, who make her feel bad about herself. She’s even got a new hobby, DJing, and she’s getting pretty good at it.

Sometimes, I like to imagine that I’ve got a long-lost sister out there somewhere too. I know there’s no way in a million years that my super straight dad has fathered a daughter he
doesn’t know about, but humour me. My sister wouldn’t be Camden cool like Katie. No. My sister – let’s call her Rachel (no reason, I just like the name) – would live
on a farm in the countryside, far, far away, with acres and acres of private land, where I could learn to drive her car. She’d have quad bikes too and there’d be a lake where I could
swim. And ponies. And dogs – great big, fluffy English sheepdogs. My friends could come to stay at weekends and we’d have picnics and camp out in the fields. Best of all, my sister
would be terribly wise, with a long history of relationships. We’d sit by her enormous, roaring fire, with mugs of hot chocolate and toasted marshmallows (and perhaps, croissants), and
I’d tell her all about Xavier and Rosie and Manon. She’d be able to tell me exactly what to do.

Unfortunately, my imaginary sister doesn’t exist, which makes her worse than useless when it comes to giving advice. So, I do something I’ve never done before: I message Max to ask
his opinion on my personal life. Sometimes, I think, it’s good to get advice from a friend who’s not too close, for a more objective viewpoint. And, sometimes, it’s useful to hear
what a boy has to say. Especially if you’re asking for advice about a boy. Max and I have been good friends since the summer, when he came to stay at his brother’s house on my street.
People say that if he hadn’t gone out with Rosie (which was a whole big mess, as she didn’t really fancy him), something might have happened between us. I don’t know if
that’s true. Whatever might have been, he went back to boarding school and he has a new girlfriend. I’m happy being just mates and so is he.

We catch up a little, on what he’s been doing at his wacky school, where the pupils make the rules and you can choose whether or not to go to lessons (weirdly, most people do). He asks how
Rosie and Sky are, and tells me his rock star brother Rufus will be home from tour in a few weeks, so I should pop round to see him. When he asks how I am, I skirt around the issue for a while
because I’m not sure where to start. If we were talking on the phone or face to face, I’d probably chicken out. In the end, I just go for it:

I tell Max all about Xavier and the time we’ve spent together since he arrived, the way he acts around me, and the things he’s said and done.