Love-shy (10 page)

We finished the puzzle in record time, largely due to Rin's wholehearted support for my sorting-into-types jigsaw strategy (separate out the corners, then edges, then all the pieces of backpack, all the pieces of chimp fur, all the pieces of blue background, and so on). Dad and Josh were more ad hoc, randomly pulling pieces and trying to see where they might fit. Very inefficient.

But Rin and I made a great team. I liked working with her. We chatted about school, and teachers, and Rin told me about how one of her friends had pretended to faint in Ms Leroy's French class in the hope that Nick Rammage might catch her and ask her to the social, but that he'd been staring out the window, totally absorbed in his music.

Rin even stayed for the movie, which she'd never seen. She laughed at all the right moments and applauded Josh's Michael J Fox impression, and I chewed on my Pocky and decided that George McFly was
totally
love-shy.

After the movie, Rin thanked Dad for dinner, and I walked her to the door. She paused shyly.

‘Penny?'

‘Yeah?'

‘I'm glad we're friends. I'm so glad I moved here.'

22:57
I had the most vivid dream last night. I was at this church camp, the one my parents sent me to when I was eleven, except I was sixteen and all the other kids were still eleven. The camp director explained that I hadn't done it right the first time, and I was going to have to stay at the camp until I could learn to behave like a real boy. He handed me a football and took me to the edge of the lake, where there was a boating ramp. And he pushed me off the ramp into the cold water.
It was so cold, the coldest water I've ever felt. I sank down, down, lower and lower. I couldn't move my arms or legs to swim to the surface. I just kept sinking, for what felt like hours. Then at the bottom of the lake there were all these girls, with long floaty hair and eyes the colour of the sea. They swam around me, gently tangling me up with seaweed.
And I laughed and laughed, because they were so beautiful, and I felt so happy.

I sat there, staring at the screen until my eyes hurt. Who
was
he? With a sigh, I switched off my computer and went to bed.

I woke up at three in the morning, with Rin's voice in my head.

I'm so glad I moved here
.

I was a total and complete idiot. Of
course
the yearbook was out of date. I'd crossed off the boys who had
left
East Glendale at the end of last year. But I hadn't taken into consideration the
new
boys who had only arrived this year.

Well, new
boy
, actually. There was only one. The one who stared out the window in Ms Leroy's French class as girls pretended to faint in order to catch his eye.

Nick Rammage.

I was too impatient to
work at the usual duties
assigned women on
newspapers.

NELLIE BLY

6

N
ICK RAMMAGE?

Really?

Nick Rammage, the boy who was too cool to speak to anyone? Nick Rammage, who dressed like an indie model and wore oversized headphones all day long? Nick Rammage, who every girl at East Glendale had a planet-sized crush on?

Maybe there was another new guy in Year Ten. Surely.

Although now I thought about it, Nick didn't seem to have any real
friends
. I couldn't remember actually speaking to him. In fact, I couldn't remember him speaking at all.

I'd never seen him hanging out with anyone at recess or lunchtime; it was as though he just disappeared. I was pretty sure he didn't play any sports.

I'd made one of the worst mistakes a journalist can make. I'd listened to those rumours about him kissing Olivia Fischer, and the mysterious girlfriend at another school, and believed them. I hadn't verified my sources. Nellie Bly would be disgusted with me.

After I got over my initial disbelief, it started to make sense. He
looked
cool, sure. But it was all an elaborate smokescreen. That was how he got away with it. With his oversized headphones and floppy emo hair and tight black jeans, everyone just
assumed
he was aloof and cool. It was an utterly brilliant disguise.

Except surely it could unravel at any moment. What did he do when those simpering blonde girls approached him? He was one of the most desirable boys at school . . . why wasn't there a cluster of girls around him at all times? And if he did talk to them, and they realised how
strange
he was (because he must be strange if he was love-shy), how come they didn't immediately run and tell everyone about it?

It was such a puzzle.

Also, why had he left his old school? Had something happened? Or was it just a moving-house thing?

I'd be careful, this time. I didn't want to spook my subject. I'd watch him closely first. Get to know him better before I confronted him. Although I felt as if I knew him well already, from reading his blog posts.

This was so much more than an exercise in journalism. Reading
PEZZ
imist's – Nick's – posts had me convinced that he needed help, and that I was the one to help him. He was obviously a smart, sensitive guy, and all he wanted was to be loved. It seemed so unfair that he couldn't have that. Especially since his
looks
certainly weren't a barrier.

Nick Rammage. I still couldn't quite believe it.

The weekend seemed to go on forever, yet I didn't achieve anything. I went over every single post
PEZZ
imist had ever written, reading each word in a new light now I knew his true identity. I spent hours staring at my Biology textbook, or at a blank Word document that was supposed to become my
Othello
essay for English. Dad tried to get me to go out with him and Josh to see a new exhibition at the National Gallery, but I declined. Instead I did laps in the pool until I nearly passed out, the rushing of water in my ears and across my face reminding me of
PEZZ
imist's dream about the bottom of the lake.

What was wrong with me? Should a journalist become this involved in a story? Was I staying objective? Not that subjectivity was strictly forbidden in journalism. Tom Wolfe and Truman Capote and Hunter S Thompson and the other gonzo reporters and New Journalism people got involved in their stories all the time – and mine didn't involve motorcycles, rubbing alcohol or nineteen different kinds of illegal drug. No, this was good. The deeper I got into this story, the better it would be, I was sure of it. I didn't want to write a dispassionate, clinical analysis of love-shyness. I wanted to write a feature article that would make people laugh, cry and award me a Pulitzer Prize.

Monday morning found me staring at my wardrobe, agonising over an outfit. What did you wear when you were secretly observing a very shy person? I didn't want to stand out. Not that I ever did stand out – I was strictly a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of girl – but I felt that this morning's sartorial choices required an extra level of consideration. And there was always the chance that Nick would notice me watching, and that I'd have to bring all my plans forward and interview him then and there. I didn't want to be wearing anything that would spook or intimidate him. I needed to appear friendly and approachable, but not
desirable
, because that would make him anxious.

What was I doing? Fussing over what to
wear
? I was acting as if I were a typical hairspray-and-eyeliner girl, and I didn't like it one bit. I needed to pull myself together and be professional. I threw on my usual: a comfortable pair of jeans, plainish T-shirt, and sensible sneakers. There. That'd do.

I grabbed my notebook and left the house.

Observations on Nick Rammage, aka
PEZZ
imist.
Monday, 8:36 a.m.
Subject arrives at his locker. He
'
s wearing
fitted black jeans, a black T-shirt with white,
weathered lettering on it, his ubiquitous large
headphones, black Converse sneakers and a
chunky black watch. He carries a black backpack.
Subject doesn
'
t make eye contact with other
students in his vicinity. He keeps his head down,
with his long fringe hanging in his eyes. However,
his casual gait and slouched posture make him
seem aloof to his peers, rather than awkward and
antisocial.

I didn't have English on Mondays, so I couldn't observe Nick up close in class. I scoured the school grounds for him during morning recess, but he was nowhere to be found. How was I supposed to observe and analyse my subject if I couldn't even
find
him?

I fidgeted through the next two periods, and when the bell rang for lunchtime I sprang from my seat and sprinted to the Year Ten lockers, where I spotted Nick pulling his lunch from his backpack before sauntering outside. I followed at a distance, trying to appear nonchalant. I was skipping my meeting for the
Gazette
– but I was on official journalistic business and, despite what Thomas Jefferson said, who really cared whether we led with a story about the school rowing team or an interview with an ex-student who had a minor role in
Neighbours
?

I felt quite the gumshoe, watching Nick, waiting, subtly following him. He ended up on an isolated bench by the science building, overshadowed by a concrete stairwell.

The temperature had risen over the weekend, and it was quite hot in the sun. Being totally aware of the dangers of the sun in regards to
dying of cancer
, something many of the tanorexic girls at my school were not, I situated myself beneath a shady tree and watched Nick from across the courtyard.

1:07 p.m.
Subject is sitting on a bench eating a sandwich.
I
'
m too far away to discern exactly what kind of
sandwich, but the bread is certainly white. I hope
he knows how high white bread is in processed
sugars. He
'
s balanced on the backrest of the
bench, with his feet on the seat. His eyes are
closed and his head is moving up and down slightly,
I assume to the beat of the music pumping
through his headphones.

I wondered what he was listening to. Love-shys weren't supposed to like rock music or anything loud or discordant. They liked melodic, romantic music. So the chances that Nick was listening to the kind of music everyone thought he was listening to were pretty slim.

He opened his eyes a crack and scanned the courtyard. I pretended to be absorbed with writing in my notebook. When I looked up, he was staring at someone over to my right. I followed his gaze. Was this her? The long-haired girl?

It was.

She was a Year Nine girl. Her name was Amy Butler, and she was a swimmer, like me. She had long brown hair (of course) and was very pretty in a petite pixie way. Her hair hung loose down her back. She was sitting with a group of other girls of mid-tier popularity, mostly blonde but not in a pouty, peroxide kind of way, more a healthy, sporty, tampon-commercial kind of way. Amy tended to smile in a distant manner, and when the other girls laughed, she would join in a few seconds late. I could see why she seemed like the perfect love-shy fantasy girl. Sweet, quiet, pretty, long brown hair.