In Psychology, sitting next to Georgia, opposite Finn, I’m distracted. I catch him looking at me more than once. I feel his foot against mine and agonize over whether it’s deliberate. In short, I go do-la-la crazy and can’t concentrate. Mr Green’s been talking for half an hour, but it’s only noise. I try to tune back in.
“Why is Bandura’s Social Learning Theory too deterministic?” he says.
WTF does deterministic mean?
The sun hangs like a canary diamond, glinting. The park is warm and dry. When I get to the swings he’s already there. My watch blinks 15.58. He grins at me.
“You look confused.” He kicks at the bark chippings with his Converse. “You do remember making this date?” So it’s a date!
“Course. I’m just surprised to see you.”
“It’s four o’clock.”
“I know.” I sit on the swing next to his. “You’re on time.”
“You’re worth showing up for.” Guh. The whole world washes with colour twice as bright as a moment ago.
Dear Lovegods,
Thank you for smiling upon me. Amen.
“Ready to learn some moves?” I ask.
“Sure.”
Finn proves better at forward rolls than cartwheels.
“Want to try a double?”
“Like, two in a row?”
“No, like where you hold each other’s ankles and roll together.”
“Sounds a bit advanced, don’t you think?”
“It’s not that difficult.”
“Maybe we don’t know each other well enough for ankle gropage. Let’s start with an elbow or maybe a toe.”
“Are you scared you won’t be able to do it, Mr I-Can’t-Cartwheel?”
“I rarely get scared, Carla. I would, of course, do a double forward roll with you in a heartbeat, but I fear you wouldn’t be able to take the weight of my manly physique with your delicate lady arms.”
“What a load of bollocks.”
“OK, but I could – and judging by my apparently non-existent cartwheel skills probably will – land on you and break your neck, or worse, break my neck.” He grins.
“Oi! OK, well, I’ve helped you, now you can help me … with my homework.”
“Homework. That’s exactly what I want to be doing right now,” Finn says. “Are you serious?”
I pull my knees up to my chest and rummage through my bag. I tug my sketchbook out and send a search party for my pastels.
I go to flip the book open to a clean fresh page, but Finn flicks the cover back down and snatches the book. I’m not that precious, so I skip the standard girlie scream Giveitback! Giveitback! Giveitback! But it’s more than a sketchbook, more than Art coursework, it’s my diary in pictures and words; doodles, poems, lists.
“I could draw you.”
“And my manly physique.”
“With my delicate lady hands.”
The cover is black, corrugated, simple. I’m not that girl who Tippexes guys’ names everywhere, draws hearts or calculates our compatibility according to the number of consonants in our names, or whatever. Finn’s not going to open the book to find Mrs Carla Masterson scrawled everywhere, and Finn + Carla 4eva in giant pink bubble writing. No, no, no. Give me some credit, please.
“I want to start at the beginning!” he says. “A woman’s doodles say a lot about her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. A man’s doodles say a lot about him, too.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh-huh. I’d just like to say, you’re welcome to check out my doodles and make your own assessment at any time.” We’re not talking about drawings now.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“You do that.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say, laughing. He opens to page one: butterflies. Page two: butterflies. Page three: Pre-Raphaelite notes and drawings. Loose papers: shopping list, revision notes I haven’t typed up yet and probably never will. Page four: view from my bedroom window, sky like marble, fluid. Pages five to eleven: sculpture designs for my Art coursework, colour tests, notes on the type of butterfly.
“You like butterflies,” he comments.
“Your powers of deduction astound me.”
“Why butterflies?”
“They’re gorgeous. Free. They start as a tiny egg stuck to a leaf somewhere, insignificant, and go on a journey to become this almost magical creature.”
I don’t say it aloud, but I think, that’s what I love most about butterflies: their ability to completely transform, and with such exquisite style. Imagine waking up one morning and being able to fly. Yesterday you were the short, fat kid under threat from the bird bullies. Today you’re Angelina freaking Jolie with wings. Complete metamorphosis.
“They’re pretty, I guess. Like you.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, but can’t help feeling flattered.
“I mean it.”
“Well, thanks, Casanova.”
“You’re welcome, Francesca.”
“Francesca?”
“In the story. Casanova’s in love with Francesca. Not that I’m saying I’m… Well, you know what I mean.”
I narrow my eyes at him. It’s kind of nice to see him squirm, with his guard down.
“So anyway, could you draw me? Just my face or something,” says Finn.
It’s one thing drawing him from across the hockey pitch but up close… “I’m no good at faces.”
“Why don’t you just draw my hands, then?”
“I could handle that.” I look at his long, tapered fingers, calloused and manly. Big. I trace my finger across a barely there red line on his palm. “Boarding scar?” Finn nods. I rough out the edges of his fingers, and use different colours to add tone and depth. They look older in pastel. The hands of a trawlerman; powerful, rugged.
“Did you know there’s a butterfly called a Chequered Skipper?” I don’t look up. His hand, the hand I’m drawing, rests on my left knee. The book sits in my lap. I have a glance-rally between the page and his hand, making sure to capture each contour, each shadow, exactly.
“No.”
“And a Scrub-Hairstreak?”
“Ah yes, from the lesser-known family of Bad Dyejob butterflies.”
“You’re funny,” I say, sarcastically. “They have all sorts of names. Red Flasher is one of my favourites for obvious, childish reasons. Daggerwing. There’s one called Question Mark. And a Comma. How weird is that?” I don’t stop for an answer. “There’s even one called Mourning Cloak.”
“I assume that one’s black,” he says. I stop drawing, flick a few pages back.
“Yup,” I say, tapping a sketch of a Mourning Cloak. “But I think you’ll appreciate this one.” I turn the book so he can see another pencil drawing.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. It reminds me of you.”
“What’s it called?”
“Dogface. Not kidding.” We fall about, play-fighting, joking. Free like butterflies.
Thank you, Lovegods, from the bottom of my uber-grateful girlie heart.