“You can do better than this, Carla.” Havelock’s words pinch me at the back of the neck. A guilt grip. I can do better, he’s right. It’s only mocks though. Just fake exams. What will happen if I fail my fake exams? I won’t get a fake job, earn invisible money and afford a fictional car? I’m saving my real energy for real things, conserving my brain for something that actually counts. Things are going so well with Finn, and he deserves my time, too.
Havelock leans against his desk. Sighs. Looks to me for an explanation.
I wave my white results transcript in surrender, with its list of descending grades: A (Art) to F (Biology). With C, D, D between.
“Sorry,” I say. It sounds pitiful. “I guess exam nerves really got to me.”
He shoots me a bewildered, concerned look, but I think he buys it.
“Are you sleeping and eating OK?”
I don’t answer, and look down at my tatty Converse. I guess my clothes are getting a bit baggy.
“I understand exams can be stressful – some stress can be good, motivational. Try not to let the pressure overwhelm you.” Havelock opens a file and removes a sheet of paper and I’m thinking, Great, more homework. “Here are some ideas on managing stress,” he says, handing me the piece of A4.
Guilt tightens its grip. Should’ve done more revision.
In Psychology, I open my textbook and try to concentrate on Bowlby’s Theory of Attachment. Finn’s wearing a V-neck black T-shirt and his emo jeans. I can’t get over how perfect this all is. I mean, aside from the odd homework dodge and lesson skive, everything is pretty darn good. Finn straddles the back of his chair, swinging around to face me. I could dive right into him. I want to. A smile steals his entire face, holding it captive. I love that his emotion is right there, raw, taking over his whole body. And mine. He locks me in a staring match, with those beautiful coffee-bean eyes, an ear-to-ear-grinning–stare-down. I’m one hundred per cent guaranteed to lose this contest. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Heart to jelly; can’t look at him any longer. Have to get on with some work.
I pick up my pen, write the date on the lined pad and draw a perfectly straight line under it. I check whether the biro has made a dent in the page below. It has. Of course it has, you idiot. Notes. Got to make notes. I read the first paragraph, absorbing nothing into my supposedly sponge-like young brain and have to read it again. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Text from Finn, sitting a metre and a half away. Still staring.
Good work, tiger. Havelock totally believed u. Meet up tomo? xxx
I look up, fighting the urge to climb over the table so I can be nearer to him. I quickly construct a reply under the desk, glad of my fast texting fingers.
Maybe do sumthin in the eve? School tomo! xxx
I’ve barely sent it before the reply buzzes back:
And? xxx
I finally manage two pages of half-arsed paraphrased plagiarism. The mild sense of achievement this brings is dangerous. I deserve a reward. Breaking from the notes, I let my mind wander. Finn and I have seen each other almost every day since Citrus. He’s told his mates I’m his girlfriend. It feels fluid and easy, as if it’s always been “us”. Will bunking one day really matter? In the great scheme is it really that important? Probably not.
So what if I’m a little late to class because I’m talking to Finn or if I take a day off here and there. I can still get the grades. That’s all that matters as far as I’m concerned. At school, after only a few months, I’m someone else. A new me. A tiger.
After school we go to Finn’s to do some revision, supposedly, but instead watch Avengers Assemble and eat peanut M&M’s.
In the kitchen, I pour some juice and Finn nukes a bag of popcorn. As the microwave dings, alarm bells begin to chime in my head. I look out the window at his neglected lawn. My stomach flips at the thought of all the work I need to catch up on. Xylem. Phloem. Biology. Bowlby. Baudrillard. Psychology… Exams looming…
“Catch!” Finn chucks the popcorn at me and I empty the packet into a bowl.
I gear up to tell him we have to see each other less and revise more.
“Um, right… So … we should really get the Psych done now,” I say, a little tetchy with him for the first time. “The Bowlby presentation is Monday.” I give him my best sickly sweet, do-it-for-me smile. I hold his hand as he shuffles his feet, undecided, swinging his gorgeous, strong arm to and fro. “Pretty please. Let’s just get through the first bit.”
But then he kisses me, sending a shockwave through my nervous system and I sort of forget…
In his room, as the seventeenth peanut M&M ricochets off my forehead, I realize we won’t be getting any work done today. Finn is wearing his black Fenchurch T-shirt that says “I should wear a crown because I’m royally f#*ked up.” His arms look toned and strong, like a swimmer’s or gymnast’s. Contrasting with his bear-like forearms, his biceps are smooth and not too big. My eyes wander over him until he flicks another chocolate peanut in my direction.
“Oi, kiddo! I’m trying to work here,” I exclaim, cutting him an icy glance. “Stop this tomfoolery at once!”
“Tomfoolery, eh?”
“Yup.”
“Who is this Tom? I’ll have him! Only Finnfoolery allowed here!”
“There’s no Tom. It was said purely for your amusement. An underused word. We should bring it back. Like ‘rad’. I want to bring rad back.”
“Let’s bring in Finnfoolery, too. It’ll be rad,” he suggests.
“OK,” I agree.
“Rad.”
“Cool.”
“Rad.”
“OK.”
“Rad.”
“Stop this Finnfoolery!”
“But it’s totally rad!”
“Stop it.”
“OK, rad.”
“Stop it!”
“Rad.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Let’s leave the word rad in the past, where it belongs. Send it to Room 101, with blancmange and hair scrunchies and—”
“I think I’m a little bit in love with you,” he says.
Ohmygod.
Tingles. Check. Skipped heartbeat. Check. Heart stopping altogether. Check.
“I’m a little bit in love with you, too.” Flatline. Get the defibrillator.
His kiss resuscitates me.
“I mean it.” Finn speaks to my eyes, my cheeks, hair and mouth, scanning all of me. “OK, then,” he says, plonking himself on the bed and leaning forwards, assaulting my body and senses with his eyes and gorgeous musky man scent. “Let’s do the revision, but to compensate for this wholly uncharacteristic burst of nerd-dom, I expect you to wear a fabulously low-cut dress on Friday.”
I push him on the shoulder, provoking a yelp. “Oi, mister, that ain’t rad!”
“All right, all right,” he concedes. “It doesn’t have to be low-cut. Wear a short skirt. I’m easy. Whatever you want, tiger!” He recoils, anticipating another assault. I draw back my hand, for effect. “Not the face!” He laughs. “I’m teasing you! You’d look hot in a brown paper bag.”
“You’re unbelievable!” I say, eyes wide, heart pumping fast. He leans back onto the pillow, nodding in agreement. “What’s Friday, anyway?” I ask.
“Violet’s having a select few over. Nothing big, just a cheese board and a bottle of red,” he says, grinning. Definitely won’t be cheese, that’s for sure.
“Ha. Sounds delightful,” I mock.
My heart races. I try to concentrate.
“OK,” I begin. “Attachment is an emotional bond to another person,” I read from my crib sheet. “Psychologist John Bowlby was the first attachment theorist…” Finn sits up. Edges closer. I try to focus. “His psychological model…” He kisses my neck. The words blur. Connectedness. Support. Trust. I put the paper down to give Finn my attention.
All I can think is, He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.