the time. He’s talking animatedly, but stops when he sees me. Smiles. Georgia catches the look, then kisses Greg and bounds up to Lauren, Sienna and me. She latches on to my arm and pulls me forwards, ignoring the others.
“Walk with me to Psych?” Georgia asks. I don’t think I have a choice.
“See you tomorrow,” I call to the girls as she drags me away. I feel bad for leaving them, but they have different classes now.
“Sit with me and Finn, OK?”
I feel a rush at this special treatment. Like finally I’m starting to be somebody.
CHAPTER 12
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
“Walk with me to Psych?” Georgia asks. I don’t think I have a choice.
“See you tomorrow,” I call to the girls as she drags me away. I feel bad for leaving them, but they have different classes now.
“Sit with me and Finn, OK?”
I feel a rush at this special treatment. Like finally I’m starting to be somebody.
CHAPTER 12
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
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