Love-shy (16 page)

On Sunday evening I sat at my computer to do some solid work on the love-shy article.

LOVE-SHYNESS AND PROFOUND ANXIETY IN ADOLESCENT MALES
What is love-shyness? Is it a disease? A collection of complicated phobias and mental illness? Or just a convenient excuse for antisocial behaviour? This investigation will delve into the unknown world of love-shyness, examine its characteristics and symptoms, and chart the progress of a genuine love-shy – through my initial stages of contact with the subject to a process of rehabilitation and eventually a cure.

I sighed. How
was
I going to cure Nick? Conversation starters were all very well, but I had a feeling he'd need something more. The book I'd read had mentioned stuff like ‘practice-dating' and ‘coeducational living', but it all seemed pretty ineffectual. There was also a website devoted to ‘sexual surrogacy', which was downright frightening. Then a whole bunch of posts on the love-shy forum suggested this creepy dating strategy that turned the whole process into a game, with stupid acronyms and everything. Men were supposed to deploy sleazy tricks such as pulling a girl's hair or saying negative things about her in order to emotionally manipulate her into hooking up with them. I wasn't sure if it was misogynistic and sinister, or just pathetic.

At eleven, I turned off my computer, totally grossed out. I was going to need to find my own approach to help Nick.

At recess on Monday, Hugh Forward followed me back to my locker from Maths, badgering me about the budget for the school social. I noticed that the Walt Whitman paperback had been replaced by a new book of poems by Walter Dean Myers. I'd assumed that the Whitman was for an assignment, but maybe Hugh actually liked poetry?

‘James O'Keefe says his cousin's band is really good,' Hugh said.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Yeah, right,' I said. ‘I'm not spending two hundred and fifty dollars to have a bunch of stoners drool and shake their hair around on stage. We should be spending the money on something important, like converting the gardens to sustainable native flora, or a new water tank . . . '

I trailed off. Nick was standing in front of my locker, headphones on, looking aloof.

‘Then what do you suggest?' asked Hugh. ‘There's a kid in Year Nine who is apparently a really good DJ. He might do it for fifty dollars.'

I stared at Nick.

‘Penny?' said Hugh. ‘Hello?'

‘Yeah,' I said, still staring at Nick. ‘The DJ. Fine.'

Hugh sighed and stalked away.

‘Hey,' I said to Nick.

He nodded and looked down at the floor, scuffing his Chuck Taylors against the linoleum.

‘Do you want to go outside?' I asked.

Another nod.

We found a bench outside, away from the recess crowds.

Nick took a deep breath. ‘I-I'm sorry I yelled at you,' he said. ‘I know— Sometimes I can get . . . a bit melodramatic.'

I thought about his overblown blog posts. ‘That's okay.'

‘I'm just not used to talking to . . . people.' It was as though every word he spoke was causing him pain, and he had to pull them out of his mouth like splinters.

‘I understand,' I said. ‘I know it's difficult for you. But it's good you're trying.'

He sighed, and then words started to tumble out, faster and faster. ‘Sometimes I can look at myself and see that I'm being ridiculous, that it's all just willpower and I can change if I want to. If I want it hard enough. But other days everything's dark, and I feel like I'll never find my way out.'

He stopped, shocked that he'd said so much.

‘I get it,' I said. ‘And I want to help you.'

Nick rocked back and forth a little and tilted his head up to the sky. ‘I don't think you can,' he said to the clouds. ‘It's just all too much. Too hard.'

‘Just try,' I said. ‘For a few days. See how it goes.'

He swallowed audibly, but didn't say anything. It was better than an outright
no
.

I found Nick at lunchtime that day, and the next day. The
Gazette
and Debating could do without me for once. We had a break from swimming practice, after the carnival, and I wagged Orchestra and avoided Ms Darling in the corridors.

Nick was starting to seem less anxious around me. His breathing was normal and he no longer trembled and dripped with sweat whenever I sat next to him. I was sure if he could go to a social event such as a party and see that it wasn't the big deal he thought it was, he'd relax. And maybe even pluck up the courage to talk to Amy Butler. Then he'd realise she was kind of boring, and I could move on my as-yet undefined plan to
really
fix his problem. But Nick remained adamant that he wouldn't be able to talk to Amy, because he'd be too anxious.

‘Anxious about
what
?' I asked, on Wednesday afternoon. ‘What do you think is going to happen? What
could
happen that would be so very bad?'

‘Everything,' said Nick. ‘She might laugh at me, or tell everyone and
they
would laugh at me. And then every day for the rest of my life I'd think of it, and burn with shame, right into the depths of my soul.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘What if you only had six months to live? And your doctor told you that for those six months, your lifestyle wouldn't be compromised in any way by your health. Would you talk to her then?'

Nick shook his head. ‘No way. I'd still be too anxious.'

‘So you'd just sit in your room and do nothing?'

Nick leaned forward so his chin rested on his hands. ‘I'd steal my father's credit card,' he said. ‘Or sell my mother's engagement ring or something. And I'd run away.'

I frowned. ‘Really? You'd steal your mother's engagement ring? You don't want to win the lottery or something?'

‘I've never bought a lottery ticket. I'd never win. I'm too unlucky.'

‘But this is a hypothetical fantasy,' I said. ‘You can win the lottery if you want.'

‘I'd rather steal from my parents,' said Nick. ‘To teach them a lesson.'

I really,
really
had to meet Nick's family. Surely they couldn't be as bad as he was implying. Could they?

‘Okay, then,' I said. ‘Where would you run away to?'

‘Everywhere. I'd travel around the world. I'd stroll along the canals of Venice, and climb the Eiffel Tower, and walk on the moors in Scotland. I'd go to galleries and museums all over Europe. I'd go to London and see every musical showing in the West End, apart from the ones that have music from Queen or ABBA.'

‘Alone?'

Nick nodded. ‘Alone.'

‘That's sad.' I didn't mean
sad
as in
lame
. I meant it made me sad to think about Nick in all those romantic places, surrounded by couples, but always alone.

‘Why?' he asked. ‘What would
you
do if you only had six months to live?'

I thought about it. And the more I thought about it, the sadder I felt. Because if I was truly honest with myself, I'd do exactly the same thing.

I mean, I wouldn't steal Dad's credit card or sell Mum's jewellery. And I'd probably go to different places (well, maybe the Scottish moor. And Venice. But definitely not the musical theatre). But I'd want to travel. I'd want to see everything I possibly could before I died. And I'd be alone.

Because I knew that if anyone else was with me, they'd want to do different things. And see different things. And so I wouldn't ever get to have my perfect overseas trip. Everything would be a compromise. I supposed that was what being in a relationship would be like. Always compromising. Maybe it
was
better to be alone.

18:31
I hate being at school, but I've come to hate being at home more. Every day is the same, and the longer I spend in the house, the worse it gets. I lose my appetite, I can't sleep. I get so tired I can't concentrate on anything for more than five minutes, but I still can't sleep. I don't talk to anyone for days, not even my parents. I end up walking just to get away from everyone and everything.
I walk every day, all the time. Round and round our block, so many times I'm surprised there isn't a groove worn by my feet. I count the steps as I walk. It's 1829 steps around the block. 2743 to the shops and back, not that I ever buy anything. 4914 to school. Pace, pace, pace. I step on every single crack, just in case the poem is right and my mother will break her back.
And I think about my girl. I think about her hair and her eyes and her warm shy smile. I think about what might happen if I came across her on my walk. Maybe I would accidentally bump into her, and she'd drop whatever she was carrying. A bag of oranges maybe, or books from the library. And then I could help her pick them up and we could start talking.
Or maybe I'd come across her sitting in the gutter, crying. And I could ask her what was wrong and she could tell me how lonely she felt, and how she needed someone to talk to. And then she could talk to me, and I could listen. Or she'd be coming out of the florist with a bunch of daisies. And she'd pull one out and give it to me. Guys never get given flowers, which isn't fair because it's not like we don't think they're beautiful too.
This never happens, of course. I've never seen her when I'm walking. But I keep walking anyway, and counting. Otherwise I'd go crazy. More crazy.

‘I think you've seen too many movies,' I told Nick on Thursday after school. We were sitting on some steps near the library, away from watching eyes. ‘You can't spend your whole life waiting for that perfect moment where you rescue Amy Butler from drowning or her dad accidentally hits you with his car or you get locked on a rooftop together.'

‘Meet cute,' said Nick.

‘What?'

‘It's called a “meet cute”. When two characters in a story meet each other and fall in love.'

I stared at him.

‘I spend a lot of time on the internet,' he explained.

‘Whatever it's called,' I said, ‘it doesn't happen in real life. You have to get to
know
people. Love at first sight isn't a real thing, and if it is, it never lasts.'

Nick sighed. ‘I know. It's all lies. Sometimes I think there's no such thing as love at all, that it's all made up by Hallmark and Hollywood.'

He looked as if he was going to cry.

‘That's not what I meant,' I said. ‘There is totally such a thing as love. But you can't waste your life waiting for it to land on your doorstep. You have to go out and make things happen for yourself.'

‘And how do you suggest I do that?' he asked, turning a miserable face towards me, but not meeting my eyes.

‘Well, there
is
that party I told you about,' I said. ‘On Saturday.'

‘No,' he said flatly. ‘I just couldn't. I wouldn't know what to say to anyone.'

‘It's easy. You just go up to someone and say “hi”. Then you start a conversation.'