My Invisible Boyfriend (18 page)

Well, almost.

He’s already there when I arrive.

He’s sitting on the armrest of the Garden common room sofa, as if he’s too wired to flop down into the cushions. One big boot rests on the edge of the coffee table, nudging the Finchtastic pseudosculpture of crunched Red Bull cans and photocopies on Sikhism. He’s got his coat collar turned up again. It does things to his cheekbones. Good things. Very appealingly watchable things.

I watch from the door as his stubby fingers fiddle with the remote, jabbing it at the plasma screen as if infrared works better if you give it a push.

Some crappy game show plays on the plasma screen.

I should’ve got here earlier and set up the DVD player: Set the timer so while we were talking,
Mycroft Christie Investigates
could suddenly start playing, and we could have our first kiss to the opening credits, and then snuggle on the sofa to watch the rest. The very first episode, to symbolize our new beginning. Or maybe episode 2.13, “Chaos Theory,” for the Mycroft/Jori snog that we were waiting for all along. Or…

Eric looks up, and sees me, and OK, I’m really not going anywhere.

“Hey.” I wave.

“Hey.”

“You having trouble there?”

“Yeah. Volume control.”

“Probably the batteries.”

“Yeah.”

“It works sometimes if you take them out, and sort of warm them up with your hands.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Well, that’s what my dad says. Although he’s probably just trying to get out of buying new batteries.”

“Uh-huh.”

SHUT.

UP.

“So…”

“Yeah.”

In the multiple preshoot rehearsals of this scene, I’m pretty sure I gave myself a better script. Him, too. I pictured
him playing the whole thing in Mysterious E-speak, in fact. Although his stumbling nervous thing is kind of thrilling, all dark and suggestive. I’m just stumbly and nervous, without any subtext. He gets dramatic pauses: I’m the goof who can’t remember the next line.

Heidi sucks at this.

H is going to have to take over.

I come in properly, and swing my leg over the other arm of the sofa, so we’re sitting like bookends. For, you know, really big books.

“So you wanted to talk?”

Oh yeah: H is all kinds of daring.

Eric shrugs. “Yeah. I figured…yeah. Like, you were the person I should be talking to, you know?”

“That would seem logical.”

He does this sweepy eyelash thing that could stop clocks and traffic and maybe save the world.

“So…how’s Ludo doing?” he says, fingertips softly dabbing at the rubber buttons on the remote. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

I don’t mind him asking. I love him asking. Gingerbread Ed was the asking type, which means the asking type is totally
my
type, and this is all destiny. Or something.

“She’s OK. In the not-very-OK sense, natch. I think she really liked you. As in,
more-than-liked
you, you know?”

He doesn’t smile at the reference. He just looks sad.

I kind of want to reach out and hold his hand, and for that to sort of tumble us into some kind of inevitable
lying-on-top-of-one-another-oh-however-did-that-happen? thing. But this stupid bookends position (that seemed like a fabulous artistic decision at the time: We’d look awesome in widescreen) means I’m too far away for it not to involve trampling across the sofa, and probably the middle cushion would slide off halfway across like it always does, and I’d just fall on the coffee table and break it, or me.

“She’ll be all right, you know. She’s got lots of people looking after her.”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah. I still feel bad, though.”

“About moving on so fast?”

“I guess you could call it that,” he says, and smiles.

His eyelashes rest on his cheeks when he does that. I should make him do that more often.

“I think it’s like Fili says,” I say, smiling myself. “You like who you like. You don’t do it because it’s convenient, or good timing, or appropriate. You just…feel it.”

“Well, she’d know, right?”

He’s looking right at me now. Those soulful gray eyes. Fingers still wandering over the remote as if they can’t quite stop themselves. Little crease in his brow.

“I didn’t think she’d go ahead and break up with Simon over it, though. Or if she did, at least we’d end up together. Now it’s like nobody’s happy, know what I mean?”

He’s still looking at me, all eyelashes, eyelashes doing their thing, me nodding, listening, listening to…

Wait.

Stop.

Break up with…
Simon
?

“Anyway, you’re the kid who seems to know everything around here, right? So I figured you’d know if I’ve got a shot.”

I don’t know how I’m breathing. I feel like I’ve eaten the sofa instead of sat on it.

“With Fili?” I croak.

“Yeah. Because, you know, we had a good time. But I hear Etienne Gracey split up with that chick with the crazy name, so, you know, if Fili’s not interested…”

“I…really…couldn’t say.”

Eric sniffs, and shrugs. “That’s girl-code for no, right?”

He tosses me the remote and jumps up, his coat brushing my elbow as he sweeps past.

“Tell her I’m sorry and all that. And thanks for being cool about it, yeah? Sweet.”

Then he’s gone, and it’s just me, and the TV, and…that’s not what I want.

SWEET.

SUITE.

AI.

LASH.

IS.

“If someone broke your heart, babes, you can tell me,” says the Mothership, over watermelon and apple soup. “I’ll give them as much detention as you want.”

Motivational: not so much.

And I’m not heartbroken. I’m horrible. I never imagined
in a million years that it would be Fili who cheated—and that’s mostly because if it were going to be anyone I would’ve expected it to be Ludo. Or maybe myself, apparently. So I’m back to spending nights sitting at my desk, staring at Gingerbread Ed, wishing real boys were also handily pocketsized, cinnamon-scented, and altogether less likely to make the whole world feel so meh.

I get sick of looking at his sarcastically squished eye after a while, so I turn him around and somehow knock him against the lamp. One arm snaps off. He looks even more sarcastic. I decide to take revenge and nibble on his nonexistent elbow.

It’s like biting into a telephone. Or rocks. Or some other very hard thing, like diamonds, except for the vague taste of treacle, orange peel, and spices. And dust. Lots of dust. Like a sort of gray icing made from ick.

Even my imaginary boy has gone off.

A dimly lit penthouse: so dim that it’s quite impossible to see the face of dashing detective Mycroft Christie as he converses with his plain and extraordinarily thick colleague Miss Heidi Ryder.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Truly, my dear, you have a gift for metaphor.

HEIDI: Least I’ve got a gift for something.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Might I detect a little wounded
pride behind my reappearance? I was under the impression you didn’t need me anymore.

HEIDI: I thought I had an E to talk to instead. But apparently I’ve thought lots of stupid things lately.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: The true identity of the peroxide-headed gentleman’s Girl B was rather a surprise, certainly. But as that piece of the jigsaw slots into place, it does bring a few others along for the ride.

HEIDI: I suppose. I get why Fili was being quite so down on herself now. And why she didn’t want to talk to Ludo. Or me, in case I got all judgey about her stealing Ludo’s bloke.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: And would you have “got all judgey”?

HEIDI: Um. Maybe? Just a little tiny bit?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Despite “you like who you like,” and wanting people to move on and be happy, and—forgive me for mentioning it—rather wanting Eric all to yourself?

HEIDI: Temporary insanity. Finch flu. I’m over him.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Even the eyelashes?

HEIDI: I hate eyelashes. Eyelashes are horrible. From now on, I’m only ever going out with people who don’t have eyelashes. Scratch that: I’m never going out with anyone ever.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: But what of Mysterious E?

HEIDI: Mysterious E can stay mysterious. I. Don’t. Care.

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

E,

This has been all sorts of amusing, but I’m done. Romance is for people who are better at life than I am. Go and wave your lovely affectionate bits at someone else, OK?

H

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dearest Heidi,

Shush.

With enduring

love & affection,

E

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

E,

Seriously. It’s too tiring and embarrassing, and I’m way too
pathetic for this to be worth the effort.

H

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dearest H,

You’re flirting again.

My ever increasing

love & affection,

E

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

E,

Am not.

H

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dearest H,

Are too.

L & A,

E

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

E,

D2?

H

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dearest H,

It was your way with words that first attracted me, I believe.

My

glove & affliction,

E

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

E,

:P

H

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I do believe, you’re smiling, Miss Ryder.

HEIDI: I might be. Just a little bit. Though I still don’t know who he is.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Isn’t that half the fun? Now to work, my dear: The game is afoot!

HEIDI: Um. Yes. Whatever that means.

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

dear fili,

how are things? are you feeling any more cheerful at all? just wondering, really, if you’re OK. i know what it’s like to feel crappy and alone, and not have anyone you can tell.

best wishes,

ed

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dear Ed,

It’s kind of you to still write: You must be the most attentive ex-boyfriend ever. If only I could inspire the same degree of dedication. I’m unworthy of it, though. Poison kisses and betrayals is all anyone can expect from me, alas.

Does that answer your question?

Fili

Message from: gingerbread_ed
hey,

how are you doing, man? h called me tonight: sounds like you were right, she’s definitely into someone else. guess that’s the way it goes.

ed

Message from: dai_fawr
Hey dude,

Oh yeah, Ryder’s after someone else. Don’t know she’s going to get him, though. ;)

Later dude.

“So you’ve gone from dating a cookie to dating the invisible man?”

Christmas has come early to the Little Leaf, since they’ll be missing the real thing. Betsy’s rocking a Santa hat and
shiny-wrapped present earrings, and the menu is crammed with snowman meringues and, inevitably, gingerbread men.

“Dressed like that, you don’t get to mock me. Anyway, we’re talking, not dating. On account of me not actually knowing who he is. Still.”

I have explained the traumatic Peroxide Eric non-date to Betsy. Well, kind of. There may have been some editing in postproduction.

“So why don’t you just ask him who he is?”

I shake my head firmly. “Against the rules. The whole point is he’s this mysterious guy, waiting in the wings for me to unmask him. And he thinks I’m this amazing brainiac who can figure it out.”

“Then the poor guy has my sympathy,” shouts Teddy from the kitchen. “He’s obviously a crazy person.”

“Great pep talk, thank you.”

I wait for further mockery, but all I get is the whine of the hand mixer, cranked up to the highest setting.

Betsy winces as it makes that awful scrapy sound against the side of the bowl.

“Teddybaby, we don’t need pancakes that bad!” she yells, till the whizzing and the scraping stops.

I might need pancakes. She’s giving me that “let me explain your own lunacy to you” face.

“Wait up, honeybee, I need to get this straight. There are two guys: this Eric guy you thought was all pretty and kissable, and this Mystery guy who writes you saying he thinks
you’re
all pretty and kissable. And when you thought
they were the same person, that was all roses, but now they aren’t…did pretty and kissable Eric suddenly get hideous and disgusting?”

I try to ignore the way Teddy’s curls are peeping out from the kitchen doorway, as if the opportunity to smirk is just too tempting, and picture Eric in my head. Eric with his long swishy coat, and his boots, and his eyelashes.

The coat is actually sort of ridiculous and smells like wet dog when it rains. His fingers are yellow. Ludo says he picks his nose. Even the eyelashes do their cheek-sweeping thing a bit too perfectly on cue to be accidental.

I think I liked the
theory
of Peroxide Eric—a studly badboy boyfriend—and sort of forgot there was an actual person involved. Several people, in fact. The willing-to-cheat-on-his-girlfriend thing turns out not to be so sexy after all.

“It’s…complicated. But he’s irrelevant anyway. He’s one hundred percent disinterested in me.”

“U-
huh.
But does that mean you just stop liking him, snap?”

I shrug. Apparently, it kind of does. Unless I’m doing it wrong.

I could be doing it wrong.

“What I’m getting at is…you don’t have to just say yes to the first guy who says he’s interested. You’re supposed to choose a boyfriend because you like him, too, you know? Not because he’s the only one who asked.”

“I
do
like him. I mean, I liked him when I thought he was the guy sending me the e-mails, being all flirty and funny and, just,
getting
me, you know? I get giddy when I see I’ve
got a message from him. I could talk to him for hours.
That
guy’s the guy I like.”

Unless I’m doing it wrong.

I’m coiling one braid around my finger, thinking about love & affection, while Betsy tries not to crack up. Even Teddy comes out of the kitchen to beam one of his lazy smiles my way.

I’m not doing it wrong.

“All this without even knowing what he looks like? Boy must have some typing skills.” She tilts her head, so the bell on her hat gives a little tinkle, then turns serious. “Just be careful, honeybee, OK? Don’t want you getting your feelings hurt. Or Mystery Boy’s, either.”

I nog. I’ve already had my feelings hurt. I’m practically a veteran at this whole dating thing. And I’ve got no intention of making the same mistake, and getting distracted by a Mysterious Someone Who Isn’t E.

There’s another tinkly noise, but this one’s from the bell on the Little Leaf door.

It’s Simon. Spooky blond not-a-Gothboy Simon, who I keep seeing hanging around the corridors of the Finch, and who still makes me do a double take every time. He gives me a weak smile from under his hair. I give him the same one back again, wondering if he knows about Eric and Fili. Is that what scared all the Goth out of him?

Betsy doesn’t look so startled by the transformation, though, as if it’s not the first time she’s seen it.

“Hey, Simon! What can I get you, honey?”

Simon slides onto the stool next to mine and taps a finger on the counter, thinking.

“Banana bread?” he says, hopefully.

Betsy sucks in a breath, swinging her earrings as she shakes her head.

“Heidi doesn’t believe in banana in cake,” Teddy explains. “It’s like her religion.”

This is true. Bananas in fruit form are perfectly acceptable. In cake they result in mushiness, and a lingering aftertaste of yuck. They are the anti-peanut butter: guaranteed to de-yummify anything.

Simon gives me an apologetic look through his wispy hair as Teddy brings him a foul-smelling slice anyway, and fishes in his pocket.

“Maybe take out the order for the Banana Blondies then?” Simon says, sliding an envelope across the counter to Betsy.

She grins as she takes it. “You’re the boss. But don’t blame me if all those Finch parents start complaining.” She catches my blank look, and waves the envelope at me. “You didn’t know? It’s going to be the Little Leaf’s last hurrah: catering for your big musical extravaganza. Guess those rehearsal cupcakes went down pretty good, huh?”

I stare at Simon, as he prods the edge of his banana bread with a fork.