My Invisible Boyfriend (2 page)

She’s kind of the opposite, but I let it slide. The name’s familiar anyway.

“I think she’s Fili’s new roommate,” I say. “They’ve got that big double on the top floor of Manor, upstairs from you?”

Ludo gets her death grip onto my wrist again.

“NO! Oh. My. God. Seriously? OH MY GOD. That is…”

“Awesome?” I suggest.

“TOTALLY!”

Somehow I’m not sure Fili will be so keen. But before I can drag her away from Gothboy to ask, I feel a tug on one of my braids, and then nearly fly off the sofa as a body leaps over from behind and drops into the empty space beside me.

“Ding ding, Ryder. All aboard.”

Big Dai Wyn Davies: man mountain, king of the bear hug. Well, what’s left of him. Dai didn’t get to be Big Dai just from being six foot four, and it looks as if he’s going to need a new nickname. Same stupid grin, same rubbish spiky blond haircut, entirely new body.

“Holy crap, Dai, the lions really did eat you.”

He looks stupidly pleased. “Safari diet. Followed by masochistic gym torture.” He flexes an arm at me. Bits of it stick out, in a manner that is probably meant to be impressive.

“WHOA!” says Ludo, leaning over me to poke his biceps. “Personal trainer?”

“Yep. On whom I had the most pathetic crush, so, hello, dedication! You likey?”

Ludo gives him a small round of applause. I wrinkle my nose.

“You look like someone Photoshopped your head onto a lifeguard.”

“I’ll take that as the compliment you
obviously
intended it to be.
Betch.
You’re looking majestic yourself, by the way. Loving the coat.”

“Detective,” I explain, waiting for the penny to drop. Dai’s even more of a Mycroft Christie fangirl than I am.

“Oh yeah? Like that guy off the telly, right? God, can you believe how much time we wasted last year, watching that crap?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “We were such dorks.”

I look down at myself. The Coat has started to seem a bit more bizarre now there are quite so many other people here to see it. In fact, now I’m paying a bit more attention,
everyone else seems to be dressed a teensy bit more appropriately for a party. Not just the Upper kids who always look like that, all swingy hair and glitter makeup for 9
A.M.
Biology, either. I mean
everyone.

Fili doesn’t count: Aside from her being crazy-beautiful already, it is Goth Law never to be seen without the uniform and the face. And Ludo is always perky, and pretty, and strung about with jingly sparkly things. But she’s different somehow: just a few slim gold threads around her wrists and neck instead of that ever-increasing cuff of grubby neon plastic bangles she had last year, golden streaks in her smooth dark hair, red lips instead of peachy-pink. Dai’s got new threads to go with his new absence of stomach, too: magenta polo shirt with the collar flipped up, low-slung jeans so there’s a wide line of boxers showing. He’s even wearing man-jewelry: some tourist junk from his holiday, beads with a bit hanging down shaped like a tooth.

Pod people.

My friends have been replaced by Pod people. Robots. Zombie doppelgängers from space. The Leftover Squad has been hijacked by evil clones, and we haven’t even been given our first mission yet.

OK, rewind that thought. I have no moral objection to people looking nice. I might not be exactly managing it myself, in my baggy jeans and my superdork braids, but that just makes me the poster child for not being fooled by the advertising: It’s what’s inside that counts, don’t judge a book, etc. It’s what comes with the extra layers of lipgloss and
perfume that’s spooking me. Ludo finally lets go of my wrist, but only to do a quick hitch-and-jiggle on her bra, tugging her vest top down a notch as she eyes Scheherezade. Dai’s telling me some story about lost luggage on the way to Madagascar, but the whole time he’s looking around, eyes sliding up and down, approving and disapproving. Even Fili is tinkering with her millions of long dark braids, eyelashes fluttering shyly as Gothboy tries on her favorite ring with the spider on it.

It’s catching. Everyone’s doing it. I don’t think there’s a person in the room actually enjoying themselves: They’re too busy checking each other out.

Not me, though: The eyes hit, connect, and slide on by.

Maybe my fledgling detective geekiness is not so attractive. Maybe I’ve got the casting for the Leftover Squad all wrong. I’m the comedy sidekick who falls in poo. The talking dog. The redshirt who gets killed off in episode 4, and no one really minds.

“This is SO awesome,” whispers Ludo loudly in my ear.

OAR.

SUM.

I nog: nod and shrug, both at once.

Half an hour later, with the sky dark outside and nothing but MTV on the plasma screen to light the room, I realize I’m not dealing with zombie robot doppelgängers. It’s the love potion episode. Every TV show has it sooner or later. Magic spell, monster bite, something in the water: romantic Kryptonite that makes people lick faces with people they
shouldn’t. Mycroft Christie ended up snogging a vampire, an evil old lady who trained exploding hamsters to break into banks, and Jori Song (twice) while under the influence of bad mojo. Hilarious consequences generally ensue.

It’s not so entertaining when you’re in the middle of it.

OK, there’s not exactly a Roman orgy happening. People are still wearing clothes, so far as I can tell from the flicker of the TV. It’s prewatershed, family-friendly, PG-13. But everywhere I look, it’s going on. Tongues and hands and giggles in corners. Oliver Bass is proving how over Anna-Louise he is by sticking his tongue down Miyu’s throat. Scheherezade is sitting on Jo-Jo’s lap, arms draped over his shoulders. Brendan Wilson is sliding a hand up the new Ana girl’s thigh, while she coyly smiles and fiddles with the hem of her skirt.

I hear Fili’s laugh over the music, and see her curled up and cozy with her boy twin, holding hands, shoulders pressed together. I go to nudge Ludo, and realize she’s otherwise occupied, the peroxide-haired, pierced newbie guy’s mouth on hers, his hand resting, as if by total accident, on her boob. I squint my left eye closed, trying not to look, but I can still hear a vague slurpy noise. I turn to grab Dai, but the seat next to me is empty. I finally spot him in the corner near the door, dancing with Henry Kim and looking like he’s won the lottery (which he kind of has, in Finch Gay Quarter terms: Henry Kim is famously the triple threat of cute, rich, and smart, and Dai has been lusting from afar as long as I’ve known him).

The Coat suddenly feels too appropriate, in all the wrong ways. I’m an accidental perv, trapped here staring at a roomful of people getting it on, because there’s not really anywhere else to look. The only other person in the room who isn’t coupling up (or trying to) is Model Yuliya, who is yawning over her can of Diet Coke and flicking through a magazine.

I check my watch. I begged and pleaded until the Mothership promised I could stay until 9:30 tonight. It’s only just after 8.

I remember my Bubble Wrap bag’s at my feet. Betsy lent me an Agatha Christie novel, so I could practice my detecting skills. Maybe now would be a good time to whip out Agatha and read?

OK, that’s
definitely
not the strangely attractive kind of geekiness.

I could go and find Dad Man, in his little cubbyhole of an office. The Mothership might have finished setting up down at the pool already: She could leave early, take me back down the hill to my poky little attic bedroom. I could watch the
Mycroft Christie Investigates
season 3 finale again, in bed, with that Snickers bar that I sneaked into the shopping trolley while the Mothership was fussing over whether bananas counted as Amber on her Traffic Light diet regime.

I reach down for my bag to get my phone, and when I come back up, the seat next to me is no longer empty. Etienne Gracey. He’s a Shroom, or he was: one of the Lower
School bands, though he must be Upper School now. They played at the End of Year Ball. He sang.

“You’re Heidi, yeah?” he says, shouting, over the music. He’s leaning in very close.

“Etienne, right?”

He smiles, nodding. I can see a little frost of stubble on his chin and his upper lip, glowing blue, then pink in the video light. I feel something touch my back, and try not to jump. It’s his arm, sliding along the back of the sofa.

“Let me get you a drink,” he says, and the arm disappears from my back.

“Oh My God Heidi!” whispers Ludo in my ear, apparently coming up for air. “You are SO lucky! He’s, like, so TOTALLY gorgeous.”

I suppose he is. I mean, he’s not as pretty as Little Leaf Teddy. Not anywhere near as pretty as Mycroft Christie. But he’s sort of a Finch pinup. He’s dated Scheherezade. And now he’s settling back onto the couch next to me, pressing a can of Coke into my hand and sliding his arm back into position.

Ludo’s elbow jabbing me excitedly in the rib area is not helping me to get my brain around this scenario, but Peroxide Guy distracts her again with a little more casual hand/boob interfacing, and it’s like we’re alone together, me and Etienne.

Heidi and Etienne.

Is this how it works, then? You just kind of sit there, and
wait for some boy to turn up and kiss you? I’ve been serving cups of tea to nice old ladies all summer: This all feels ultraweird. But I suppose it’s OK. It’ll get it out of the way. I’m not fourteen anymore. I’m fifteen. This is what fifteen-year-olds do.

I take a sip out of my can, and try not to cough as the whatever-it-is goes down. I don’t really do alcohol. I’m probably drunk already.

“Thanks,” I say, tilting the can at him.

Etienne just nods, bobbing his head slightly as the music changes. Madonna thrusts her scary manlegs at me, in a not-especially-sexy kind of way.

I drink some more, in case my mouth tastes of anything weird. Because Etienne’s going to kiss me. I think. I wonder if he’ll feel prickly. I suppose he is quite pretty, up close.

Maybe you don’t just sit there and wait? I didn’t see anyone else having trouble getting to the kissing part of the evening, but I’m definitely doing something wrong. Talking, maybe? Are we supposed to that first?

“So…any new Shrooms songs since last year?”

“Shrooms? We split. Creative differences, you know? I’m working on some solo material now, though.” He snarls at the TV screen. “Real music, y’know?”

“Mhmm,” I say into my Coke. “I’d love to hear it. Sometime. If you’d like?”

“Yeah?” He keeps bobbing his head. “Cool.”

The ultraweird keeps on growing. I think I just asked him on a date, sort of. This is not standard behavior. This is not
Heidi. There actually really truly is love potion floating in the air, making everyone moronic, and I am not immune after all.

“So, your Dad is, like, the security guy at night, yeah?”

“Night porter, yep.” I try a goofy shrug. “Kind of embarrassing.”

“What? Oh, yeah, I guess. Anyway, me and the guys were wondering: Could you, like, distract him tonight or something?”

I look up, and see “the guys” hovering behind Etienne, looking hopeful. Big looming Upper Schoolers from Lake: Dave something, Jules Harper, some guy I don’t know at all.

“The
real
McCartney party’s supposed to be up in Toni’s room in Stables, only she says your Dad was, like, patrolling all over down there, so we ended up down here with the kiddies in Baby House.” He waves his can at the room, eyerolling. “No offense.”

I swallow a big gulp, and taste the whatever-it-is, sticky on my teeth.

“No offense, yep,” I mumble.

“So, could you, like, go pretend to be ill or something, just to, like, keep him busy or whatever?”

He leans in again, arm still round my shoulder, fingers just lightly stroking the top of my arm.

“Sure,” I hear myself say. “Whatever.”

“Awesome.”

He gives my arm a squeeze, hops off the sofa, and he and “the guys” vanish.

OAK.

HEY.

Emergency Protocol #4. Ejector seats engaged. Alert, alert, incoming. When I say run, run.

I fumble for my bag, but Ludo’s amazing ability to get her face snogged off and still see what’s going on next to her is still in place. Her hand closes round my wrist again. I pull away, vaguely shaking my head, and climb over various writhey wriggly arms and legs to get out, out into the corridor.

It’s cool and bright. No sweaty people, no stinky pizza, just a nice ordinary school-like corridor, with a notice board about netball practice times and when the nurse will be available. The real world, back where I know the rules.

Ludo bangs the door on the unreal world of the common room, and scoots up to dangle off my shoulder, eyes like two fried eggs.

“Oh My God, what WAS that? I mean, WHAT? I mean, OH MY GOD!”

“Ryder, baby, what gives?”

Not-So-Big Dai appears, his face pink, a huge smile on his face, Henry close behind him.

“I KNOW! He was, like, all over her, and then FOOM, GONE.”

“Etienne Gracey. Heidi, you
turned down
Etienne Gracey. That’s…that’s a parallel universe.” Dai remembers Henry lingering at his shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Henry shrugs. “It’s Etienne Gracey. No offense, but I’m right there with you.”

Ludo grins her tiny pearly grin at me. Then her eyes suddenly get wider. Huge. Fried eggs times twenty. She starts swatting her hands, slapping her palms against me and Dai like we’re on fire, and making little squeaks.

“OH MY GOD. I get it. I totally get it. Don’t you get it?”

Dai looks at Henry. They don’t get it.

I don’t get it either. So much for my fledgling detective skills.

“DUH! Only possible explanation? She’s totally SEEING someone already.”

Dai gasps. Actually gasps.

“No!”

“TOTALLY. Right, Heidi? Right?”

Before I can get a word out, Ludo wraps her arms around my tummy and hugs me so hard I feel my elbows click. Dai joins in, pressing my head into his shirt. Henry wraps a cashmere-clad arm round me, too, even though I don’t really know him well enough for hugging, and the three of them squish me even tighter, with Ludo making small “eee” noises and jumping up and down.