Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend (14 page)

It's hard to hear him – there's music and loud voices in the background.

‘I've got to work late,' he says.

It doesn't sound like he's working. It sounds like he's at the pub. I can hear glasses clinking.

‘Where's Mum?' I ask.

I hear the sound of men cheering drunkenly. ‘She's gone away for a few days,' says Dad. ‘Work stuff.'

‘Oh,' I say. That's odd. Why didn't she tell me?

13
cat·a·clysm

–noun; any violent upheaval, esp. one of a social or political nature.

– The Wordsmith's Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words

The worst day of my life starts badly, and only gets worse.

I wake up hungry and cranky. Dad's not up yet, and I s'pose Mum's . . . I don't know where Mum is. Working somewhere, I guess. Since when did lawyers have to go away for work? Aren't they chained to their desks?

What if Mum hasn't gone away for work? What if she's been hit by a car and is in a coma? What if she's been kidnapped by the Russian Mafia? What if she's
in
the Russian Mafia and was just
pretending
to be my mother, and has gone home to her Russian family? I bet her Russian daughter Svetlana wouldn't make up an imaginary boyfriend and then break up with him. I bet Svetlana's best friend is still speaking to her.

I'm not sure what time Dad got home last night. I didn't hear him come in, so it must have been pretty late. But his coat's hanging in the hall, so he must have come home eventually. His coat stinks of cigarette smoke. Mum's going to kill him.

Because of the hungry and the cranky, I don't watch the clock while I eat breakfast, and before I know it, it's eight twenty-five, and I'm going to be late.

If Mum were here, I could ask her to drive me. But she's not. And if the smell of Dad's coat is anything to go by, I don't reckon he could legally drive. So I run.

I don't bother brushing my hair or my teeth. I knock over my Milo glass as I race out of the kitchen. It smashes on the kitchen floor, splashing brown chocolate milk onto my white school socks. Crap. I look at the broken glass and milk, knowing that Mum'll freak when she sees it.

But I'll get a detention if I'm late.

And Mum's not here, anyway. Dad can clean it up. Serves him right for being out on the town while his poor daughter starves in a cold, lonely attic.

I run out the front door, and down the street, shrugging my blazer and backpack on as I go.

By the time I reach the street where school is, I am dying of exhaustion. I suspect this is what it feels like to have a heart attack. I'm all sweaty and my hair is sticking to my forehead. My school dress is clammy and unpleasant. The first bell rings, but I can't run anymore. I'll be late to form assembly.

I push open the door, expecting the hall to be empty. It isn't. It's packed with kids, all yelling, laughing and squealing, their eyes wide and faces flushed.

What's going on? Did something happen? Has school been cancelled? Does the canteen have a half-price doughnut sale?

Teachers are running around, their arms full of . . . posters? They all have sticky tape trailing off them, so it looks like they've torn them down. Ooh, a scandal. I love a scandal. I step into the hallway, and the door bangs shut behind me.

The hall suddenly goes very, very silent.

It takes me a moment to realise why.

They are all staring at me. I feel like the guy in those old Westerns. The one who enters the saloon and everyone stops drinking and puts down their cards, and the guy with the silly moustache stops playing the piano, and even the monkey (or parrot) drops its banana (or cracker) to stare.

Is it because of the Milo on my socks? I wonder what I must look like – sweaty and puffed, messy hair, brown socks, un-ironed dress. I probably have a Milo moustache as well.

And then I see it.

And I realise that I am at the beginning of the very worst day of my life. Past or future. Nothing will ever be this bad.

The whole school is plastered with posters. Posters of me and George. Well, it's not exactly me and George, because I don't have breasts that big, and I'm pretty sure George doesn't have a piercing . . . there. And we've certainly never been in the same room, at the same time, naked, doing what we're doing in this picture. But it's totally our faces.

The teachers are ripping the posters off lockers. The students all stare at me. Then someone whispers. A titter.

I want to die.

I look around for Tahni or
someone
who will stick up for me. And I see Ben.

He smirks and leans in towards me. ‘It's great you've moved on, Midge,' he says. ‘I'm glad. I hope we can still be friends.'

I remember him slouching on a table in the empty classroom. What was it he said? Oh yes.
You'll regret it
.

Oh. He did this. Ben did this.

I open my mouth, praying that by some kind of divine miracle, a perfectly witty and biting and face-saving comment will emerge, cutting Ben down where he stands and saving my reputation, and, by extension, my life.

It doesn't. Instead, I stand with my mouth open for a moment, like a fish.

At least,
I
thought it was like a fish.

‘Ah,' says Ben, feigning discomfort. ‘Not in front of all these people.' He glances at one of the posters. ‘I know you're into the exhibitionist stuff, but it's just not my thing. Call me an old romantic.' He grins and makes a suggestive jerk with his eyebrows. ‘Maybe later, though.'

And walks off. The titters get louder. Kids are openly laughing at me. My mouth is still hanging open.

I take a deep breath, and exercise the only option left available to me.

I burst into tears.

I gulp and gasp as tears pour down my face. I dread to think what kind of horrible shade of red I've gone. Snot dribbles from my nose.

And everyone turns and walks away.

I stand in the middle of the hallway sobbing and gulping as my fellow students move around me, not making eye contact.

I see Nina Kennan, looking like she just floated in on a sunbeam. I sniffle and hiccup and try to smile.

She looks at me like I am a smear of squished insect on a car windscreen. Something tiny and distasteful, that needs to be discreetly removed as soon as possible.

Mr Mehmet approaches. My embarrassment meter is hovering at eleven. He looks mildly frightened, as if I might start having a fit and he'd have to put a wooden spoon between my teeth. Or as if I already am having a fit, and I might get violent if he gets too close.

‘Midge?' he asks. I swallow and try to stop blubbering.

Mr Mehmet places a hand tentatively on my shoulder. ‘I think you should come to the Principal's office.'

I don't say anything. I don't really care. My life is over. Nothing could possibly make this worse.

He steers me down the corridor, and I stop outside the computer lab and stare. The embarrassment meter explodes in a shower of tiny glass fragments.

Every single computer is showing the picture of me and George. Except, on the computer screens, it isn't just a picture. It's a weird, disgusting, jerky animation, looped over and over again. I am in a porno. There is a porno of me on every monitor in the computer lab.

‘It's on all the school computers,' says Mr Mehmet. ‘We can't get rid of it. Someone's hacked into the system.'

Okay, so things can get worse.

George is already in Mr Moss's office. He looks pale.

The bandage on his arm reminds me about what Tahni said last night, about the armour and the lance. Oh. My. God. I am all over the school. In a porno film. With someone who dresses up as a knight and pretends to kill dragons. I hiccup, and burst into tears again.

‘Sit down, Midge,' says Mr Moss.

Mr Moss is a very small man. He almost vanishes behind the fancy wooden desk. I wonder if he needs a special chair.

He used to be a Maths teacher, but retired when he went into a diabetic coma in front of his Year 12 Specialist Maths class. He came back to work six months later, and they made him Principal. The secondary school system – it's poetry in motion.

‘So,' he says, passing me a box of tissues. ‘Do either of you have an explanation for this? Do you know who did it?'

George shakes his head. ‘No, sir.'

I busy myself with a tissue.

‘Midge?' asks Mr Moss.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Do you know who did this?'

‘No, sir.'

I'm not sure why I'm lying. I might be able to blame it on being over-emotional, but I know that's not it. In fact, when I take a deep breath, I realise I'm scared.

I mean, if Ben could do this, if he could do something this terrible, what else is he capable of?

I just want it to be over. I want the universe to implode and take everyone's secrets with it. I want to go home and watch
Toy Story
again under my doona with Gregory. I want to run away and become a circus freak (I've already got the freak part down pat). I want to become a nun. I want Mum to come home.

Mr Moss sighs. I'm sure he knows I'm lying.

‘Now, I'm confident neither one of you created this . . . this filth. Do you have any idea who might want to hurt you? Someone with a grudge?' He's looking at George when he asks this question.

George is suddenly fascinated with his knees. ‘No, sir.'

‘I know that there was an . . . incident,' says Mr Moss. ‘At your old school.'

What kind of incident? I glance over at George. His face goes a funny colour, but he doesn't say anything. I remember what Tahni said about the locker and the weapons. Maybe he
is
a killer. Maybe he speared someone with his lance.

‘Fine,' says Mr Moss. ‘The teachers have removed most of the posters, but we haven't been able to fix the computers yet. I think it's probably best if you both went home. I'll call your parents to let them know.'

Great. My parents get to share in my humiliation.

Mr Moss picks up a manila folder and reads the contents. After a moment, George and I realise that this means our meeting is over, and we scurry out of the room.

Thankfully, the corridors are deserted. The posters are all gone, but there're still little paper corners and bits of sticky tape where they've been ripped down. I stare straight ahead when I walk past the computer lab.

‘Midge,' George calls.

I spin around. ‘Shh!' I whisper. ‘People will hear.'

I
so
don't want to be seen with him right now. Actually, I'd be happy if I never saw George Papadopoulos ever again.

‘Wait,' he says, and jogs to catch up. He runs like a sack of flour on legs, and wobbles in a rather unfortunate way. I hate him.

I speed to the front door and step outside. It's quite cold, and starting to spit. So much for summer.

‘Don't worry,' says George, as we walk out through the school gates. ‘It's clear they're fakes. Nobody really thinks we're . . . that we did that.'

I close my eyes and pray that no one can see us together. I imagine every student in the school, pressed up against their classroom windows, whistling and jeering as the porn stars slip off together for another session.

‘Do you think it was Ben?' asks George.

I open my eyes in surprise. Why would he say that? How does he even know that we ‘broke up'?

George must see my panic, because he frowns and then explains. ‘I thought he might be jealous,' he says. ‘Because you and I are spending time together.'

‘Only because of the project,' I say. I don't want him to think we're friends. That would be Awkward.

George's frown deepens. ‘Of course,' he says.

Looks like it's Awkward already. ‘We broke up,' I say. ‘Ben and I. About a week ago.'

He doesn't look particularly surprised, but I suppose he didn't have much invested in the relationship. ‘So do you think he did it?'

I shrug. ‘I don't know,' I say. ‘Yes. No. Maybe.'

‘Why didn't you say anything to Mr Moss?'

‘I don't want to make things worse,' I say. ‘I don't know what he's capable of.'

George sighs.

I press my palms against my eyes. ‘What are we going to do?'

‘Just get on with our project,' he says. ‘There isn't anything we can do, if you're not willing to tell Mr Moss about Ben.'

I shake my head. ‘I don't even know for sure that it was Ben,' I say. ‘And anyway, it's too late. Everyone's already seen the pictures. My life is over, no matter what happens.'

‘Look, Midge,' says George. ‘Nobody thinks that it's actually
your
body.'

I wonder if I should be insulted by this comment, but I ignore it and walk on. It's really raining now. I wish George and his stupid long eyelashes would leave me alone.

‘That's not actually why you're upset, is it?' asks George suddenly.