Love-shy (15 page)

If I was honest with myself, I wasn't expecting Nick to wait. It'd be easy for him to slip away while I was washing bile from between my toes.

But he didn't slip away. When I emerged, pink and clean in tracksuit pants and a hoodie, Nick was sitting on a bench at the edge of the quadrangle. He was perched up on the back of the bench with his feet on the seat, as he had been the other day.

‘Here,' I said, and held out his phone, which I'd been keeping in my bag for him.

He didn't move. I put the phone on the bench beside his feet.

‘You waited,' I said. ‘Thank you.'

Nick made a shrugging, nodding gesture.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?'

No response, which I took as a
yes
. I sat. I didn't look directly at Nick, because I didn't want to spook him, but I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was trembling.

‘From the outset,' I said, ‘I want to reiterate that I'm not interested in any kind of relationship with you. My interest is purely professional.'

Best to get that out in the open. It might help him let his guard down.

‘So,' I said. ‘I think you have a problem. I think I know what it is. And I think I might be able to help you.'

Nick didn't say anything.

‘You're shy. You seem all cool and aloof on the outside, but it's just a mask. The idea of talking to a girl makes you unbearably anxious, even though a girl is all you want.'

I touched him gently on the arm, and he pulled away as if I'd given him an electric shock. Don't touch the love-shy. Check.

And then he burst into tears. Great hacking, choking, bawling sobs.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I just don't think I can—'

‘It's okay,' I said. ‘Take as long as you need. You'll find I'm pretty patient. I'm not going anywhere.'

I remembered the last time I'd cried like that. It was nearly two years ago. The day Dad told me and Mum that he was gay, and Mum left.

It was a Saturday. I'd just come back from swimming, and I remember the smell of chlorine and the stinging feeling in my eyes as I started to cry. We were in our old house in the suburbs. The back door was open and I could hear birds singing in the garden, and the sound of someone's lawnmower.

Mum didn't say anything, not a word. She just listened as Dad spoke, his voice trembling and tears in his eyes. Then, when Dad stopped and waited for our reaction, nothing happened. Mum just sat there, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Then she pursed her lips, stood, and went into her and Dad's bedroom. I looked at Dad.

‘It's okay,' he said. ‘She just needs a minute. She's fine. We'll all be fine, I promise.'

But Mum emerged from the bedroom holding an overnight bag.

‘Kelly,' said Dad, standing up. ‘Sit down. Let me make you a cup of tea.'

Mum didn't look at him. She just walked out the front door. I heard her car pull out of the driveway a moment later.

She hadn't looked at me either.

I'd cried it out, that afternoon. It had taken about an hour, and afterwards I felt weak and empty. But then Dad and I talked. He answered every question I asked, and I couldn't hate him, or wish he'd done anything else.

I knew Nick would cry it out as well, eventually. And then we'd talk.

It took about ten minutes. Then he was very quiet, his head still buried in his arms. I wondered if he'd fallen asleep.

‘Nick?'

He flinched, raising his head and wiping his eyes. ‘I th-thought you'd gone.' His breath came in shallow panting gasps, like a dog on a hot day.

I grinned. ‘Told you I was patient.'

Nick straightened up. ‘Why are you h-here?' He didn't look at me.

‘I know you're love-shy,' I said. ‘Hamish Berry told me.'

I didn't want to tell him that I knew he was
PEZZ
imist. It might compromise the honesty of his blog posts if he knew I was reading them. It felt sneaky and nosy, but it wasn't as if I were reading his diary. It was a public blog, on the internet for all to see. Surely on some level Nick
wanted
people to read it. Otherwise he'd just write in a journal.

‘That . . . ' Nick swallowed, then forced himself to speak. ‘That doesn't answer my question.'

Fair enough. ‘I want to be a journalist,' I said. ‘I think your condition is fascinating, and I'd like to write a story about you. I'm pretty sure I could sell it to a real newspaper.'

Nick looked as if he was about to explode, or possibly vomit again.

‘Don't worry,' I added hastily. ‘I'd change your name, and nobody'd ever know it was you. But I think it would help you.'

‘H-how?'

‘You'll get to talk to me,' I said. ‘A lot. And I'm a girl. It'll be like practice-dating. But with no anxiety, because I already know about your condition, so I'm not going to reject you. Plus, as previously mentioned, I'm in no way interested in you romantically.'

Nick was quiet for a minute, but I could see he was thinking about it.

‘What would I have to do?' he said at last.

I shrugged. ‘Tell me about yourself.'

Another long pause. ‘I-I can't.'

‘Sure you can. Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?'

Nick shook his head.

‘Me neither. See? We have something in common.'

Nick seemed to think over the whole idea for a while, then he hung his head. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I don't think I can do this.'

‘Don't you want to be able to talk to girls?'

His head turned, and he didn't
quite
look at me, but it was pretty close. ‘Of course I do,' he said, with a vehemence that I doubted either of us expected. ‘I want it more than
anything
. It's all I've ever wanted.'

‘So let me help you.'

Nick's face twisted, as though he was in pain. ‘There's—'

He broke off, and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. He was shaking again, his breath coming in those little shallow pants. I saw his knuckles go white as he gripped the bench. He'd gone all pale.

‘Nick? Are you okay?'

He screwed up his eyes, and in one explosive breath he managed to speak out loud, in a tangle of words.

‘There's a girl. I like a girl.'

I gave him a minute to let his breathing calm down.

‘Good,' I said. ‘That's good. Can you tell me something about her?'

Nick seemed to relax a little, but he didn't open his eyes. ‘She's beautiful. She's small and perfect and has long brown hair like silk. She's gentle and kind and feminine – she doesn't feel as if she has to be like a boy in order to be heard.'

‘She sounds amazing.' She also sounded
nothing
like Amy Butler.

‘She is.' Nick's face clouded over. ‘But it's useless. I'll never be able to speak to her, let alone ask her out. She'll find some alpha male who won't treat her as well as she deserves, and I'll just be alone until the day I die.'

I gave him a flat look. ‘You've been watching too much daytime television. Stop talking as if you're on
Jerry Springer
and start being
you
.'

‘But I don't know who I am,' said Nick hopelessly.

‘Nonsense,' I said. ‘You just have to trust me. I can totally help you. I can help you talk to Amy Butler.'

Nick tensed again. ‘How did you know it was Amy Butler?'

I laughed. ‘I'm not
blind
. You're always watching her. Plus, she's the perfect girl for a love-shy. Petite, pretty, long hair . . .'

‘How do you know so much about love-shyness?'

I nearly said
your blog
, but caught myself just in time. ‘I read a book,' I said, which was also true.

‘D-do you know her?' Nick asked. ‘Amy?'

I could run into trouble here. I didn't want to tell him I thought his chosen bride was boring and not very bright.

‘A little,' I said. ‘Not very well. She seems nice.'

Nick sunk into a reverie that probably involved walking Amy down the aisle or rescuing her from the jaws of a crocodile.

‘Do you think maybe I could write her a letter?'

‘Who?'

‘Amy. I-I could say it all in a letter. Better than I ever could in real life. In real life I'll just fall over and die. Or throw up on her.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘Don't throw up on her. Not everyone's going to be as forgiving as me about that.'

A teeny smile flickered across Nick's face. ‘So?' he said. ‘A letter?'

I thought about it. ‘I don't know. What would you say in a letter?'

‘How I think about her all the time. How I think she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. How I want to be with her always. How I want to spend my whole life with her, just the two of us, cuddled up in our own safe little paradise while the world goes rushing by around us.'

‘Um,' I said. ‘Maybe don't lead with that.'

‘Why not? It's poetic.'

‘It's creepy. If someone who'd never spoken to me before sent me a letter saying those things . . . '

‘What?'

‘I'd think they were a stalker. Or a serial killer. Or at the very least a bit of a weirdo.'

‘I
am
a bit of a weirdo. But I'm not a stalker. Not really. And definitely not a serial killer.'

‘I think you need to have had some real contact with Amy before you profess your eternal love for her.'

‘But how can I do that? I can't do it at school. There's too much else happening. Someone else might see. A
teacher
might see.'

I blinked. ‘Who cares if a teacher sees?'

‘It'd be way too embarrassing. I might vomit. Again.'

‘What if you saw Amy outside of school? In a more social situation?'

Nick shrugged. ‘I don't know. Maybe. I still think I'd be too anxious.'

‘But it'd be better, right? Than doing it at school?'

He shrugged his shoulders miserably.

I smiled. ‘What are you doing next Saturday night?'

‘Nothing. Like every other night.' He sighed, and I imagined him sitting in his bedroom, night after night, gazing out the window at the world going on without him. I shuddered.

‘Well, now you are,' I told him. ‘It's Sarah Parsons' birthday party, and you're coming with me.'

‘No.'

‘Come on,' I said. ‘It'll be fun.'

Nick clammed up. The hesitant, curious expression that had crept over his face was replaced with stony blankness.

‘Come on,' I said. ‘How do you expect to get better if you don't try? You
do
want to get better, don't you?'

‘I'll never get better.'

‘Amy Butler will be there.'

He hesitated.

‘You could talk to her,' I said. ‘It might be easier in a non-school environment. No teachers to see you.'

He shook his head. ‘No. I'd say the wrong thing. I'd do something dumb. I'd have a panic attack in front of everyone.'

‘But don't you see?' I said. ‘That's what you're supposed to do at parties!'

‘Have a panic attack?'

‘Do dumb stuff. Say the wrong thing. Do whatever you'll regret the next morning. Everyone else will be doing it too, except they'll be really drunk so they'll probably throw up at the end of the night. And you've already got that bit out of the way.'

‘No.'

‘Just promise me you'll think about it?'

‘I said
no
!' Nick's voice cracked hysterically. ‘You have no idea what it's like to be me. You can't just waltz in, give me a makeover, take me to a party and I'll suddenly realise how beautiful I am. This isn't some cheesy '80s teen film – it's my life, and nothing in it is going to change. So just leave me alone.'

He stumbled off the bench, and ran away.

9

O
VER THE WEEKEND, I READ
a research paper from the University of Wisconsin about an experiment with rhesus monkeys. Scientists isolated baby monkeys to prevent them from playing with other monkeys. When these monkeys grew up, they turned out to be totally incapable of reproducing on their own. Not because they were sterile, but because the female monkeys wouldn't let the males anywhere near them.

So the scientists artificially inseminated the shy female monkeys. But when they gave birth, they didn't recognise their young as babies. They stomped on the babies, threw them against the walls of the cage, and in some cases tried to eat them.

I thought about Nick, and the things he'd said about
his
mother. She didn't sound like a particularly nurturing figure, but Nick's ideas about relationships were so skewed – maybe she was completely normal, and he was just a spoiled brat gone wrong. A dysfunctional family might begin to explain Nick's love-shyness, but I couldn't just assume that his family was screwed up. I needed to meet them.

I was going to have to put in a bit more work before I'd score an invitation for a playdate. Especially given that after our first proper conversation he'd told me to leave him alone and run away.

Still. I'd talked to Nick, and he'd talked back. He'd seemed . . . almost normal, except for the part where he threw up on me and the part where he'd cried for ten minutes and all the parts where he came across as a totally creepy stalker. But there had been
moments
when he seemed normal. There had been moments when it was as if we were two friends, hanging out. And I'd enjoyed that. I knew I was there for a purpose; I was mentally taking notes for my article the whole time. But I'd also had fun, just chatting. I talked to a lot of people, interviewing for the
Gazette
and canvassing for the SRC, but this had been different. Gentler, somehow.

I spent most of the weekend recording my recollections and observations from our first meeting. I also made two lists, one of questions to ask Nick about his family and upbringing and thoughts about stuff, and the other of possible conversation starters he could use to make him more comfortable with talking to girls on a casual basis. It was a productive weekend; I even managed to squeeze in a little homework – although it probably wasn't up to my usual standard – as
well
as help Dad and Josh do a jigsaw of Barack Obama's face drawn in tiny coloured rhinestones. The only thing I didn't get around to was my oboe practice, but I was a good enough sight-reader to get by in rehearsal. I noticed Nick hadn't mentioned the vomiting-on-my-boobs incident on his blog. I guessed even he had a reputation to maintain.