A Little Crushed (17 page)

“Okay.” His argument fell short of totally convincing her as did the picture of Kate he was trying to portray. “If you believed all that, then why did you stay with her?”

“Because I was immature and chauvinist enough to like having the girl every guy wanted. She is everything a man could wish for in a woman—beautiful, intelligent, and funny— and yes, I suppose I must have been in love with her. We’ve had some amazing times together. But I think we’ve become a habit, the golden couple of Sydney and a total cliché. It suited me having the trophy girlfriend, and she loved showing me off to her friends. This time apart is good for us—a way of getting back on track, so to speak.”

Rebecca tried to be adult and understand, but the whole charade, if it really was that, struck her as a bit silly. “So what now?”

“What now is that I have rambled on too much, and it’s time to throw you and your, I have to say, too fat and too smelly mutt out.” He stretched his arms high above his head, affording her a tantalizing view of a tanned washboard stomach. Jumping to his feet, he offered his hand and pulled her up. “I have to be somewhere at seven, and I need to get my act together. Plus, it will be dark soon.”

True enough, the mahogany grandfather clock showed it was nearly five p.m. “You’re right. I should go. I only left to look for Wally. Thank you for the chocolate… again.” Avoiding his amused smile, she stared down at her slippered feet.

“Mmm. It does seem to be becoming a habit. I was thinking, perhaps, I should keep a supply of warm clothes and slippers here for you, and a dog basket for Wally, of course.”

Hand on her mouth, Rebecca giggled. “You’re silly, but it a good way.”

“It has been said. And talking of slippers, you can’t go out in the snow like that. Hang on.”

He disappeared into the cupboard under the stairs and reemerged with a pair of old wellies. “I found these here when I moved in. They look a bit big, but they’ll do.”

Kicking off the slippers, Rebecca slid her feet into the boots. “I hope they didn’t belong to the ghost. He might be upset.”

“I’ll risk it, now scoot. Come on Wally, out.”

One word from him, and the dog jumped and ran to sit at his feet. He clicked the leash to his collar and handed him over to her care. From Wally’s evil gleam, she got the impression he would have been quite happy to relocate to Chez Jackson. Not a bad idea as ideas went. She wondered if his pressing date was with the biology teacher. Oh ‘admiration’ was hard; she felt so envious.

Mumbling more thanks, she followed him out of the door and down the steps into the garden. The temperature had plummeted, turning the earlier snow flurry into a treacherous ice path. As Mr. J. went to open the gate, Wally decided it was time to do his Torvill and Dean impression, and he skidded for freedom, causing her to stumble.

“Steady.” Mr. J. grabbed her as she fell against him. It was only a moment yet enough to send the familiar fear crawl into her stomach, but then, miraculously, it faded.

“God, Rebecca, I’m sorry.” He released her so abruptly, she nearly stumbled again.

“I’m fine.” She gripped the lead so tight, her nails bit into her palms. “Please don’t be sorry. It isn’t you. It’s just—”

“I know. Hey…” Hand on her back, he guided her through the gate. “Go home, and Rebecca, thanks for the chat, and maybe next time, we can get some work done.”

He was back in teacher mode. Good. That was safe; a world she understood. Mumbling a goodbye, she dragged Wally away. As she jogged home, she realized he hadn’t made her promise not to reveal his family secrets. That made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He trusted her.

“Don’t you just love Christmas?”

With a length of red satin cord between her teeth, Emma warbled along to the festive set blaring from her headphones. Rebecca lay, sprawled out on Emma’s bed, arms folded under her head, staring up at the ceiling, a position she had pretty much been stuck in for the past few weeks. Christmas only meant one thing to her: the end of term and two weeks without Mr. J.

Emma chattered away as she wrapped up the obscene pile of gifts pooled at her feet. Rebecca hadn’t done any gift shopping yet. Hardly surprising when she’d spent every Saturday afternoon slouched on Mr. J.’s sofa, drinking hot chocolate and pretending to take down copious notes. Granted, he’d helped her a great deal with operation Oxford essay tweaking, but it was so hard to concentrate when all she wanted to do was kiss him. She was pretty certain he didn’t want to kiss her back, and that hurt like hell. Being in ‘admiration’ was no fun.

Rolling onto her side, she watched Emma immersed in her task, so happy and in love. So what if it was only Simon? They’d been an item for a month, and he obviously rocked Emma’s world. But then love was different than ‘admiration.’ Admiration was so much more of a higher emotion than love. Admiration didn’t make her want to dance and sing and float around the school, sighing every two minutes, or stop in the street to pat children on the head and help seniors across the road. No, being in admiration just made her feel sick and nervous and anxious and lonely.

“Are you going to help me or not?” Emma stopped long enough to take a slurp from a yummy alcoholic drink she’d managed to sneak past her parents. “I thought that was the whole point of us staying in tonight.”

“No.” Rebecca swung her legs around and shuffled down to join her on the shag pile rug. “We stayed in because Simon and Peter have gone on a boxing club guys night out, and we weren’t invited.”

“You wouldn’t have gone anyway. I mean you’ve always been a bit of a drag, but lately you’re worse. You never do anything anymore.” Emma threw a Kylie Minogue CD and a sheet of wrapping paper at her. “Here, make yourself useful.”

Catching the CD before it hit her on the head, Rebecca made a face. “Who do you hate enough to buy this for?”

“Mr. J.” Emma stuck out her tongue. “And don’t be facetious.”

“I’m impressed. A big word, Emma, but two questions a) why are you buying Mr. J. a Christmas present? And b) just because he’s Australian, why do you presume he likes Kylie? I happen to know he loathes her. He’s into rock and…” She shut up quickly. Too engrossed in trying to tear off a strip of sticky tape, Emma missed her slip up.

“If you must know, I am giving him this as way of saying thank you for persuading Mr. Black to let us have the Christmas party again. After what happened last year when nut job Brendon snuck in some dope, he said he never would, but of course, if you inhabited this planet like the rest of us mere mortals, you would know we twisted Mr. J.’s arm into twisting Mr. Black’s.”

It was the first Rebecca had heard, but Emma was right. She’d cut herself off from the rest of the class and reality for weeks. She wondered why he hadn’t mentioned his part in the Mr. Black arm twisting, but then, apart from her work, they didn’t discuss school. It was an unspoken rule. When they were together, they were not teacher and pupil but friends—which was frustrating as hell.

“Becs.” Emma gave up with the tape. “Are you okay? Seriously now, you’ve been acting really weird lately. I mean weirder than normal.”

Shuffling across the floor, she joined Rebecca on the rug, and they sat together, as they had done so many times in their long friendship, knees drawn up, backs pressed against Emma’s huge old-fashioned but to-die-for comfortable bed. Rebecca wriggled her bare toes and debated whether to confide in her friend. Sometimes she thought she would burst with all the new feelings she carried around in her heart.

“Hel-lo.” Emma elbowed her in the ribs. “Are you listening to me? You’re doing it again. It’s like you blank out. Not only that, you’re so quiet—and nice. God, you were even nice to Vicky the other day.”

Now that hurt. “When?”

“You lent her your Metallica CDs. You don’t remember. Hey, you don’t think you have early Alzheimer’s, do you?”

“Don’t give up your day job. Your comedy routine stinks, and just for your information, lending Metallica to Vicky was for educational purposes. Anything to wean her off
Glee
.”

“Stop procran…crak… Stop hedging. What’s going on with you?” Expression serious, Emma wrapped tentative fingers around Rebecca’s forearm.

Panic churned in her gut, but she was tired of carrying the burden alone. “Em…promise me one thing, actually two. Please don’t laugh, and then, don’t tell me I’m crazy because I know that already.” Eyes closed, she sucked in her breath and breathed out the words. “I-I admire someone.” There she said it.

At first, Emma stared at her, jaw somewhere amongst the debris that had been their pizza supper, and then she leaned over and turned off the music. “Right, first off, please explain what you mean by admire because I am thinking that is a code word for fancy because I know you would rather die than admit you’ve fallen off the I-don’t-do-men wagon. So, spill the beans. Who is it?”

“Point of reference.” Rebecca took a swig of her drink. She was going to need it. “‘Fancy’ is such a childish expression. It doesn’t begin to describe the feelings I have for—”

“For Mr. Jackson.”

Rebecca stopped breathing.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. I know you think I’m just dim-witted Emma, but I am not as stupid as you think.”

“Excuse me?” Emma’s insightfulness stunned her. “Are you insane? No, it’s, oh…” She banged the sides of her head with clenched knuckles. “I can’t do this.”

“Spare me the dramatics, Becs.” Emma’s tone softened. “It’s so obvious. Well, to me anyway. I’ve seen the way you look at him in class, how you sit there so quiet I have to pinch you to see if you’re still in the land of the living. You fancy him, and that’s okay. Welcome to the world of lesser mortals. Half the girls in the school, probably some of the boys, too, ‘admire’ him, as you put it.”

“Don’t make light of this, Emma.” She grabbed the end of her plait and chewed on it. “It’s more than that. When I’m with him, I feel so—”

“Whoa.” Emma made a T with her hands. “Time out, here. When you’re
with
him?”

“He’s been helping me,” she mumbled, turning away, so Emma wouldn’t see her reddening cheeks. “For Oxford. That’s where I go every Saturday. He only lives around the corner, so he said it would be more practical than driving back into school.”

“Okay, well that’s good he’s helping you out. It proves what I said all along. He’s a nice guy and a good teacher.”

“It’s not just that.”

“I hope it is
just
that.” Emma rose up on to her knees and shuffled around until they faced each other. “Let me ask you something, Becs, and answer honestly. When you’re together, poring over books in these cosy little sessions, has Mr. J. ever done anything or said anything or looked at you in any way that makes you think he may have feelings for you?”

Annoyed by this shrewd ploy, reluctantly, Rebecca had to admit the answer was no. “Well, no, but I know he cares about me. We talk a lot. He makes me feel so...so safe.”

“Becs, please, I understand you wanting to reach out to someone, but don’t get all in a dither over this. Lighten up a little.”

If this was Emma trying for tactful, Rebecca wasn’t buying it. “How you, of all people, have the nerve to say that. Don’t you remember how you were over Monsieur Giscard?”

“Oh, I do, and I also remember how you teased me about it. The point is I knew it was only a fantasy, no more than a stupid schoolgirl crush. All girls play this game, except you never did. So now you’re convinced what you are feeling is true love or admiration. I mean, that says it all, you calling it that.”

“This is different. I’m eighteen, Em, not fourteen,” Rebecca said stubbornly. “I know what I’m feeling.”

“But what’s the point?” Emma wailed in exasperation. “I know you too well to treat your obsessions lightly.”

“What do you mean what’s the point?”

Emma looked aghast. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you think you could possibly have a chance with him? It will never happen. Even if he wanted it to, he can’t because he’s your teacher.”

“You still think I’m being ridiculous, don’t you?” Rebecca said dully.

“A little, yes. So he’s kind to help you with your Oxford dream. Mr. Hurst would do the same. Blimey, even Mr. Aitkin would. You’re reading too much into this.”

“Well, thank you, Emma Brown, for that psychological analysis. I didn’t realize you were such an expert on affairs of the heart. Some friend you are.”

“Rebecca, be careful. You could get him into serious trouble, you know. He could lose his job if anyone thought something was going on, which it
isn’t
.”

“Give me some credit.”

“I’m only telling you this because I am your friend.”

Rebecca had no sarcastic retort. In her heart, she knew Emma meant well. Kicking out at the empty pizza box, she fixed her gaze on Emma’s growing pile of gaudily wrapped presents. “I dream about him, you know.”

“Oh my, this is worse than I thought. No wonder you’ve been coming to school looking exhausted.”

Rebecca shook her head. “It isn’t like that. Not what you are thinking anyway. He’s just there, by my side, saving me from… He’s so gentle and kind, and I just want him to hold me forever.”

Another weighty silence filled the room. Emma reached for her hand. “Becs, come tonight. It will be fun.”

At that moment, Rebecca had never felt so isolated. Emma didn’t understand, although she was trying. But how could she ever comprehend how much that animal had taken from her and how Mr. J. was responsible for saving her from so much bitterness.

“I have to go.” She scrambled to her feet. “You have fun tonight. I know you want me to come, but I don’t think I could stand hours of techno and hip-hop.”

“Mr. J. will be there.” Emma made one last ditch attempt and a pretty low one at that.

“Ha ha. So funny.” Rebecca glared. “And I am sure Miss Holmes will be clinging to his arm for the entire evening.”

“Maybe not.” Emma grinned too knowingly. “Rumour, as in your sister, has it they are not spending so much time together. Hey, maybe he finally found out what an incredible bitch she is.”

“It was never anything serious anyway.” Rebecca sniffed disparagingly. She debated whether to mention the fiancée but thought better of it. It would only provide her dear chum with another knife-edged reason as to why Rebecca was delusional. “Sorry, but your attempt at psychological warfare has failed. I am not going. See you Monday.”