Diary of a Crush: French Kiss (2 page)

I didn’t even dare sneak any sideways looks at him but then Martyn said we had to get into pairs to do this assignment and told us to work with the people next to us. Yup, the impossible just fell right into my lap – Dylan’s my photographic partner! But instead of being pleased, it just made me want to cry.

I couldn’t speak at all. I had to hide my hands under the table so he wouldn’t see them shaking as he tried to talk to me.

‘So I guess we haven’t been formally introduced,’ he said, and he looked at me, and all I could do was stare at my notebook on the table in front of me and know that every part of me was blushing. My face, the tips of my ears, even the bits between my toes. Dylan soldiered on. ‘I’m Dylan, I’m on the Foundation Art course, are you doing A-levels?’

I managed to shake my head and shrug and nod in reply to all his questions. Give it a week or two and I might upgrade to the odd grunting noise.

Dylan had to decide what our project was going to be – which was taking photographs of lots of crumbling buildings, as far as I can tell. He was chattering away about the influence of the Gothic Revival in a lot of Manchester’s architecture from the nineteenth century and I could barely hear him, though he did say something about ‘flying buttresses’ and then laughed.

I think it’s fair to say that Dylan’s got me down as a mute. Even worse, he’s coming here, TO MY HOUSE on Sunday. This is not a good thing, especially as I actually had to talk to him at that point and try to be cool and not forget my address. I started stammering and blushing even more than I already had. It was hideous. And I glanced up and he was just giving me this look accompanied by a little half-smile that just about removed the top layer of my skin.

I can’t concentrate on anything but the fact that Dylan is coming over on Sunday. By some miracle, the ’rents are going to a wedding on Saturday and staying over so they won’t be home until Sunday night late and my mother won’t be barging in, proffering Ribena and oatcakes.

Mia told me that Dylan has a terrible rep and that he’s left a ‘trail of broken hearts in every girls’ school from here to Cheshire’. And that he and Shona have this strange contest to see who can get off with the most people but it’s really because they have this love/hate relationship and they’re trying to score points off each other.

‘Mia, have you
seen
Dylan?’ I asked her incredulously as we sat on the wall by the Nursery Block and split a bag of chips between classes. ‘He’s gorgeous. If he wanted Shona, he could have her. He doesn’t need to play games.’

But Mia just gave me a funny look and then changed the subject.

I can’t seem to settle. I wish Sunday was here and then I wish that it was never, ever going to happen. When I’m alone inside my head, I have these amazing conversations with Dylan and I’m funny and intelligent and just a little bit quirky. But in reality I know that I’m too chicken to even speak to him.

In twenty-four hours Dylan will be in my house. It’s just too awful to contemplate. And if I wasn’t stressed enough, Mia’s invited herself to stay over tonight. I like her and all, but I just wanted to be alone tonight so I could work myself up into a hysterical state.

Mia’s as good as dead. She came around, spiked my Diet Pepsi with vodka and then persuaded me that it’d be a really good idea to cut a fringe in. ‘You’ve got really cool eyebrows, but no-one can see ’em,’ she kept saying. And I felt so woozy that in the end she just kind of lunged at me with the scissors and butchered my hair.
Then
she threw up on my mum’s Art Deco rug.

Dylan’s coming round in half an hour. The lounge stinks of Dettol, I’ve got a killer headache and worst of all, my so-called fringe is crooked and curling up at the ends. I wish I was dead. No I don’t – I wish everyone else was dead.

By the time Dylan actually turned up I was practically hyper-ventilating. Every time I looked in the mirror my fringe had become even more lame. It was flicking out at the edges and just wouldn’t lie flat. Did I mention that it was completely uneven too?

I was just in the middle of changing, so I was wearing my new dark denim skirt
and
the Lisa Simpson T-shirt I’d slept in, when the doorbell rang. I swear to God, my limbs went into spasms. I managed to open the door and Dylan was slouched nonchalantly (my word for the week) against the door jamb, dressed all in black. He slowly uncoiled himself, smiled at me in a not very reassuring way and handed me a carrier bag. ‘I thought we could have these with our tea,’ he said, with another smile that was a millimetre away from being a smirk.

I just stared at my feet, but eventually I took the bag and looked inside.

He’d brought biscuits. When I glanced at him, he was staring at me really intently. It was my
bloody
fringe, wasn’t it?

‘You look different,’ he said after I’d just stood there and gazed at him for five minutes. Then, he reached out his hand and lifted my chin. My stomach dipped all the way down to the silver nail varnish on my toes. I pulled away ’cause I just couldn’t bear it any longer.

‘It’s my fringe. I had a run-in with a pair of scissors,’ I muttered and he was like, ‘Wow, you actually talk!’

And then we were sitting on the stairs and I told him about Mia and he said in this strange, strained voice, ‘Oh, that sounds like Mia.’

I looked at our knees and mine just looked so small and childish compared to his. Even his knees seem dangerous. Does that sound strange?

Anyway, to cut a long story short, quite literally, we ended up in the bathroom so that Dylan could tidy up my fringe. He was really into the idea and I figured that it couldn’t look any worse.

It was a very, very intimate situation. I sat on the edge of the tub and Dylan knelt in front of me, cupping my chin and turning my head this way and that before he started snipping. I’d always vaguely thought that all boys who cut hair had to be gay – but Dylan seemed so not gay. The way he went about cutting my fringe was more about me being a sculpture or a drawing and him being an artist, moulding clay or smudging charcoal.

And then when he’d finished, he wouldn’t let me look. Instead he did something which freaked me out. He told me to close my eyes and he started, very gently, blowing on my face to get rid of all the icky little hairs. He was holding me by the shoulders to stop me from moving and I wanted him to kiss me so badly. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

But he didn’t.

He just turned me round to face the mirror and I have to admit my hair was happening. My fringe was really, really short but it suited me. That devastating half-smile which makes me turn into a puddle of not-quite-set jelly was back on Dylan’s face again but he just said, ‘I’ve given you a 1960s urchin cut. It looks really cute.’

I was sort of ‘aw shucks’-ing but he just said dead seriously, ‘Your eyebrows are fantastic.’ Then the moment was gone, so I went downstairs and made him some tea.

But the kettle had barely boiled before Dylan had to go. It was just, ‘Time I wasn’t here.’ We didn’t even take any photos or talk. One moment he was in the kitchen dunking digestives into his tea and I was summoning up the courage to open my mouth and form complete sentences, the next he was out the front door. He didn’t even say goodbye. I watched him disappear down the street and as he got further and further away, the sadder I felt. Then I realised the ’rents would be home any minute so I went to inspect the rug for puke damage.

Later on, I googled 60s urchin cuts and there were lots of pictures of girls with a mod-look who were all very pretty in a really gamine way.

I wondered if Dylan thought I was pretty in a gamine way… or was it just my fringe?

I have to stop this obsessing about him but it’s almost like I want to consume Dylan whole. When I’m with him, I’m a different person. I become really aware of myself and I’m not sure I like it. I don’t know. Why is this whole boy/girl thing so confusing?

I felt dreadful today, like I had this sense of impending doom hanging over me. I spent most of the night thinking about what had happened with Dylan. And I also remembered how unimpressed he was with Mia. I didn’t see Dylan at all, but I saw his friend, Paul, who smiled at me. Not in a sleazy way, more in a friendly way. I also saw Mia who I thought might apologise for puking on my mum’s rug. But she just sneered at me and said, ‘Your fringe is ridiculously short.’ And I said, ‘Well, whose fault is that?’ Then she muttered something under her breath about girls with stupid crushes and how I should just get a life. So, then I was like, ‘Oh yeah, I had a great time with Dylan on Sunday in case you were interested and Paul’s just smiled at me.’ She kind of shoved me against the wall and then stormed off.

But Nat and Trent said that I looked a little bit like Emma Watson and I beamed at them, because that was so the right thing to say.

I sat in the canteen on my own and Mia sat nearby with a bunch of people who kept looking over at me and laughing. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, Dylan walked in with Shona and even though there were two spare seats on my table, they sat as far away as possible.

Shona is gorgeous. She looks like she’s stepped out of the pages of a style mag or something. She wears the same stuff as me (jeans and little cardies or vintage dresses) but she looks a million times better. I was so conscious of my bottle-green, school cardie and boring black cords. Sometimes a girl just can’t pull off the casual thang.

Anyway, they just locked into this private groove, whispering and giggling softly. Dylan had his arm round her and every now and again she’d sort of nuzzle her head against his shoulder. I pretended that I was engrossed in my book, but I just sat there and wondered why the sound of people laughing could be, like, the loneliest sound in the world. Then Dylan got up and as he passed me he tugged one of my pigtails, but he’d gone before I could turn round. I watched Shona from behind my book and she was writing really fast and feverishly. Reams of it.

When it was time to go, she tore up what she’d been writing, chucked all the little bits of paper in the bin and wafted past me. Our eyes met for a second, so I tried to smile but she stuck her nose in the air and marched out. Everything was so weird. Why was Mia being such a bitch? And why was Dylan avoiding me? And why did Shona get to be beautiful and mysterious in such a cool way?

No Photography today as Martyn’s off sick. Can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved with all the stuff that’s going on.

Nat and Trent are the only people speaking to me, apart from the ’rents who don’t count. Obviously, I’m a horrible person and no-one wants to know me.

I saw Dylan in town. He was with Shona. Again. He seemed so remote – I realised it was stupid to imagine that there was some bond between us. When I see him tomorrow, I’m going to pretend that he doesn’t exist. It’s about the only way that I can hold on to my last shreds of sanity.

Oh God, I’ve made such a fool of myself. I’m sitting in the naff café that no-one ever goes into and I’ve got to go to Photography class in a minute but I’m not sure that I can.

My obsession with Dylan has leaked over into an obsession with Shona. They’re always whispering together lately and I know there’s all sorts of secrets going on and it’s driving me crazy. I’m sure there’s more to this ‘best friends since we were embryos’ thing.

This morning I walked into the first floor loos to hear Shona screeching at Mia, ‘Just keep your stinking carcass away from him!’ before storming out. Then Mia shot me an absolutely filthy look before disappearing. I’m getting so fixated on Shona that I even followed her at morning break. She went into Oxfam and I hid behind the book-stand and watched her nearly buy this really cool Sixties black bag. So, I bought it instead, when she’d left. I’m practically stalking her.

It got worse. At afternoon break, she sat in the library doing her manic scribbling routine again and then chucking it all in the bin. Five minutes later (when I should have been in French), I was rifling through the bin and hoping that there wasn’t any goopy stuff in there when I felt two hands squeeze my waist.

I turned my head, dead flustered, and Dylan was standing right behind me, smiling and saying, ‘What on earth are you doing, weirdo? Did you miss breakfast or something?’ A million things were running through my head. Did he know what I was really up to? Why was he always laughing at me? I was trembling like a leaf in a thunderstorm. I could feel his warm breath on the top of my head and his hands resting on my waist, seemed really cool while my skin burned up.

I leaned back against him for one second and he lowered his head like, I don’t know, like he was about to kiss me. But it was just all too much, I twisted away from him and shot out of the library.

How can I ever face him again?

By the time I got to Photography class, there was nowhere to sit but in the back row with Simon, Paul and… Dylan. Which is getting to become something of a habit. Note to self: Get to Photography class ON TIME! I couldn’t even look at Dylan, so I just pretended that he wasn’t there even though I could sense him looking at me in this bemused fashion. I turned round and scowled at him. ‘Stop staring at me!’

Dylan seemed to think that was hugely funny ’cause he smirked, ‘Well, stop sulking then.’

I was just about to deny it, when Martyn, our tutor, told us to get into our project pairs and discuss our work, so I had to talk to Dylan. After a couple of moments of trying to stare each other out, I gave in and started wittering on about the photographs.

‘So, um, I don’t really know where there would be any crumbly old houses… that is, I mean, y’know, stuff that’s old and Gothicky Revivaly ’cause I’ve only just moved here.’ I went on like that for ages. I could hear myself talking all this utter crap and tried telling myself to shut up but myself wouldn’t listen and all the while Dylan sat there and stared at me. Like, really stared at me. It made me feel really uncomfortable, but sort of excited at the same time.