My Invisible Boyfriend (11 page)

Message from: gingerbread_ed
hey dai,

h told me you and your fella are being really sweet to her, so thanks, mate. think she was feeling a bit blue about one of her friends? probably nothing really, you know what girls are like. or maybe you don’t.

sorry, that was probably kind of rude.

ed

Message from: dai_fawr
Hey dude,

Was kinda rude, mate, yeah. I’m conversant with Team Vajayjay as much as the next bloke, thank you very much. Bet I even know Ryder better than you.

Anyway, she needn’t worry. Fili’s being a total witch to everyone, not just her.

Later dude.

The penthouse, at night. Dashing gentleman detective Mycroft Christie observes, while his lovely assistant Miss Heidi Ryder paces up and down, deep in thought.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I believe I’m supposed to do the pacing up and down, deep in thought, around here.

HEIDI: Shush. It’s all right for you: Your problems are fun, involve killer assassins from The Future, and can generally be solved in forty-two minutes. Mine are a bit more complicated.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I’ve had my share of experience in the affairs of the heart, my dear.

HEIDI: I noticed, Mr. Dead Girlfriend of the Week.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: There’s no need to be personal. Not all of them died. And some of them turned out to
be evil. Granted, that’s not a resounding advertisement for my taste. But might my other area of expertise not be wholly irrelevant?

HEIDI: Beard-growing? Coat-wearing? Being kind of pompous?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I was referring to the art of detection. It seems to me that you have a case. Several, in fact.

HEIDI: Huh?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Case number 1: Miss Ludovica Bianchi and her gentleman friend with the wandering eye.

HEIDI: But what am I supposed to do about that? She’s really happy, and I don’t want to mess that up. But she should know if Peroxide Eric is being a git. Although he might not be, and then I’d have ruined all her happiness for no reason. But then if it is true and she finds out later that I knew, then she’ll hate me. So what’s a good detective meant to do? Tell Ludo? Yell at Peroxide Eric?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Or determine the identity of his Girl B?

HEIDI: Ooh.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Find the girl, find the crime—or lack thereof. If Girl B is blithely unaware of Peroxide Eric’s interest, then he’s done nothing more than think about her—and Ludo need never know.

HEIDI: And if Girl B turns out to be Tarty McSlutcakes who’s been doing the nasty with him round the back of the gym, I’ll tell Ludo, right after I’ve given him a kick in the jewels?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Your ladylike turn of phrase is charming, my dear. But yes, it appears you have the general idea. Now, case number 2: Mr. Dai and Mr. Henry.

HEIDI: I can’t figure out if they’re the perfect couple or a total disaster. They’re so cute together! But now Dai’s gone and convinced himself that Henry’s just waiting for the opportunity to dump him for a never-been-fat upgrade, and Henry has no idea that’s why he’s being weird—but since Dai
is
being weird, maybe Henry
is
just waiting for the opportunity to dump him. Except I sort of assumed he was way too nice to do something like that.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Perchance a detective might make further inquiries into said niceness?

HEIDI:
Perchance
I could. Some gentle interrogation of Henry, to check he’s not going to turn out to be Evil Boyfriend of the Week and break ickle Dai’s heart? Followed by knocking their heads together till they go back to being adorable?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: After your success at finding your own perfect partner, I dare not doubt your matchmaking skills, Miss Ryder. So, finally, case number 3: Fili.

HEIDI: Um. Yeah. I thought she was just a bit wrapped up in Gothboy, and too busy to talk to Ludo. Or Ed. Or me. But she’s not too busy: She just doesn’t want to. I think she hates me. Though now Dai says she’s being a witch to everyone.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: And why might that be?

HEIDI: I have no idea. OK, case number 3: Figure out
if
Fili is being a witch,
why
Fili is being a witch, and fix both of them. Somehow.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Excellent.

HEIDI: I do actually have homework to do, you know. It’s all right for you: You’ve never had to investigate three sets of relationship shenanigans
and
create a scale model of the Manor for your art coursework.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Not especially surprising, when one considers that I’m a fictional construct and this conversation isn’t real.

HEIDI: Don’t harsh my metatextuality, man. I’ve got imaginary detective work to do.

In theory, being the Finch’s resident detective should be easy. All the major players are conveniently located within a small, mostly inescapable location. My surveillance doesn’t need to take place behind a folded newspaper or wearing a funny mustache, because I’m undercover as Heidi, aka “that girl with the braids,” who will never be suspected to be the glamorous Miss Ryder, PI. Thanks to my network of informants (aka the Mothership, who has all the school schedules in her filing cabinet, and Dad Man, keeper of the keys to everywhere), I can track each of my targets’ expected daytime locations down to the last minute.

EASE.

EE.

In practice: not so much. It’s kind of entertaining, lurking behind pillars to eavesdrop, lingering at the end of the lesson to put my calculator away amaaaaazingly slowly, even doing the “Oh, look, my shoelace is undone, I must stop to tie it up immediately” trick (although either I’m freakishly gifted in the shoelace-tying department, or they don’t come undone in real life anywhere near as often as you’d think). But it turns out that knowing that Henry’s got French first thing on Wednesday morning isn’t much use, when I’m over in Math making Venn diagrams about hamster ownership. Lurking in the lunch line taking careful note of what kind of potatoes Peroxide Eric is having today (with masterful subtlety) doesn’t actually reveal the innermost workings of his mind. And when it comes down to it, much as I like the idea of sneaking up the Manor stairs into someone’s bedroom,
rifling through their drawers, and finding the envelope marked IMPORTANT CLUE—only to thrillingly hear someone approaching and have to hide under the bed—doing it for real is a no-go. I can’t really steal Dad Man’s keys. I’d sneeze. I probably can’t hide under Fili’s bed, because the dorm rooms have the kind with drawers in, and even if I could fit in the drawer, the drawers are probably already full of shoes and homework folders and stuff. Do real people even send each other letters anymore?

Then there’s the time already taken up with sitting in PAG Artistic Team meetings nodding a lot while Venables gets all sweaty about whether the stage wings should be covered in pink glitter or silver satin, failing to find words that rhyme with “autumn,” concocting persuasive reasons why I can’t eat the Mothership’s broad-bean puree, working at the Little Leaf (which is still deathly quiet, apart from me and Teddy expanding our Adam and the Ants dance repertoire to include dandy highwaymen)—not to mention the fact that all kinds of significant detection-worthy action must be going on all evening, after I’ve gone home.

Even when I am up there at the top of the hill, I have to be careful not give myself away, by lingering too hopefully around Fili, or asking Dai too many questions about Henry, or watching Peroxide Eric to see if his eyes are wandering in the direction of Scheherezade or any other potential Tarty McSlutcakes. So far I’ve only really noticed him snogging Ludo a lot—and occasionally staring at Fili, which
would be funny except he’s only staring at her because I am, while she’s making it hugely obvious she’d prefer me not to exist by firmly looking the other way. Meanwhile, Dai’s virtually moved into the gym, and Henry always seems to be off doing actorish things in the auditorium, both of which might be Of Grand Significance or Kind Of Meaningless.

Even Mycroft Christie would be struggling with this caseload. It’s not doing a whole lot for my glowy sensation of belonging, either. I could have an entire pond full of slimy things in my Bubble Wrap bag right now, and not one of them would notice.

But like Mycroft Christie, at least when I head back to headquarters, I have a sidekick I can really rely on.

By day, I’m Agent Ryder, slightly useless girl detective—and by night, I sit under my desk lamp, grin at the squishy eye of my gingerbread boy, and set him to work. Life would be simpler if he’d get on with it all on his own, but sometimes a girl has to give her boy a little push in the right direction. He’s not just there to cheer me up, now: He’s a man with a mission.
It’s a dangerous job
, Gingerbread Ed seems to say.
But it’s all in a good cause, and if anything goes wrong, you can always eat the evidence.
I’m not completely convinced about that last bit (he’s starting to look a bit dusty, after all, and he doesn’t smell quite as yummy as he did before), but it’s definitely more worthwhile than quadratic equations.

Message from: gingerbread_ed Subject: fed up

hey,

so, uh, yeah. life sucks. i suck. i even tried writing a new song called “everything sucks” but—guess what? it sucked.

h: miss you like singing in the rain, maybe you miss me, too?

ed

OK, so I’m being a bit naughty, inventing an argument, and it’s not what you’d call subtle, but hey, Ed’s a boy. Boys aren’t supposed to be subtle. (Besides, I bet the part where we made up was adorable. He probably sent flowers. Or chocolate.
Definitely
chocolate.)

AW.

Message from: dai_fawr
Hey dude,

Ryder giving you a hard time? Lemme know if you want me to give her a kick. And I’ve got a spare seat over here in the Loveless Puppies Rest Home if ya need it.

Later dude.

Message from: gingerbread_ed
hey,

um, no, no h-kicking required. was just crossed wires: thought she was going to call, she was mad at me for not calling, etc. etc.

you really loveless? downer. h is always telling me how sweet henry is over you.

ed

Message from: dai_fawr
Hey dude,

That’s nice to hear. If the gorgeous sod could just SHOW me that every now and then, I wouldn’t complain though, know what I mean?

Later dude.

“You spend too much time on that computer, babes,” says the Mothership, whenever she pops up to the attic. “Talking to that boyfriend of yours, are we?”

I must look horrified, because she smiles, and gives me one of her stiff little hugs.

“Parents aren’t as daft as they look, you know,” she says, smoothing down the tufty end of my braid. “Especially not ones who are teachers. We do hear things. And I know you’re growing up: Your father’s always saying you should be doing more teenage things. I think it’s nice. So no need to be so secretive, babes, yeah?”

Secretive is my middle name.
(Mycroft Christie, episode 1.1. Though obviously it’s Karen, really. Mine, not Mycroft Christie’s. We never find out his real one, so maybe he
really is called Mycroft Secretive Christie. Or Mycroft Karen Christie. He’s from the future: They might go for that sort of thing.)

“So, is it anyone I might recognize?” she says, quite casually, like she’s not at all dying to know.

My eyes stray automatically to the desk, where Gingerbread Ed is listening to the conversation, with a very smirky cast to the squishiness of his eye.

“Maybe,” I say, quite casual, too.

Then I make homeworkish noises until she gives up and goes downstairs to do something alarming with beetroots.

Gingerbread Ed: so delicious, even the Mothership can’t wait to meet him.

It does add to the list of things I need to watch out for up at the Finch, though. Agent Ryder’s efforts at covert surveillance are rubbish enough, without looking over my shoulder to check the Mothership’s not watching me watching Henry watching Dai, with a funny little smirk on her face. Or when we’re coming out of French, and Ludo waits till we’re right outside Dad Man’s little office when he’s on the day shift to start bellowing at me.

“OH MY GOD, Heidi, do you need, like, glasses? You’re, like, STARING at people.”

I give Dad Man a little wave as we go past, and I pretend not to notice the way his head sticks out of the doorway to see who I might be staring at. Especially when his eyes widen in curious surprise, and I realize that Etienne Gracey just happens to be walking ahead of us.

But there’s a line of people all streaming out of the back entrance, down past the lake, toward the auditorium.

“Where are we going, Ludo?”

“Duh. PAG meeting? It’s been on the notice board FOREVER? Oh my God, maybe you do need glasses.”

I think I might need more than glasses. I’ve got a lurking feeling Venables is expecting a bit more than my Flock of Seagulls hair mime, but that’s about all I’ve got to offer. Teddy promised he’d nearly finished doing whatever it was he was doing to our scribbly notes to transform them into “designs.” I’d meant to bike over to the Little Leaf to pick them up before this meeting. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with important detective activity, though: PAG and notice boards haven’t really been top of the list.

Somehow I don’t think Detection is going to cut it as an excuse for Venables.

Ludo drags me into the Performing Arts block regardless, and pushes me over to where the rest of the Artistic Team is at work. Simon’s there already, looking like a pale little twig with hair, wearing what looks suspiciously like Fili’s favorite black jumper: the one with the little holes in the sleeves that you can put your thumbs through. He gives me a wispy nod as I join him, ducking out of the path of Miyu Sugawara, who’s staggering under a giant sparkly sign reading Orsino’s! She adds it to the piles of painted backdrops and huge wooden props resting against an upright piano: martini glasses twenty feet high, the world’s brickiest mobile phone.

Panic status: moderate, increasing.