Signs of Love - Love Match (7 page)

She shuffles her chair closer and puts her hand over his on the mouse. ‘What about this one?’ She moves the mouse and clicks. I look back at my screen before I throw up.

Thanks, Wikipedia. That’s a big help.

Jeff sighs and rattles his long fixture list. I freeze, brain popping as an idea clangs in my head like a virus alert.

‘Hey, Jeff.’ I clear my throat, self-conscious. ‘It’s the Year Nine girls’ football team Cup game tomorrow.’
Treacle’s match
.

Jeff sucks air through his teeth as he glances at his fixture list. ‘Yeah,’ he sighs wearily.

‘That would be a great first article, wouldn’t it? After all, it is a
Cup
match.’

Jeff’s not looking entirely convinced so I give him the hard sell. ‘If you need help, I could watch it with you and take notes for your article – as the editorial assistant.’

Jeff shrugs. ‘OK.’

He’s not exactly punching the air with excitement, but he said OK. It’s a start. He looks at Cindy. ‘Can I go now? I’ve got footie practice.’

Will jerks up his head. ‘You don’t have to ask permission.’ He nods towards Cindy. ‘She’s not armed.’

Sam laughs. ‘Not yet.’

Cindy slides him a coy look. ‘The only weapon I need is my smile.’

Blargh!

Trying not to gag, I turn back to Jeff. He’s folding the fixture list. He shoves it into his back pocket and heads for the door. ‘I’ll see you at the match tomorrow then,’ he mutters at me as he goes.

‘Great!’ I grin. Result! Tomorrow I can point out Treacle every time she kicks the ball.

In my mind, I’m already on the sideline, Jeff wide-eyed beside me as he watches Treacle hammer down the wing and score a breathtaking goal from halfway down the pitch.

‘Did you see that?’ I bounce excitedly at Jeff’s elbow, but he’s speechless. Treacle’s magical playing has wowed him. He’s watching her as her teammates swarm round her. When the sunlight glints off her glossy hair, the admiration in his gaze melts suddenly into love . . .

Tomorrow is going to be the best day ever.

By the time the ref blows the half-time whistle, Jeff Simpson will be head over heels for Treacle.

The form room’s stuffy, even though January sleet is slapping at the windows. The class is crammed for Friday morning registration. I’m perched on a table next to Treacle by the radiator. I unbutton my jacket, swamped by the heat. Miss Davis has ticked her attendance boxes and is briefing us on our class assembly.

‘The History of St Valentine’s Day.’ As she announces the theme, Ryan Edwards, class clown, calls across the room. ‘Hey, Savannah! You’ve had plenty of valentines, why don’t you handle this one by yourself?’

Savannah’s sitting beside Josh. She scowls at Ryan. ‘You handle it by yourself.’ She presses closer to Josh. ‘I prefer to work in pairs.’ She looks at me and winks.

Josh shakes his hair out of his eyes and stares Ryan down like a well-trained watchdog.

‘Hey, Miss.’ Chris McLaren shoots up his hand. ‘Is St Valentine the one with wings and a bow and arrow?’

‘That’s Cupid, stupid,’ Bilal Khan snorts.

‘Same thing,’ Chris argues. ‘Some geezer trying to hook people up.’

‘That’s a very astute analysis, Chris.’ Miss Davis tries to channel the bickering back to the topic. ‘Let’s think more about what St Valentine represents.’

‘Love, Miss.’ Sally Moore glances up from the pocket mirror in which she’s checking her make-up.

‘Exactly.’ Miss Davis looks relieved to be on firmer ground. ‘Our assembly will be focusing on the history of St Valentine’s Day. How do you think we can make that interesting for the audience?’

Ryan’s feet are fidgeting like he’s forgotten to take his morning medication. ‘We could get Savannah and Josh to give a snogging demo,’ he suggests.

Savannah snaps round, eyes flaring, but Miss Davis leaps in before she can reply.

‘Ryan,’ she cautions, ‘leave Savannah alone.’ She throws a pleading look at Anila Zajmi. ‘How do
you
think we might explore the history of St Valentine’s day, Anila?’

Anila is every teacher’s dream – she doesn’t suck up, but all the teachers know she’ll be there with a relevant answer when lessons start to fray. She’s helped them out of so many jams, she should get a cut of their salaries. ‘We can show how love has changed over the years,’ Anila answers obligingly. ‘How we went from arranged marriage to internet dating.’

‘Great idea.’ Miss Davis looks very relieved. Boosted, she tosses a follow-up question at the class. ‘Where could we look if we want to find out how people thought and felt about love in the past?’

‘Match.com?’ Bilal calls.

‘
In . . . the . . . past
, Bilal,’ Miss Davis reiterates slowly.

‘What about looking in old books?’ Sally’s suggestion is tentative.

Miss Davis leaps on it like a fox on a rabbit. ‘Old books! Very good! Where else?’

While my classmates fling ideas at each other, I shrink into my backpack. Assemblies aren’t my thing. I’m staying quiet and leaving this performance to the X Factor wannabes.

Wannabe Number One, Chelsea Leeson, is leaning against the window sill throwing poisonous eye-darts at Savannah.

I nudge Treacle. ‘Is it my imagination or is Chelsea looking a little green this morning?’

Treacle scratches her nose. ‘I’m not surprised, she’s been wanting a slice of Joshy-pie for months.’

Savannah’s too busy fluttering her eyelashes at Josh to feel Chelsea’s scorching gaze. I’ve not had a chance to ask her, how her date went but, from the knowing way he’s grinning at her I’m guessing it went well.

Poor Marcus. He’s watching from the back of the class, his shoulders drooping.

‘Marcus looks like someone ate his homework,’ I whisper to Treacle.

She glances over her shoulder. ‘Poor Marcus.’

‘Yeah.’ Sympathy pricks me. ‘It must’ve taken a lot of courage to ask Savannah out.’ Marcus is sweet-looking, but he’s not in Josh’s league. He’s gazing at Savannah while Savannah gazes at Josh. Josh sniffs and inspects his fingertips, then flicks dirt out from under a nail.

Miss Davis taps her desk with her pen. The class have wandered off topic again. Sally is arguing with Bilal. ‘Asking someone out via text is so
not
cool.’

Miss Davis breaks it up. ‘Don’t forget that St Valentine was a martyr. It might be nice to focus on the sacrifices we sometimes have to make for people we love.’

I think of Ben. And the holiday we didn’t have last year because he needed a tilt-table for his physio. We could all have used a holiday. But, like Mum says, you can’t have your cake and eat it.

Miss Davis raises her voice over the background chatter. ‘Perhaps we could focus on some great love stories or poems,’ she suggests. Her eyes are misty behind her owl-glasses. She sounds wistful. Is she single? I check out her fingers: no wedding ring. Maybe she’s got a boyfriend. She could probably get one. She’s not
that
old, though she’d look younger if she gave up the bun and sensible shoes. Maybe she babes it up when school’s out. I try to imagine her in a tube dress and heels. Not bad. DD as Savannah would say –
Definitely Datable
.

‘Do you think Miss Davis gets many valentine cards?’ I whisper in Treacle’s ear.

‘I bet she gets more than me.’ Treacle winds a long wisp of hair round her finger and sighs.

‘You never know.’ I smile to myself. If everything goes according to plan at the webzine, Treacle might be getting her very first card from Jeff.

‘Right.’ Jeff hands me a notepad and pen. ‘You log the stats.’

‘I
what
?’ I squint at him through the freezing rain.

‘Just make a note every time someone makes an attempt on goal, offsides, fouls, saves, how many corners. All the important stuff.’

I take a look at the windswept pitch. ‘Well, there are four corners . . .’

‘Ha ha.’ Jeff shakes his head, but I wasn’t joking. What does he mean, how many corners?

The teams start to file on to the pitch. Anila, from our class, is first on, followed by Karen Marsden from another Year Nine form with her mates Erin Slater and Jing-Wei Wu. Where’s Treacle?

I didn’t warn her Jeff was going to be watching. She was so nervous about the game. I didn’t want to make it worse. But I know that, once she’s on the pitch, her pre-match jitters will disappear. They always do. After that, even Jeff Simpson won’t distract her from the game.

I huddle deeper into my duffle, flinching from the biting wind snapping at my cheeks. Jeff’s wrapped in a scarf, his dark-blond wavy hair plastered around his face. I can see why Treacle likes him. Even half-drowned, his nose red with cold, he’s DD. Not my type (although I’m not even sure I really have a type?) but Definitely Datable.

Treacle jogs on to the field and I wave. She must be freezing even though she’s wearing leggings under her baggy strip. She waves back, her hand stalling in the air as she spots Jeff. I grin at her madly. She must be
so
pleased he’s here.

The teams fan out into position and the ref blows his whistle.

I write
Cup Match: Green Park v Tiptonville High
on the notepad and start scanning the game for stuff to write down. There’s a lot of running as the teams punt the ball around, but no one’s near a goal. My gaze sneaks sideways to Jeff. Is he watching Treacle? He cups his hands round his mouth and yells encouragement to the Green Park High team.

There’s a smattering of spectators, hunched against the icy wind at the edges of the pitch.

‘Come on, Treacle!’ I whoop.

Treacle glances at me as she thunders past, sliding to tackle the ball away from a defender on the other team.

‘Isn’t she great?’ I nod at Jeff.

He’s watching her dribble the ball over the muddy grass as she heads towards the other team’s goal. ‘Yeah.’ His eyes are fixed on Treacle’s legs as she hammers the ball towards the net. It veers in the wind and slices past the post.

‘Missed.’ Jeff shakes his head.

I write, ‘Goal attempt by Treacle.’ My fingers are trembling and not just from cold. Jeff was really watching her! I want to jump up and down with excitement. My plan’s working.
Come on, Treacle, impress him!

Imagine if this was the beginning of something big. My pen drifts across the soggy page, drawing a love heart. What if they fall in love? What if they get married? Flowers and hearts trail from my pen, twining between the lines. I doodle a wedding dress, sketching Treacle’s head at the top, her jet black hair gathered in ringlets. As I start work on the bouquet, Jeff lets out a massive groan.

‘What?’ I look up.

Through the rain, I see the players clustered round the goal at the other end of the pitch.

‘Tiptonville scored,’ Jeff sighs.

‘Does that count as an attempt on goal or a goal?’ I say.

He gives me a look that could shrivel plastic. ‘Goal.’