This is Shyness

THIS IS SHYNESS

Leanne Hall lives in Melbourne and works as a children's specialist at an independent bookstore. Leanne can't think of anything better than a life spent reading and writing young adult fiction, and has far too many future books living in her head to ever consider a full-time job.
This Is Shyness
is her first novel.

LEANNE HALL

THIS IS SHYNESS

The paper used in this book is manufactured only from wood grown in sustainable regrowth forests.

The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
textpublishing.com.au

Copyright © Leanne Hall

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

First published in 2010 by The Text Publishing Company

Cover design by W.H. Chong
Text design by Susan Miller
Typeset by J&M Typesetting
Printed and bound by Griffin Press

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Hall, Leanne Michelle, 1977-
This is shyness / Leanne Hall.
1st ed.
ISBN: 9781921656521 (pbk.)
For young adults.
A823.4

For Mum and Dad

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

acknowledgments

1

The bouncer stares at my ID, his expression murky, his face tinted purple by the neon sign above us. I rub my bare arms. The temperature must have dropped five degrees in the last few minutes.

Neil hovers behind us, just inside the swing doors. He's still wearing his work shirt, and everything about him is limp and sweaty. He twitches as if he's about to step in and say something. I widen my eyes, trying to send him a telepathic message.
Leave it to me
.
I have this under control.

The bouncer looks down from his concrete stoop with bloodhound eyes. He's worked too many nights in a row. I push my shoulders back in my too-tight t-shirt. This is up to me and the motivational powers of my two best assets. The bouncer knows my mum's old driver's licence is a joke. I know he knows it's a joke. He knows I know he knows. He's just trying to do his job.

‘What's your star sign?' he says eventually. Predictable.

‘Leo. What's yours?'

That gets a tired smile out of him. He's not such a tough guy. His puffa jacket gives him bulk that he doesn't have.

‘Don't believe in that stuff, do I?'

‘You look cold. You want me to bring you out a coffee?'

‘No, thanks. You go inside and have a good night'—he runs his eyes over the licence one more time before handing it to me with a knowing smile—‘
Maree.

Neil ushers me into the warmth of the pub. The doors thump behind us and I let my breath whoosh out with relief.

‘Welcome to the Diabetic Hotel, l'il lady.'

Neil's hand rests a second too long on the small of my back. I'm so happy to get through the door I decide to let him get away with the patronising names just this once.

‘So, you'll be going straight to the bar then?'

Neil salutes and swerves off to find us a drink. I flex my hands. There are crescent-shaped marks on my palms where I've dug my nails in.

I push past a cigarette machine and through another set of swing doors to the main bar. The pub is smaller inside than I expected, but busy. The room is lit with sickly fluorescents that make everyone look jaundiced. I'm glad to see Rosie has already found a free table in a corner. I make my way over, and squeeze onto a tall stool.

Rosie grips my arm. ‘I'm so glad you got in. I thought you were a goner.'

‘I had it under control,' I say, and then ruin the effect by trying to sling my handbag onto the table and missing by a mile. I bend down to pick it up, trying not to touch the seriously manky carpet. The room wobbles as I straighten up, and I almost slip off the stool. This seat is designed for people at least a foot taller than me. We drank two bottles of wine between the three of us at Neil's house. I don't normally drink. I should slow down or I'll make a fool of myself. I don't want Neil and Rosie to think I can't hold my booze.

‘This isn't what I was expecting.' Rosie takes in the room dubiously. I can tell by what she's wearing that she was expecting Neil to take us somewhere ritzier. Her halter dress gapes dangerously.

‘Rosie…' I point at her chest.

‘Whoops!' She makes a shocked face and pulls her dress up higher. ‘Thanks, mate.'

‘You nearly gave everyone a free look.'

‘You can talk! Did your t-shirt shrink in the wash?'

It's a fair point. I bought this top to annoy my mum, but instead of telling me off, she asked if she could borrow it. Raving nympho is a popular look in our household.

‘Ladies!' Neil puts a jug of beer and glasses on the table. He's making some sort of weird stud-face at us. ‘What do you think of the Diabetic?'

What do I think? The pub is full of grandpas, suits and meat-heads. The walls are puke-green and decorated with ancient sports plaques. I don't want to go near the sticky table, and the vinyl seat on my stool is ripped. There's a U-shaped counter, a pool table and a beat-up jukebox. I don't mind rough, I'm used to rough, but Neil looks so pleased with himself you'd think he'd flown us to Paris for the evening.

‘It's very…atmospheric.' Rosie takes a slug of beer and smiles at Neil blearily. I think she likes him. It's probably the only time in the history of the universe that someone has fancied Neil. Maybe I should leave them to it.

I take a sip of beer and it fizzes unpleasantly on my lips. I don't even like beer. I put my glass back on the table. Five minutes before I pick up my drink again, that's a promise. I squint at the clock behind the bar but the hands are frozen on the wrong time. It must be at least ten. I have a test on Monday that I should be studying for all weekend, but tonight I'm on a mission to forget. I normally say no to Neil's invitations but I don't want to sit at home alone. I don't want to hear Mum coming in late with her internet date in tow, giggling and drunk. I don't want to eat breakfast while some geek saunters around our kitchen in his socks like he owns it.

I let my attention wander while Neil whispers something in Rosie's ear and she laughs loudly. I don't know how she can stand having him sit so close to her. Neil keeps ‘accidentally' brushing his arm against mine, so I guess he's still hedging his bets. I move away, wrapping my arms around my handbag and resting my chin on it.

The room is subdued. The only rowdy group is the suits playing a drinking game at the next table. Their table is littered with shot glasses. One of them catches me staring and winks. Pervert. I'm young enough to be his daughter. I look away.

And then I see him.

Sitting on the far side of the counter where the light doesn't quite reach, on his own. A young guy, not much older than me, with pale skin and dark hair crawling everywhere. He plays with something small and silver on the counter, turning it over in his hands. The hair on his forearms is thick below his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Heavy forehead, full lips. He shouldn't be able to get away with his ridiculous urban cowboy quiff, but he does.

I turn back to Neil and Rosie. The last thing a boy that good-looking needs is one more girl checking him out.

Rosie and Neil are both laughing and looking like they expect me to get the joke too, so I smile. Rosie has lipstick on her front teeth. I sip my beer again and resolve to concentrate on the conversation. They're saying something about the receptionist at work. I hate talking about work.

But then I can't help myself: I
have
to look at him again.

He's finishing his drink, tipping his head back to drain the glass. Then his gaze roams the room like he's expecting someone. I hold my breath and bite my lip.

He sees me.

His eyes connect with mine and I get this tingly feeling that travels all the way from my stomach to my fingers and toes. I stare back. One second, two seconds, three. I probably couldn't look away even if I wanted to.

Eventually he blinks and breaks the thread between us. I feel a jolt of disappointment. He stands up and slips his wallet into his jeans pocket.

‘Oy!' Neil zooms in so close I can smell his beer breath. He squeezes my arm. ‘Rosie says you're the most ticklish person she's ever met. Is that true?'

I push Neil's hand away and lean around him, trying to see what the guy is doing. Is he leaving? Why would he leave after looking at me like that?

The beautiful boy ambles in the direction of our table,
6
his head lowered. He's much taller than I expected and he looks great in tight black jeans and a checked vintage shirt. I sit up and flick my hair off my shoulders.

Neil pokes his finger right into my gut, hard and without warning.

‘Stop it!' I growl, slapping at him wildly. I hate people touching my stomach. One of my hands connects with the side of Neil's head but it doesn't stop him. He lunges for me and I double over, trying to protect myself. I feel the stool lift and tilt sideways in slow motion. I grab for the edge of the table, but it's too late—I'm falling.

two

I'm most of the way across the room before I realise I have no idea what I'm going to say to her. She lies on the floor of the pub, her hair fanned out in a black halo. The guy with the shaved head lies next to her. He might throw up, he's laughing so hard. The girl raises herself on her elbows, a murderous expression on her face.

My falling shadow looks ominous, even to me. She stares straight at me, with eyes rimmed heavily in eyeliner. She looks a hundred times better up close.

I blink. Why did I come over here in the first place?

In my panic I forget myself and do what I do best: I howl.

Every shred of longing and despair in the front bar— and believe me, on a Friday night at the Diabetic there's plenty of it—gets sucked into my lungs. My body shakes as the sound runs through me. The pub stereo shudders to a halt. Every face in the room turns towards me.

I finish with a couple of short sharp yelps and then I'm quiet.

Someone from the City snorts nervously. The regulars turn back to watch the football on the telly mounted above the bar. It's not as if this is the first time this has happened.

‘You're a tool,' the girl says, in a cold voice that could cut through my ribs to my heart. The diamond stud in the curve of her nose flashes.

I came to the pub tonight because the walls were closing in on me at home. I thought I'd run into Paul or Thom here. Howling at hot strangers wasn't on my schedule.

‘It's in my nature,' I reply, and incredibly she laughs. She brushes the guy's arm off like it's little more than a piece of lint.

‘I was talking to Neil, not you,' she says. ‘Are you going to help me up?'

Oh. I offer her a hand, and hoist her to her feet. She's light as anything.

‘Can I buy you a drink?'

She hesitates and glances at her friends. The chubby redhead in the evening dress stares. The guy—Neil—gets to his feet, with his hands clenched by his sides, his jaw clenched too. I raise both hands and back away. I've read this all wrong.