How to Keep a Boy from Kissing You: Chapter 4

Not having had time to research religions, I was still pondering how to make my ascent up the Wheel of Karma on Friday as Mrs Kent, our English teacher, read Wordsworth’s poem ‘Daffodils’.

‘Miss, did Wordsworth have sexual orientation concerns?’ Travis Ela asked.

I barely heard him. Imagine a field full of daffodils! Just one daffodil is like blissful sunshine; a field would be something almost sacred.

‘“And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils,”’ Mrs Kent finished, wiping a small tear from her eye.

Mrs Kent always encourages us to surrender ourselves to any emotions provoked by works of literature. Last year, when we watched Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet, I cried my eyes out during the scene when Romeo and Juliet first set eyes on each other by the fish tank (the emotional intensity heightened by my favourite song of all time, ‘I’m Kissing You’, playing in the background). Mrs Kent had just smiled and handed me a box of tissues. Rumour has it that she’s a closet Mills & Boon author.

‘So, class, as you’ve now been exposed to the many forms of poetry,’ she said, ‘from sonnets to blank verse, I would love it if you took the next fortnight to create a poem of your own. It can be in any form and on anything you like. Look at it as a chance to express yourself in a new way. Presentations will be on Valentine’s Day.’

I loved the idea of expressing myself. The only trouble was choosing what to write about. Mrs Kent’s assignment left the poem’s topic wide open. Hayden Paris, in his usual spot in front of me, was smiling to himself as he wrote the assignment down. You had to wonder what he was going to write about. I was rather curious about his deepest thoughts and emotions. Perhaps I could find a weak spot to use to my advantage during our battles of wit.

The bell sounded and I headed across the courtyard, dashing quickly from pool to pool of shade. Today’s sweltering weather seemed capable of causing a mirage if you stayed out in it too long. I slipped thankfully into the air-conditioned biology lab.

Mr Blacklock, our teacher, entered frowning. In the two years I’ve spent in his biology class, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. Personally, I think his name should reflect his true nature — Mr Blackheart. Despite the fact that I earned an A in my end-of-year biology exam last year, he marred my report card with: Ms Skye enjoyed the social side of the subject, especially her interactions with Mr Paris, which disturbed others and resulted in the non-completion of several key tasks.

I couldn’t believe Hayden Paris was mentioned in my Year Ten report card! He interfered in so many aspects of my life already, and now he was interfering with my education too. I also couldn’t believe that Mr Blacklock was sabotaging my future academic prospects. God knows how many nights I’d lain sleepless, picturing universities refusing to accept me because I might ‘disturb others’.

And it wasn’t as if I was a bad biology student either! I’d maintained a straight A average. I’d never done anything truly terrible, like set my work area on fire — unlike Jeffrey Clark. (Pyromaniacs should never be allowed to take a class involving a Bunsen burner.)

‘About seventy per cent of all living organisms in the world are bacteria,’ Mr Blacklock began.

Seventy per cent? Did he have to begin the year with that disconcerting fact?

‘And most of these are invisible to the human eye,’ he continued, staring at his thick textbook.

I think Mr Blacklock likes to pretend that we’re not in the room and it’s just him there alone, revelling in the world of science.

‘Thanks to the invention of the microscope we can now observe these organisms.’

Ah, yes. One of my favourite pastimes is observing bacteria of all kinds. Not.

‘Microscopes have played a huge part in demystifying many scientific questions over the past century …’

That’s what I’ve got against biology: the demystification element. I enjoy the world as it is. I don’t feel the need to rip off the natural world’s layers. For me, it’s like having a magician tell you how he creates his illusions. I have much more respect for people like Wordsworth, who just appreciated nature’s beauty instead of feeling the need to shove the daffodils under a microscope. Plus, some of the evolutionary theories are really depressing. I don’t want to have to consider that I may be descended from a sea squirt (another of Mr Blacklock’s pet subjects). I’m having a hard enough time defining who I am without that notion flying around in my brain.

After biology, I bumped into Jelena in the hall.

‘Hey, Aurora, where are you headed?’

‘Bathroom.’

‘I’ll come too.’

Guys always wonder why girls go to the bathroom in groups. The truth is, all the interesting stuff happens there. It’s where you discuss what’s going on outside the bathroom, help others out by lending them some blush or listening to their horror stories, and prepare yourself to go back into battle. You never know what you might find out in a bathroom.

Today was no exception. As we walked in, we found Lindsay clutching the sink desperately and sobbing her eyes out.

‘Tylererabrokubbbmeeee!’ she wailed.

We rushed forward, grabbed her by the arms and sat her down on the bench by the wall. Her sobs grew heavier and she collapsed like a rag doll.

‘What happened?’ Jelena gasped.

Lindsay’s normally bronzed face was pale and her dark eyes had a hollow look to them.

‘Did your heel break or something?’ Jelena asked.

I frowned at her. Did she really think a broken heel was worthy of semi-hysteria?

‘No-one died, did they?’ I asked, frightened.

Lindsay just cried harder.

‘Lindsay, please tell us what’s wrong so we can help you,’ Jelena begged.

‘T-t-t-t-t,’ Lindsay stuttered, taking choking breaths.

‘Breathe, Lindsay. Try to think of each word before you say it.’ I stroked her hair reassuringly.

‘Tyler.’ Breath. ‘Broke.’ Breath and sob. ‘Up.’ Choke. ‘With meeeeee!’

‘What?’

This was unbelievable. Tyler and Lindsay had been going out for three years.

‘When?’ Jelena cried.

‘This mor-ning. At br-eak,’ Lindsay said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Jelena ran to get toilet paper.

‘Why?’ Jelena and I both asked, hardly able to wait for a reply.

Lindsay’s eyes widened with pain. ‘He said he needed some freedom so he could spread his wings and fly like an eagle.’

‘What?’ I said again. This wasn’t a typical break-up line.

‘He won’t be doing any flying once I get my hands on him.’ Jelena was squeezing the toilet paper roll so tightly that it was nearly flat.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve spent all day in here by yourself, Lindsay?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘I tried to call you but you didn’t pick up.’

Damn Mr Blacklock. He has this rule that if he hears a mobile, he takes permanent possession of it. I always make sure to leave mine in my locker, just in case one day I might not shut it off properly.

‘I couldn’t leave!’ Lindsay put her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I don’t even know how to cope on my own! I’m hopeless!’

‘Linds, you are not hopeless!’ But I could tell that she wasn’t listening. She was in shock.

I was in shock myself. To see something as strong and solid as TylerandLindsay crumble sent my faith reeling. If they couldn’t make it, who could?

I snapped out of my quickly darkening thoughts. It was time to take action.

‘Jelena, take Lindsay to the school nurse and demand that she be allowed to go home,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a free period this afternoon, so both of you jump in a taxi and head to my place. Here’s my key.’ I handed it over. ‘There’s no-one home at the moment. Run Lindsay a bath, okay?’

Jelena nodded.

‘I’m going to organise a Get-Over-Him Party. I have a mother–daughter meeting this afternoon, but I’ll pick up supplies afterwards. I’ll aim to be home at six, but I’ll get everyone else round earlier to assist with moral support.’

Jelena and I lifted Lindsay to her feet.

‘I can’t face everybody,’ Lindsay wailed, but Jelena had her out the door and halfway down the hall before she could protest any further.

Still reeling from the news, I headed towards my locker. On the way, I happened to glance up at the noticeboard. In amongst the notices about lost calculators and dress-code regulations was one that grabbed me straight away.

The notice went on to give the exact time and place of the auditions and backstage sign-on. My eyes skimmed over it excitedly. Here was something to take Lindsay’s mind off her break-up. Our whole group could get involved!

Excited by the prospect of our new group project, I was full of energy when I arrived in the city centre to meet my mother at 3.30 pm. As I reached the David Jones perfume department (our usual meeting spot), I saw her approaching from a distance.

Everyone always tells me how much I resemble my mother, but if you look beyond a few short glances, you’ll see we’re actually very different. We both have fair hair, but my mother’s is the type of blonde that you see on really young children: pure spun gold. Her eyes are emerald and her features are finer than mine. Today she wore a Carla Zampatti cream suit that fitted her in an impossibly perfect way. Everyone took notice as she walked past.

I have to admit that my mum, like those scarily popular girls in teen movies, intimidates me. Even when I was three, I think she somehow expected me to talk to her like an adult. Thirteen years and an extended period of absence later, I was still on my best behaviour.

‘Hello, Aurora,’ she said, giving me an air kiss so as not to mess up her lipstick. ‘How was school today?’

We started walking towards the women’s fashion area.

‘We’ve got an assignment to write our own poem!’ I said. ‘Isn’t that cool?’

My mother didn’t answer. She was trying on a pale lavender hat.

‘Mum?’

‘Wonderful, darling,’ she said, examining her reflection from all angles.

When my mum first came back from overseas, I didn’t want to see her. Then I read a book about the fundamental importance of the mother–daughter relationship; apparently it can permanently affect a woman’s sense of self. I’m now making an effort to be friends with my mother, but sometimes I feel like all the things that we can’t talk about have formed a big, gaping hole between us. A crevasse that I’m always trying to skirt around or leap over with my eyes shut.

But I’m not one to give up. I’m going to fill in that hole.

I decided to talk about things that interested my mother. I ran through the list in my head: Carlos, the new Spanish boyfriend (we were not going to discuss that); designer brands; home furnishings; relationships. I decided to go with the last one.

‘Mum, guess who broke up?’

Her eyes flickered with interest. We had a sign of life.

‘Tyler and Lindsay.’

Yes! I’d managed it as three separate words.

‘Lindsay …’ Mum mused. ‘Is she the pretty blonde who likes to wear denim?’

‘No. That’s Cassie. My lifelong best friend?’

I couldn’t help being a bit sarcastic. Cassie and I had practically grown up at each other’s houses. She must have registered on my mum’s radar once or twice in eleven years.

‘Darling, you can’t expect me to remember every tiny detail of your life.’ Mum raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘So who broke up?’

I decided not to make a scene in a heavily populated department store. ‘Lindsay and her boyfriend. Lindsay’s mum is chairwoman of the Museum of Contemporary Arts board. You’ve met her.’

‘The exotic-looking girl? Well, she’s gorgeous. She’ll have no trouble finding a new boyfriend.’

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit early to have her jumping into a rebound relationship?’ I asked as we stopped at women’s shoes.

I didn’t really want to hear her answer. My mum seems to believe that a woman’s life is incomplete without a man. The independent woman in me always gets furious at the idea. I looked at a pair of nude heels distractedly. My mother was examining a pair of Terry Bivianos.

‘Aurora, try those on,’ she insisted. ‘Last time I saw you, you were wearing sneakers with a mini. A nice pair of heels is a much more sophisticated look.’

I kept talking as I tried on the shoes. ‘I think Lindsay needs to find herself again. Oh, and guess what, Mum?’ I added excitedly. ‘They’re holding auditions for Much Ado About Nothing at school.’

‘Now, that is great news.’ Mum took both pairs of shoes up to the counter. ‘Who’s the female lead in that play?’

Mum wants me to be in show business. I’ve told her that writing is part of the arts, but she never really listens. The cashier took her credit card and rang up the purchases.

‘Beatrice —’ I started to answer.

‘Beatrice.’ My mother took her credit card and the purchases and headed towards women’s clothing. ‘She’s that argumentative character, isn’t she?’ She frowned. ‘Why don’t you go for the part of Hero? I’m sure she’d get a gorgeous costume.’

‘I don’t want to act. I want to help out backstage.’

‘Why on earth would you want to do that? Someone like you should be out front and centre.’

‘But —’

‘Promise me you’ll audition, Aurora. Then I can come and watch my daughter onstage.’

The idea of my mum taking an interest in any non-fashion-related aspect of my life was intoxicating. I could try out for a small part and still help out backstage, couldn’t I?

‘Sure, Mum,’ I found myself replying.

My mother beamed at me. ‘Wonderful!’

She grabbed my hands and danced me past women’s underwear. There’s something exhilarating about my mother when she’s happy. Suddenly she stopped dancing and looked at her watch.

‘Oh no. Aurora, I’ve got to go. Carlos and I are hosting a dinner party tonight.’

She became Avery again: elegant and unattached.

‘Next Wednesday, yes?’ She didn’t wait for my answer as she breezed out of the store.

I’ve never been to my mother’s new house. She holds a dinner party just about every second Friday. Sometimes I hold my breath hoping she’ll extend an invitation to me. She never has.

I felt a twinge of sadness before I realised that it was almost time to meet the girls for our Get-Over-Him Party. Tonight was about Lindsay’s pain, not mine. I grabbed Get-Over-Him supplies — nail polish, face masks, a funny DVD (no romances), a blank diary.

As I walked into the supermarket in search of cookie dough, I almost ran straight into Hayden Paris’s mother, Jennifer.

She gave me a big hug. ‘Hey, hon. We’re just shopping for a weekend away.’ She gestured towards Mr Paris, who had a bottle of champagne in his arms.

I always love seeing Mr and Mrs Paris together. They’ve been married for nearly twenty years and still hold hands any chance they can.

‘Keep an eye on the house for us, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘Hayden’s staying with friends for the weekend.’

No Hayden Paris for two days? Things were looking up!