Holly Smale - Model Misfit

“I’m going to have to run away,” Nat says decisively. “I’m going to steal a pig and ride it into Paris.”

My phone beeps and I grab it out of my pocket. “Pigs can trot at up to eleven miles per hour at top speed,” I say, clicking on a message from an unknown number. “It’s definitely faster than walking.”

“Or a tractor. I can’t drive but I reckon if you’re in a tractor everything else gets out of the way for you. Do you think a tractor has gears, like a car …”

Nat continues chattering but I can’t really hear her any more.

The human brain consists of eighty per cent water, and for the first time in my life that’s exactly what mine feels like: as if it’s swishing and swirling around inside my head. My ears fill with the roaring sound you get when you sit at the bottom of a swimming pool.

Because I’ve just received this:

Hope you smashed your final exam. Would love to talk. Thinking of you. Nick x

Reasons Not to Think About Nick

1 He told me not to.

2 I have much more life-changing things to think about.

3 It’s all I do.

January 22nd (156 days ago)

“A seagull,” Nick said, leaning his head against the rope of my tyre-swing.

We were both wrapped up in big coats and scarves; I was wearing the big furry hat I got from Russia with the flaps in the sides. I leant back and looked at him, pointing at the faint scar just above his eyebrow. “A seagull gave you that?”

“Yeah. So I wrestled it to the ground with my bare hands. Then another seagull joined in so I fought that too. By the end there were, like, fifteen seagulls, all totally defeated. They called me Seagull Dundee after that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How old were you?”

“Four. I was a very strong little boy.”

I laughed. “Now tell me the truth.”

Nick’s mouth curved up at the corner. “I cannot believe you don’t trust that I wrestled fifteen seagulls with my bare hands before I was out of kindergarten. What kind of rubbish girlfriend are you?”

“The kind with quite detailed knowledge of seagulls, unfortunately for you. No knowledge of boys but it balances out.”

He shouted with laughter. “I knew I should have gone for the girl on the Dolce & Gabbana shoot.” Then he pushed my swing a few times while I stuck my tongue out at him. “OK. What actually happened is I ran away from my parents when we were collecting rocks at the beach. I was pretty tiny so I didn’t get very far, but a massive seagull freaked me out and I fell over and smacked my head on a rock. When I woke up a few minutes later, it was standing on my chest.”

“Were you scared?”

“No. Heroes don’t get scared.” Nick thought about it. “One of us definitely pooped, though. I’m pretty sure it was the seagull.”

I laughed again. “I hate seagulls. Did you know that they’re so smart that they hang around bridges so they can steal the heat coming off the roads, and that they tap on the ground with their feet and pretend to be rain so earthworms come out?”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. They’re so sneaky.”

“How big was this one?”

“The size of a tiger. Comparatively, anyway.”

I tried to imagine Nick small and frightened, but I couldn’t quite do it. “So what gave you the scar? The rock or the seagull?”

“The rock. Although the seagull got really close to my face too. Really, really close. Like, this close.” Nick suddenly stopped the swing and put his face near mine.

I held my breath. I could see the different shades of black and brown in his eyes, and the tangle of black lashes underneath them. I could see my hat reflected in his pupils. I could see the little mole on his cheek and smell the greenness which – I had finally managed to establish – was the result of a fondness for lime shower gel combined with a tendency to constantly sit on wet grass in his jeans.

“That’s pretty close,” I just about managed to say as he put his hand gently on my cheek and brushed away a bit of hat fluff.

“Yup,” Nick said with a smile that went up in one corner and seemed to stretch out forever. His hand stayed where the fluff had been. “But not quite close enough to hurt me.”

And he leant in and kissed me.

cientists say that music can literally change the speed of a heartbeat. They failed to add:

So can a text message .

It’s as if Nick is suddenly in the room with me.

I drop the phone.

“Harriet? What’s going on?”

Humans are supposed to have 70,000 thoughts a day; I’m about to hit my limit in four and a half seconds.

“It’s Nick,” I summarise.

“ Seriously? ” Nat grabs the phone off me and reads the message. Then she chucks it back to me, jumps off the bed and starts folding a jumper messily.

I’m breathing too fast and my heart is starting to skitter around like Bambi on a frozen lake. My entire body is suddenly full of a triumphant, almost painful buzzing sensation. What did I tell you? It wasn’t a matter of if he was going to change his mind . It was just a matter of when.

Although I’m going to be honest: he really took his time. We’re not Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester, for goodness’ sake. I could have set up an entire school since we last spoke.

I jump off the bed, spin around the room and start hugging my phone to my chest. “Should I ring him now, Nat?” I say breathlessly, breaking off just long enough to kiss my phone and start hugging it again. “Or should I text? What do you think he wants me to do? Do you think he’s coming straight here from Australia?” My eyes widen and I fly to the window. “Oh my God, Nat. What if he’s already here?”

I push the window open and then remember that I’m at Nat’s house. He’s very unlikely to come here first. I need to go home and get ready right now . I need to wash my hair. I need to clear away my chemistry kit.

I start putting my shoes on.

“How long should I wait until I reply to look cool?” I continue breathlessly. “Five minutes? Ten minutes? An hour?”

I’m so excited I can’t get my shoelaces to tie up properly. “Or should I just ring now? I don’t want him to get the wrong impression.”

I look at the text again. The answer to these questions must be in here somewhere. Maybe it’s in code. Maybe it’s a haiku. Allegory? For goodness’ sake, I’ve studied English literature for five whole years. I can analyse the imagery in Macbeth and the symbolism in Hamlet . I should be able to work this out.

“You know what?” I decide. “I think I’ll just ring him straight away. I can’t wait any longer.”

My phone abruptly disappears.

“Like hell you will,” Nat snaps, and before I know it she’s standing on her bed, violently waving my mobile in the air like some kind of rectangular hand grenade. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

I stare at my best friend. It’s only now that I notice her cheeks are bright pink, and her hands are shaking. Her angry rash is starting to climb up her chest. And it’s only now that I notice she’s folded and unfolded the same jumper five times. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You’re not contacting Nick,” she says loudly. “I’ll eat this phone if I have to. And the charger.”

I’m not sure that’s even physically possible. “ What ? Why?”

“Because you need to wake up, Harriet.”

I blink and then look down at myself. “I’m pretty sure I’m awake, Nat.”