Somebody Else’s Guy : Girls’ Talk
He can’t see we’re perfect for each other
Part 1: Held back at school to work off a detention, Libby and Glenn click unexpectedly, but the level of attraction is mismatched
“Want to do a raid tonight?” you text me.
“Don’t you have to pack?”
I feel sullen. Tomorrow you’ll be on the coach with the other Italian students, leaving the rest of us behind.
“Mum’s done it.”
Of course, your mum is a helicopter parent.
“I have a history essay due.”
“C’mon LL. It’s our last chance for a week.”
You call me: LL, my initials, which I like. I suspect it’s a screen so our texts don’t raise your girlfriend’s suspicions. She probably thinks I’m a guy — Lucas or Laurence or Lance. I don’t know her, but Dina doesn’t strike me as very bright. She goes to the all-girls’ school in the next town. It’s hardly enlightened to assume I’m a boy, just because I play video games.
“Ok — give me 5.”
Setting my folders aside, I change into my pajamas and an oversized hoodie I swiped from your bag. It used to smell of you and I wore it imagining myself in your arms. Lying in bed I could fantasize you were behind me, spooning my body against your chest. Until my interfering mum washed it. Now it has a synthetic floral smell, jasmine I think. Still, I enjoy how it huddles around me, keeping me cosy when I veg out in my room.
I put on my headset and log in. You’re waiting online to team up. We fall into our usual roles. I sneak around, casting spells and reading runes, letting you handle the fight action with your superior weapons and strength rating. We joke and banter, and I experience flutters of adrenaline; Not just from the game, but swirled with the excitement that happens when I’m with you.
In the safe space of my bedroom, I indulge the fantasy. You’re my guy.
We fit together like puzzle pieces. Not yin and yang, which implies we’re opposites; rather you’re the left hand and I’m the right. We like so many of the same things. Since that day we did detention, I’ve watched all your favourite films countless times. We like the same music and video games. We can finish each other’s sentences. Sometimes we joke and don’t even reach the punch line before we’re creased up with laughter.
You don’t have this with Dina. I know you argue frequently, and walk on eggshells around her. It seems you’re never good enough. When I suggested romantic things for you to do or say, they blew up in your face; Dina found them soppy and ridiculed you.
You’re perfectly sweet to me.
An opinion I’d never dare offer is Dina’s too concerned with what other people think. I‘ll bet she tells her girlfriends everything, inviting a constant critique on your love life.
I have one best friend, Manda. I tell her only thirty percent of my interactions with you. Even so, she radiates disapproval in waves.
“Why do you care so much? It’s not like you’re his girlfriend.”
This, when I was running down the girls who’ve gone with you on the Italian trip. I’m stung into silence.
“Do you have an obsession with Glenn, Libby? Like Orlando Bloom, back in the day when you constantly watched every Lord of the Rings film? ”
This I hotly deny. It feels squirmy that Manda might guess that my interest in you is more than platonic.
“WE watched those films Manda, and YOU were as interested in Aragorn as I was in Legolas.” I protest.
“And it was a right of passage Libby. Schoolgirls have crushes on out-of-reach actors and pop icons,” she argues. “But Glenn is a boy we know, in our year. It’s different because you could date him; IF he didn’t already have a girlfriend.” She dares me to object.
“We’re just friends. He asks my advice about his girlfriend Dina.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Manda’s probing proves as uncomfortable as the dentist finding a cavity in need of a filling.
“I’m fine with it. I give great love advice — queen of the rom-com, that’s me.”
Manda drills me to the spot with her baby blues.
“Just remember that real life doesn’t always provide a happy ending. Unlike a book where it suddenly dawns on the hero that his best friend is his true love, and his girlfriend is a waste of space.”
Manda hooks my arm with hers and speaks more softly “I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
“I’m fine!” I breeze. “Glenn is just a friend who I game with sometimes.”
Jeez, I’m not cut out to be a double agent.
“Libby, there’s someone at the door for you!” My mum yells up the stairs.
I push my headphones off my ears but leave them hanging around my neck. I’m careful not to slip in my fluffy socks as I descend the stairs. I can’t see past Mum, except that the person on our step has blonde hair.
“Hello,” I study her uncertainly.
A girl about my age, wearing a long dress and thick-soled boots: doesn’t smile as I approach, and something cold slithers in my belly. I wait for my mum to return to the kitchen before I ask. “Can I help you?”
“So you’re LL,” the girl sneers, the same way I might say: ‘So this is a dog turd, or so that’s what a dead fish looks like.’
I realise it’s Dina and I’m caught, like a fish on a hook. Least said, soonest mended according to my Grandad — will that work here? My heart starts thumping somewhere high, against my throat. When I speak it comes out wobbly.
“I’m Libby, who are you?”
“I think you know exactly who I am Libby. I imagined you taller, with bigger boobs.” Dina’s eyes are slits, assessing me.
You didn’t tell me how beautiful she is. I’m unprepared.
Dina’s chest is bountiful. The charm of a gold necklace that matches her earrings hangs at the top of her shadowy cleavage. Her make-up is perfect and her clothes stylish. I am tomboyish and plain by comparison. And she’s definitely comparing us.
“You’re wearing his hoodie - shameless!” She sucks her teeth with disdain. “Did ya think I wouldn’t find out? About your little crush.”
Mum might overhear, so I pull the front door closed, shutting us both into the tiny porch space that’s cluttered with outdoor shoes and an unfurled umbrella. The smell of Dina’s perfume envelops us.
“Crush?” I hedge. “You’re mistaken. I have a boyfriend. His name is Dave.”
Shit! That’s three lies already.
“Really?” She examines her nails, expertly french-polished ovals of acrylic. “And what does Dave say about you wearing Glenn’s sweatshirt and texting him 24/7?” The eyebrow she raises is salon-perfect.
My mouth is as dry as the Sahara and a trickle of sweat creeps between my shoulder blades.
“Dave gave it to me actually,” I bluff. “His sweatshirt and Glenn’s got mixed up at practice. Glenn didn’t care; said he never wore it.”
“Bullshit,” she glares, dark brown eyes flashing with hostility.
My armpits prick with nerves. Will she know there’s no Dave on your team? She’ll find out as soon as she questions you. That’s the worst thing about lying. One fabrication leads to another, until further attempts to make the story hang together land you in a tangled mess.
“Let me set out the rules Libby.” Dina aims her index finger like a pistol. “Glenn is MY boyfriend and off limits to a skank like you. Don’t talk to him again.”
I’m miserably self-conscious of my stretched-out trackie-bottoms and my hair scraped into a scrunchie.
“I’ll be watching you,” her words drip with menace as she steps out of my porch.
Dina walks away, her glossy, highlighted hair swinging like a commercial for luxury shampoo. Pitifully I watch the girl who’s taken sharp scissors to all my dreams.
I’ve been a fool; nurturing my feelings in secret was not safe. While I didn’t act on them, I told myself they were harmless. Dina’s reaction has cast me in the role of scarlet woman: Jolene trying to steal Dolly’s man. I’m heartbroken, stripped of my dearest fantasies of us. Barred from contact with you how will I get through my days?
I blink back tears and return to my room. I fret — is there any damage limitation I can do? How to forewarn you about the lie I told. And I puzzle. You’re totally oblivious to my feelings for you.
How did Dina find out that I love somebody else’s guy?
To be continued
The whole mini series in a List