The Magpie Effect - The Magpie Chronicles Book 1 (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 8

It was like I'd signed some unwritten contract - now that Mona and I had declared ourselves to be friends, she followed me everywhere. She breezed through the corridors of Atlantic by my side through almost the entirety of the next day, listening to what Debbie and I chatted about and even cutting across if she disagreed with something Debbie said. It felt like I was trying to juggle two conversations all at once - which, honestly, was two too many even on a good day - and it wasn't long before my head began to pulse.

The only time that she did grant me independence was when I bumped into Jet in the corridor between classes. I'd barely even spotted him from afar myself when she sort of squeaked and vanished on the spot.

I tried to fit on my best smile as he made his way over, and that was when I realized that Mona was probably only doing her duty as a friend: she'd wanted to give the two of us peace. I felt my cheeks cloud over with red at the mere thought as he approached.

"Hey, hitchhiker," he beamed, drawing up before me. Wesley Adams was by his side, his sandy bush of hair continuing to move even after he'd stood still. Together, they looked like the mismatched members of a band - the hot, guitar-playing vocalist and the weird, wacky, shower-deprived drummer.

"Huh?" I gawped at him.

Jet rolled his eyes. "Hitchhiker," he explained. "The other day, you hitched a hike in Gloria. Therefore, you're a hitchhiker."

"Of course," I replied, feigning realization. "I hope Gloria has recovered from my butt."

"She misses your butt. In fact, we both do."

Next to him, Wesley's face burst into a slow, sedate smile. "Dude, smooth," he said, approvingly, and in that singular moment I wanted to punch that nose of his right through to the other side of his head.

Wes, who seemed not to notice the fury sprawled across my face, cast his eyes around hopefully. "Hey, where's your friend? The cute Anne Rice girl?"

"She's gone to phone her boyfriend," I snarled. It wasn't true. Debbie was in the toilet. But, after Wes's humiliating input to the conversation, I was in no mood to be his wing-woman despite how much I couldn't help thinking how much Debbie would have loved the Anne Rice reference.

Wes looked down at the ground. "Oh."

"He's in a band," I said, for added venom.

Wes seemed even more wounded, as though I'd told him that Stuart Band Guy Number Three had a set of rock hard abs and an unlimited bank account, too. "Ok. Well, tell her I said hi."

I ignored him and returned my attention to Jet. "Anyway, speaking of bands, I have some good news for you."

Jet narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. "You didn't."

"I did."

"You didn't!"

"I think you'll quite happily find I did," I said, and Jet whooped out loud. He punched the air with his fist and became the centre of some pretty bemused attention, but he didn't seem to mind.

"You got me the gig!"

At that, I pulled a face. "Well, 'gig' might be a strong word for it. Try, 'glorified basement performance in front of a very toothless and intoxicated audience approximately fifteen members strong'. But if you want to call it a gig, then yes, I got you a gig. Next Friday night, as a matter of fact."

"A week today," Jet said, delighted. "Can I hug you? I'm gonna hug you."

I felt myself redden all over again. "Uh, sure-" I began, but it was too late - Jet had his arms around me and suddenly my whole body was pressed up against him. His arms felt strong, his chest firm, and his neck smelled faintly of cologne. There was nothing romantic about it - in fact, the whole gesture had felt distinctly brotherly, like a hug two guy friends would exchange - but I clung to it like a baby clung to its blanket.