How to Get a Boyfriend (boyxboy)

Chapter Three

The trip to France took a long time.  Firstly, there was a two hour drive to the Channel Tunnel, where we waited for ages because their computer system failed.  Then my parents took it in turns to drive the seven hours to our gite in Brittany, near Ploërmel.  For a lot of the time, I alternated between sleep and dreaming about John, and being awake and thinking about John.  All I could think about was that kiss.  I could still feel his lips brushing my cheek, his strong arms around me as he pulled me close for a hug.  It was a relief to get to the gite and have to organise all my stuff to take my mind off it, yet I could still feel a corner of my brain continually whirring away, obsessing over John.

The first two days were hell for my anti-John agenda.  The first day was designated by my parents as a ‘rest day’, so they could recuperate from the long drive down.  I sat on a chair in the sun, trying to read to distract myself.  The next day was a trip to Quiberon, a seaside town with a golden, sandy beach.  I enjoyed the warmth and the four scoops of ice-cream, but I’d finished my book by then, so for several hours, I lay on the sand, trying to think of anything but that infuriating boy.  My skin tanned quickly under the hot French sun, but when I got home, I slathered myself in after-sun cream to make sure I didn’t burn.  Even with my half-Caribbean heritage, I could still go red and peel.

I worked hard to stop myself thinking about John over the rest of the holiday, by filling my days with trips to museums, national landmarks and a thousand other things, and my evenings with mindless comedies that I could switch off and laugh at.  But during the dragging car journeys, and at night before I slept, my thoughts always turned to the boy of my dreams and nightmares.

The return journey to England was a little smoother than before, in both travelling time and John-oriented thoughts.  I found that I could avoid thinking of him by imagining myself running through first the French countryside and then the English, alongside the car, the world flashing by in a blur of greens and browns…

“We’re home, Dane,” Rachel murmured, jolting me from my reverie.  I stretched out my stiff limbs, grunting at each twanging muscle and cracking joint.

“Help us unpack the car,” my father Derrick said to me.  I got out and picked up the pile of junk spread across the backseat.  My father fished his keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door.  I carefully stepped over the threshold in to the cool, slightly dusty air of my house.  Home is where the heart is, apparently.  How I wish that could be true.

School began again the next day, surprisingly sunny for England.  I met my friend Tony at the bus stop, and we chatted animatedly about our respective trips to France and Cornwall.

“Here, I bought this for you,” Tony said, digging in his pocket before bringing out a lump of fudge wrapped in cellophane.

“Aw, thanks, I lurve fudge!” I tucked in happily, savouring the sweet, crumbly treat.  “I got something for you too, fresh from the cliffs of Quiberon.”  Tony stuck out his hands and I dropped a small rock into his hands.  He gazed at it for a moment, apparently unimpressed, until the sunlight caught it, playing across the tiny nuggets of mica studded across its rough surface.

“It’s beautiful,” he gasped.  “Thanks, Dane!”  He gave me a quick hug before carefully putting the rock in to his blazer pocket.  The bus pulled up next to us, and we got on, flashing our passes to the driver.  I looked down the bus, spotting my friend Amelia in the seats near the front.

“Hey best friend,” I said jovially, flashing her a toothy grin.

“Dane!” she called, standing up and pulling me into a hug.  I squeezed her in tight, releasing her after a few seconds.

“Got something for you,” I sang, slipping out a fridge magnet, emblazoned with the logo of the L’Ile de Nantes.  Amelia took it, gasping at the image.