It Was a Typo | ✓

Chapter Three

 CHAPTER THREE

It had been two days since I'd accidentally sent that horrible confession to Bradley. And, apart from the 'Lol' (which still stung, when I thought about it), he hadn't attempted to reach out to me in any other way. After an agonising forty-eight hours, eighty percent of which consisted of me constantly checking my phone, I came to a conclusion that Bradley well and truly wanted nothing to do with me anymore.

"I'm fine with it," I lied vehemently to Moira once I finally returned all of her frantic miscalls. "Completely, utterly, totally, irrevocably fine with it."

"You're sure?" Moira asked me, clearly seeing through it. "Because I could, um, you know, talk to him about it for you. If you'd like."

"No!" I responded a touch too hastily, before adding, "I don't want to bother him any more about it."

The truth was that Bradley had once mentioned to me he was absolutely terrified of Moira—if I hadn't been friends with her since we were pooping in our nappies, I probably would've been too. I could only imagine the kind of 'talk' Moira would give Bradley, and I strongly suspected some form of physical intimidation would've been involved. And, as irritated as I was with Bradley and the whole situation, I would wish Moira's wrath on no one.

It was only slightly consoling that all of this was happening during my summer holidays. I still had three weeks left until I'd be forced to go back to school and face Bradley myself. Until then, I had time to, as Tanisha put it, 'rejuvenate'. By then, I'd really be over the whole situation. Hell, I'd be so over it that I'd walk right past him without batting an eyelid. Or tripping over myself, as I tended to do in his presence.

I could suddenly picture myself—cool as anything, with winged eyeliner that was so sharp it could cut through ice, and sexy lip-gloss glinting boldly on my lips. Me, sashaying through the school corridors like I owned them, along with Moira and my new boyfriend, Benedict Cumberbatch, in tow. And Bradley would be waiting for me at the end of the hallway, wearing an 'I HEART MINA' t-shirt, looking slightly weak in the knees. And what would I do? I'd smile sweetly, flip my hair, and walk past him while Benedict talked to his agent on his phone about the new movie he and I were going to star in together.

If only...

The reality of it was that I couldn't do winged eyeliner to save my life and Benedict Cumberbatch was married, with two kids. (Of course, polygamy was always an option, provided we moved to one of the countries that allowed it. There was still hope yet.)

And I was about as cool as a slug trying not to get squashed.

I was deep in the abyss of my adolescent woes when, not for the first (or the last) time in my life, someone burst into my room without knocking.

"Mina," Mum said sharply.

"Tanisha did it," I said promptly.

"Huh—what?" She narrowed her eyes. "I was going to tell you to get ready for a party. Wear your traditional lehenga. We're leaving in half an hour."

I'd barely opened my mouth to splutter indignantly about the incredibly short notice when mum left my room, shutting the door behind her with a resounding thud. I sighed wearily. I wasn't in the mood to get all dressed up, much less spend my time awkwardly bobbing up and down to 'Dhoom Machale Dhoom' next to crazy Indian aunties who transferred all of their sexual frustrations into ridiculous dance moves.

On the other hand, it wasn't as though I had much of a choice in the matter.

With a defeated groan, I got up and opened my wardrobe to pull out the frustratingly uncomfortable lehenga I'd have to lug myself around in for the next four hours.