"The roses are dead,
The violets are too,
Don't mention romance,
You'll make me spew."
Francesca Burton knows all there is to know about love and romance. She knows that love is for the naïve and romance is for the delusional. Her parents taught her...
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When you have bits and pieces of information about someone, you sort of mash the snippets together in your head and then fill the gaps and spaces with assumptions.
Knowing what I know about Travers Riordan, I'd expected his bedroom to be obsessively neat. You know – everything in its place and a bed made with military corners?
It's the complete opposite.
If his sister's room looks like a lolly shop exploded in it, Trav's looks like a wardrobe threw up on it. There are clothes everywhere. On the floor, on the desk, on the bed. I just hope it's all clean.
Oh God, what if there are dirty football socks in here? Or worse, boxer shorts?
"I'm really sorry about the mess." Trav's ears have the good grace to blush as he bundles up tee-shirts and football guernseys, but the rest of him still seems cool, calm and banana-like.
I want to ask him if he cleans his room before Bethany comes over – because if not, I really need to talk to that girl about good hygiene. Instead, I let my facial expression do the talking.
"Why do you do that?" Trav asks me, frowning.
"Do what?" I counter, with a frown of my own.
"That silent, pinchy-faced, refusing to just say what you're thinking thing?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. You do it all the time. You hardly ever say anything in class but I can always tell when you want to. You let people think you have nothing to say, but I know that's not true."
A small part of my brain gets stuck on the fact that someone like Trav Riordan has paid any attention to what I do or do not do in class. The rest of me comes out fighting.
"You don't know anything about me," I hiss at him between my teeth.
"Bullshit. I've known you since we were six, Frankie. Primary school Francesca was a firecracker. Even middle school you had opinions to burn. Now you just scowl and seethe and silently look down your nose at the rest of us."
At some point, we've ended up toe to toe. He's several inches taller than me and I guess I should feel intimidated. But whatever else Travers Riordan might be, I know he's no bully. The only thing that's in danger right now is my carefully crafted wall of silent indifference.
"Back off, Riordan."
We stand there like we are still in primary school, both irrationally cross, each refusing to break eye contact, neither of us quite brave enough to make the next move.
Eventually, Trav blinks, takes a step back and sighs.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have said any of that. You're right. I don't know you, not now. But I feel like I used to. And I kind of miss firecracker Frankie."
He catches my eye as he says this and the wonky smile is small and uncharacteristically sad. The anger and frustration I've been clutching like a shield, puddle on the floor.
He's right. We were close, once upon a time. Friends even.
The thing is, when you are busy wading through the story of your current life, you sometimes forget the chapters that came before – especially the ones that no longer really fit.
Between junior school and the end of middle school, Travers Riordan and I didn't have much to do with each other. I mean, he existed and I existed but only on the periphery of each other's stories.
Things shifted at the beginning of Year 9, when we found ourselves in a lot of the same classes. This probably wouldn't have meant anything, except that our Science teacher assigned lab partners for the whole year. Trav just happened to be mine.
The bonding began over our complete inability to build a working electrical circuit; and a mutual fear that we'd one day be forced to dissect something. We talked about music while measuring things into test tubes, and about bucket list plans while trying not to light ourselves on fire with the Bunsen burner. He opened up about his Dad's battle with Cancer and the relief of remission. I told him about how much my Dad had been travelling for work and how much I missed him.
I liked Trav's sense of humour. And the fact that he was kind. He felt like someone I could trust.
Don't get me wrong. It's not like we started sitting together at lunch or hanging out after school. Our connection was firmly boxed up in the four walls of a lab that smelled faintly of solvent. But at some point in time during that year, we went from being extras in each other's lives, to bit players, to important supporting characters.
Then a lot of things changed.
And I retreated back to the periphery.
"So, the app thing?" Trav finally says, interrupting my trip down the lane of memories best forgotten. "You obviously aren't a big fan of the idea."
"Umm, not exactly," I say, mirroring his faux air of casual.
"Why?" he asks, seeming genuinely interested in my answer.
"I don't know exactly." I wonder if I can be honest without making a fool of myself. "I just... I guess I don't believe in that stuff."
"You don't believe in matchmaking algorithms?"
"No, I don't believe in matchmaking at all. Or romance. Or any of that lovey-dovey crap."
"You don't want to fall in love?" He sounds surprised.
"No, I really don't." I hear the waver in my voice and I hate it. I know I must sound like a complete weirdo. I mean, what 17-year old girl doesn't want to fall in love?
Trav's expression is thoughtful but he doesn't say anything. And I, who have hidden behind a wall of not saying much for a really long time, suddenly find the gap in conversation unnerving.
"Do you want to fall in love?" I ask him, mainly just to fill the silence.
"Of course."
"Why?"
"My parents," he says, without hesitation. "My Mum and Dad have been together for like, 22 years, and Gem and I still catch them kissing all the time. It's kinda gross, and we give them grief about it, but it's also nice, you know? I'd like to have that with someone one day."
"Ah huh," I say, like I get it. But I don't really. I also catch my parents kissing. My Dad buys my Mum roses. And expensive gifts. And writes her long, supposedly heartfelt letters. I used to think it was beautiful. That all of it was about how much he loved and respected her. Now I know better.
"I'll make you a deal," Trav says. "We do the app thing for our assignment but we won't tell anyone else we're doing it, and I promise not to make you do or be a part of anything you aren't comfortable with."
"Okay," I say. I still don't think the app is a good idea, but I don't actually have a better one and I really, really want this conversation to be over. "I have two conditions though: one, we get out of your pigsty of a room; and two, you tell me why your sister calls you 'Frog'."
"Deal," he says. "But do you think you could maybe try to stop doing the pinchy-face thing with me? If there's a problem, just talk to me about it, okay?
Though the thought gives me heart palpitations, I give him a small nod.
And then he says those four little words that people say when they know there's a fair chance the other person is already suffering from buyer's remorse...
