One
July 1989
‘No,’ I insist again when Eddie asks the same question he’s asked me at least five times already. ‘It’s not my thing.’
‘Is it any of our things, really?’ Eddie replies, trying to look innocent. ‘But we’re still stepping up.’
I turn around from where I’ve been painting scenery for the dance – a seascape not unlike the one we might see once we return home from school this evening.
‘Yeah, right,’ I say, brandishing my paintbrush at my friend. ‘This is right up your street and you know it!’
‘All right.’ He gives a good-natured shrug. ‘You might be right. I am quite looking forward to performing. But I need three backing singers, or it won’t look right.’
‘I thought you had three already – Claire, Mandy and Suzy?’
‘Suzy’s dropped out.’
‘Why? She’s got a great voice.’
‘I know,’ Eddie says with an anguished expression. ‘I really need her, but she says she’ll embarrass herself.’
‘And the rest of us won’t?’
‘You know what she’s like – always changing her mind at the last minute about everything.’
He was right. Our friend Suzy is quite erratic and prone to second thoughts, which is a shame really, because her mind can be incredibly sharp and focused, especially when it comes to issues she’s passionate about, like the environment.
‘ Save me
, Obi-Wan Frankie – you’re my only hope!’ Eddie says in a high-pitched voice, as he clasps his hands together in a praying motion.
I’ve known Eddie since our first year at secondary school, when we were put in the same form together. And even though he is a pain sometimes, especially when it comes to things like this, he is also one of my best friends – there’s no way I’m going to let him down.
‘All right, Princess,’ I sigh. ‘I’ll do it. But I want to be hidden at the back, OK?’
‘You’re a dream!’ Eddie hugs me, and I hurriedly hold the paintbrush away from him. ‘Thank you. The choreography wouldn’t have worked with just two.’
‘Wait, you didn’t say anything about choreography!’
‘See you at the harbour at seven tonight,’ Eddie sings as he hurriedly makes his way down the steps from the stage and across the assembly hall. ‘We’re rehearsing on the beach tonight.’
I shake my head as he exits through the door at the back of the hall. It was bad enough being on stage and singing, let alone dancing as well.
I’m about to turn back to the scenery and finish up my artwork for tonight, when a girl carrying a violin case enters the hall, followed by a group of other boys and girls all carrying various musical instruments, some of them in cases, some of them not.
‘Don’t let us stop you, Frankie!’ Jenny, one of my classmates, calls, as she lifts a chair from where they’re stacked at the side of the hall. ‘We’re just going to rehearse for a while.’
‘No worries,’ I reply, about to turn back and finish off my waves – one of the parts of my scenery I’m most proud of – when I notice Robert Matthews enter the room behind the others. He’s carrying a guitar case and he looks a little lost.
‘Over here, Rob!’ Jenny gestures to a chair she’s just laid out. ‘I’ve saved you a place.’
Robert, looking a tad embarrassed, nods and heads over towards Jenny. He glances up at me standing on the stage staring down at him.
‘Hi,’ he says with a half-smile. ‘Nice waves.’
‘Th . . . thanks,’ I reply, for some reason waving my brush at him so a little of the blue paint flicks down onto my face. I hurriedly wipe it away with the back of my hand, and I know it will have left a smear on my now flushed cheeks, so I hurriedly turn back towards the huge backdrop I’ve been working so hard on this week and try to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. But for some reason I’ve not only forgotten what I’m working on, but how to paint too.
I pretend to be mixing some paint while I gather myself.
Robert Matthews has just spoken to me! Not only that, but he also noticed my artwork – he said,
‘ Nice waves.
’
Ever since Robert came to our school as a new pupil at the beginning of this term, my heart has felt like it’s going to burst out of my chest every time I see him. Either that or my stomach begins doing all sorts of complex gymnastics whenever he’s near.
It’s so embarrassing that my body decides to behave this way around a boy. I spent most of my fifteen years on this planet detesting them, but he’s the first one to make me feel this out of control – it is very annoying.
But Robert is different to all the other boys at school – his short sandy hair is soft and shiny-looking. He has the most amazing pair of dark-brown eyes – and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy, or a girl for that matter. He’s sort of quiet, but not too quiet. He’s smart – I know this because he’s in a lot of the same classes as me – but he’s not a swot.
He fitted in right away, and the other boys appeared to accept him into their groups with very little resistance. I was quite jealous – I’ve spent my whole time at this school trying to fit in, trying to find my place in the right crowd, and Robert seemingly managed to do it within a few days.
I’m not the only girl to notice his presence, of course. There are often a lot of dreamy looks and overly long gazes when he’s around, followed by much giggling. Robert quickly became the best-looking boy in our school by a long shot, and it didn’t come as any surprise that a lot of other people seemed to think so too.
Finally, my hand remembers how to paint again and, while the musicians practise their pieces for the show behind me, I continue working on the set.
The ‘Enchantment Under the Sea’ dance that I’m painting a backdrop for is to be our school’s official leavers’ event this year. At fifteen, me and my friends won’t be leaving school until next year, but the tradition is that we, as the year below, are allowed to attend as a sort of transition to becoming the oldest in the school. But to earn our place, we provide the evening’s entertainment.
The theme was a popular choice, after the success of Back to The Future
a few years ago, where there was a school dance of the same name. All sorts of committees were formed to organise the event, and I found myself volunteering to paint the backdrop for the evening – this year, a talent show of sorts, where all the acts had to have a sea theme to gain entry.
I love to paint and draw, and to be allowed to create something on a large scale such as this is very exciting. I am probably just as excited about creating my backdrop as most of the other girls are about creating their outfits for the evening.
I’ve always been a bit of a tomboy, happier in trainers, jeans and a baggy sweatshirt than a pair of fancy shoes and a dress. But even I’m making an effort for the dance – that’s if I haven’t first been laughed off the stage for my singing, and now it seems my dancing ability too.
The musicians practise for about an hour behind me, while I carry on with my painting. I try not to make it too obvious that I keep sneaking the occasional glance in Robert’s direction. I make sure I only do it when I load my paintbrush up with more paint or change the colour on my pallet.
Eventually, as I’m just about to finish up for the afternoon, the musicians decide to call it a day too. As chairs are replaced and instruments packed up below me, I do the same on the stage with my art equipment.
After gathering all my dirty brushes in a pot, so I can wash them in the sinks in the girls’ toilets afterwards, I jump as I realise Robert is now up on the stage behind me. He’s holding his guitar case in one hand, while he admires my backdrop.
‘It’s very good,’ he says, not looking at me but at the sea in front of him. ‘Did you do all this yourself?’
‘Yes.’ I’m trying desperately to stop myself – and my voice – from shaking. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘I wish I could paint, but I’m pretty rubbish at it.’
‘I’m sure you’re not.’
‘Frankie, we’re in the same art class. You must have seen how awful my work is. Miss Simpson never offers to hang any of my paintings on the school walls, does she? Whereas they’re covered in your work.’
I’m not sure if I’m more shocked he knows my name, or that he’s noticed my artwork displayed around the school.
He turns to me and smiles, and I almost pass out on the spot.
‘Right . . . ’ he says when I don’t speak. ‘I guess I’d better let you get on.’
‘No!’ I cry suddenly. ‘I mean . . . I’ve finished now . . . a . . . a bit like you have. With your rehearsal.’ I wave my hand in the direction the musicians were a few minutes ago. ‘You sounded good.’ I’m desperate for him not to leave now he’s actually here talking to me. ‘Are you entering the talent show?’
‘Couldn’t you tell by the songs we were practising? They were all sea-based.’
‘Oh . . . oh, yes, of course they were. I wasn’t really thinking about it to be honest. I was just enjoying the tunes while I painted.’
‘Great, then we can’t have been too bad.’ He grins, and I hurriedly smile back at him.
‘I didn’t know you played the guitar,’ I say, keen to keep this conversation going. I’ve dreamed about the day this might happen. I didn’t quite envision standing here in my dungarees, covered in acrylic paint when it did, but I don’t care about that now, only that it is
actually happening.
‘Yeah, I took lessons at my last school. I haven’t bothered with them since I came here, but when Jenny and the others found out I played, they asked me to join their group for the show.
I bet they did!
Jenny has had her eye on Robert since he arrived.
‘Are you doing anything? Anything apart from painting brilliant backdrops, that is?’
‘Thanks,’ I reply shyly. ‘Er, I’ve sort of been roped into singing with my friend, Eddie, and some other girls.’
‘You sing?’ Robert looks surprised.
‘No, but someone dropped out, so I said I’d help. I’m sure it will be a disaster though.’
‘You can’t be good at everything.’ Robert glances at the seascape next to us again. ‘I guess I’ll see you at rehearsals and stuff this week, then?’
‘Yes, yes, you will. I’ll be there!’ I triumphantly punch the air in front of me, and then immediately regret it.
Robert stares at my fist still hanging in mid-air. Hurriedly I pull it back down to my side.
‘See ya then, Frankie,’ he says, grinning, probably at my ridiculous behaviour.
‘Yes, see ya, Robert,’ I murmur, knowing my cheeks are likely giving my embarrassment away for me.
‘Rob,’ he says. ‘My mates call me Rob.’
‘Rob it is, then,’ I say, trying desperately to be cool, but failing miserably as usual.
Rob simply nods and makes his way quickly down the steps and through the school hall, while I stand on the stage, covered in paint, quietly dying inside.
And that Monday was the first time I ever spoke to Rob.