Helen
I was still reeling from art class, my heart hammering, when Lizzie grabbed my arm from behind me. “Well?”
“It was terrible.”
She grimaced. “As good as that, hey?” “He wanted to talk, I blew him out.” “Good for you.”
“Feels shit, though, I hate it.” We made our way through the English block corridor, past the library and out the other side. Lizzie pulled me behind the building, pressing us into a dip in the wall, and I was glad, really glad. She lit up a cigarette and I took it straight off her.
“Jeez, Hels, getting desperate for the nicotine in your hours of misery, aren’t you?”
I didn’t even answer, just stared out at the playing fields. I remembered the place empty, just Mr Roberts and me talking and laughing and painting. and my stomach tightened. I gave Lizzie back her cigarette. “Thanks.”
“I’ve been drawing up a boyfriend shortlist…” My stomach tightened again. “What?”
“A list of potentials.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. It was scrumpled and scribbled on and looked a tatty mess, but there was a list in the corner.
“Terry Edwards… no way! He’s in the football team.” “So?”
“So, no.”
“Fine.” She grabbed it off me. “Gary Eaton?”
“Arrogant.” “And hot.”
“Arrogance wins. No.” “Stuart Belcher?”
“He would never look at me. And there was that rumour that he kicked Wendy Ree’s cat.” She shrugged. “Fair point.”
“Keith Perkins.”
“I’m not even going to answer that.” Keith Perkins was crude, and disgusting. An all-round idiot. “Fine.” She gave me a look like I was the most difficult customer in the world. “Harry Sawbridge?” “Harry? No way.”
“No?”
“Just no. That would be weird.” “Why weird?”
I stared at her. “He’s in my art class.” “Yeah, duh. That’s good, no?”
“No. It’s just weird. I just… he doesn’t even like art.” “But he’s doing art for A-level.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t like it. He never listens to anything.”
“But he is doing it. And Roberts will see him with you. All the time…” She smirked. “That’s kinda the whole point of the jealousy thing.”
“I’m not even convinced about this jealousy thing…” “He’s the best option. He’s kinda cute. Nice eyes.” “He’s got no artistic talent whatsoever.”
“But he’s cute, right?”
I shrugged. “If you say so.”
She folded the piece of paper back up then tapped her nose. “Leave it with me.” “What are you going to do?” My heart sped up. “Don’t do anything, Lizzie!”
“I won’t do much… just scoping the lay of the land…” “Lizzie!”
She smiled so brightly. “So, Hels Bells, how do you fancy Harry Sawbridge as your winter ball date?”
My jaw dropped. “My winter ball date? I’m not even going to the winter ball… I never go to that kind of party stuff…”
She handed me the dregs of her cigarette and I smoked it to the butt. “I think you might change your mind,” she said, and wiggled her eyebrows.
“Hell would have to freeze over. For real. Demon penguins and everything.” “That’s your stance is it? Definitely not? No way? Not in a million billion years?” I threw the cigarette butt in the hedge. “That’s my stance.”
“Such a shame,” she said, and there was mischief in it. “Because a little birdie told me that somebody’s favourite art teacher is chaperoning this year…”
***
Helen
Maybe Lizzie really did have a voodoo witchcraft bottle, because the next day in art class the unthinkable happened. I had taken my usual spot, keeping my back to Mr Roberts in fear of looking like some sad little girl all over again, when I heard a rustle of bags and the scuff of a stool over floor tiles. I always sit alone. Always. It’s been that way forever in art. I just don’t like many people, and they don’t like me. Plus, I love art, I live for art, and company and art don’t usually work out so well.
There was whispering and laughing behind me, and my hackles prickled, just knowing it was about me. And then there was Harry Sawbridge’s voice, interrupting my thoughts like a sledgehammer.
“Hi, Helen. Mind if I sit here?”
He was already sitting here. I moved my sketchbook a little to the side to clear some space for him. Manners don’t cost anything, after all.
“Sure.”
The laughter was growing more raucous, and my heart did a stutter as Mr Roberts barked out an order for quiet. He sounded unusually grouchy.
I didn’t look at him, but I did look at Harry, and Harry was looking right back at me.
“Nice painting,” he said, which was ironic considering it was probably the worst painting I’d done in my entire life. The lines were messy and erratic, and not in a good way. It was sloppy and lazy and dull, and terrible. It was a terrible painting.
“Thanks.”
He turned his canvas towards me and his was worse. “Nice work,” I lied.
“Thanks. It’s inspired by Dali.”
“Picasso,” I said. “Guernica was by Picasso. I finished mine the other week.”
He didn’t look bothered by my correction. “Yeah, can’t really get into it. I don’t like painting like other people. What’s the point in it?”
I could have launched into an impassioned monologue about the beauty in the masters and hoping to learn through even the slightest successful emulation of their work. Normally I would have, but my soul had dried up. I said nothing, just smiled and carried on jabbing paint on top of paint.
He didn’t stop looking at me, and I felt myself burning up. “Guess you like Picasso, then?” “I love Picasso.”
“Yeah, so do I. He’s cool. I like all of them… Picasso, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello… Michelangelo…”
I couldn’t stop the smile. “The artists or the turtles?”
“Both. I like the rat, too. Used to watch them when I was a kid.” I had nothing to say to that, and he grew twitchy, flicking his paintbrush back and forth between his fingers. “Say, Helen, are you going to the ball?”
My heel tapped against my stool, knees juddery. “I, um… don’t know.”
“I’m going,” he said. “I was thinking maybe you could… if you wanted to… we could…” I couldn’t even look at him. My cheeks were burning up.
“…I was thinking… if you wanted…” He sighed. “Do you want to come to the ball with me?”
Everything in me said no. No, I don’t want to come to the ball with you. I don’t even want to go to the ball. I don’t want to be sitting here, talking to you and painting a shitty picture. I don’t want anything but the feeling of Mr Roberts’ hands on me again, of him looking at me the way he did before, of him talking to me like I meant something.
And then I felt him, the familiar heat of him, the way he smelled, the way he moved. He stepped between our stools and stared at my canvas.
“I hope you aren’t distracting Helen, Harry.” “No, sir. Just talking.”
“Less talking, more painting, if you want to finish that painting this term, that is.” “Yeah, sir, I’m doing it.” Harry looked at his canvas, communication over.
I felt Mr Roberts staring, but I didn’t look at him. “Your wrist is too tense,” he said, and his hand was on mine, taking the brush from me.
“It’s fine.”
“Shake it out,” he said. “It’s fine.”
He placed my brush on the palette and took hold of my wrist. “You’re tense. Distracted.” “I’m not having the best week.” My voice was petulant, and I cursed myself.
“If we relied on a sunny disposition to produce our best work, Helen, I think you’d find art galleries would be considerably less impressive affairs.” He grabbed my shoulder and turned me towards him, and then he crouched, so he was looking up at me. He balled a fist to his stomach. “Dig deep,” he said. “Take it, all the crap inside, take it and mould it, and forge it… make it something beautiful. Make it something that means something.”
“It does mean something.” “Transform it, Helen. Use it.”
I could feel stupid tears pricking. “But I can’t use it. I don’t know how.” “You do,” he said. “I know you do.”
“What if I don’t want to?” “You do want to.”
“Don’t tell me what I want.”
Harry’s neck twisted, eyes wide at our exchange. Mr Roberts saw it, too, and it stopped him in his tracks. He got to his feet and handed me back my paintbrush. “Ok, Helen. If you need some help, you know where I am.”
I jabbed the brush back on the canvas and didn’t even answer. I felt him leave, defeated. Harry leaned over. “What was all that about?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
“That was weird, don’t you think?” “I don’t know.”
“It was well weird,” he said. He flashed a stupid grin. “He’s weird though, isn’t he? Roberts? He’s such an oddball.” “The weird people are often the best,” I said.
He laughed, like I was joking. “Yeah, gotta love the weirdos. He’s gay, you know.” He slid his stool a little closer and lowered his voice, and the whispering started up again, I could hear them, talking about us, talking about Harry’s arm on the back of my stool. “So, what about it? Will you come with me?”
“I’m… I’m not sure I’m going…”
“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be a laugh. I’ll be wearing a suit, all proper like.” “I’ll think about it…”
“Yeah?”
I forced a smile. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
“Alright then.” His knee knocked against mine and stayed there. “We could have some fun, I know we could.” “I’ll see…”
Mr Roberts walked by again, slowly. “Harry. More painting, less talking, please.” “Alright, sir.”
I wondered if he was jealous, if Lizzie really was a seduction genius after all, but Mr Roberts carried on to another table, and gave advice in the same calm way he always gave it. It hurt my heart to think he wasn’t bothered. Maybe he was even relieved. I painted through the rest of class and tried to forget about it, but it throbbed like a tight little ball of fire in my stomach.
The bell sounded and I put my things away, and Mr Roberts was waving people off, smiling and fine and not even vaguely bothered about me or the pain inside. I waited until Harry was almost at the doorway, then raised my voice to sound across the room.
“I’ll come with you, to the ball. It’ll be… fun.”
Harry turned and smiled, puffed his chest out. “Cool.” “Cool,” I said.
And then I walked away without giving Mr Roberts so much as a backwards glance.
***
Mark
It had been a lifetime since I’d felt a stab of jealousy. It took me aback, shifted me off my axis in a way that was thoroughly uncomfortable until I pulled back into some semblance of professionalism.
Helen was a teenager. Harry was a teenager, too.
A stupid teenager. A dumb, lazy, uninspiring excuse for an art student as far as they go, but a teenager. He had cool hair, and wore trendy deodorant, one of those noxious ocean breeze ones. He was an attractive teenager, as far as I could tell. Dark eyes and one of those floppy fringes, with the disregard for school uniform that the cool kids have.
I felt the pulse in my temples, angry at the ridiculousness of a kid like Harry considering himself a match for a beautiful young woman like Helen.
And then I realised it should be none of my business. How dare it be any of my business.
Helen was her own woman, her own person, and she could choose to date whichever cool kid took her fancy. I should be
happy for her. I should at least pretend to be happy for her.
I just wished I wasn’t going to the stupid poxy ball.
The knowledge that Helen had a date should have appeased my guilt, but it didn’t. It was rotting me from the inside out. I wholly expected Mr Palmer to cause me some issues, and I was prepared for that. I’d take whatever was headed my way.
But the days went by and nothing came.
Nothing apart from the pain in my gut whenever Helen came and left my classroom. I missed her smile. I missed the soft sound of her voice. I missed the feeling of her little fingers around mine.
I missed being in the same space with her, and knowing we were ok.
I checked her cam account every evening, and every evening there was nothing. She’d log in daily, stay online awhile, and post nothing. Radio silence.
So many times I typed out a text message, but the words always sounded so banal and pathetic.
Are you ok, Helen? Talk to me, Helen. Forgive me, Helen. I miss you, Helen.
Don’t go to the ball with Harry Sawbridge, Helen. Don’t fall in love with anyone else, Helen.
You’re all I think about, Helen.
I sent nothing, but I felt everything. I felt more than I’d felt in years.
I was arranging the set pieces at the back of the stage when I heard someone clapping.
“Wonderful!” Jenny Monkton was grinning from ear to ear. “Fantastic job, Mark. I’ve been meaning to say thank you.” She paused just a second. “You should let me say thank you.” She joined me on stage. “Dinner, my treat.”
“No need,” I said.
“But I insist! It’s the least I can do.”
I slid the market place scene to backstage right. “It wasn’t just me, Jenny. You have Helen Palmer to thank. I’ll give you the list of the others, too.”
“Ah, Helen. Such a talent.”
It turned my insides over. “Yes, she is.” “Such a lovely girl.”
“Yes, she is.”
“I’ll have to seek her out and say thank you.” “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”
“I imagine I’ll see her at the ball.” “I would expect so.”
She twirled her hair around her fingers. “I heard she’s going with Harry Sawbridge. He’s in my drama class, silly oaf. He’s been bragging about it.”
I didn’t say a word.
“So many mean girls in that year, so much bitchiness. He’s been taking quite a ribbing from my other students, the girls, that is. It always surprises me how nasty they can be at that age.”
“About Helen?” The idea turned my stomach.
“Yes, you know what they’re like. They don’t like anyone different. And Helen is very different, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She is.” I met Jenny’s eyes and they were twinkling, hiding something. “Was there something on your mind?” “No… well. Not really.” She ran her hands over our desert scene. “Just stupid rumours, you know how it is.” “Rumours?” My heart thumped.
“Stupid girl talk, I’m sure it’s nothing.”
I forced myself to speak. “What do these rumours say?”
Jenny laughed, tossed her head back and shook her curls. “Oh! Well, it’s quite amusing. They say Helen has a crush on you.
Quite a major crush, apparently. They were ribbing Harry about it.” “I see.”
She took a step closer. “Were you aware of it?” “Of what?”
“Helen’s crush.”
I fixed her in a stare. “I try not to concern myself with rumours, Jenny.” “No, I mean, not the rumours, but do you think she…”
“Helen is a very talented young woman with a good head on her shoulders. I don’t worry myself with trivialities.”
“Of course.” Her cheeks reddened like I’d slapped her, and then she placed a hand on my arm. “Just be careful, Mark. You know what rumours are like. You know what girls are like, too. I know she helped a great deal, with the set, it’s just good to be careful. Make sure she isn’t getting the wrong idea.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” I pulled away from her to adjust the stage curtain. “So, about the dinner…”
“I’m super busy,” I said. “And really, there is no need.”
“It would be my pleasure. No trouble. I could always come to you, if you’re busy. I’m sure I could whip up something tasty.”
I wished the ground would swallow me. “Let’s talk about it after the ball, work something out.” She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! I’ll put my thinking cap on.”
I could hardly wait.
***
Helen
I tried to make a video every evening, but I could never think of anything to say. My words all sounded stupid and childish and ridiculous. And I wasn’t painting or drawing. I’d stare at my sketchpad for hours and nothing would come. Only this sick feeling inside, the feeling of my dreams dying and rotting away.
I’d been stupid to accept Harry’s invitation to the winter ball, and had been trying to forget about it until Lizzie opened her big mouth over dinner on Saturday night.
“I can’t wait for the ball,” she said. “We’re going to have so much fun, aren’t we, Hels?” Mum and Dad nearly choked on their food. And then Mum smiled.
“You’re going to the ball, Helen?” I managed a pathetic nod.
“Who with?” Dad asked, and his eyes were full of suspicion.
“Harry Sawbridge, he’s nice,” Lizzie answered for me. I could have jabbed her in the arm. “Sawbridge…” Dad pondered. “Mick Sawbridge’s lad?”
I shrugged, but Lizzie chirped up, seemingly an expert. “Yeah, that’s him. Polly is his mum.” “Yeah, I know them. Good family,” he said, and sounded appeased. “Hard workers.”
“Not Harry so much,” I said, and then checked myself. “He’s in my art class.” “Oh lovely!” Mum smiled. “That’s lovely, Helen.”