failed . Who wanted to read about some loser who couldnât get a girl anyway?
I read a few chapters of Catcher in the Rye for English. Who needed stupid old PEZZ imist? There were other stories out there. Surely Nellie Bly started plenty of stories she didnât finish because it turned out they were boring.
I switched off the light, but I couldnât sleep. Dad had gone to bed and the apartment felt very quiet.
For some reason â probably because of Mumâs phone call and that stupid conversation with Dad afterwards â I was reminded of the first few nights after Mum left. Dad had just wandered around the house staring at strange things like the orange lampshade on my bedside table, a half-empty packet of basmati rice and the floral-covered ironing board. Heâd looked as though heâd finished a marathon and didnât know whether to laugh with relief, or collapse in a heap because it was over. I think most of the time heâd come down on the side of collapsing.
The only problem with living in the city was that it was never truly dark. The wooden venetians blocked out a lot of the city light, but my room was always illuminated with an artificial orange glow, no matter how late it was.
I turned onto my side. The sleep light on my laptop was pulsing on and off. Had PEZZ imist posted anything new? How was he feeling? Had he managed to talk to the brown-haired girl?
I wasnât going to check. I was abandoning that story. It was never going to go anywhere.
But what if heâd said something that would help me figure it out? The missing piece of the puzzle?
He was still out there. Still full of loneliness and suffering. He needed me.
I rolled out of bed and woke my laptop.
23:02
Today was bad. I was nervous and jittery all day, like Iâd drunk too much coffee.
The only time I felt calm was at lunch, when I could watch my girl.
She sat in her usual place with her usual group of friends. They were all looking at something on a mobile phone, passing it around and laughing. I hate mobile phones. The telephoneâs the most stupid invention ever. I hate the way you canât see the face of the person youâre talking to, so you have no clue whether theyâre making fun of you, or listening at all. Itâs hard enough talking to people in person. Although I suppose text messages might be okay. I like writing things down. I think I could say more in a text message to my girl than I could to her face. But I never will, because I donât have her number. Or a mobile phone. Maybe I could email something to her school email address. But then what if she laughed at me?
I canât remember the last time I laughed.
He really was a massive drama queen. I was just about to re-read it to see if it could really be as soppy as my initial impression, when I noticed a little green online spot next to PEZZ imistâs name. He was online. He was there, in his own bedroom, sitting in front of his own computer, looking at the very same page on the very same website that I was.
Without realising I was doing it, I brought my cursor up to his name and clicked. A window popped open: private chat between GUEST and PEZZimist .
I could just ask him, right now, and get an answer to the whole thing. I placed my hands on the keyboard and noticed they were trembling. I swallowed.
GUEST: hello?
GUEST: are you there?
GUEST: i need to talk to you. i think i can help.
GUEST: please.
I waited. There was no reply. Maybe he was typing out an essay-length response. Or maybe heâd gone to the toilet. Or maybe he was too shy to say anything at all.
But then the little green spot disappeared. Iâd scared him away.
I climbed back into bed, my mind full of mysteries and hidden faces.
5
O N FRIDAY, I FORGOT THE NAME of Othelloâs wife in English, didnât hear anything Ms Wilding said in Biology about the Linnean system of binomial nomenclature, argued with Hugh Forward about the price of
I read a few chapters of Catcher in the Rye for English. Who needed stupid old PEZZ imist? There were other stories out there. Surely Nellie Bly started plenty of stories she didnât finish because it turned out they were boring.
I switched off the light, but I couldnât sleep. Dad had gone to bed and the apartment felt very quiet.
For some reason â probably because of Mumâs phone call and that stupid conversation with Dad afterwards â I was reminded of the first few nights after Mum left. Dad had just wandered around the house staring at strange things like the orange lampshade on my bedside table, a half-empty packet of basmati rice and the floral-covered ironing board. Heâd looked as though heâd finished a marathon and didnât know whether to laugh with relief, or collapse in a heap because it was over. I think most of the time heâd come down on the side of collapsing.
The only problem with living in the city was that it was never truly dark. The wooden venetians blocked out a lot of the city light, but my room was always illuminated with an artificial orange glow, no matter how late it was.
I turned onto my side. The sleep light on my laptop was pulsing on and off. Had PEZZ imist posted anything new? How was he feeling? Had he managed to talk to the brown-haired girl?
I wasnât going to check. I was abandoning that story. It was never going to go anywhere.
But what if heâd said something that would help me figure it out? The missing piece of the puzzle?
He was still out there. Still full of loneliness and suffering. He needed me.
I rolled out of bed and woke my laptop.
23:02
Today was bad. I was nervous and jittery all day, like Iâd drunk too much coffee.
The only time I felt calm was at lunch, when I could watch my girl.
She sat in her usual place with her usual group of friends. They were all looking at something on a mobile phone, passing it around and laughing. I hate mobile phones. The telephoneâs the most stupid invention ever. I hate the way you canât see the face of the person youâre talking to, so you have no clue whether theyâre making fun of you, or listening at all. Itâs hard enough talking to people in person. Although I suppose text messages might be okay. I like writing things down. I think I could say more in a text message to my girl than I could to her face. But I never will, because I donât have her number. Or a mobile phone. Maybe I could email something to her school email address. But then what if she laughed at me?
I canât remember the last time I laughed.
He really was a massive drama queen. I was just about to re-read it to see if it could really be as soppy as my initial impression, when I noticed a little green online spot next to PEZZ imistâs name. He was online. He was there, in his own bedroom, sitting in front of his own computer, looking at the very same page on the very same website that I was.
Without realising I was doing it, I brought my cursor up to his name and clicked. A window popped open: private chat between GUEST and PEZZimist .
I could just ask him, right now, and get an answer to the whole thing. I placed my hands on the keyboard and noticed they were trembling. I swallowed.
GUEST: hello?
GUEST: are you there?
GUEST: i need to talk to you. i think i can help.
GUEST: please.
I waited. There was no reply. Maybe he was typing out an essay-length response. Or maybe heâd gone to the toilet. Or maybe he was too shy to say anything at all.
But then the little green spot disappeared. Iâd scared him away.
I climbed back into bed, my mind full of mysteries and hidden faces.
5
O N FRIDAY, I FORGOT THE NAME of Othelloâs wife in English, didnât hear anything Ms Wilding said in Biology about the Linnean system of binomial nomenclature, argued with Hugh Forward about the price of
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