“More importantly,” Ricky says, slapping the table, “signups for footy are up this week. What do ya reckon?”
“I convinced Mum to let me,” Ethan says.
“Yess!” Ricky says. “We need you on our team. Otherwise, we won’t kick any goals.”
“What about you, Aaron?” Ethan asks.
“Um,” I begin. My opinions about football still haven’t changed, but I have to bite my lip to stop myself from blurting out, “Yeah, sure, I’ll play.”
Instead, I take a breath. “I don’t think so,” I say.
“What? Why not?” the pair of them ask me.
I could make up an excuse, but that feels like the cowardly way out.
F’s words, from weeks ago, come to me.Your friends won’t hate you if you say no here and there. People will respect you more if you’re more assertive.
“I’m not really interested in footy anymore,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll find it that fun, so I reckon I won’t play.”
“That sucks,” Ethan says while Ricky groans, and I feel a stab of guilt for disappointing them.
“You guys have fun, though,” I add. “What do you think your chances are for winning the premiership?”
That distracts them immediately as they launch into a discussion about their team’s skill. Apparently, a bunch of Year 11s are pretty good, and they think that Noah Rosselli and Henry Cross will play for their team, too, and both of them are good players.
Five minutes later, and it’s clear they don’t care I won’t be playing, which is a relief but also makes me feel so foolish for worrying about letting them down.
F was right. There’s nothing wrong with saying no.
Mrs Osman, the Lit teacher, comes over to our table and admonishes us for talking instead of working. The three of us apologise, and Mrs Osman places slips of paper in front of us.
“What’s this?” Ethan asks, picking his up.
“Paperwork. You have to sign it to confirm that you’re taking VCE Literature as a subject.”
My slip of paper has my full legal name written in block letters at the top: AARON REGINALD WYNN. Underneath a bunch of text is a box for my signature. I sign it quickly, then hand the paper back to Mrs Osman. I don’t want my friends to see my middle name because I know they’ll tease me mercilessly.
In every class that day, our teachers hand us the paper and each time, I sign and hand it back as quickly as possible. In Maths, Mrs Johns hands out the papers, then does a second lap to pick them all up. While I wait for her to return, I flip my paper over.
Jude ignored his paper since he’s in the middle of a question, using that ridiculous battery-pen. My eyes catch the thick letters on his slip: JUDE FITZWILLIAM SEYMOUR.
“Fitzwilliam?” I say.
Jude stiffens, then looks at his slip and picks it up. “I am aware it's ridiculous. My mum’s a Mr Darcy fan,” he says, signing the box. His signature is fancy and cursive. Mine is just a scribble.
“Who’s Mr Darcy?” I ask.
Jude raises a brow at me. “FromPride and Prejudice?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
He sighs. “It’s a book by Jane Austen. One of the most famous books in the English literary canon.”
Canon? As in the cannons used on pirate ships?
I know better than to ask, though. It’s painted clearly on his face that he thinks I’m dumb as hell.
I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. Jude’s actually quite good-looking when his face isn’t twisted with condescension or irritation. His hair is deep brown, and his cheeks and jaw are defined. My cheeks are much rounder. They used to be as chubby as a chipmunk’s when I was younger.
