“Yes, in French, when I…” I swallow my words. Suddenly I’m eighteen again and sweating as I ask Dion to go to the Leavers’ Ball with me. A second later and I’m in that same stuffy classroom with him and Raquelle behind me, laughing at the Valentine’s Day card I gave him. Why is itthat shame and embarrassment are some of the most stubborn emotions to be rid of? Well, maybe here’s my chance to reduce their impact on me. “In French, when I asked you to come to the Leavers’ Ball with me, you laughed at me.”
Dion’s eyes blink slowly but he still seems just as incredulous when he starts talking. “Because it was a joke. I laughed because it was a joke. A pretty lame one, at that.” He tuts and looks away, at the art on the wall opposite us.
“It wasn’t a joke,” I say in a quiet voice, my eyes pinned on my knees.
“Pardon?”
“It wasn’t a joke!” I don’t mean to shout, not really, but I do and the words echo in my ears as silence settles between us.
Finally, I feel brave enough to look up at him. His eyes are on me again, unblinking and intense as always. He looks less disbelieving and more like he doesn’t trust me, like I’m lying.
“It wasn’t a joke,” I repeat, holding his gaze.
“You wanted to take me to Leavers’ Ball?”
“Yes,” I say, and I finally feel it. Relief. Sweet and light and liberating. “After Paris, I thought we, had, I don’t know, a new connection. But actually, even before that, I knew I liked you. That’s why I sent you that Valentine’s card?—”
Dion’s hand slams down on the arm of his chair. “That was you?”
“Yes.”
“But it wasn’t your handwriting!”
“No, it wasn’t.” I bring my hand back to my forearm. “It was my mother’s.”
Dion’s eyes drop to where my hand is and finally, finally the sceptical glare he was giving me slips. “Yourmumwrote it?”
“Yes, at my request. I was…nervous. I didn’t know how you’d react and actually, you weren’t exactly pleased.”
“I thought it was another joke.” He stares straight ahead at some undiscernible point on the coffee table in front of me.
“Why do you think people liking you is a joke?” I ask.
That pulls his eyes back onto me. “I don’t, I just…” He doesn’t finish.
“Yes, you do. You thought my asking you to the Leavers’ Ball was a joke and likewise when you received a Valentine’s card.”
“But you didn’t even try and make me think it was you!” Dion’s pushed forward again, leaning over his bent legs. “How was I supposed to know it was from you when your mum wrote it?!”
“I don’t know,” I splutter, my hands waving around. “Maybe because my mum’s writing was so obviously French and who else did you know who had French relatives?”
“Jesus,” Dion spits back. “I’m a pretty creative person but how would I have ever connected those dots!?”
“Well, Leavers’ Ball,” I shift forward so much my backside is barely hanging onto the edge, “it was pretty obvious who was asking you to that!”
Dion pushes up to stand and steps away from me before stopping abruptly, presumably because he’s just remembered there’s nowhere else to go. “But why would you ask me that?”
I stand up and take a tentative step towards him. “Because I liked you.”
He stares at me for a moment before shaking his head and turning away again. “No, you didn’t,” he says, more to himself than me. “You were taking the piss.”
I take another step closer. “No, I wasn’t. I really wanted to be your date for that ball.”
Turning back towards me, Dion is rubbing at the patchy stubble on his cheek. “Then why didn’t you say that?”
“I tried.” I hold my hands out, palms up, pleading. “But it was kind of difficult to state my case when you couldn’t stop laughing at even the suggestion.”
Dion’s lips pull into a pout. Or maybe it’s a scowl.
