Chapter 1: Someone once told me -

A Strange Sort of Something

“Someone once told me love is what we want most, but not what we live for.”

What an announcement to make, the small voice at the back of my head whispered as my pen ‘scritch-scratched’ furiously against my notebook, transferring historical dates from the intimidating textbook I’d laid open before me. Having ridden my bike to the local library alone, and having never been the kind of person who inspired complete strangers to spout meaningful declarations of love or life, it never occurred to me that perhaps I might be the intended recipient for the somewhat-haughty announcement.

I wonder if it came from a poem, I mused absent-mindedly. My mind had gone blank on the answer to Q. 8 for my History assignment and I tapped my pen against my nose, furrowing my brow as I tried to delve deep into my mind for some kind of articulate way of waffling. It didn’t matter if the answer turned out sounding half-baked because it was and, as always, I’d left the assignment until the day before. So, really, any grade was better than no grade at all.

Somewhere to my right, a throat was cleared.

“Ahem. I said, someone once told me love is what we want most, but not what we live for,” the speaker repeated, louder this time so that I was forced to tear my mind away from my predicament and blink stupidly at the boy seated a few chairs from me. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than myself, nineteen at most. And he was speaking to me.

“Ummm,” I slurred, rather intelligently as you can imagine. “Are you talking to me?”

I chanced a glance over my shoulder but there was nobody else within hearing range, and so I could only assume that he was. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help the prickle of indignation when he shot me a ‘duh’ look. I quashed the urge to retort.

If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. It was a line my mother had made me live my life by and, by the time I’d realised that she’d only lifted it from a talking rabbit in a Disney movie, it had already been ingrained in my mind, and, besides, I wasn’t good at being sharp and witty like other people were. Still, it didn’t stop me from thinking unkindly.

Arse.

I smiled politely, wracking my brain for something friendly to say.

“Um, that was very insightful,” I offered, hoping that he wouldn’t interpret it as an invitation to comment. I didn’t much like talking to strangers, even if they were only a couple of years older than myself. They made me feel uncomfortable and I tended to say stupid things when I wasn’t at ease.

“I know,” he drawled. “My girlfriend said it.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah.” He nodded so that his oversized beanie flopped a little with the movement. It slipped a little further down his head so that it partially blocked one dark brow from view. “Right before she left me. Stupid bitch.”

“Oh.”

Okaaay.

I cleared my throat awkwardly and looked down at my notebook, wishing he had chosen somebody else to tell his sob story to. The library would close in half an hour and I still needed to print out a few pictures before my assignment was complete.

“So.” He drummed his fingers against the table, thumping out a rhythm I knew I would never be able to replicate. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” was my reply, “not really.” In truth, nobody had ever really bothered to ask. Oh, it wasn’t as though I was hideous. No, it was just that I was plain. It didn’t really matter, anyway. I knew that, with a bit of mascara or concealer, I could be pretty enough, and besides, I would take being plain over being hideous any day.

A knowing smirk twisted his lips.

“So you have a girlfriend,” he concluded.

“No!” And then, because I’d been too quick to respond, I said more calmly, “I just don’t think having a significant other is important right now. You know. Since I’m in Year 11 and all.”

It was partly true but I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to offer up that last bit of information. The less I said, the better I’d feel later when I rode my bike home and went over the details of the conversation in my head. For all I knew, he could have been into molesting teenage girls for kicks.

Shit.

He looked surprised. But then, his eyebrows had that sort of upwards tilt to it. “You don’t look sixteen.”

He said this almost accusingly as if it were my fault that he’d assumed I was older than I was. I wasn’t very tall or anything, but people always made the mistake of assuming I was older. It was in the eyes, they said. I often wondered if it meant I had dull eyes or something, but I’d never really gotten around to asking.

I shrugged.

“Well, I am.”

Although I hadn’t meant to sound so standoffish, in a way, I was glad I had. There really wasn’t much he could say in response now and I directed my attention back to my project. It didn’t matter if there weren’t any pictures, I decided. Maybe I’d get to school early tomorrow and Google something up from the school library, but the faster I finished my work, the faster I could detach myself from the conversation without seeming rude or hostile.

“I go to Stanley Exodus,” he said, referring to a well-known university in Melbourne. “And you – you look older than me.”

Evidently, he had no qualms about revealing personal information to complete strangers. But that wasn’t what had caught my attention. I paused, mid-date, and gaped at him.

“What?” he asked, defensive.

My brother had moved out of our house three years ago to attend the very same university. It wasn’t as though the campus was too far for him to drive there every morning, but he’d insisted that he wanted the entire coming-of-age experience. Complete with moving out of home, and I missed him. Terribly. He’d always been my Safe Zone, my backer whenever things got too crazy between my mother and I.

Sometimes I secretly hated him for finding it so easy to leave. He never knew.

“What’s your name?” I asked and I had to contain my excitement. Most of the time I hated myself more for getting keyed up over something as trivial as having something extra to talk to Sammy about, but that was the way it was. I couldn’t help that I missed having my older brother around all the time.

A pause.

“Jonathon Baxter. What’s yours?”

“Jane Seymour,” I lied. I wondered if he’d put two and two together, and subtly slid my historical textbook a little further out of his line of vision.

“Well,” I said, snapping my notebook shut. “It was, um, nice meeting you.”

He nodded at me, more of a jerk to the head than anything else.

“Yeah,” came his drawl. “You too.” He hardly seemed surprised at my abrupt departure and, as the library doors slid shut behind me, I cast a backward glance at him through the glass.

He was staring at the textbook I’d left behind on the table, but not really registering it. His mind was elsewhere, I could tell. My own mind had wandered enough times to recognise the signs.

Jonathon Baxter, I mused, strapping my tatty helmet on.

I’d have to remember to ask Sam about a strange guy named Jonathon Baxter who liked chatting to random girls in the middle of local libraries. It was something he’d laugh about and, besides, it wasn’t as if I’d see the guy ever again. I’d make sure to stick to stick to the school library next time.