I Hold Your Heart Read online

  ‘He was with the knoboons,’ I say.

  The knoboons is what Esi christened the table-football lot on our second day, after we’d been having an in-depth conversation about what different groups of animals were called. This was because she’d slipped us the conversational nugget that a group of giraffes is called a ‘tower’, which had me in hysterics. I also bet her it wasn’t true, which was a mistake because she immediately whipped out her phone.

  ‘What are you betting, exactly?’

  ‘I’ll do all the floor mopping and toilet cleaning at the cafe for the next three weeks,’ I said, which was a tad overconfident of me, in retrospect.

  Cal gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Hope you’ve got marigolds.’

  They were right. Google confirmed that a ‘tower’ was indeed what a group of giraffes were called.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I thought it’d be a herd, or something.’ Then I got the giggles again. ‘Go on, what are some others?’

  Esi read them out while we tried to guess. ‘Lions.’

  Cal rolled his eyes. ‘Pride. Give us something harder.’

  ‘OK.’ She looked over at the lads in the corner, then gave a wicked grin. ‘Baboons.’

  ‘Er, troop?’ Cal said.

  One of the table lot was playing obnoxiously loud music, with lyrics to match. Esi wrinkled her nose. ‘Yep, a troop of baboons. Or –’ she got this inspired look in her eyes – ‘knoboons.’ We all collapsed in laughter, apart from Beth and Phoebe, who were busy gazing at each other.

  Now Esi raises her eyebrows and says, ‘You sure it was him? He seemed older than that the other day.’

  ‘Yep.’ I look around, as if he’s going to materialise in the refectory right in front of me. ‘That’s the third time I’ve bumped into him, how weird is that? It must mean something.’

  Esi opens her mouth, probably to tell me for the millionth time there’s no such thing as the universe intervening, or fate or whatever, but at that moment, Rachael comes up. She gets the late bus in on a Monday, because she hasn’t got any lessons until after lunch, which everyone else is deeply jealous of.

  ‘What’s up then?’ she says, flopping down next to Cal and flipping her gorgeous-as-always hair back over her shoulders. I wish my hair would go that shiny but it has a tendency to frizz. Rachael’s is so smooth, I want to reach out and touch it, and judging by the way Cal’s looking at her, he’s having similar thoughts. He clears his throat and says loudly, ‘Gemma’s got a Mystery Man.’

  Rachael’s eyes light up. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Not exactly …’ I say.

  At that moment, my phone buzzes with a notification from my YouTube channel.

  ‘Hold that thought,’ I say, one finger in the air. The next moment, my jaw drops. The comment is on my latest video, the one I uploaded the other week:

  Love this. You have an amazing voice.

  This isn’t what’s got my heart going extra fast, though – I get comments like that all the time. Nope, it’s the name of the person making the comment that I can’t seem to stop looking at.

  Aaron Weaver.

  Esi looks over my shoulder. ‘Wait, is that …?’ She squints at the thumbnail. ‘It’s him!’

  ‘Who? What?’ Rachael says, looking from one face to another like a meerkat, which makes me smile. I bring her up to speed with the football match and the cafe and seeing Aaron earlier. She sighs happily. ‘That’s so romantic. How did he find your channel?’

  I shrug.

  ‘He must’ve asked around, found out your name,’ Cal says reasonably, without looking up from madly swiping at his phone. (He’s on his millionth attempt to get top run on Subway Surfers. It’s never going to happen, but we indulge him anyway.) It’s not like I’m particularly anonymous; I use my full name on YouTube because, well, you never know. A scout from Decca Records might be browsing one day and … OK, that’s probably also never going to happen, but still.

  ‘Yep, that’s definitely romantic. He’s well into you …’ Rachael says. I dart her a quick look – she can sometimes be a bit cynical – but she only seems wistful. Then her face clears and she says in her normal voice, ‘Anyway,’ and a moment later she’s inviting everyone to a party some girl in her Geography class is having on Saturday night.

  The conversation moves on to who’s going, but I sit back while I consider what to say in response to Aaron. I settle on … nothing. Let him do the chasing. Still, I can’t stop myself scanning the refectory for a sign of him, or from feeling a teensy bit disappointed when he doesn’t appear. But by the time I’ve emerged from double Biology (why, why did I think this was a good idea?) the thoughts have been driven out altogether. It would seem the teachers at school were right when they warned about the leap up to A level; my head’s spinning.

  I set off for the bus home. As I’m coming out of the main entrance, I sense someone walking up fast beside me. A moment later, I’m overtaken by a cloud of perfume. It’s the blonde girl I saw body-checking Aaron in the refectory earlier. I register this just as someone leans on a horn. It’s coming from a pretty nice-looking car – I can’t see the make, but it’s dark and way sleeker than a lot of the buckets people rock up to college in – which is pulled up at the edge of the car park. Blonde Girl immediately pivots and snakes her way over, then leans so far down she’s in danger of falling through the open window on the passenger side, boobs first. I carry on walking, but out of the corner of my eye catch the girl straighten abruptly. She turns and gives me the sort of stare that’s designed to inflict mortal injury. Luckily for me, that sort of thing only makes me laugh, though I’m curious now as to exactly why she’s exiting stage left in a storm of heels. Then a voice floats out of the car: ‘Gem!’

  It’s him. Of course it is.

  I pause for a second, then tip my chin up and take my time walking over. I stand, arms folded like I have about three minutes – which incidentally is totally true if I’m going to catch my bus – and I’m prepared to give him 0.5 of those.

  Oh, and I am not about to go leaning down into his car. I don’t need to though, because Aaron’s already leaping out, striding around the bonnet end and coming to stand next to me. He’s tall, but I’m wearing heels – and I’m five nine barefoot – so we’re pretty much level-pegging it in the height stakes.

  I wait for him to speak first. And suddenly he seems less confident, now we’re actually face to face again, lifting his hand to run it through his carefully styled hair. I don’t want to, but part of me can’t help finding this cute, especially when he says the next thing, which is, ‘You saw my comment?’

  I raise my eyebrows to indicate yes.

  There’s a pause.

  ‘I loved your video.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I shift my bag, conscious the bus will soon be leaving without me on it.

  ‘You want a lift home?’ Aaron says.

  ‘Do I seem like the sort of person who gets into strange boys’ cars?’

  He inclines his head as if to say this is a fair point, but then says, ‘Ah, but I’m not a stranger now we’re internet buddies.’ Then he deploys that smile. And it totally works. A charge goes right through me, like it’s leaped straight from his mouth, his eyes, into my skin. All of a sudden, I want to laugh. Instead I say, deadpan, ‘I don’t know, has the dog been sitting there?’ I nod to the passenger seat.

  Aaron’s smile widens. ‘One hundred per cent dog-hair free, I swear it.’

  He holds my eyes. Neither of us moves. I’m so close to leaping into that car, but instead I pull my gaze away, say, ‘No thanks, not today!’ with a laugh, and the next moment I’m dashing away from him, down the slope towards the bus.

  I just manage to swing myself on before Grumpy Sharon shuts the doors. The bus pulls off and I slide into a seat next to Esi in time to see Aaron slouching back against his car. He raises a lazy hand to wave at me as we pass.

  He’s smiling too.

  Five minutes later, my phone goes, like I knew it would. A private
message request on my Instagram. He must have followed the link from my YouTube channel. I hit Allow.

  Tomorrow then? Come on a date with me. A

  A few minutes later: Go on …

  Then: At least talk to me.

  Please????

  I look at Esi, nose buried in her Russian book, and the trees outside the window, framed against a blue September sky, and I sit back in my seat and start typing.

  All right then. What do you want to chat about?

  Chapter Five

  Gemma

  The conversation lasts until midnight. I definitely didn’t plan it that way, but Aaron’s actually super easy to talk to. And persistent. It takes me three goes to end the chat and he only stops after I say it’s getting to a ‘No, you put the phone down’ place, which is deeply tragic.

  I’m knackered but smiling when I finally put my phone on my bedside cabinet and turn out the lamp. I seem to have told Aaron a million things about myself. He’s really interested in the singing and seems to have watched all my videos, but says the songs I write are the best. He talked a little about himself too, though. The facts I’ve gathered about him in our marathon chat are, in no particular order:

  •He moved here in August from London (glamorous).

  •He’s repeating a year of college, but I don’t know why (mysterious).

  •He misses his mum, specifically her epic shepherd’s pie (too cute).

  •He says he’s planned ‘something spectacular’ for our date tomorrow (eeeee!).

  Well, OK, I saved the best fact for last.

  I set the alarm for 6.30 so I’ve got time to get ready the next morning. I beat Michael into the shower for once and pad downstairs with my hair wrapped up in a towel to search out coffee. Mum’s up already, poaching some haddock for Michael’s breakfast. I flick on the kettle, breathing through my mouth. I can’t stand the smell of fish.

  ‘You’re up early,’ Mum says, going to the fridge for some eggs. She cracks one into the poacher on top of the hob while I try not to shudder. I also hate everything about eggs: the gloopy yolks, the fact they might have become little fluff balls of cuteness in time. Esi has pointed out on multiple occasions that this is entirely hypocritical of me, given I’m not adverse to the odd KFC, and that an unfertilised egg is not in fact a baby chicken, but I can live with the contradiction.

  I glance at the cereal boxes, but the fish smell is making my stomach churn and anyway, there’s only porridge and muesli and other nutritious-yet-boring stuff.

  ‘I miss Coco Pops,’ I say, but Mum’s distracted and doesn’t answer. She’s poking the edge of a knife into the eggs, which are still wobbly. Vile. I put the bowl back in the cupboard; I’ll buy something at college.

  I pass Michael coming down the stairs with his training bag in one hand.

  ‘Morning!’ he says with a big smile. Urgh, why is he so cheerful in the mornings?

  ‘You have too much energy,’ I say, but it’s hard to get irritated with Michael. ‘You also have fish and poached eggs for breakfast.’ I make a retching noise.

  Michael leans in close and whispers, ‘I hate fish.’

  ‘Oh my God, do us all a favour and tell Mum, then. You’ll be saving me from death by fish-vom smell anyway.’

  ‘Can’t. Dad read an article.’ Michael grins at me again, then does his puppy-bounding down the rest of the stairs. I watch him for a second; I can never 100 per cent tell whether Michael loves or tolerates Dad’s, erm, contributions to his football career. He always eats the gross food so he can’t mind that much. Definitely different to the days when he was little. He’d only sit by me, and if I wouldn’t eat something, neither would he. He even had to have juice in the same-coloured cup as me or he just wouldn’t drink at all. Never in a tantrumy way, more of a sweet but about-as-mobile-as-a-mountain way. Michael’s always been pretty determined underneath his easy-going surface.

  I shake my head and run up the rest of the stairs to make a start on my hair and make-up. When I’m finally happy, I search for my navy jeans that I know make my butt look awesome, but can’t see them. I think back; I’m sure I put them in the wash over a week ago. I go to the top of the stairs and holler, ‘Muuum? Where’s my blue jeans?’

  She doesn’t answer so I run back downstairs. Michael’s at the table, while Mum’s getting stuff out of the dryer. He meets my eyes, flicks his own down to the fish and takes a final stoical bite.

  I mime puking to Michael, then say to Mum, ‘Are my jeans in there?’ I can tell already they won’t be; Mum’s arms are full of Michael’s football kit – a jumble of socks and shirts and shorts.

  ‘Did you put a load on?’ Mum says.

  Dammit. I was going to the other day, but then the machine was already on and I forgot …

  Mum hands Michael a clean set of kit. He grabs it, says, ‘Thanks, Mum,’ and shoves everything in his bag. Then he takes off up the stairs. Mum picks up his plate and goes to the sink to rinse it. I leave her to it and go back to my room. My black skinnies will have to do, even though they’re a bit on the tight side.

  I dress and look at myself in the mirror. Not bad. A quick spritz of perfume and I’m all done.

  Well, apart from the nervous churning in the pit of my stomach. Something tells me that’s going to be there all day.

  College trickles by. Cal whistles when he sees me at lunchtime. ‘You got a hot date or something?’

  ‘Well as a matter of fact …’ I grin.

  Every head at the table turns my way. Aaron doesn’t seem to be in here, despite a gaggle of knoboons in their usual spot. I’ll have to ask him what he sees in them. I fill the gang in – well, everyone apart from Esi, who’s in the library.

  ‘So where’s he taking you?’ Rachael says.

  I have to admit I don’t know. ‘Apparently it’s a surprise.’

  Rachael snorts.

  Beth gives me an encouraging smile. ‘We’ll want all the details later.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll get them,’ Rachael says, one eyebrow raised, but then she softens it with a smile.

  Leaving college is almost an exact replay of yesterday, except it’s me who’s clipping down the stairs towards the black car. And this time Aaron’s standing next to it. ‘Hi!’ he says with a grin.

  ‘Hi yourself. Where’ve you been, then? I didn’t see you at college.’

  ‘Skipped it. I wanted to get some stuff ready.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I peer over his shoulder, trying to see into the car, but the windows are tinted.

  ‘Curiosity will get you nowhere.’ He wags his finger, then opens the door and gives a mock bow.

  I slide in and he closes the door behind me. His car is neat, smelling of air freshener and faint aftershave. Aaron gets into the driver’s side and then we’re pulling out of college, driving through narrow lanes. One of the things I love about living here is how you can drive for a while and almost forget you’re by the sea, then suddenly you turn a corner or climb a hill and there it is, laid out like a secret. When we get out on to the main road, I say, ‘So where are we going then?’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ he says, taking his eyes off the road to grin at me. Annoyingly, I can’t help but smile back, then realise we’re approaching a red light.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be watching the road?’ I say.

  Aaron hits the brakes hard and I feel the seatbelt jerk tight against me.

  I huff out a breath. ‘Surprises are overrated. Tell me where, or I’m getting out.’ I’m only partly joking; I’ve got one hand on the door handle.

  Aaron turns his head to look at me, his eyes wide. I raise my eyebrows in an ‘I mean it’ way.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. He seems flustered suddenly. ‘I just thought … we’re going to the beach. For a picnic,’ he adds.

  I start laughing at this and once I do, it’s hard to stop. Must’ve been more nervous than I thought. But underneath the laughter is something pleased and warm; picnics on the beach are classically romantic for a reason. Aaron’s look
ing at me, an expression I can’t quite pin down on his face. My laugh fades and we’re just staring at each other in this pretty intense way. Then a car horn blares out behind us.

  Without taking his eyes from mine, Aaron leans one hand out of the window and slowly extends his middle finger. This makes me laugh again and this time he’s joining in with me as the car overtakes us, the guy behind the wheel shouting out expletives about the light being green and Aaron’s mental capacity.

  Aaron puts the car in gear like he has all the time in the world and pulls away, raising a lazy hand in a sort-of apology to the other cars behind us.

  When we finally get there, I’m actually pretty hungry. Aaron’s driven us along the coast and down to a beach I think I last went to when I was about seven, back in the days of Coco Pops, before Michael got scouted. It’s out of the way, but it does have sand. You also need to scramble down a massively steep path to get there. We park up in a tiny gravel car park, scooped out on top of a cliff. The second I get out of the car, the familiar beach smell rushes on the wind to meet me, a fresh tang of seaweed and space that always tells me I’m home.

  I step up to the fence at the edge of the car park and look down, into the curve of the tiny bay. Sea-carved rocks to one side like long fingers meet at the top in a natural archway, waves pushing over them in a fine white spray. We used to go rock-pooling down here, me and Michael, slipping over the trailing brown-greens of seaweed-encrusted rocks, our fingers catching on the rough edges of barnacles, searching for tiny white crabs and, once, a group of peachy starfish. It was like our own little world.

  Aaron’s dragging this huge bag out of the boot of his car. He heaves it on to his shoulders and says, ‘Shall we go?’