What she doesn’t say is that Ryan’s annual fancy dress party has become Ashpeak’s event to die for. It’s a tradition his older brother started years ago, before he went off to university. Ryan invites almost everyone, including the senior grades. Nobody ever turns down an invitation. As for me, I never get one, and I’ve never been asked by someone who has. So, what else is new? They’re always leaving me out of their parties. So what? They’re just a bunch of pathetic snobs. Still, just once, I wouldn’t mind going. Especially if Jarrod asked.
‘Er, well, I haven’t given it much thought,’ he says.
Tasha, completely put out by Jessica getting her invitation in first, pouts again, this time seductively, and somehow manages to step around her lap dog and still look graceful doing it. Now there is practically nothing between her own and Jarrod’s body. Jarrod inches backwards as Tasha forces herself forward, but his back hits the counter, where he stops. ‘I’m looking for something really different,’ she explains, giving their reason for being in the ‘Witch’s Hut’, as the Crystal Forest is generally referred to by her lot.
‘Great,’ he says, ‘don’t let me hold you up.’
The guy is absolutely spineless. He has a natural gift, and this could strengthen his character, but because he won’t acknowledge it, it lies dormant, useless to him. Only when he experiences strong emotions, does it make itself known, and from what I’ve seen, with catastrophic results. He’s quite an anomaly – a coward, and a walking time bomb.
‘So,’ Tasha whispers huskily, spreading bright red manicured talons across the front of Jarrod’s T-shirt. ‘What are you doing here?’
It’s a moment of truth. His eyes flicker to mine and back again really quickly. I can actually feel his inner battle. To tell Tasha the whole truth is impossible, but I guess I do hope he tells her he has come to see a friend – me. It’s a hope I don’t put much faith in. Why should Jarrod turn out any different to the rest of them? Be seen with Scary Face? That would take a lot of courage.
Still, a part of me, a huge part of me, really wants him to acknowledge that I’m his friend. That I’m worthy of friendship.
‘Er, um, yeah well,’ he hesitates, stalling. ‘Mum’s got some clothes and stuff hanging in the window. I, ah, thought I’d check out the display,’ he lies.
My eyes close as I bite back any sign of disappointment. The jerk. Stupid tears well up but I force them back. I’m not going to cry, especially not in front of this lot. I open my eyes and Jarrod’s looking straight at me, apology written in his too wide eyes. Well, tough. Too late.
‘Can I help you, girls?’ Jillian suddenly appears, all cleaned up. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
Slowly, her eyes lingering on Jarrod’s reddening face, Tasha moves towards Jillian, eventually giving the woman all her attention. ‘I’m going to be wearing white, a full length fairy dress. I have these gorgeous silver shoes and I’m looking for a wand, and a silver mask to match, shaped like a butterfly. I’d really like some glitter but that’s not a big problem, I can add that myself …’ she keeps going but I quickly tune out.
Turning my back on them I run out of the room. I tell myself I don’t care what Jarrod thinks. Humiliating tears well up again which I viciously fight back. I sprint past Hannah gulping orange juice at the kitchen table and go straight up to my room. She follows, wondering I guess, what’s the rush. She’s shaking recently washed fingers when she reaches my room. It’s probably the mood I’m in ’cause I really need a friend right now. If I don’t talk to someone I’ll explode, or worse, cast a spell. Something I haven’t tried before – changing skin colour to fluoro-green.
I tell Hannah everything about Jarrod: the curse, how he has the gift with a lot of power, and my stupid, but definitely-in-the-past, fatal attraction.
‘Yeah, sure,’ she mutters when I finish.
‘Sure what?’ She’s lying across my bed, her head resting in her hands, her shoe-less feet across my pillow, while I sit cross-legged on the floor.
‘Sure you’re over him,’ she replies sarcastically.
Stubbornly, I insist, ‘You bet I am!’
‘So you’re not going to help him get rid of this curse?’
I have to think, there’s only one way I can be sure I’m over my unrealised obsession with this guy. ‘I don’t care if his curse was brewed by the devil,’ I announce dramatically. ‘Jarrod can beg and plead and crawl on his hands and knees, clean my feet with his tongue, shake the grit from the bottom of my muddy boots, scrape the bird droppings off my window sill, and I still won’t lift a finger to help.’