I don’t have to share with Linus what I was thinking. I could walk away. I could write, Oh, nothing! Or You don’t want to know!!!;) Like it’s all a big joke.

But somehow . . . I want to share. I don’t know why, but I do. I trust him. And he’s on the other side of the door. It’s all safe. Like in a confessional.

Before I can change my mind, I scrawl,

I was thinking, ‘I’m a total failure, I shouldn’t exist, what’s the point of me?’

I shove it through the letter box, sit back on my heels and blow out, feeling a strange satisfaction. There. Enough pretending. Now he knows just how weird the inside of my mind is. I hold my breath, trying to glean his reaction on the other side of the door, but there’s silence. The ripply glass is still. I can’t detect any response at all. I think he must have gone. Of course he’s gone. Who would stay?

Oh God, am I nuts? Why would I write down my most warped thoughts and post them through a letter box to the one guy I actually like? Why would I do this?

Totally deflated, I get to my feet, and I’ve reached the kitchen door when I hear a rattling. I whip round – and there’s a reply on the doormat. My hands are trembling as I grab it and at first I can’t focus properly. It’s a new page, covered in writing, and it begins,

What’s the point of you? Try this for starters.

And underneath there’s a long list. He’s written a long, long list that fills the page. I’m so flustered, I can’t even read it properly, but as I scan down I catch beautiful smile and great taste in music (I sneaked a look at your iPod) and awesome Starbucks name.

I give a sudden snort of laughter that almost turns to a sob and then turns to a smile, and then suddenly I’m wiping my eyes. I’m all over the place.

With a rattle, another note plops through the letter box and I jerk in shock. What more can he have to say? Not another great big list, surely? But it says:

Will you open the door?

A flurry of alarm races through me. I can’t let him see my shrunken, pale, ratty self. I just can’t. I know Dr Sarah would tell me I’m not shrunken or ratty, I’m imagining it, but she’s not here, is she?

Not quite up to it. Another time. Sorry, sorry . . .

I hold my breath after I’ve posted the page. He’ll be offended. He’ll leave. That’s it, all over, before it even began . . .

But then the letter box rattles yet again and a reply comes through:

Understood. I’ll be off then.

My spirits plunge. He is leaving. He is offended. He hates me, I should have opened the door, I should have been stronger, I’m so stupid . . . I’m just trying desperately to think what I can write when another page drops onto the mat. It’s folded over, and on the outside is written:

Had to give you this before I go.

For a few moments I don’t dare read it. But at last I open it up and stare at the words inside. My head is prickling all over with disbelief. My breath is jumpy as I read it. He wrote that. He wrote that. To me.

It’s a kiss.




At St John’s, they tell you not to keep rewinding your thoughts and going over old ground. They tell you to live in the present, not the past. But how are you supposed to do that when a boy you like has just kind of, virtually, kissed you?

By the time I see Dr Sarah at my next session I’ve replayed the scene like a million times and now I’m wondering if the whole thing was just him winding me up, or having something to laugh about with his friends, or was he just being polite? I mean, does he feel sorry for me? Was it a pity kiss? Oh God. It was so a pity kiss. (Not that I’m an expert on kisses. I have kissed precisely one boy in my life, which was on holiday last year and it was gross.)

Dr Sarah listens politely for about half an hour as I blabber on about Linus. And then we talk about ‘mind-reading’ and ‘catastrophizing’, just like I knew we would. I think I could be a therapist myself, sometimes.

‘I know what you’ll tell me,’ I say at last. ‘I can’t read his mind and I shouldn’t try. But how can I not think about it? He kissed me. I mean . . . sort of. On paper.’ I shrug, feeling a bit embarrassed. ‘You probably think it doesn’t count.’

‘Not at all,’ says Dr Sarah seriously. ‘The fact that it was on paper doesn’t lessen it. A kiss is a kiss.’

‘And now I haven’t heard from him and I have no idea what he’s thinking, and it stresses me out . . .’ Dr Sarah doesn’t reply immediately, and I sigh. ‘I know, I know. I have an illness and it’s fully treatable.’

There’s another long silence. Dr Sarah’s mouth is twitching.

‘You know, Audrey?’ she says at last. ‘I hate to break it to you, but getting stressed over what boys are thinking after they’ve kissed you may not be fully treatable. Not fully.’

And then, three days after Starbucks, I’m sitting watching TV peacefully on my own when Frank comes stomping into the den and says:

‘Linus is here.’

‘Oh, right.’ I sit up in a fluster. ‘Really? He’s here? But . . .’ I swallow. ‘You’re not allowed to play LOC, so . . . I mean, why is he . . .?’

‘He wants to see you.’ Frank sounds fairly unimpressed by this fact. ‘Is that OK? You won’t freak out?’

‘No. Yes. I mean . . . that’s fine.’

‘Good, because he’s here. Lin-us!’

Some brothers would give their sister a chance to brush their hair. Or at least change out of the scaggy old T-shirt they’ve been in all day. I’m sending murderous thought waves to Frank as Linus comes into the den and says cautiously, ‘Hi. Wow, it’s dark in here.’

Everyone in the family has got so used to my darkened den, I forget how it must look to other people. I keep the blackout curtains closed and the lights off, and the only illumination is the flickering telly. And then I feel safe. Safe enough to take my dark glasses off.

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘No, it’s fine. You really are rhubarb.’

‘That’s my name.’ I see him smile through the darkness. There’s a glow on his teeth from the TV, and his eyes are two shining chinks.

I’m sitting in my customary place on the carpet, and after a moment he comes over and sits down next to me. I mean, not right next to me. He’s about thirty centimetres away. I think my skin must be able to send out signals like a bat, because I’m totally aware of his position in relation to mine. And all the time my head is buzzing with the thought: He kissed me. On paper. Kind of. He kissed me.

‘What are you watching?’ He stares at the telly, where a woman in a tailored dress is trying to find things to say about kelp shampoo. ‘Is that QVC?’

‘Yes. I find the conversations soothing.’

QVC is the most calming TV I know. You have three people in a studio and they all think the moisturizer is great. No one argues the point or raises their voice. No one discovers they’re pregnant or gets murdered. And there’s no studio laughter – which, believe me, can sound like a drill in my head.

‘Don’t worry, I know I’m nuts,’ I add.

‘You think this is nuts?’ says Linus. ‘You want to meet my granny. She’s really nuts. She thinks she’s twenty-five. When she looks in the mirror she thinks we’re playing tricks on her. She can’t see reality. She wears mini-skirts, she wants to go out to dances . . . She wears more make-up than any granny you’ve ever seen.’

‘She sounds awesome!’

‘She’s . . . you know.’ He shrugs. ‘Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s sad. But the point is, she’s not twenty-five, is she? It’s just her sick brain telling her that, isn’t it?’

He seems to expect an answer, so I say, ‘Right.’