Page 23 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Yeah, I am,’ I say. ‘I’m like you.’

I could definitely write the inside of a Clintons Valentine’s Day card, or an episode of Hollyoaks at the very least.

Once, after Aoife, Bianca, Ronks, Shreya and I have invited ourselves down to the skate park (conveniently located slap bang next to Lowe’s work at the bike shop) to do nothing except fancy people and pretend we’re not freezing, Lowe glides over on his bike, sweat beads on his forehead. ‘I was thinking, we should make a handshake – a secret handshake.’

I can’t help but look behind me to be sure he’s actually talking to me. ‘YES!’ I say excitedly. God, chill. ‘I’ve never had a secret handshake – it’s one of those things I’ve always wanted.’ We slide our hands together and his skin is AMAZING. Even the rough callouses from gripping the handlebars of his bike are sexy and lovely to feel. In. Out. We find a rhythm. Link, grip, grab. Our eyes meet as we start with a thumbs up and lock, twist, press, clutch our fingers, twirl our hands into a fan – my idea. ‘Nice,’ he says, the condensation curling from his breath; it’s smooth, eye-to-eye. This feels more intimate and romantic than any kiss – this is touch – synchronized. We rehearse over and over until it, like us, becomes muscle memory: clap, clasp, twist, link, thumb to thumb, spiral, spud, punch, hug.

Something only we can do, that our drunk friends try to copy. Even if mastered fluently, they’d never have the chemistry required to make it zap like us.

It is always us.

But protecting my feelings towards Lowe is constant maintenance. I have to guard him from the snooping prey of other girls but also not squish him to death with possessiveness. He is not mine.

‘You like him!’ the girls say but I deny it. Why? Because I’m scared. Of getting it wrong. Of looking a fool. Of rejection.

‘We tried to work out your love score and the percentage was literally so high, it actually broke the test,’ Shreya enlightens me. ‘Even The Twins were confused by it.’ And The Twins love maths.

‘It’s true,’ one of The Twins admits, ashamed they’d been sneakily doing my love sums behind my back. ‘You guys scored like four hundred and one per cent!’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ adds the other.

Lowe and I throw the tired theories of love out of the window. Our love is shaming the textbooks. Making a fool out of science. This is love in real-life. Love in 3-D.

I laugh it off but, really, 401%? WOW. Our love broke maths. Even though I’m pretty sure if you add up the four and the one it would make 50%. 50% is a terrible love score. Possibly the worst.

‘Try it again. Did you use our middle names? You lot didn’t add it up the right way anyway; which version of the love calculator are you even using?’ I interrogate. Trying to conceal my desperation.

Shrey and The Twins whip out their fluffy pads and do the alternative version of the love calculator and the score is even worse – 18%. This can’t be.

‘I’m willing to bet every penny in my bank account that you two end up getting married one day!’ Shrey says.

I blush, knowing full well that Shreya, like all of us, doesn’t even have a bank account to bet with. ‘Guys!’ I roll my eyes. ‘You’re so immature. I honestly don’t like Lowe like that.’

I lie again. I lie so hard that I begin to lie to myself. Like the way I say that ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ isn’t a good song. I find different people to fancy, substitutes and distractions. Guys I don’t pay any attention to who pay me none back. Guys who don’t even know I exist, to ensure there would never, ever possibly be a way of us getting together, but enough to stop the allegations and prevent the rumours and suspicions of me liking Lowe. It’s especially hard to dodge when Lowe calls the house phone when the girls are at my house, and their stupid eyes bulge out of their brains like wait, Lowe’s phoning YOU? At home, on a Thursday, like it’s no biggie. (Yeah, and our last call was two hours forty-eight minutes long about ABSOLUTELY nothing.)

And I’m like, ‘Yeah, we’re best friends, remember?’

Even though they look at me like whatever you say. Even though Aoife’s standing there twiddling our friendship bracelets like I thought I was your best friend? As I try and steady my excitable face to take Lowe’s call.

I lie in my own diary. I actually write how ‘fed up’ I am of my friends accusing me of fancying Lowe. That I don’t see him like that, ew, it would be like fancying my own brother. Why can’t they see that we’re just friends? Best friends. Have a boy and girl never been best friends before? Can’t a boy and a girl just be best friends, for crying out loud?

This constant lying cannot be good for the soul. I reckon if I don’t grow a Pinocchio nose, I’ll get a hunched back from the guilt instead. A cyst of some kind from carrying all that built up denial and deceit.

One time, after the trillionth interrogation, Aoife jumps to my defence and says, ‘Look guys, I’ve known Ella Cole since I was three years old; she’s a lot of things’ – alright, Aoife, like what? – ‘but she’s not a liar, just leave her alone, OK? And if Elbow does fancy him—’

‘Which I don’t.’

‘Which she doesn’t,’ Aoife acknowledges and repeats, ‘don’t you think something would have happened between them by now?’

Aoife’s right. Lowe and I are both single. Nothing is stopping us. Does he lie to all his friends in the same way I do? Is he also too proud and trying to save face like me? Or maybe he just doesn’t feel the same. Maybe he doesn’t like me back? Maybe he has nothing to lie about.

And looking around, after Aoife’s supportive line, it kills me seeing my friends’ convinced faces like, maybe they are just friends after all? They feel bad.

One lunchtime, we’re smoking in the woods behind school – well, I’m keeping Bianca company whilst she smokes – I’m just pretending to with the condensation of my hot breath on the cold air. We’re both sitting on the stump of a dead tree, shivering, in our bright green lab coats over our school uniforms, to mask the smell on our jumpers and coats – plus it’s FREEZING. Even Bianca manages to be humble.

‘Ella, I’m – like – really sorry. If I had known you had feelings for Lowe – in any way – I would never have pulled him.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bianca.’ I hit back with a lie before I can even think. ‘We’re just friends. I don’t even really remember you pulling him, to be honest.’ Which is another lie because it’s all she spoke about and every time she did, it felt like I’d had my organs looted.

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