Page 1 of You Had Me At Thirteen

ONE

Matilda

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Iremember the first time I laid eyes on Wren Stevenson. It was three days after my thirteenth birthday, and my two best friends had gone to the lake because it was one of those scorching summer days where the bitumen melted before your eyes, and cold showers did nothing to stop the profuse sweating. I had refused to go because I’d just gotten my first period, and I feared I’d attract sharks.

Even though Mum had tried to convince me otherwise, I’d seen enough documentaries to know that sharks could smell blood from half a kilometre away.

So instead of enjoying the summer with my best friends, I set myself up on the front porch of my house, intending to suffer in silence. With my favouriteGoosebumpsbook in hand, I settled into the egg chair, before a removal truck pulled up in the driveway next door.

I was glad the previous owner had left – albeit after she’d destroyed my family. But I was excited about getting new neighbours, so I stretched up to peek over the balustrade, as a young teenage Wren jumped from the cab of the truck.

For a moment my breathing faltered, and I remember thinking he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen, but he never smiled. Not once.

That day was a day of many firsts. The start of my first period, and also the first day I recognised boys; or rather, one boy in particular. He was tall even back then, his dark hair parted in the middle as it hung on either side of his face. He would push it back, only for it to fall straight back into place moments later.

I watched him for over an hour as he hauled box after box from the back of the truck into the house. Then my mum dragged me over there two days later to introduce us. Wren had stood in the doorway next to his parents, his hands in his pockets, his eyes probing into mine, causing my face to flush, and me to avert my eyes for fear he’d know I was bleeding into what I had referred to as awoman’s nappy. When Mum had handed me a pad that first day, I’d pushed it away, praying I’d never lay eyes on one again.

So, from that first encounter, I promised myself I’d stay away from boys like Wren. You know, the ones who stop your beating heart with just one look. And so far, I’d done a bang-up job, considering we lived next door to each other. With our final year of high school fast ending, my physical attraction to him has stayed put in the back of my mind.

But Wren has transformed from a good-looking teenager into a fucking God. Muscles everywhere, tanned skin, perfect brooding face. And those eyes. Warm honey-brown with a tinge of green around the pupils.

Now, I’m not obsessed with the guy. In fact, I hate him. Hate everything about him. Especially the fact that he’s a total fucking man-whore. I’ve seen his dick more times than I’d like to admit. With his bedroom opposite mine, I’ve seen my fair share of Wren’s acquaintances over the years.

So, when our English teacher Mr Hughes read out the names Matilda Maxwell and Wren Stevenson in the same sentence, I knew that my magical five-year streak of avoiding Wren had ended. And my life with it.

Fuck.

My pencil tip snaps under the pressure of my hand, so I drop it to the desk before crossing my arms and sinking into my chair.

When I get the nerve to glance at Wren, he’s glaring at me, his head cocked to the side, a smirk on his stupid face. The light coming through the windows on the far wall has him halo’d up like a goddamn angel. He’s anything but. There is nothing holy about him except the fact women screamOh God!in his presence.

No, he’s carved from something much more sinister. He’s the peanut butter used to bait a rodent. The scent draws you in, your mouth watering the closer you get, but it’s the taste that will lead you to an untimely death.

At least I imagine that’s what tasting Wren would be like, a mixture of sweet and salty, a temptation to make you inch that bit closer, untilBAM!Better luck next time, little mouse.

Besides, I don’t even like peanut butter.

A scowl crosses my face as we stare each other down, but a silent triumph sings through me when Wren is the first to look away, his gaze drifting again to the front of the classroom as he settles into his chair with exaggerated casualness. I search for something sharp to throw at his face, but come up short, finding only a now-blunt pencil and a tube of strawberry lip gloss. So, instead, I glare back at Mr Hughes, attempting to shoot bullets from my eye sockets. When my inner villain refuses to show up, I resign to the fact that I have to spend the next ten weeks with Wren and his arrogance.

I’m unsure I can cope with the demands of my training and dealing with Wren for longer than five minutes. The Devil himself is testing me on this one.

I rub my temples, attempting to soothe the creeping headache. This is going to be the worst ten weeks of my entire life.

Mr Hughes continues to explain our assignment, but I zone out, instead keeping my focus on taking deep breaths. By the time the bell rings for lunch, my body is so amped up, I’ve carved a hole into the desk with my broken pencil.

Throwing my notebook into my bag, I scramble for the door, darting around bodies to escape the classroom. I’m almost running down the hall towards the outdoor area, wishing the next ten weeks to be over already. How could Mr Hughes do that to me?

When the glass doors of freedom come into view, I’m breathing a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived when I sense someone come up beside me, an arm draping over my shoulders. I glance up to find Wren gazing down at me, a lopsided grin on his face.

I fight the urge not to stare at his sculpted lips as an exaggerated groan escapes me. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Neighbour,’ he says with a nod. ‘This should be fun.’

‘I’m surprised you even noticed I live next door,’ I say, shrugging his arm off me as I step away.

He smirks, pushing his hair back with one hand. I give him a once-over out of the corner of my eye. Christ, he looks good in his school uniform. You’d think grey slacks and a white button-up shirt would look plain on everyone, but not Wren.

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