Page 49 of You Had Me At Thirteen

Get it together, Matilda.Remember you hate peanut butter.

I twist in my seat and fold my legs underneath me so I can rest the laptop on my thighs. The ten lines of the poem I chose get stuck in my throat each time I have to look up, which makes me realise this is going to take a lot more practice. I can’t afford to get choked up during our final assessment.

When I’m finished, Wren grabs my laptop then types something into it, before a wide grin spreads across his face.

‘I want your opinion,’ he says.

‘On what?’

‘Well, I’m writing this book, but I’m not sure whether I should kill off my main characters.’

This must be some sort of joke, I think. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say next though until Wren prompts me.

‘You say, “What type of book is it?”’

I tilt my head to the side and sigh. ‘Seriously?’

‘Just say it.’

‘Fine. What type of book is it?’

‘An autobiography.’

‘I don’t get…’ I start to say, but when it dawns on me, the joke isn’t even funny. What is funny is that Wren seems very amused, which makes me giggle. ‘That was so bad.’

He smiles. ‘Yeah, it was pretty bad wasn’t it? But it was worth it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I got to hear you laugh.’ The smile fades from his face, and he looks pained for a second before he clears his throat and rakes a hand through his hair, turning again to the front of the classroom.

‘Wren?’ I say, brushing my fingers over his arm.

‘Yeah?’ He stares at the connection of our skin, before his eyes meet mine again.

I open my mouth to say… something, anything. But nothing comes out, so I shake my head and face the front of the room, prying my hand from his arm. I’ve seen little glimpses of this version of Wren. Like at the clearing and then just before the fight last week.

When the bell rings, I place my laptop into my bag as Wren stands. I expect him to head for the door, but when he doesn’t, I glance up at him.

‘Are you coming?’ he says, throwing his bag over one shoulder as though this is our usual routine.

I nod.

He’s so close when I stand, his chest inches from my face, that I struggle to take a deep breath, my heart skipping a few beats. His throat bobs when he swallows, the muscles in his neck straining against his tan skin.

What would happen if I reached out and touched him there? Only a few days ago, I had my hands on him, his soft skin like velvet against my palms.

‘You good?’ he says, and it’s not lost on me he’s gripping the straps of his backpack, knuckles white.

‘Yep… just thinking of something I have to do.’

He grins. ‘Is that something me?’

And there he is. The other Wren has re-joined the conversation, which has me wondering why I thought he could be anything else for more than five minutes. I want to scream at him, but I squeeze my lips together so I don’t lose my shit in front of Mr Hughes.

Wren’s grin grows wider, and he leans down to my ear. ‘Bye, Matilda.’

I squeeze my eyes shut. That voice should not be attached to that face. Or that body. It’s just plain unfair.

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