The Last Entry

The project was due on Friday. They handed it in together, a neat stack of pages that Bea had written out because her handwriting was better and Daniel had illustrated because it turned out he could draw reasonably well despite the spider-bad-day handwriting.

Mr. Hassan looked at the cover page. "Nice work," he said, which from Mr. Hassan was effusive praise.

They walked out of the history room together. The corridor was busy with the end-of-day rush, people with bags and coats and the particular energy of a Friday afternoon.

"That was a good project," Daniel said.

"It was," Bea agreed.

"The food section was the best part."

"Obviously," Bea said.

He laughed. They had reached the place where the corridor split, one way to the buses and one way to the gates where people were picked up. Daniel went to the buses. Bea went to the gates.

"See you Monday," he said.

"See you Monday," she said.

He went one way. She went the other. She watched him go for exactly one second before looking away because one second was plausibly accidental and two seconds was obvious.

Chloe fell into step beside her approximately three seconds later, appearing from nowhere the way she always did when there was something to report on.

"Well?" Chloe said.

"We handed in the project," Bea said. "He said it was good. He noticed that I always sit up when the food section is mentioned."

Chloe stopped walking. Bea stopped too.

"He noticed that?" Chloe said.

"That is what I said."

"He has been watching you," Chloe said. "Specifically. With enough attention to notice small things."

"That is one interpretation," Bea said.

"That is the only interpretation," Chloe said. She grabbed Bea's arm. "Bea. He likes you."

"You do not know that."

"I ran into him on purpose on Thursday," Chloe said. "While I was getting the hot chocolates. And I might have, sort of, asked him whether he was enjoying working with you."

Bea stared at her. "Chloe."

"And he said yes and then his ears went pink," Chloe said, at speed, before Bea could form a protest. "His ears. Went. Pink."

Bea thought about this. She thought about the food section. The noticing. The ears.

"You are a proactive meddler," she said.

"I am your best friend," Chloe said. "It is my job."

They started walking again. The afternoon was cool and bright, the kind of Friday afternoon that felt like a reward for having got through the week.

"So what do you do now?" Chloe asked.

"Nothing dramatic," Bea said. "I talk to him on Monday. Like a normal person. And I see what happens."

"That is very sensible," Chloe said.

"I am a sensible person," Bea said. "I just occasionally say things are vertical."

"Everyone has their thing," Chloe said generously.

That evening Bea opened her maths notebook to the back cover and looked at the list. Entries one through seven, each one a small catastrophe preserved in ink.

She turned to a fresh page. At the top she wrote: Entry eight.

Then she wrote: He noticed I sit up during the food section. His ears went pink when Chloe asked about me.

Then she wrote: Maybe this is going to be okay.

She read entry eight one more time. Then she drew a small star next to it, the kind she used in her revision notes to mark the most important things.

She closed the notebook. Through her bedroom window the evening was soft and golden and the neighbour's cat was sitting on the wall outside looking at nothing in the particular way cats do when they are thinking important thoughts.

Bea thought that entry eight was, by a very large margin, the best thing on the list.

On Saturday morning Bea was eating cereal when her phone buzzed. It was a message from an unknown number that said: Hi it is Daniel. Chloe gave me your number. Hope that is okay.

Bea stared at the message for a long time.

Then she typed back: That is okay.

A minute passed. Then: I was thinking. If you want to keep working on history stuff after the project, there is an exhibition at the museum next week. About medieval daily life. You would probably sit up a lot.

Bea read this three times.

Then she typed: Are you asking me to go to a museum with you.

Three dots appeared. Then: Yes. If you want. No pressure.

Bea put her phone face down on the table and looked at her cereal. Her cereal looked back at her.

She picked the phone up. She typed: Yes. I want.

She sent it before she could think about it too much. Then she thought about it too much anyway, for approximately thirty seconds, until another message arrived.

It said: Great. Saturday? There is a cafe next to the museum that Chloe says is good. She may have been involved in this plan slightly.

Bea read this and thought about Chloe and her proactive meddling and her high opinion of her own judgement and how it turned out that Chloe's judgement was, in fact, excellent.

She typed back: Saturday is good. Tell Chloe she is still a meddler.

The reply came quickly: She says she knows and she is fine with it.

She opened her maths notebook. At the back, under entry eight with its small star, she wrote: Entry nine. He texted. He is taking me to a museum.

She looked at the list from entry one to entry nine. The good morning that became good moaning. The four pencils. The door frame. The bag that was a bag. The honk. Lunch is a time that exists. The vertical hair. His ears going pink. The museum.

She drew a star next to entry nine too. A big one. Then she went back and drew stars next to all of them, even entry one, even the honk.

They had all, in their own terrible way, gotten her here. The good moaning and the four pencils and the door frame and the vertical hair, every single catastrophe, a small step in a direction she had not known she was walking until she arrived.

***The End***