Love-shy by Lili Wilkinson

another school, and believed them. I hadn’t verified my sources. Nellie Bly would be disgusted with me.
    After I got over my initial disbelief, it started to make sense. He looked cool, sure. But it was all an elaborate smokescreen. That was how he got away with it. With his oversized headphones and floppy emo hair and tight black jeans, everyone just assumed he was aloof and cool. It was an utterly brilliant disguise.
    Except surely it could unravel at any moment. What did he do when those simpering blonde girls approached him? He was one of the most desirable boys at school . . . why wasn’t there a cluster of girls around him at all times? And if he did talk to them, and they realised how strange he was (because he must be strange if he was love-shy), how come they didn’t immediately run and tell everyone about it?
    It was such a puzzle.
    Also, why had he left his old school? Had something happened? Or was it just a moving-house thing?
    I’d be careful, this time. I didn’t want to spook my subject. I’d watch him closely first. Get to know him better before I confronted him. Although I felt as if I knew him well already, from reading his blog posts.
    This was so much more than an exercise in journalism. Reading PEZZ imist’s – Nick’s – posts had me convinced that he needed help, and that I was the one to help him. He was obviously a smart, sensitive guy, and all he wanted was to be loved. It seemed so unfair that he couldn’t have that. Especially since his looks certainly weren’t a barrier.
    Nick Rammage. I still couldn’t quite believe it.

    The weekend seemed to go on forever, yet I didn’t achieve anything. I went over every single post PEZZ imist had ever written, reading each word in a new light now I knew his true identity. I spent hours staring at my Biology textbook, or at a blank Word document that was supposed to become my Othello essay for English. Dad tried to get me to go out with him and Josh to see a new exhibition at the National Gallery, but I declined. Instead I did laps in the pool until I nearly passed out, the rushing of water in my ears and across my face reminding me of PEZZ imist’s dream about the bottom of the lake.
    What was wrong with me? Should a journalist become this involved in a story? Was I staying objective? Not that subjectivity was strictly forbidden in journalism. Tom Wolfe and Truman Capote and Hunter S Thompson and the other gonzo reporters and New Journalism people got involved in their stories all the time – and mine didn’t involve motorcycles, rubbing alcohol or nineteen different kinds of illegal drug. No, this was good. The deeper I got into this story, the better it would be, I was sure of it. I didn’t want to write a dispassionate, clinical analysis of love-shyness. I wanted to write a feature article that would make people laugh, cry and award me a Pulitzer Prize.

    Monday morning found me staring at my wardrobe, agonising over an outfit. What did you wear when you were secretly observing a very shy person? I didn’t want to stand out. Not that I ever did stand out – I was strictly a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of girl – but I felt that this morning’s sartorial choices required an extra level of consideration. And there was always the chance that Nick would notice me watching, and that I’d have to bring all my plans forward and interview him then and there. I didn’t want to be wearing anything that would spook or intimidate him. I needed to appear friendly and approachable, but not desirable , because that would make him anxious.
    What was I doing? Fussing over what to wear ? I was acting as if I were a typical hairspray-and-eyeliner girl, and I didn’t like it one bit. I needed to pull myself together and be professional. I threw on my usual: a comfortable pair of jeans, plainish T-shirt, and sensible sneakers. There. That’d do.
    I grabbed my notebook and left