There is a fine line between enjoying your holiday and abandoning your only daughter/sister and it was quite clear to me, as I lay alone on a set of sun-loungers for the second day in a row, that my Dad and brother had crossed it.
To say the least, I was not happy.
I applied another layer of sun-tan lotion, swearing that I could already feel my skin burning. Whilst Kyle had been lucky enough to inherit my Dad’s ever-so-slightly tanned skin tone I was as pale as my Mum had been. If not paler. And that was difficult; my mum looked like she could be Edward Cullen’s mother.
I stretched ever so slightly; insanely self-conscious in the bikini I was lying in. I was actually quite happy with my body, years of sports had kept me thin and it wasn’t like there was nothing to look at in the chest department – there wasn’t a lot but there was definitely something – but I still wanted to cover myself with the lime green towel dad had brought with us (“It’ll make our sun-beds easier to spot Nell!”), run off and change.
That wasn’t an option though; I needed to go a slightly darker shade of pale if for no other reason than to prove that I had actually been on holiday.
My I-Pod battery had died this morning (Damn Kyle for dropping it on the floor causing it to no longer display when I had low battery) and so I was bored despite it only being half-ten in the morning. I couldn’t go back to the room to charge it though, I was conscious that the rest of the stuff may be stolen – what? I’m a paranoid person – and I definitely did not want to haul it up all those flights of stairs with me. That was not going to happen.
For some reason I was thrilled to see Dad approaching from wherever he’d retreated to earlier. Finally, I would have some company. I may not have liked to socialise but that didn’t mean that I liked to be alone.
“Are you having a good time Nell?”
From the smile on my dad’s face I knew that it might as well be a crime to tell him that I actually wasn’t having fun, and that I was – in fact – bored out of my mind.
“Yep.” I tried to smile back at him.
We sat in a comfortable silence for a few more moments before he decided that he needed to continue the conversation – I didn’t personally think it was necessary but you tell my dad that.
“The mini-golf course here is really good.” He explained, “I think you’d like it.”
I bit my tongue, stopping myself from telling Dad that I hadn’t played mini-golf since Lauren Hepworth’s birthday party when I was eleven. The same birthday part where Jasmine Owen got travel sick and threw up all over the girl sitting next to her (who just so happened to be me), instead I made a noise that didn’t confirm or deny that I would play mini-golf during the trip and turned back to the magazine in front of me (which I’d already read five times but so what?).
Dad was about to tell me something else when he was interrupted by several of the entertainment staff – or at least that was what they’re T-shirts said they were – heading towards us.
They greeted us with a high-five, something which Dad was evidently uncomfortable with (I don’t think he’d ever high-fived anyone before in his life, like ever).
“You want to play volleyball?” They asked, looking in my direction.
The answer – at least for me – was a simple no for a number of reasons.
1) I did not want to spend my holiday getting sweaty playing volleyball in the scorching sun.
2) I did not want to play volleyball with a group of people who would no doubt be thirteen year old boys just trying to look at my boobs when I jumped for the ball
3) And most importantly I hadn’t played volleyball since the accident with Mum and I didn’t plan to. It had always been the sport she’d pushed me towards and without her here I didn’t see any need to play anymore.
Again, Dad had other ideas.
“Oh, Eleanor loves volleyball.”
I mentally tried to convey a message to him that he should not be sharing this information and that I would be considering seriously hurting him later – father or not he had overstepped the mark – but Dad didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“Come play with us on the beach then!” The entertainment staff were relentless in their recruitment and Dad’s encouragement was not helping.
I looked at Dad, pleading with him to let me off. To help me come up with some excuse.
He replied to the look with a pleading expression and mouthed ‘For Me’. Damn this guy knew how to guilt trip me.
I had to admit that the idea of getting up off of the sun-bed was appealing (my legs were starting to go numb) but that didn’t make the prospect of playing volleyball, with people who had probably never played it before, any more appealing.
“Fine.” I sighed, trying to make it as obvious as possible to my dad – and the two entertainment staff whose expressions had become even more enthusiastic, if that was even possible – that I was not entirely happy with this decision and that not only would I only be participating half-heartedly, I would also be complaining about this to my dad for the rest of the holiday.
Dad just shook his head, trying to hold back a small smile and ushered me on my way.
“I’ll look after all the stuff, don’t worry. And Nell,” I turned to look at him at the sound of my voice, “Have fun sweetie.”
I followed the entertainment staff with a feeling of utter terror. I could think of very few things that this was better than doing. The list included things such as swapping saliva with Harvey Malham – again – and having Kyle style my hair – again.
We picked up several other ‘teens’ on the way, ranging from thirteen year old boys and girls who looked like they might actually enjoy this and kids more around my age who looked like they would rather be doing anything else. It was nice to know that what I was feeling was mutual.
It turned out that more people were going to show up once we arrived at the courts. Apparently another set of entertainment staff had been sent to scour the beach for willing teenagers and were taking longer than anticipated. And so I settled on a wall that ran alongside the court and waited patiently for the torture to begin.
Today could not get any worse.
“Let me guess. Portuguese?” A thick Australian accent asked from the other side of me shaking me from my thoughts.
I let out a sarcastic laugh, with my pale skin and freckles there is no way I am Portuguese and the boy knew it. He held back a laugh of his own – a laugh that was no doubt at my expense – and grinned, miniature dimples appearing in his cheeks.
Okay, so maybe this boy was kind of attractive.
He had short(ish) curly light brown hair with – presumably natural – blonde streaks running through it. His blue eyes completed the ensemble and, if at that moment I didn’t watch him fall of the wall for no reason, I might have thought he had the ability to surf.
“I’m Fletcher.” He told me, “You can call me Fletch.”
“Eleanor.” I replied, “Some people call me Nell. You are not one of those people.”
The boy – Fletcher – feigned feeling hurt causing me to hold back a grin of my own. He appeared to be an idiot, a cute idiot. Those were stupid thoughts to be thinking I reminded myself, for one I was on holiday and the last thing I needed right now was a holiday romance that obviously was never going to last and secondly, Fletcher didn’t exactly seem like the type of guy I usually went for.
That is I usually went for the hot, muscled, popular guys. Fletcher was lanky and he was, to put it simply, a dork. I could tell that already.
“Well aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.” He teased, those stupid, stupid dimples appearing once again, “You know if I wasn’t in such desperate need for a friend then I’d probably walk away from you right now.”
“And that would be a bad thing because...?”
“Your words hurt. And yet I see the real you, the true you, the kind you, underneath and so I will persist in my valiant efforts.” Fletcher promised.
I looked over at him, was he for real?
Never before had I met a teenage boy who used the words persist and valiant in normal conversation, especially not when they were talking to a girl. Now Fletcher wasn’t necessarily trying to impress me, but if he was then he was doing a terrible job of it.
“Well, you’ll have to give up eventually.” I said and it was true. I was never, ever going to take this guy seriously, and I was leaving in twelve days anyway.
“You have such little faith.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
“They why did you...?”
Before I was forced to explain to Fletcher that I found him insanely irritating and so was trying to confuse him on purpose, the entertainment staff – who later introduced themselves as Deko, Freddie and K2 (you don’t even want to know) – gathered us all around to discuss the rules of volleyball.
Having played volleyball since I was young I tuned out of the conversation, instead searching for the fourth entertainment team member who – I presumed – had disappeared off to recruit people for yet another pointless activity.
“Hey Nell.” Fletcher’s voice was close to my ear and his breath warm on the side of my neck.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“I know.”
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice sharp.
This boy had somehow gained the ability to annoy me already. I wasn’t exactly the most patient person but nobody usually infuriated me this much.
“How come you’re not listening to the rules?”
“I am.”
“No you’re not. You’re gazing off into the distance, it’s kind of cliché actually.” Fletcher pointed out. I resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. (See Headmistress Jones I do have some self-control).
“Whatever. Why aren’t you listening to the rules?” I retorted.
“Who says I’m not?”
“You’re talking to me; you can’t be listening to the rules.” I reminded him.
“You’re right.” Fletcher agreed, “You’re obviously a terrible influence on me. My parents won’t be impressed with my new choice of friend.”
It took me a second too long to realise what Fletcher had just called me.
“I’m not your friend.” I hissed, we were starting to garner strange looks from the other members of our group.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“I’ve known you for all of about five minutes.”
Fletcher glanced at his watch.
“It’s more like eight minutes actually.” Fletcher told me innocently and I wondered if he was this annoying with everybody or if he reserved it for girls he’d only know for eight minutes.
“Still not long enough to be friends.”
“Are you saying you’d be friends with me if you’d known me for longer?” Fletcher didn’t wait for an answer, “Awh, Nelly I feel honoured.”
“Okay first don’t call me Nelly, you’re not even allowed to call me Nell and secondly we’re not friends, I don’t even want to talk to you!”
“So why are you then?” Fletcher asked, another of those stupid – dimpled – grins on his face.
I ignored his question because the answer was a simple ‘I don’t know’ and tried to focus on the rules that were being relayed (maybe they were different in the Cape Verde Islands) and desperately trying not to sneak glances at the boy standing next to me.
We were at the back of the ‘huddle’ (it was really just a group of people stood around the ‘coaches’) and I had to strain to hear what they were saying.
I could see Fletcher grinning out of the corner of my eye – it was if he knew I was looking at him – pretending to be immersed in whatever the dude was saying (so okay, maybe I wasn’t listening very well after all) and occasionally nodding his head in understanding as if he was actually paying attention (which I totally don’t think he was because nobody was really).
Eventually the huddle was dispersed and we were sent to our positions. That was when they realised they’d forgotten to grab a ball – which even someone who has never played volleyball before knows is key, the clue is kind of in the name after all – and we were told to chat amongst ourselves whilst we waited.
I closed my eyes, knowing – somehow – that Fletcher would be over any moment.
“Hey Nell.”
I was proved correct yet again.
“What do you want?” My tone was indeed harsh but I refused to apologise, why was this boy bothering me?
“Do you want to get a drink with me after the game?”
I turned to look at Fletcher in shock, I mean, I’d basically told him I didn’t like him and he’d decided to ask me if I wanted to go for a drink. Who was this boy and why did he have no idea of how to behave in social situations?
“I’m not legally allowed to drink so no.” I said the first thing that came to mind. And it was true, I was under eighteen.
“I was more thinking a drink of the coca-cola, sprite or Fanta kind of variety.”
Well now I felt like an idiot, and now it felt even more awkward to tell Fletcher no.
But did I really want to say no?
The truth was if I turned him down I’d just be heading back to the sun-beds to sit on my own and stare intently at the same page of a magazine for five minutes. The other option was to go for a drink with an annoying – yet admittedly attractive – boy.
I decided to go for the lesser of two evils.
“Sure, why not?”
Fletcher seemed surprised by my response and to be fair to him he had good reason to be. But he managed to hide his shock well and showed me another one of those – insanely cute – grins and turned away, already heading towards some other boy he had obviously made friends with.
I just shook my head. That boy was more confusing than trigonometry, and that was saying something.
-------------------------------
“Eleanor!”
After five minutes of me standing by myself – why was it taking them so long to find a damn ball? – Fletcher called me over to where he appeared to be presiding over a group of teenagers around my age, and, I supposed, Fletcher’s age.
“Everybody, this is Eleanor.” Fletcher introduced with the same enthusiasm I had come to associate with holiday reps “But don’t call her Nell.”
The last bit was said in a mock whisper and yet again I resisted the urge to hurt Fletcher in some way or another.
“Eleanor this is everybody else that is cool enough to play volleyball. That’s Leah, Paul and Carrie-Anne.”
Fletcher gestured at each person in turn. Leah was pretty brunette with boobs that I would consider dying for, Paul possibly the geekiest boy I had ever seen with greasy hair, glasses and suspenders (yes he was wearing suspenders on holiday in this heat) and lastly but not least I turned to look at Carrie-Anne – which can I just say is such a made up name – she had a head of ginger curls (the good kind that I was insanely jealous of) and if I’d have killed for Leah’s boobs then I don’t know what I’d do for Carrie-Anne’s entire body. I’d never had a problem with being skinny before but looking at her curves I’d give anything to be able to put on a bit of weight.
It appeared that I was staring as Fletcher quickly cleared his throat and looked at me as if I was insane.
“Nice to meet you.” I muttered (pleasantries had never exactly been ‘my thing’) and offered a small smile around the group.
Leah returned it with a smile of her own, Paul smiled – it was more like a grimace – and tried to hide his blush and Carrie-Anne returned it with a smirk.
Well I didn’t like her.
“Are we all ready to boss this game of volleyball?” He shouted and I looked around hoping not to gain too much attention. No such look.
Fletcher’s question was greeted with a chorus of mumbled ‘hell yeah’s from the group and he looked at us disappointed.
“Seriously guys, you couldn’t sound at all enthusiastic.”
“It’s volleyball Fletch.” Carrie-Anne pointed out, inspecting her nails, “Nobody likes volleyball.”
Fletcher looked kind of hurt and for some reason I felt the need to rush to his defence.
“I like volleyball.”
“Please,” Carrie-Anne replied, “You probably have such bad hand-eye co-ordination that you’ll end up hitting someone from the opposing team in the face rather than the ball.”
I snorted, suddenly feeling a lot more determined to actually play netball.
“Are you some sort of professional or something?” I asked, “Or do you just like assuming that other people are going to be crap?”
Just as ‘the bitch’ ( as she will be known from now on) was about to reply, Fletcher slung his arm round my shoulder – a position I was not entirely happy with, I mean I’d agreed on drinks not touching – and lead me away from the group.
“You don’t like Carrie then?”
“The film or the bitch we just talked to?” I replied.
“The ‘bitch we just talked to’.” Fletcher’s reply was completed with little air quote signs.
“Does anybody actually like her?”
“She’s actually not that bad.”
I stared at Fletcher in shock, about to ask him if he could actually see and hear or if – for some unknown reason – he was ashamed of wearing glasses and his ears hadn’t quite popped yet.
I didn’t have a chance too.
“I got it!” Freddie ran back onto the court with a ball in hand, “Let’s get this game started!”
Oh what joy.
xxx
So I'm back with Chapter 2 (I know, already!) and please tell me what you think of the story so far. Personally I kind of love Fletcher and I'm not entirely sure why, he just seems to write himself. I also hate Carrie, but that might just be me.
Please vote, comment, follow and reccomend to others.
This chapter is dedicated to isabelw54 becasue that girl has already added the book to her library becasue she's awesome and she needs to write 'The Art of Living DAngerously' before I hit her.