Notes

I think he is a goat.

He must be- can you not see the long, long face, and the pale blue eyes, and the small fuzz at the end of his pointy chin? He must be a goat. He twitches from time to time, fervently taking down notes in his book, every now and then hand swinging in the air, reaching for the ceiling.

I am going to ask him out.

My name is Lou, and I'm named after a toilet. My parents could have called me Kitchen, or Living Room, or even Bedroom, but no. I'm Toilet. My dad's called John, so I guess it fits. Do I look like a toilet? Am I white-blue, with a hint of minty-freshness? Do I have custom made seats, fluffy with pink bits and the occasional tear? Maybe.

I can see his hand. It's twitching in the air now. He is called Buddy Bryson. Actually, I call him O God Please Say Yes. He's actually called Bryson Smith, but I call him O God Please Say Yes, except when I call him Buddy Bryson.

Confused yet? You should be.

I check my reflection in my shoes, fixing my hair so that it does not look so lanky, mousey-brown and rat-like. I pout my lips in an attempt to look feminine and vulnerable, yet controlling and possessed. I look like a fish.

I have to pass him a note. Perhaps I can write a note so funny that he will look at it and sweep me up into his arms and whisk me off forever to live with him in magical faerie-land. Then we will have three children (a girl for me, a boy for him, and one for good luck) who will play forever in magical faerie-land with all their faerie friends, and I will never age and everything will be sooo perfect for ever and ever and ever. And we will have a goldfish that never ever has mould on it like mine does.

No more algebra for me. Mrs. Fraser, do you really think that I give a flying pig about what x and y and xy equal? Do you honestly believe in your heart of hearts that anyone cares? I know you don't.

You dream, and you believe that if you give out enough detentions a day then Brad Pitt will come and rescue you from algebra hell, and beautiful Jennifer Aniston will become second fiddle to you. You genuinely believe that someone as ugly as you could pull Brad? I am fifteen, and I spend six hours a day shopping for clothes and make-up, 10 hours putting it on, and I still can't pull. You're fifty-five, wear sweater-vests, and drive a 1967 Volvo. Aren't you married? Why?

I scribble my note on a piece of my math book.

Hey Bryson! I have an extra ticket for the Game tomorrow night. Can u come?

I put an auspiciously large yes tick box, and a significantly smaller no tick box. I'm hoping that it will get the message across.

To tell "u" the truth, I have absolutely no interest in Games whatsoever. It is a thing which does not interest me in the slightest degree. In fact, you could say that I am 100% not interested, or, 0% interested. Or, you could say that I could not be less interested, because I am 100% not interested, and therefore cannot be less interested than I can be now.

But then again, O God Please Say Yes is much more important than any sort of desire of my own. Except for the one where I won't digress. I know he is totally into basketball, so I got a couple of tickets (front row!) for all of my life savings. No, it is not desperate. I know that I'm not because I'm not desperate when I am speaking to him; I am cool, aloof and unreachable although completely desirable.

Completely.

I sweetly and adeptly pass the note across to his desk, whilst giving a flirty wink that made him go weak at the knees, although he didn't show it. He ticks in the yes box and kisses me, making me melt slowly into him, before clutching at his firm chest, him gently holding me, making the rest of the class wolf-whistle and cheer.

"Miss Brewster! I asked you to factorise x3+69-y."

Mrs. Frasty-Pasty, do you think I really want to be here, slaving away at factorisation when I could be doing something more interesting and time- consuming? You are getting in the way of my hapless day-dreaming and lazing around time very efficiently. Please desist.

"Miss Brewster? Miss Brewster!"

Very well, I have no choice but to amplify my psychic message. I. Don't. Care.

"Excuse me Miss Brewster; kindly answer my question, now!"

I am sending this message to you so hard that it strains my brain and I clearly show it because the world has gone a faint blue-grey colour.

"Excuse me, Miss Brewster- are you constipated?"

Oh no.

O God Please Say Yes heard it. And so did the rest of the class.

I can hear laughter. Laughter at me? Mockery, that brings me to