“I headed a ball into Hawtrey’s office.”
“Cool!” said Lisa, laughing.
Dennis laughed a little too. She obviously assumed that he had headed the ball into the headmaster’s office on purpose and he wasn’t about to correct her.
“What about you?” asked Dennis.
“I wasn’t ‘wearing the correct school uniform’. This time Hawtrey said my skirt was too short.”
Dennis looked down at Lisa’s skirt. It was quite short.
“I don’t care really,” she continued. “I’d rather wear what I want and get the odd detention now and again.”
“Sorry,” interrupted Miss Windsor. “There’s not really meant to be any talking in detention.”
Miss Windsor was one of the nice teachers who didn’t really enjoy telling pupils off. She would usually say “excuse me” or “sorry” before she did. She was probably in her late forties. Miss Windsor didn’t wear a wedding ring or seem to have any kids. She liked to exude a little French sophistication, throwing colourful silk scarves over her shoulder with mock nonchalance, and devouring four-packs of croissants from the Tesco Metro at breaktime.
“Sorry, Miss Windsor,” said Lisa.
Dennis and Lisa smiled at each other. Dennis got back to his lines.
I must not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
I must not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
I must not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
He looked over at what Lisa was doing. Instead of her lines, she was idly sketching some dress designs. A ball-gown with a plunging back looked like it wouldn’t be out of place in Vogue. She turned over the page and started sketching a strapless top and pencil skirt. Next to that she drew a long flowing white suit that went in and out in all the right places. Lisa clearly had a real flair for fashion.
“Excuse me,” said Miss Windsor. “But you should really concentrate on your own work, Dennis.”
“Sorry, Miss,” said Dennis. He started his lines again.
I must not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
I must not header vogue into the headmaster’s window.
I must not read vogue into the headmaster’s…
Dennis sighed and rubbed out the last few lines. He was getting distracted.
After about forty-five minutes, Miss Windsor looked at her watch anxiously and addressed the class of two.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but would either of you mind if we finished this detention fifteen minutes early? Only I would quite like to get home in time for Neighbours. Lassiter’s coffee shop is re-opening today after the dramatic fire.”
“No problem, Miss,” said Lisa smiling. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone!”
“Thank you,” said Miss Windsor, confused for a moment that somehow the roles had been reversed, and it was Dennis and Lisa who were letting her off.
“Do you wanna walk me home, Dennis?” asked Lisa.
“What?” said Dennis, in a panic.
“I said, ‘do you want to walk me home?’”
“Um, yeah, OK,” said Dennis, trying to sound cool.
Dennis felt like a celebrity as he walked down the road with Lisa. He walked slowly so he could be with her for as long as possible.
“I couldn’t help noticing your drawings. Those dress designs. They’re brilliant,” said Dennis.
“Oh thanks. They were nothing really, I was just doodling.”
“And I love the way you look.”
“Thank you,” replied Lisa, trying not to laugh.
“I mean dress,” Dennis corrected himself. “Dress, I love the way you dress.”
“Thanks,” said Lisa, smiling again. She looked so unutterably gorgeous when she smiled that Dennis could barely look at her. Instead he looked down at her shoes, noticing they were round-toed.
“Beautiful shoes,” he offered.
“Well, thank you for noticing.”
“Apparently round-toed shoes are in this year. Pointy-toed are out.”
“Where did you read that?”
“Vogue. I mean…”
“You read Vogue?”
Dennis caught his breath. What had he said? In all the excitement of being with Lisa his tongue was running away with itself.
“Um… no… erm… well, yeah, once.”
“I think that’s cool.”
“You do?” asked Dennis, incredulous.
“Yeah. Not nearly enough boys are into fashion.”
“I suppose not…” Dennis said. He wasn’t sure if he was into fashion, or just liked looking at pictures of pretty dresses, but he chose not to mention it.
“Do you have a favourite designer?” Lisa asked.
Dennis wasn’t sure if he did, but he remembered really liking one of the dresses in the magazine, a cream floor-length ball-gown, designed by John Gally something.
“John Gally something,” he said.
“John Galliano? Yeah, he’s amazing. A legend. He designs all the pieces for Dior too.”
Dennis loved that she said “pieces”. That was the word they’d used in Vogue for items of clothes.
“Well, this is my house. Thanks, Dennis. Bye,” said Lisa. Dennis’s heart sank a little that their walk was already over. She went to go towards the front door, then stopped for a moment. “You could come over at the weekend if you like,” she said. “I’ve got loads of great fashion magazines I could show you. I really want to be a designer or a stylist or something when I’m older.”
“Well, you are very stylish,” said Dennis. He meant it sincerely, but somehow it sounded cheesy.
“Thank you,” said Lisa.
She knew she was.
Everyone knew she was.
“It’s Saturday tomorrow. Is eleven o’clock any good for you?”
“Er… I think so,” said Dennis. As if any event in his past or future could prevent him from being at her house at eleven.
“See you then,” she said, as she gave him a smile and passed out of view.
And just like that, Dennis’s world went back to normal again, like when the lights go on in the cinema at the end of a film.
At 10:59am Dennis was waiting outside Lisa’s house. She had said eleven o’clock, but he didn’t want to seem too keen. So he waited for his watch to count the seconds until eleven.
54.
55.
56.
57.