Twenty-five Memories of Viggo MacDuff

Chapter 2

Two

Memory 1

“I don’t really know how to do it,” I admitted. “Tell the memories. I mean, a lot of it you know already.”

“Pretend I don’t. You’ll remember it differently, anyway.”

“Well, okay. This is what I remember …”

His hands were in the pockets of his ridiculously wrinkle-free chinos. He smelled of wholegrain bread and expensive aftershave. He was humming a song I vaguely recognised. From an ad on TV maybe.

“Dude, you’re such a girl,” Jed said, elbowing Viggo in the ribs. “What’s Connie going to think of my taste in friends when I introduce you and all you can do is hum fricking Mozart?”

Viggo shrugged. “Catherine was listening to it as I left the house.” He focused his bright green eyes on me. I felt dizzy. “Catherine is my sister,” he explained. “She has excellent taste in all things—fashion, art … but music especially. That piece, I think you’ll find, is widely regarded to be Mozart’s magnum opus.”

“‘That piece, I think you’ll find’ …” Jed mimicked. He rolled his eyes at me. “You hate my other best friend already, don’t you? You’re going to ditch us both and go and hang out with the überclones.”

I cringed. “Are you kidding me, Jeremiah? The überclones—”

As if saying their name had summoned them, Kacey Kuusela, Karen Wilson and Abigail Ward sauntered past us up the hallway, their skater skirts swishing as their hips swung from side to side. They stopped a few steps away from us, turned in perfect synchronisation, looked Viggo up and down, smiled and gave him three nauseating, fluttery-fingered waves.

I groaned inwardly. While Kacey and her fembot army had never been directly mean to me, they’d never been friendly, either. Why would they? I was a geek with no fashion sense. The fact that Kacey happened to be Em’s cousin—and that Em insisted she was lovely, once you got to know her—made no difference. I still didn’t exist in their world.

Luckily, I one hundred percent didn’t care.

Kacey Kuusela stepped forward. She held out a Shellac-ed hand to Viggo. “Kacey Kuusela,” she purred. “And you are …”

“Nice to meet you, Kacey,” Viggo said. “I’m Viggo MacDuff.” I glanced at his face. His smile was polite, but I could sense an undercurrent of amusement.

He shook Kacey’s hand officiously and then dropped it. Kacey looked down at her fingers in surprise. She was used to boys holding on that moment too long. This was a new experience.

“So, um, you’re new?” she fumbled. I couldn’t help grinning. I’d never seen Kacey Kuusela ruffled before. It was a tiny bit fun.

Viggo gave a small, slow nod in reply.

“Right, well, if you need anything …”

Kacey flashed another smile—the sort of smile that knocked boys dead. The sort of smile that broke them to smithereens.

The sort of smile that seemed to have no effect whatsoever on Viggo MacDuff.

Kacey’s killer grin faltered ever so slightly when she received only a polite nod in return. “Catch you soon, I hope,” she said.

She returned to the others. In unison, they turned on their heels and recommenced the strut towards their glittering futures.

“Well, that was an … experience.” Viggo laughed.

“You don’t think Kacey Kuusela is, like, bae AF, then?” Jed imitated Kacey’s hair flip with his long black curls.

“I knew a million girls like her in Sydney,” Viggo said, shrugging. “All surface. Nothing at all between the ears. And they think they’re the bee’s knees besides. Arrogant. I don’t have time for girls like that.”

“So you’re from Sydney?” I asked Viggo, flinching as I realised I was asking the same sort of redundant question Kacey had just spluttered at him. “I mean,” I added quickly, “Jeremiah said you came from ‘the wilderness’.”

Viggo laughed. “An in-joke,” he said. “I left Tasmania when I was ten. Before that we lived down in the Huon Valley, on a small acreage, passed down through the family for generations. It was a hobby farm more than anything, but we did have a goat named Francois-Rene! It may have been far from civilisation but the aspect was quite lovely and my father made many useful renovations to the property, such as a tennis court and a heated pool. Then my mother was headhunted by a big firm in Sydney. Father told Jed we were going to ‘the real jungle’ and our boy believed him. The first time he came to stay I think he got something of a shock.”

“I wanted tigers.” Jed pouted.

“What are you complaining about?” Viggo flicked him on the arm. “I showed you the animals. I took you to Westfield.”

Jed pressed a hand to his chest. “I bought my first Metallica CD at Sanity,” he sighed. “It changed my life. No zebras, though. Not even a meerkat.”

Viggo laughed. His eyes sparkled. I was dizzy.

Disoriented.

Done for.

Oh dear. This was not good. I couldn’t have a crush on Jed’s best friend. How awkward would that be? And, plus, just look at him.

Viggo MacDuff had immaculately gelled blond hair and spring-grass-green eyes, and chiselled cheekbones, and an actual, honest-to-Ben-Folds cleft in his chin. He had biceps that pressed against his designer shirt, and strong hands …

And he was almost literally pulsating with success.

I was not pulsating with success.

I was barely flickering with half-hearted meh.

Viggo MacDuff was so out of my league. He was an extraordinary gentleman. I was just … Connie.

There was no chance, no hope, no—

“Galactic Republic to Connie?” Jed said, waving a skull-ringed hand past my face. I blinked.

“Huh?”

“Viggo just asked you a question.”

My cheeks heated. How long had I been spacing out for? “Sorry,” I mumbled. “You were saying …”

“I wanted to know if you’d like to come with me to Ronaldo’s tonight?” he said, smiling dazzlingly. “Both of you. I heard the linguini there is sublime. I thought Jed and I could catch up on old times and I could get to know his other best friend a little bit better.”

“I’d love to,” I blurted, hoping Viggo couldn’t tell just how bunny-boiling much I really would.

What in the actual Ewok was wrong with me? Why was I going all gooey over this boy? All the boys I’d crushed on before were moody, hipster musos—all dreadlocks and fedoras and retro seventies’ blazers. Viggo was the complete opposite of that. So why did I feel as if I was about to keel over every time he fixed those emerald eyes on me?

“But Viggo, seriously, Ronaldo’s?” Jed laughed. “Connie and I are totes Wong’s Chinese people. You can go there in your pyjamas if you want to! And the number 23 is actually fricking heaven. Or, if you want to go somewhere without the slight risk of salmonella poisoning, how about we try out that new retro cafe instead? Connie’s been dying to go there.”

It was true. I had been looking for an excuse to try the new cafe in town. It was also true that I had no idea how to dress for a place where bedwear didn’t meet the dress code.

I looked at Viggo hopefully, but he just shook his head and said, “I’ve already made a reservation, anticipating your acceptance of my invitation. And I’m sure Constance would not dream of wearing anything like those …” he cleared his throat, “skating shoes to Ronaldo’s. I’m assuming there is an accepted attire at such an establishment. Collared shirts? Ties? Elegant formal dresses for the …” He paused and flicked his eyes my way. “Ladies?”

My face coloured again as I looked down at my Wilco tee-shirt and my Beezus-shredded jeans. Lady? Me? Hardly.

“I think a shirt might be in order,” Jed admitted. “What a pity. I was going to wear my new Wintersun tee. The one with the dead guy slumped against the tree. Shame. I’ll have to save that one for next time. And yeah. Might be an idea to pull those dresses out of the mothballs, Connie-girl. Hey! You could wear that Hello Kitty one. Or the one with the cherries.”

I winced, thinking of the op shop frocks that were the only ones I owned. “I don’t know if they’d meet the dress code either, Jed,” I said.

“Why?” He shook his head. “They’re awesome.”

Not awesome enough for Ronaldo’s. “I could borrow one from Em, I suppose,” I said. I looked at Viggo. “She’s my neighbour. She goes to the Catholic school. She wears dresses.”

Viggo smiled. “You’d look good in a dress.”

I swear my jaw hit the floor.

Was he …

He wasn’t …

There was no way …

Viggo MacDuff, The Most Gorgeous Boy Alive couldn’t actually be hitting on me.

Could he?

I stared at Viggo for what felt like an eternity. And Viggo stared right back, with those sparkly eyes.

And then …

“I broke the spell,” Jed says. “I remember. You two were going all goo-goo eyes at each other and it was making me want to throw up my cold pizza breakfast. So I said …”

“Constance does not look good in a dress.” I mimic Jed’s gravelly voice. “She’s got hairy legs like …”

“An exceptionally hirsute Wookie,” Jed moans, smacking his forehead. He looks at me sheepishly. “You know I was just being a Dalek.”

I grin. I’ve missed our shared habit of turning swear words into monsters from Doctor Who and Star Wars.

“I know, Jeremiah. You were worried Viggo and I would get together and leave you on the outer,” I say.

Jed shakes his head. “I was worried he’d break your heart.”

My grin slips. I laugh but it sounds bitter. “Well, that happened.”

“You know, Connie, you’re so much better—”

I hold up a hand. “You don’t get to talk about Viggo,” I say. “Remember? This is my time for talking.” Just then, my belly lets out a long, loud grumble. “Except enough talking for now. All I’ve had to eat today is twenty-five advent calendar chocolates.”

“But it’s Christmas …”

“Exactly,” I say. “So, you want to go to Wong’s?”