The Personal and Private Notebook of Kevin Jones (Age 15 ½)

After a quick tea I set off into town by bus. Because I can never remember the name of the perfume, I secretly borrowed Sue’s bottle and stuffed it into my trouser pocket. Bad idea. The bus was crowded, so I had to stand. At one point I was wedged in between an overweight, middle-aged man and a woman carrying a load of shopping. We’d almost reached the shopping mall when, for some reason, the bus braked suddenly and the woman fell onto me, pushing me up against the fat guy. I felt the bottle move in my pocket and then an incredibly strong, flowery scent began filling the air. People around me were sniffing and looking puzzled. Then they began looking suspiciously at me. I turned bright red. When I got off the bus, I found that the bottle had got itself jammed in a hole in my pocket lining. All the perfume had sprayed out onto my trousers, leaving a disgusting-looking wet patch. Well, too bad, I went into “Scents of Wonder” anyway.

“Scents of Embarrassment” would be more like it! I never normally go into a place like this, and I was the only guy there, so I felt really conspicuous. Not to mention hot and flustered, standing by the counter trying to unjam the bottle. The shop assistant, who was wearing a rather revealing dress, saw me struggling with the bulge in my trousers, and she must have noticed the wet patch too. Smiling a wicked smile, she said (in a fake American accent), “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

Then she added (in her normal voice), “Sorry: I’m a fan of old films. Can I help you?” I nearly said, “yes, you can put your hand in here and help me get this thing out”, but I thought better of it.

How this embarrassing situation goes on, you’ll find out when you read the book!

This morning, we were back at the Sports City stadium, and we were up against the John Walton Academy. What a battle it was! The Walton defence was impressive. Early in the first half, Danny and I each managed a couple of well-placed shots I was convinced would go in, but the Walton goalie was on top form and made a great save each time. Then, after about half an hour, their striker slotted one past our goalkeeper, putting them 1-0 up, which is how the score stood at half-time.

We knew we had to find some extra attacking energy, so Mr Williams brought off Carlos (who wasn’t on top form today) and brought on Ajani instead to make a good attacking midfield partnership with Ekele. We pushed forward hard and, about midway through the second half, Mike sent a long looping cross into the box. Shane rose in the box and headed the ball home. The cheers from our supporters could have been heard a mile away! But the Waltons fought back and, with less than twenty minutes to go, they scored again thanks to a free kick from just outside the box. OMG!

I thought it was all over but, somehow, we got back into the game. In the dying minutes of regulation time, a corner kick landed in the Walton penalty area, and in the chaos the ball got deflected off a defender’s boot and went into the back of the net. Own goal! The score was 2-2, and we were headed into extra time.

By now, both teams were pretty knackered and neither team could break the deadlock. I was thinking, oh no, don’t let the match be decided on penalties! Then, in the last couple of minutes of extra time, Ajani was brought down by a late tackle from a Walton defender. It was clearly a foul, and the referee awarded us a penalty.

Danny stepped up to take it. He looked calm but he must have been feeling under such pressure! In the stands, the Oakwood supporters must have all been nervous wrecks. Anyway, there he was, facing a great goalkeeper who had made so many brilliant saves. We held our breath, then Danny ran up…

When I came down for breakfast, Mum was about to go out. She’d taken the morning off to get things done, starting with a load of washing that she’d just hung out to dry in the garden.

“Kevin,” she said, “I’ve got a dentist’s appointment at ten, and then I need to go shopping, but I’ll be back to make us some lunch. Maybe you could just peel the potatoes. And if you go out for a run, remember to lock the door, OK? See you later. Bye!” And off she set.

I had my bowl of muesli and then went to let Hammy out for his morning run around the conservatory. Shock! His cage door was half open. I can’t have closed it properly yesterday evening. The cage was empty and Hammy was nowhere to be seen. OMG! He must have escaped into the garden when Mum took the washing out! He could be anywhere by now – perhaps in the claws of a cat or the beak of a buzzard!

Feeling sick with worry, I went all round the garden calling him, but he didn’t appear. I asked both sets of next-door neighbours if they’d seen him, but they hadn’t. What was I going to do now? I’d better go to the pet shop and buy a new hamster. Then I would have to confess to Susan, and Mum and Dad. But not just yet: I couldn’t face the embarrassment, and I didn’t want to ruin Sue’s holiday.

I decided to go by bike, as it would be quicker than the buses, and I wanted to be back home before Mum to avoid the need for explanations. On websites they say hamsters cost about £20, so I took £25 from my pocket money. I supposed they would put the hamster in a container for me, so I took a shopping bag to carry it.

The shop did have a few hamsters but unfortunately none as cute as Hammy. I picked the one that looked least unlike him: it cost me £22.99. They put it in a cardboard box with airholes, and I set off again. It was a stressful ride home. The bike felt rather unstable, with the bag dangling from my handlebars and swinging to and fro every time the hamster scrambled about. The last thing I needed was to have an accident, so I was a nervous wreck by the time I arrived.

When I opened the box, the hamster jumped out and rushed around the conservatory like a mad thing. I eventually managed to corner it but, when I picked it up, it bit my thumb and made it bleed! The vicious beast! I chucked it into the empty cage, made sure the door was shut and then disinfected my thumb and put a sticking plaster on it. After that, I started on the potatoes. I’d just finished peeling them (with difficulty, given the sore thumb) when Mum arrived. She asked what I’d been up to. I told her I’d been out on my bike, which was true.

I was so tense I didn’t feel like eating, but I managed a few mouthfuls. Mum asked if everything was OK. I said I was worried about my Brexit project: I needed to get on and write the conclusions. Mum asked me if I wouldn’t mind bringing in the washing at about five, or half past, if it was dry. Then she left for her afternoon’s work.

I went to my room and tried to get on with the writing, but I was much too nervous to concentrate. After a while I gave up and went out for a run instead. That helped. So did a nice cup of tea when I got back.

At about half past five, I went out to fetch the dry clothes from the garden and when I came back into the conservatory I had the second shock of my day…

The thing is, I never know what to say to you. I try to follow your life online, but your posts are all in French and I only understand a few bits here and there. I depend on Susan to keep me abreast of what you’re up to. On social media, all I can bring myself to say to you is stuff like “Hi, hope you’re having a good day”. Or “I really like what you’re wearing in that photo”, or (if I’m feeling brave) “Been thinking about you today”.

What I really want to say, but haven’t the courage, is that I adore you. I’ve been head over heels in love with you ever since you and Philippe came to stay with us last summer. In fact, from the moment I first saw you. Of course, Susan had told me about you and that school exchange trip when you took her round Paris and you both had a great time and became close friends and everything. But I wasn’t prepared for actually meeting you. You are so… so unlike the girls round here. Well, the ones I know, anyway. You have that style, that French “chic”, and at the same time you’re not snobbish or stuck up. You’re soooo nice! And soooo beautiful with your dark hair and blue-green eyes. I was just blown away.

But you were already seventeen and mature and from sophisticated Paris. No way would you fancy me, the spotty kid just turned fifteen, living in boring old Middlinghurst. So I didn’t dare let my feelings show. I was afraid you’d laugh at me.

And yet… was there something in the way you smiled at me? Some extra meaning in the nice things you said about my music and my football? Could it be that you do have feelings for me, but you’re embarrassed to admit it, even to yourself, because you’re older than me? I have to know! I have got to find a way to show you who I am, deep down, and to really get to know you too. I need to see you again, Nicole, and to hear your voice. Not just on Susan’s phone but face to face. I’m going to try and persuade my parents to invite you and Philippe back here at half-term. I hope they say yes!