I Lost My Mobile At the Mall Read Free Page B

whether it's possible to make gerberas out of icing sugar and, even if you could, would they be suitable for a christening cake? All very important!
    Meanwhile, seven entire hours of a Saturday have gone by and I haven't spoken to Will. In this time Will could have rung to tell me he loves me and then, getting no answer, wondered if my declaration of love for him yesterday was just a whim. As if perhaps the fierce sun on the beach had made me dizzy. He'll take the silence of my phone as evidence that I didn't mean what I said, when, in fact, I have never meant anything more in my entire life.
    What is it about Will? Why do I love him? He doesn't say much. But then he doesn't have to. In fact, you can tell what Will is really like by the number of things he doesn't do, including:
Blah, blah, blah , on and on about sport. Paint his face blue to go to the football or stick a hollowed-out watermelon on his head to go to the cricket.
Repeat stupid jokes he read on the net or heard on breakfast radio.
Do bad impersonations of Jack Black, Mike Myers, Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler or any other Hollywood star.
Walk around with earphones stuck in his ears, humming out of tune and air drumming.
Sit for hours on end on the couch playing stupid video games.
Jump on you and lick your face to say 'hello'.
    You'd be right in thinking that only an immature dweeb would do any of this pathetic stuff. You'd also be right in wondering what kind of girl would have a boyfriend who did. Welcome to Bianca and Jai World.
    But before I get distracted by stupid Jai, here's more about wonderful Will. I might be utterly obsessed with hair (I don't know why, I just am) but no-one has hair like Will Phillips. In fact, if you stand on the steps of Oldcastle High and look across the quadrangle, it's easy to imagine the heads there as a kind of bumpy landscape. You see spiky peaks of black, then tangled bushes of brown, the odd coppery hill, and then your eye is taken by the sight of blond curls threaded with gold that glint in the sun. It's as if you were looking across the rocky, drab plains of Middle-earth to the shimmering Elven forest of Lothlórien.
    That's what I feel like when I stand underneath Will's arm – as if I am being sheltered by the golden bough of a golden tree in a golden wood and I am Arwen Evenstar. Sigh!
    Will looks like an elf or a water sprite or faerie boy. He is tall and slim and has long, elegant fingers. As I said, he doesn't say much, and doesn't have to, because he is deep.
    'It's kind of like I am totally connected to the universe when I'm out there in the ocean,' says Will. 'Every thing, every place, every person, just slips away and I'm just some random drop of, I dunno . . .'
    Can you believe he says amazing stuff like that? He plays guitar, watches surfing DVDs and picks up rubbish on the beach whenever we walk there together, because he really cares about Mother Earth. We sit on the sand and watch the moon come up over the ocean whenever we can. Just him and me . . . and a giant plastic bag full of old soft-drink cans and busted rubber thongs.
    I hope he does say that he loves me – even if I said it first and put him under pressure.
    Sometimes I ask Will if he thinks of me when he's out there surfing and loses his grip on reality.
    'Sure I do,' says Will. 'I use you as a marker to remember where my stuff is. You're my land anchor, Elly. You bring me back to earth.'
    So, there it is. I'm Will's bridge between nothingness and real life. Without me, he'd be swept out to sea. Sometimes he laughs and calls me his 'little leg rope'. You might think that's a rude thing to say, but no surfer ever goes out without their leg rope. With out that little length of rubber, their board would smash into the rocks or drift across endless oceans.
    I don't surf. I've tried a couple of times and I'm crap. Trying to keep up with Will would be needy and pathetic. I like to swim, but mostly I'd rather sit on the beach with a book.
    'What are you