Super Awkward by Beth Garrod

much I got relegated out of both the friend AND casual-acquaintance zone. I don’t even have his last name.
    I pulled Jo’s red top out of my bag and stuck it under my nose. I’d stashed it for the journey, just in case it had any of Zac’s smell left in it from his jacket. I might not have his name, or any way of speaking to him
ever
again, but I
do
have a fifty per cent acrylic top that kind of smells a bit of him if I try and block out my sweat.
    MMMM. Zac. If I was less selfish, I should probably let a museum know, so they could pickle him and exhibit him for all to see.
    As I inhaled, Jo reached around the headrest and grabbed it out of my hands.
    â€œI’ll be having that.”
    She has no respect for priceless artefacts. Heartifacts.
    â€œOi, it’s mine . . . Sort of.”
    Her annoying face reflected back at me in the mirror.
    â€œIf by
yours
, you mean
mine
, then yes it is.”
    Mum cleared her throat. The signal she’s about to say something mum-y. She was fed up of us arguing all morning.
    â€œYou
do
need to be bit more careful of your sister’s things, Bella. I heard what happened to her shoe last night.”
    No, Mother, you heard a Zac-less version of what happened to that shoe last night. Still, I was in no hurry for Jo to tell her the full Bella-met-a-boy-she-likes-and-so-you’ll-ask-over-one-million-questions story. But I figured there was no way she was going to risk a retaliation blab about her semi-losing me.
    â€œYou’re going to have to put some money towards a new pair, you know?”
    I grunted. Luckily they didn’t know the shoe was actually priceless. A foot-shaped cupid’s arrow, without which I would never have met/maimed Zac. I’d happily sell my left arm to be with him right now – in fact, I’d give it away for free. Although I’m not sure who’d want a spare left arm, especially as it can’t throw anything beyond 3.5 metres. It even disappoints our dog, Mumbles.
    Zac
will
see that our caravan had been packed up and we’ve left, won’t he? I
should
have left a note. Even if it only said, ‘Sorry for saying wix.’
    I think I might actually love him.
    But what does it matter. I’m never going to see him again. I should try and put myself off him to make this thought more bearable.
    I did the ‘think about him having a poo’ trick. But picturing his scruffy morning-hair in combo with a loose white T-shirt that he’d probably slept in just made me fancy him more. PJ-upped Zac = hotness, poo or no poo.
    What about the LOVE test? I got my phone out and typed in what I had of our names. ‘Bella Fisher LOVES Zac’. I counted up the letters. Forty-six per cent. But if I knew his last name I’m
sure
it’d rocket up into the nineties. Especially if it’s Voles. Bella Voles – that works for me.
    Although hang on. There was
one
thing I knew about him.
    Over a dodgy motorway phone signal, I downloaded
PSSSST
. But my heart immediately sank as I realized you could only get a live feed of posts. There was no way to search for what he’d shown me yesterday. Another Zac dead-end.
    But as I went to delete it, I paused. Maybe, just maybe, if I read it every day I
might
see one of Zac’s posts. Recognize his mum stories. Be able to send him a direct message? Eurgh, it would be like trying to find a camouflaged needle in an anonymous haystack, but any chance was better than no chance.
    I punched in my details and up popped the anonymous name it generated for me – PruneFlapper. It sounded like the kind of job I’d end up in. Next it suggested a random list of people to follow. If
only
I’d got Zac’s username. I clicked away and soon anonymous secrets started to scroll past. But as I started to read them, a message filled up the screen: ‘
Don’t just stare, you gotta share!’
Ew – I can’t just laugh at other people’s