The Hanahaki Club: Episode 24
Episode 24: What Type?
So far…
After their trip to Spytton Caves, Sam and Remi have a debrief on the first stage of the ‘exposure therapy’ experiment.
Episode 24: What Type?
Remi
It turned out that the combination of the cutting January wind, the steep climb back up the cliff face, and being in close proximity to her crush for an entire afternoon was not good for Remi’s lungs. As soon as she got back home, she hacked up a clump of blackened petals that had been threatening to spill out of her upper respiratory tract the entire car journey home, and then she’d crawled into bed and slept for an hour. She was woken from a slightly feverish slumber by her mother, who brought her dinner in bed and a lengthy lecture on more the productive uses of her time.
Now, Remi was sitting in bed with her laptop in front of her and the current budget for the Spring Festival on the screen. She was supposed to be working out how best to allocate the funds, but instead she was thinking about the greater horseshoe bat. She was thinking about how it was apparently the size of a pear, liked to hibernate in caves over the winter and was classified as a rare protected species, with an estimated population of less than 13,000. She was thinking about how it had a horseshoe-shaped nose, a lifespan of about thirty years, and made Gio’s eyes light up when he talked about how the Spytton Caves were basically a speed-dating site for the species.
Bats at a speed-dating event was now an image Remi couldn’t get out of her head.
She wished she was a bat: they could fly, had built-in sonar, didn’t get hanahaki and only had to rock up to a nice damp cave to find requited love.
If she were a bat Gio might actually take an interest in her.
Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m jealous of a bat.
Thankfully, at the moment of this revelation, Remi’s phone vibrated with a message.
Sam: Today, 20:02pm—So…?
Today, 20:02—How was today?
Replying to Sam: Today, 20:03pm—Your plan sucks.
Remi chucked her phone on her spare pillow and turned to the laptop again. Right. Budget, not bats. Budget, not bats.
A few seconds later, her phone rang and she reached for it wearily and answered with a dry: “Yes?”
“My plan does not suck.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Your not giving it a chance. It’s exposure therapy… it’s going to take more than one hang-out to be effective, the clue is in the name—I thought you were supposed to be smart?”
Remi glared at the spreadsheet on the screen in front of her. “Listen, genius, have you ever considered that your plan might actually make things worse?”
Sam made a soft ‘hmm’ sound, and Remi could practically hear his dismissive shrug on the other end of the line. “Of course that’s a risk,” he said. “But have you considered that there is third potential outcome to this plan?”
“Is it that I murder you in a staged accident at Spytton Caves?”
There was a thoughtful pause before Sam replied: “You could probably get away with that. But, no, Head Girl—I’m talking about the fact that, as you get to know Gio better, he’s also getting to know you better, and, you never know, your love might not end up being so unrequited after all.”
Remi’s heart thudded hard like it had taken a misstep descending a staircase, and it took her a second to find her voice so she could reply. “Don’t be dumb,” she said, hoping she sounded more nonchalant than she felt. “I’m not Gio’s type.”
Sam scoffed. “Gio’s type? I told you before, I don’t think Gio even knows what his ‘type’ is—and all that stuff is bullshit anyway.”
“What’s bullshit?”
“The whole ‘I have a type’ thing. It’s just an excuse people use to cover up how shallow they are,” Sam replied. There came a muffled sound on the other end of the line, as if he was moving around, and then a clinking noise. “Think about it, everyone’s type is always so generic: tall, good-looking, smart, funny and talented in some specific area. But what’s so special about any of those things? Very few real people fit that description. When people talk about their type, they’re really trying to say something about themselves—they want a partner who will make them appear to be all those wonderful things.”
“Wow. I thought I was cynical, but you really take it to a whole other level.”
Sam sniggered and there came more sounds like someone opening and shutting cupboards. “I’m just pointing out the ugly truth, Head Girl. No one ever says their type is average, unremarkable, boring, plain and kind of dumb, and yet that’s exactly the kind of person most of us will end up with, because it precisely describes most human beings.”
Remi clicked her tongue in disagreement. “Did someone crush your heart when you were in primary school?” she asked. “Or were you born a sociopath?”
Sam laughed and Remi could tell from the echo that he’d put her on speakerphone. “Come on, you’re supposed to be smart—how many people end up with the tall, dark, handsome guy they claim is their type, and how many actually end up marrying the guy next door, who has crooked teeth, is slightly overweight and is really into… I don’t know… sheep shearing or something?”
There came the sound of a drawer closing and a click that sounded like a plug connecting to a socket.
Remi shifted her laptop off her lap and leant back against her pillow as she folded one arm across her chest. “So you’re claiming you don’t have a type?” she challenged sceptically.
“Of course I don’t. I’m not interested in dating.”
“What do you mean? You’ve never had a crush?”
“Not really. I don’t see why everyone is so keen to partner up all the time. I doubt I’ll ever date.”
“Are you serious?”
Sam laughed again. “Yeah.” There came more echoey noises on the line. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against the idea completely, I just don’t particularly care to go out of my way to hunt down some imaginary perfect life-partner—I don’t see how that’s supposed to make me any happier than I am already. I can’t say I’ve ever looked at another person and thought ‘I’ve got to have them for myself’.”
More shuffling, scraping, clunking noises.
Remi frowned to herself. “Well, it’s still early days, you know,” she offered, “Maybe one day you will meet someone who makes you feel that way.” Another clunk. “Maybe more than one person. Maybe—” A clatter. “You just haven’t met your—” A repeated scraping sound. “Type yet—What the hell are you doing right now?”
“Making dessert.”
“What?”
“Soufflé, to be exact.”
Remi glanced at the clock in the corner of the laptop screen. “You’re making a soufflé? From scratch?
“Yup.”
“At this time in the evening?”
“Yeah, it’s barely past eight, plenty of time.”
Remi paused for a second and then gave in to her curiosity. “What type of soufflé?”
“Chocolate and pistachio.”
Milk chocolate or dark chocolate?—Remi wanted to ask. Do you have proper ramekin dishes? Have you made sure the eggs are room temperature?
Instead she asked: “Is this something you do every evening?”
“Not every evening. And not always soufflé. Just depends on what I fancy trying.”
Huh. That was interesting. And unexpected.
“I didn’t know you baked.”
“It’s my best kept secret.”
“You have many secrets?”
“Yeah, tonnes. Mostly about other people though, if you know what I mean, Head Girl.”
“Oh, shut up. And stop calling me Head Girl.”
Sam laughed meanly. “I bet you’re working on some sort of Head Girl duty right now.”
Remi glared at the budget on her laptop screen but didn’t reply.
“I’m going to guess something to do with the Spring Festival,” Sam continued. He laughed again when Remi still didn’t answer. “Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll make you your own soufflé.”
Remi wrinkled her nose in both distress and disgust. “Goodnight, Sam,” she said. “Don’t forget you’re on morning duty on Monday.” And she hung up.
Before she could put her phone to one side, it rang again. Remi channelled a vicious glare at the caller I.D. before answering.
“Don’t you have a soufflé to make?”
“I am making it. I’m also having a game night on Wednesday and I’m inviting you to come and bear witness to Gio’s horribly competitive side.”
Remi scoffed. “I happen to find competitiveness very attractive.”
“Sure you do,” Sam replied casually, “You’re even worse than Gio. I’m looking forward to watching you two destroy each other.”
“If I’m going to destroy anyone, it will be you, genius.”
Sam laughed, a gleefully smug sound. “Big talk, Head Girl. You’re on. Loser owes the victor dessert.”
Next time: Episode 25—Rooftop Consolations
Teaser:
“I keep thinking I should just get a girlfriend to get Cherie and Kai off my back. But then I think that wouldn’t be very fair to the girl I was dating.”
Merryn didn’t say anything but hummed softly as she pushed herself back up into a standing position and titled her chin up to eye the pale clouds that floated above them like tufts of sheep wool.
“Do you think you can get over one person by dating someone else?”
“Don’t know,” Merryn replied. “Depends on the person, probably.”
The Hanahaki Club Index
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Author’s Notes:
We rescued a bat from the cat once. The local bat rescue lady let me officially name her. I called her Bram—after Bram Stoker. The bat rescue lady was not impressed.
Next time: Episode 25—Rooftop Consolations
PJ
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