The Notebook

T H E N O T E B O O K

Part one

They all wanted to have sex one day. It became one of their nicest pastimes. To search for the boy who would become their first. The only difference with Rosie's dreams from that of her friends was the person she had her sights on was definitely not a boy.
He was her teacher.
Mr. Wilkinson was a grumpy, dark teacher who, if you could ever think such a way, was totally disinterested in the pupils he taught. Those who were in his class would remark he spent more time sitting on the gas bench looking out into the countryside, those dark eyes scouring the landscape like he was a predator out in the wild.
But that was what Rosie found all too tempting.
Her crush on Mr Wilkinson started one day when she walked past him in the corridor. There was only one way to get to the other classrooms in the school, and that was past Mr Wilkinson's science workshop. No one really like walking through the science department with its peculiar smell and its head of department, Mr Chou, hurrying everyone along with his wooden stick. And it was the same for Rosie until she came across Mr Wilkinson that day and saw him in a completely different way.
He walked towards her in slow motion, his briefcase swinging against his leg. He always wore chinos and a jumper and that day Rosie was struck by how sexy he looked in them. The chinos were baggy and slung low, resting on his hipbones. He slowed down as he approached Rosie and there was a slight smile on his face, hidden almost by his shadowed chin. She remembered thinking he was flirting with her, or else someone behind her, perhaps someone a whole lot prettier. And then she was disgusted; should he be flirting with a pupil at all? Even if they were six-formers, it all seemed too wrong.
"Hello Rosie, he suddenly said.
From nowhere Rosie felt a great surge of excitement. It fluttered to her breasts and into the insides of her cheeks and then into the rest of her face. He could not know her name. She wasn't in any of his classes, although her friends were, and she had never given him a thought. There was no mistake. The expression of his face, that slight smile, those crystallised pupils. How could a girl miss all that?
"Hi Mr Wilkinson, she said back.
Then he was past her, sauntering to his lab. She turned around to see him fishing in his pockets to find his keys and placing them in his mouth whilst he moved his briefcase from his right hand to his left. She had never seen anyone find their keys and unlock a door with such sexiness.
From then on, Rosie became infatuated with that dark sinister science teacher called Mr Wilkinson.

********

Her friends thought it was a joke.
"Mr Wilkinson! Jane exclaimed as she almost choked on the rubbery food they served in the canteen. "You're having us on, aren't you?
Jane liked Robbie Stewart in class 6b. He wore Adidas trainers with huge tongues that came just under the knees of his trousers. He smelt of Armani aftershave that probably belonged to his dad and spiked his hair to perfection. She couldn't see the lure of an older man, even if that older man was a teacher. She thought Mr Wilkinson looked dirty and told Rosie so.
"He looks dirty that Mr Wilkinson, she said. "Like he could do with a good wash.
Amelia agreed. "I'm sure I saw some ear wax on his shoulder the other day. Either that or it was dandruff.
"And how did you not know the difference? Jane asked. "Ear wax is yellow and dandruff is white. Not much difference I'd say.
Rosie gave them both a dreamy stare. "He's just perfect. He looks at me like I'm the only girl in the world. I'm sure if I came onto him he wouldn't refuse.
Some boys walked past their table gazing down at them with a cheeky wanting. Both Jane and Amelia flirted back whilst Rosie continued dreaming in her own world. In this dream she was in the science lab alone with Mr Wilkinson, and she was sitting waiting for him to talk. But he didn't talk. He was silent, his mouth twisting into an amused coil. His fingers drummed onto the desk, his posture slouched into his chair. The blinds in the room were pulled down and the ever present smell of escaping gas had disappeared. The bottled frogs and animal foetuses had gone from their place on the top shelf. Rosie had never liked those things in the bottles. They had made her feel sick. Now Mr Wilkinson stood, standing over his desk with such authority. He turned to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk and began to write.
I LOVE ROSIE. The chalk squeaked as he wrote the last letter E. He turned to her and began to¦
"-are you listening to us Rosie Chandler?
"What? They had shaken her from her dream and she was annoyed.
"I think you're making a bad mistake harbouring onto a teacher like Mr Wilkinson. Why can't you be normal and like someone like Ben Reagan or that fit one in the year above, Wayne Sterns. You're more likely to have sex with one of those you know.
Amelia continued for Jane. "Yeah. Wayne Sterns is definitely up for it. He's got loads of experience and he wouldn't turn you down for definite.
Jane shuffled in her seat. "Maybe that's the problem, Rose. Maybe you're fixating on Mr Wilkinson because there's absolutely no possibility of you having sex with him. Come on, admit it. You're scared to do it.
This thought had never entered Rosie's mind. She wasn't scared of sex ' well, not really ' and, if she was, she wouldn't have a crush on anybody, never mind a teacher. She had spent many a time kissing her pillow and touching herself down there, to discover that she was not adverse to it. To let someone else touch her like that was daunting, but something she was looking forward to. After all, it was, like her mother told her, completely natural.
"I disagree, she told her friends. "I think there's a very real possibility that I will have sex with Mr Wilkinson. Believe me you haven't seen the way he looks at me.

************

It was true Mr Wilkinson looked at Rosie in a way he shouldn't. Maybe this is what Rosie wished deep down, that those lingering looks were his sign of wanting her. It didn't cross her mind that those looks were entirely based on amusement, and that every night after school when he met his friends in the pub, he would recall his days with the besotted little girl who chased after him and made him laugh. Even if this was all in the back of her mind, she refused to believe it.
Her mother became worried about her. As Rosie sat, night after night in her bedroom, her mother would listen at the door hoping to hear signs of life. But she was wasting her time; the only sounds Rosie made were high little sighs as if she was dreaming of something so nice it was beyond pleasure. And then there were the inaudible sounds, of a pencil on paper. Rosie was writing her letters and lists. Her own world, carefully written in a pink bind book.
The first five letters she had written to Mr Wilkinson had been ripped out of the book in a rage. She had stomped and cried (whilst her parents were out of the house) and mulled over how unfair life was. The letters had never sounded so wrong. In the first one she had rattled on about not one relevant thing. How she had made her first jump at a show when she was eight, how Jane's mother always took her own cutlery to restaurants. The second one was even worse. She had explained, in great detail, how her bedroom looked and had even mentioned her huge collection of teddy bears she kept in the corner of the room. Why would he want to know all this? The fourth letter was the worse of them all. In it she detailed what she would like to do to him given the chance. When she re-read it she found she was utterly disgusted with herself. That letter had found itself in more pieces than the other ones put together.
Jane and Amelia called round for her a few times. She told them she was ill. Once she heard mother ask them if they knew what was wrong with her. She didn't hear their answer, but knew they would never tell mother about Mr Wilkinson. Mothers were people you never told anything to.
It hadn't taken Rosie long to find out everything she could about Mr Wilkinson. She had waited behind a bush in the school car park after classes finished for the day. She had had to wait there for thirty-five minutes, but it had been worth it. Mr Wilkinson came out, briefcase swinging, text books under his arms. He spoke to Miss Franklin and Mr Crosby briefly at the entrance, and then they all went to their own cars. Rosie heard him whistling his own tune, lighting up a cigarette as he walked. He reached a battered red Fiat, placed his books on the floor and opened the boot. The books disappeared in the boot and he sauntered to the driver's side, still smoking and still whistling.
After finding out what car he drove, Rosie wasted no time investigating its contents while skipping class. She walked past the car slowly, not actually stopping, her eyes scanning whatever it could without being too obvious. This was how she found out what music he liked listening to, what brand of cigarettes he smoked. He liked Billy Bragg and Elvis. Rosie didn't even know who Billy Bragg was, until she searched the internet that night and saw his face and listened to his songs. There was one article that said Billy Bragg was trying to slay the racist dragon and another for his political efforts. Rosie had no clue about politics. She supposed this was why someone like Mr Wilkinson liked Billy Bragg ' she had seen him once with some type of political pamphlets ' as well as his music.
One day, as she walked past his car when she was skipping PE (She hated PE anyway, her arms were too thin to pull her up on the climbing wall) she saw he had left a letter on the dashboard. Because the letters were too small to read while walking slowly, Rosie had to crouch on the side away from the school building and peer into the car. Luckily the letter was on the side she was looking in from so it wasn't too difficult to read.

Mr Adrian Wilkinson
54 The Mews
Inglenook
Castles Moore
CS14 4PT

15 October 2005

Dear Mr. Adrian Wilkinson

Re: Membership 205431 ' Subscription

Further to the above we write to advise that your yearly subscription fee of £210.00 is due. As you know we accept all methods of payments, including cheques, credit and debit cards and postal orders.

Your subscription will, of course, keep helping us to find you a perfect partner, in a day when our busy life styles hinder those who seek companionship, friendship and possible romance.

We now look forward to receiving your subscription, and should we be of any further assistance, please do not hesitate to contact us.

Kind regards

Sue Winterbottom
For Romancing Services Inc.

Rosie couldn't believe he was a member of a dating agency. Her Mr Wilkinson, her Adrian was searching for his true love. As she crouched at the side of Mr Wilkinson's car, a smile appeared on Rosie's face. There was no wonder he hadn't found his true love after all this time; it was obvious she was his only love, his only true one. And finding the letter on his dashboard was fate because he had left it there, she had found it and it told her more than she could ever have imagined. And also there was that little detail of his address, 54 The Mews. The Mews. It was the other side of town, a row of newly built town houses. She knew a girl who lived in one of them, a Cassandra Peters, who was a snob and dressed like a Barbie doll.
That day, after finding Adrian's address, she walked with a jig and whistled the same tune her beloved had created. During dinner with her parents, she noticed her mother's brow was clear of its usual frown and she actually smiled.
"I'm glad you're feeling happier sweetheart, her mother said after clearing the plates away. "Why don't you watch TV with me and dad tonight eh?
And because she had already written the new info on Adrian in her notebook earlier that night, she told her mother that yes, she would watch TV with them tonight.
For awhile anyway. Because later she had plans. She was going to go over to the other side of town, to The Mews.
To number 54 The Mews.