Hey! I could use Heather's new laptop to surf the Internet and check my email. Dad's computer is so ancient that it takes half an hour to download even the most basic website.

            But computer keyboards are evil.

            I read that they have more germs in them than an entire toilet.

            Keyboards are like major Germ Alert AND Dirt Alert all at once.

            I pull on a brand new pair of pink rubber gloves from the pile kept by Heather's cleaner, grab a new bottle of disinfectant spray and head to the office.

            I roll the gloves as high up my arms as possible and then pick up Heather's keyboard by the tips of my fingers and shake it upside down with a shudder.

            A little spray of crumbs, dust and bent paperclips hits the desk.

            Gross.

            I sweep all the gunk into the bin and then give the computer keys a good scrubbing with the disinfectant before shaking it upside down again one more time just to check I've got every life-threatening germ out of there.

            Then I settle down, log on to the net and am just about to start surfing about a bit when I notice that Heather's stuck a little yellow post-it note on the desk next to the laptop.

            'Zelah, friend of mine's just launched this site,' it says. 'Might be fun to give it a try? Hx.'

            There's a website address so I type it into the search engine and watch while a pink website flashing big red hearts pops up on Heather's screen.

            'Aged 14-16? Register now for fun, friendship and flirting at mysortaspace, the site that everyone's talking about,' it says.

            I roll my eyes and slump back in the chair.

            Yuk!

            But then I think about the fact that the one boy I really like, I'll probably never see again and I don't know what comes over me but I click on the link and before I know it I've set myself up a profile on mysortaspace.com and registered to get a password.

            My new secret dating name isn't very imaginative. I just call myself 'Zelah'.

            And I'm not putting a photo on there.

            My face is all red-raw from a mad bout of scrubbing last night and my hair has stopped being sleek and swishy and grown back into mad black fuzz since the haircut that Caro gave me at Forest Hill has grown out.

            An email flashes into my new inbox, welcoming me to the website and telling me that any interested flirty boys can now send me emails in confidence.

            I sink into my chair and bury my face in my hands.

            What am I doing?  Even if I did meet the boy of my dreams I wouldn't actually be able to touch him so you can imagine the fun date that we'd have, waving at one another from opposite sides of the sofa that might as well be opposite sides of the planet.

            Plus boys don't actually wash much so there's a risk of major Dirt Alert AND Germ Alert if I ever meet up with one.

            And there's another thing. I already met the boy of my dreams three months ago.

            He had olive skin and dark hair and scowling brown eyes.

            'Oh Sol. I miss you,' I say. 'Loads.'

 

@ copyright Vanessa Curtis 2009.