Among Others

that they’re not at all like fantasy, and they are exactly like SF. Harriet said she felt they belonged rather with things like Dunsany’s club stories and tall tales, they were whimsical. I disagreed (probably talking too much and too vehemently) because I think the way in which they’re like SF is the opposite of whimsy, they’re taking magic and treating it as another bit of science, especially in Too Many Magicians .
    Janine doesn’t seem to be speaking to me, or Pete either. They’ll get over it, Wim says. I hope so.
    Hugh looked a bit confused. Greg thinks—he said in the car—that Hugh thought he and I would automatically become an item, because we were the same age. I never heard anything so stupid in my life, and said so, because while I like Hugh I never thought of him in that way for two seconds. Greg just laughed and said these things sort themselves out, and had I read McCaffrey? I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but we talked about Impressing dragons all the rest of the way back.
    Wim’s meeting me in Gobowen again tomorrow. He seems to think this isn’t very often to see each other, but I think it’s loads. I need time in between to think—and to write it all down! I don’t suppose he does that.
    It has just belatedly occurred to me that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I don’t suppose he’ll take any notice of it—or will he? I don’t have the foggiest. Miss Carroll thinks he might, and that I should have something ready to produce if he does. The problem with that is that I don’t have anything. She suggested a book—well, she would!—and that would be a terrific idea if there was time to go to a bookshop. I could make him a card. Well, except that nobody would want a card I’d made. I could write him a poem, or more to the point, write out neatly one of the poems I have already written about him. But what if he didn’t like it? I’ve never talked to him about poetry, I have no idea whether he likes it or not. If he didn’t hate Heinlein I could give him The Number of the Beast , but he does, so I can’t. I don’t have anything else new, and he probably has everything I have here.
    If I leave school a little bit early, I can go to the bookshop on the way to the station, I suppose.
    T HURSDAY 14 TH F EBRUARY 1980
    Well, that was awkward.
    Daniel’s “surprise” was turning up to drive me to Shrewsbury. I can’t think why he did it today, when it’s half term tomorrow, but I shouldn’t expect him to make sense. He was sitting outside in the car, looking very pleased with himself, like the cat who got the cream. I stopped still when I saw him, absolutely convulsed with horror.
    Wim was meeting me in Gobowen station. I had no way of contacting him to tell him what had happened. If I didn’t meet him, I wouldn’t see him until after half term. He’d think I’d dumped him, and on Valentine’s Day too.
    The alternative was to tell Daniel about Wim. I thought about that as I got into the car. The problem there was that I hadn’t said anything about him at all up to that point, because as usual my letters to Daniel had been exclusively about books. It was an excruciating situation. I couldn’t possibly ask Daniel to turn around and leave me alone, which would really have been what I’d have preferred.
    “I managed to get away,” Daniel said. “We can go to the Chinese restaurant again.”
    “That’s lovely, but,” I said, and stopped.
    “But what?” he asked, starting the engine and driving down the drive, between the two dead elms, which look terrible again now that the other trees are starting to think about getting leaves. “I thought you’d be pleased.” He sounded really pathetic.
    “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend in Gobowen railway station,” I said. “Do you think we could go there and collect him and take him with us?”
    Daniel’s face went oddly blank, then he smiled. “Of course,” he said, and did a U-turn in the road, which was, fortunately, deserted.
    After that, I couldn’t possibly say I wanted to go to the bookshop first.
    “Is this a boyfriend, or just a boy-type friend?” he asked.
    “Sort of a boyfriend. Well, actually a boyfriend, yes.” I was tripping over my own tongue in embarrassment.
    “So, tell me about him?” Daniel sounded encouraging, but also bewildered.
    I didn’t know quite what to say. “His name’s Wim. I met him in the book group. He’s seventeen. He likes Delany and Zelazny. He’s