Free What's a Girl Gotta Do? by Holly Bourne Page A

directors.”
    I felt that hot itching feeling of anger spread through my face and tighten my jaw.
    â€œWhy the heck is he interested in helping me then?” I asked, pushing my hair off my face. “Does he just want to bait me?”
    â€œI’ve already asked him that, and he promised me no.” She smiled. “I asked him that a lot.”
    â€œI don’t get it then. Why does he want to do it?”
    She shrugged. “He said he genuinely wants to do it as, like, documentary practice. He wants to be the next Werner Herzog, and says he needs experience interviewing people doing stuff he doesn’t agree with.”
    â€œI have no idea who you’re talking about…Herzee Whatnow? Hang on…doesn’t agree with? So he doesn’t agree with, like, feminism?”
    Evie shook her head sadly. “Nope.”
    I pushed more hair back. “Holy moly, is there no one else?”
    â€œDid you just say ‘holy moly’? Even I don’t say holy moly.”
    â€œThis is definitely a holy moly kind of moment.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just meet him?” She stepped to one side to let a group of students past. “See how you feel then?”

eleven
    I instantly fancied Will.
    He was everything a cocky wannabe film director should be. Big black-framed glasses, a slightly-oversized stripy jumper with tighter jeans, the kind of mouth that stayed in a permanent superior type of smirk with a tiny beard thing in the middle of his chin. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed him around the college campus. Because he was definitely the sort of boy I instantly fancy.
    Though, to be fair, I instantly fancy lots of people.
    It still surprised me though, as I’d spent the whole walk there already arguing with him in my head – fuelled by Evie. He had two chairs in the college canteen, leaning back in one, his feet up on the other – showing off some posh leather shoes. A coffee from the Italian deli down the road perched in front of him, like the college’s instant coffee machine wasn’t good enough. Alongside it sat some posh ciabatta bread, with tiny plastic pots of oil and balsamic vinegar. I mean, what?
    He raised his eyebrows when I walked over.
    â€œLottie, I presume?” he said.
    I mean who even talks like that? So I said: “Who even talks like that?”
    Another raise of his eyebrows. He picked up his coffee cup and slurped it, watching me as I pulled up a chair across from him.
    â€œSo, Evie said you want to help me with my project?” I asked, copying his body language. He leaned further back in his chair, crossing his arms, so I mirrored him.
    â€œYeah, it seems interesting enough.” He said it like it was the most boring idea in the world.
    â€œDon’t wet yourself with excitement.”
    He didn’t even smile, just smirked.
    â€œI never do.”
    â€œI can imagine.”
    I don’t like it when people act all superior with me. I went to a private school on a scholarship; it happened there a lot. I don’t like it more when I find myself fancying them. But I’d learned to never let anyone think they were better than me. Because, usually, just the fact they’re thinking it means they’re not. So I decided to disarm him. I reached out, ripped a piece of bread off, splashed it in the vinegar and ate it.
    His cocky eyebrows shot up instantly in shock. Ha, I thought, you weren’t expecting that.
    â€œDid you just eat my food?” he asked, in genuine disbelief.
    I shrugged. “What seventeen-year-old brings oil and vinegar dipping pots into college?” I asked. “Now, are you going to help or not?”
    His face – ha! – his face. He really, truly, didn’t know what to do.
    â€œYou can’t just go around taking people’s food.”
    â€œYes, well. The whole point of this project is me pointing out all the things people shouldn’t really be able to