All Wrapped Up. Holly Smale

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      Obviously, I like rules.

      Rules stop people cheating in exams, and filling out official documentation in pencil, or just putting the king anywhere they like in a game of chess. Rules prevent running in school corridors and walking all over the grass at Cambridge University like total savages.

      Rules allow geeks like me to know what to do, and when to do it, and then to try and make other people do it too, even when they don’t really want to.

      Rules put the world in order.

      But as much as I like a good distinct rule, some are obviously more flexible and open to interpretation. More like – let’s be honest – suggestions.

      And I think the Three Day Rule is a guideline.

      “But he’s only six hours over the limit,” I remind her. “It’s been less than seventy-seven hours and fifty-three minutes since it happened.”

      I should know: I’ve programmed it into my stopwatch.

      “Harriet,” Nat sighs patiently, “if a boy doesn’t make contact within three days, they’re not going to. That’s the law.”

      I frown. “Chickens aren’t allowed to cross the road in Georgia: that’s a law. Not having a sleeping donkey in your bathtub after 7pm in Oklahoma: that’s a law. Using a phone is not actually a legal requirement.”

      Although frankly, of the three options, it’s the one I’d vote for.

      “Not a law law,” my best friend admits reluctantly. “But it’s the law of dating and everybody knows it.”

      “I didn’t know it.”

      She nods as if this goes without saying. “Everybody apart from you. And maybe some random Inuit girl who’s been buried under a pile of ice for the last twenty billion years and is still waiting for some idiot to ring her.”

      I laugh. “In fairness, the big bang only happened fourteen billion years ago, so the universe not existing yet is probably a legitimate excuse.”

      “It’s the only legitimate excuse,” she growls.

      “And maybe Nick doesn’t know the rules either,” I add, ignoring her. “Statistically, the average phone is broken within eleven weeks. There are many possible reasons why he’s not calling.”

      “Sure,” Nat says darkly. “Maybe his fingers have been snapped off and fed to a party of hungry Christmas elves.”

      I laugh. I love my best friend when she gets angry and protective. She starts staring into space and muttering threats like Batman.

      But it’s just not going to work.

      Nat can be as cynical as she likes – there are way too many love chemicals currently rushing through my body for me to feel anxious. I am bouncing on a fluffy Christmas marshmallow of my own biological optimism.

      It’s kind of funny, really.

      We both knew that eventually a boy would enter the equation for one of us first. It’s just that in ten years of friendship, we never guessed that he might be for me.

      “Have a little faith in romance,” I say reassuringly, jumping up and skipping to the switch in the wall. “Trust in the magic of the season, Nat. Nothing’s going to go wrong. It’s Christmas.”

      Grinning, I switch the tree lights on with a tiny pop.

      And – with a burst of ‘Joy to the World’ – my phone starts ringing.