“Yep, and everyone’s coming; even Matty…” She smiled, dreamily. (Up ’til then, I hadn’t been aware that six-year-olds could do dreamy.)
“Do you want a bedtime story, or are you too mature now?” I teased, sneaking in an item I wanted to add to her vocabulary.
“Nope, I’ll stop when I’m seven,” she joked.
I couldn’t see that happening in a hurry. (Anyway – I secretly quite like reading her bedtime stories; it’s fun because you can kinda get lost in a world that doesn’t have all the teenage fuss and bother that me and Charlie and even Zak have to put up with.)
“Which one do you want?”
“Can you read me the one about doggies?”
“About Spot the Dog? Aren’t you a bit old for that one?” (Grown-up code for: “Groan, not that one; it went to the jumble sale”.)
“No, silly.” (Phew.) “I want that one!” she pointed to a paled tome on her bookshelf, next to an equally old Spice Girls annual that used to live in my room.
“‘Fifty common medical problems in a guide to help you decide whether to take your dog straight to the vet’,” I read off the blurb. “Why do you want a non-fiction book anyway?” (What I secretly had in mind was: not having to be the one to explain the facts of life to her – not this year anyway. A conversation that was the truly inevitable outcome of the “How do you breed doggies?” question.)
“I like doggies!”
“Alright…” I braced myself for some pretty graphic medical descriptions to bluff through. A good job the print was small and illustrations scarce…
* * *
“-and that was when Dorothy knew that Toto was going to be toto-ly fine after all! Dorothy scooped Toto up in-”
Kitty was utterly zonked out on my shoulder, and I had no idea how long she’d been asleep for, but I’d ended up lost in a totally fabricated story which had nothing to do with the medical guide and everything to do with my mad mind – while my sister was lost in a dream.
When I went to close the curtains, I could see with one quick glance that it was very dark out. The last bit of my reading light had come from our left-hand neighbours’ automatic security lamp by the path leading from front garden to back.
Kitty’s bedroom is on the second floor with Mum’s, the bathroom and the splintery spiral stairs to the attic rooms, with one window facing out into the back garden and the other facing the neighbours’ identically placed one. (These exposed upstairs windows were probably the original reason they invented net curtains.)
Despite being happy to live in houses where you can easily see into the bedroom across the way, Prying Aussies should note that people in our street are quite skitty bout security. It makes sense, I suppose. Who’s going to be walking across your drive at night uninvited who isn’t at least thinking of breaking into the house or back garden?
The people in question weren’t even trespassing.
Standing in the alcove between our front door and gate to the back garden is near enough to trigger the neighbouring auto-light.
I figured Mum was trying to throw us off scent by not appearing to kiss Fern’s dad outside my window. As luck would have it, we live in the wrong maddeningly middle class street.
#11 …& Nothing But The Tooth
The first mistake I made as I trotted into Constantly High on Wednesday morning was confronting Fern. I’d invited her back after school, intent on talking this out, but now I was wishing I hadn’t.
The second mistake I made that day was wearing the false nails to school that Keisha bought me for my birthday a month ago. I thought she’d be pleased to see that I hadn’t forgotten her present, but instead she appeared not to notice. I’d also hoped they would help attract the attention of Charlie’s gorgeous mate Jordy, and he wasn’t even in that day.
At first break, I bought a cheese and pickle sandwich each for me and Keish. I handed her the sandwich, and to her complete amazement when she took a bite she noticed the chewy plastic extra ingredient.
“Yuck! What was that?” she boked, spitting her mouthful onto the table as she spoke.“You wanna complain to the dinner ladies!”
That was when her heavily made-up eyes flickered down to my right hand, where I now had one fake nail missing and a huge blob of hard glue stuck to my real, mini, nibbled nail. And a group of lads laughing their heads off.
I didn’t know what to do. Randoms getting a rise out of me I could just about handle, but a mad mate always gave me a bad feeling. And it was amazing just how mad Keisha was capable of looking. Her eyes were wide like a cow, though those lids had to be crazy amounts musclish to support the false eyelashes she had on. And she’s got this way of pouting that’s not pouting – her lips go tight and one cheek stiffens while she contemplates what guaranteed-to-make-you-feel-stupid line to say.
“Er, never mind…” I wavered.“Want a crisp?”
She looked at me like I must have something contagious going on, and stalked off with Chantalle, leaving me with a half-eaten sandwich to pick up before some teacher came along to have a problem with the littering and the waste of food and the badly-applied fake nails all at once.
My third huge mistake of the day was spending the whole of next break searching for Keisha, to apologise again for the sandwich thing. I eventually found her out on the field with her boyfriend. Yeah, the field looks quite pretty in summer, but by now it was blanketed with autumnness, and a cuddle in the middle of a damp pile of leaves is so not romantic. Imagine rolling over, only to find that you’re suddenly the filling of a sandwich between your boyfriend and a spiky, rather peed-off hedgehog.
Anyway, Keisha was there with Samuel in the midst of a snoggle. (I need to stop writing about other people snogging; it makes me feel unwanted.) Well, when I shouted “Hiya!” Keisha’s startled boyfriend dislodged her temporary bridge and began to choke. She slapped him hard on the back with anger, and it flew out of his mouth and onto the grass.
“I didn’t know you were trained in first aid!” He beamed. “Hot and a lifesaver!”
If she’d been mad earlier, now she was livid. “I’m not, and you’re dumped!”
“Uh, sorry I… ruined your snog,” I said pathetically, as Sam sloped off.
“Sorry? I’ve been looking for an excuse to dump him like a week.” Keisha looked almost relieved. As relieved as you can look when you’re a short chav stuck in the middle of school with an obviously missing tooth and a boy-phlegmy dental bridge. I almost felt sorry for her, until she went and said this: “Oh, it’s so hard having weak teeth. If I had to get braces again I’d be … treated … like you!”
I can tell a story about Keish and her teeth. The week after we broke up for the summer after Year 8, we were both due to get braces. If I was a normal amount embarrassed to be given a metal smile for the first year I’d got properly interested in boys – Keisha was devastated. She talked about doing anything to get rid of them before, never mind school, but her summer holiday to Majorca.
The thing about Keisha’s braces was that for the comparatively small gain of straightening a couple of canines that grew in too high, they all but pulled out a few other teeth – oh, and literally pulled out one. The orthodontist’s still trying to decide what to do, and her dad’s still trying to decide whether to sue him. But she doesn’t have to have braces, so she’s still horrifically popular. (Providing she’s not seen without that temporary bridge.)
* * *
I had to get Kitty from school that day; Zak was straight off doing something or other. (A regular, annoying habit of his is that he tends to announce this at the last moment as we leave the house in the morning.)
Not that I have a problem with Kitty – in fact, now would be the perfect opportunity to say a little bit about her for the Prying Aussies: she’s like a smaller, clumsier version of me. (There, that was a little bit.)
Watching and waiting for Kitty to emerge, I spotted a set of twins. Same age; same gender; restore-factory-settings identical.
Y’see
, that’s something you tend to do if you are one; notice twins. Even if you’re what I like to refer to as a Circumstantial Twin, like me and Charlie, who by coincidence were two sequentially fertilised separate eggs, if you want to get all icky and technical.
Right then, thinking that, I saw Kitty emerge from the gate of the Infants, carrying yet another picture for the fridgeful. (I don’t mean we keep our masterpieces in there like milk or nail paint or anything; just that they get Blu-Tacked to the outside.)
Lookswise, Kitty’s a lot like me. Or so ex-teachers of mine are always saying. It might be because she rocks an updated version of the horrible twinny bob cut me and Charlie got around her age. (Counterproductive courtesy of our Auntie Sharon, the one and only time he was goaded into more than a trim.)
It could be because of her blue eyes, random splodging of freckles and preoccupation with animals of all kinds. It’s probably because they more than vaguely recall that scuffy navy blue coat with the threadbare fleece flower lining from when I was in Infant school.
Except where I have a birthmark on my ankle, and Charlie’s is on his chest, and Zak’s is on his shoulder, Kitty’s is on her upper-right cheek (and looks really sweet when she smiles). Sharon calls it her “beauty spot”.
“Beauty” and “spot” just don’t go together in a sentence, so I guarantee that if anyone much had actually noticed the birthmarks, we’d be bullied for that too. But they haven’t, and that’s mostly because according to anyone outside our family it’s overromantic rubbish. (Which it kind of is, because aside from Kitty we pretty much nominated our biggest freckle and made it up.)
“It’s our house and our family!” she beamed, thrusting the drawing at me. “Look! There’s Mum and you and Charlie and Zak and me!”
Now, I wonder why she’d put Mum outside in the street (facing away), me and her all snuggled up behind my attic bedroom window and Zak and Charlie leant against opposite walls of the house, mmm? (OK, our brothers looked like relative giants leant against our wobbly pile of bricks, Mum had longer hair than in real life and a lot more makeup than she was really tarting herself up with, and me and Kit looked all small and insecure up in my room, but I was sure that was just due to her six-year-old spatial awareness, right? Right…?)
Or was Kitty maybe a little sharper than she’d ever been given credit for?
#12 The Adrenaline-Junkie Slug
I had the house to myself. Since Mum still appeared to be neglecting Operation Birthday Girl, I’d persuaded Charlie to nip out and get supplies for the party, while I jotted a list of all the super-fun group games I could think of. (You can never have too many baby wipes and kitchen rolls around.) So when the doorbell rang, I was expecting Fern, barring one of the boys forgetting their key. I rushed to answer it with my school top knotted up, warbling out of tune to “Don’t Cha” by The Pussycat Dolls on the radio. (You have to expel Charlie from the house before attempting a chart music singfest, as he feels obligated to comment on its tackiness … while his foot taps involuntarily.)
As you’ll well know, it’s all about taunting some nameless person that their girlfriend isn’t as hot as you are. (And for me to be the Tauntess, then the guy in mind would have to be dating a girl to outdo my half-plucked standards of unbeauty.)
Not exactly the best way to impress-
Guess who?
Only Jordy.
I wasn’t sure if he actually had a girlfriend or not, but with his downright gorgeousness taken into account, it seemed like a pretty fair bet. And if he didn’t, thanks to my horrible squawk of a singing voice, the odds of me being his prime choice had just plummeted to about nine billion to one.
His hazel eyes were without sparkle, and he parted his perfectly pink lips and muttered, “…a…freak…like…?”
Still mesmerised by his looks, I felt myself stammer hopefully, “S-so… why are you here, then?”
I’ll admit that I have that thing you get when you really fancy someone: nothing and nobody can convince you that you’ve got no chance. Even a complete meanie like Chan or Keisha wouldn’t try to tell me that.
“Charlie about?”
“Huh?” I murmured, yet to make sense of the question. My struggle not to say anything other than the few words needed for this conversation must’ve zapped my ability to speak right.
“Your twin. Z’he about?” He raised a perfectly-shaped eyebrow (grr, his were more of a work of art than mine) while speaking slowly as if I was two hedgehogs short of a BF/GF sandwich.
I suppose there was a chance that he was just operating on the assumption that Charlie was the smart twin. It’s a nice friendly friend thing to think, after all. And for Charlie to be considered the clever one, that would leave me stuck at the My Little Pony stage with Kitty, and liable to pet Jordy on the head ’cause he’s being a good doggie. His distance could be respected under those circumstances only, as he seemed the type not to want his perfect hair messed up. Yes, yes, that was the case. It wasn’t as if I’d ever done anything in front of him to suggest that I was after all the Top Set, speed-reading, articulate one who got Positive Merits in English now and then.
“Uh, no, sorry – he just left…” I clamped my teeth down on my tongue, as in my stupor I’d figured its will to hang out of my mouth and drool all over him was maybe the source of the random stammering. “Yyy-you know, emergency shopping.”
Emergency shopping? What did that sound like it meant? I tried not to think…
“Well, when is he likely to get back?”
“Soon,” I managed. One word sentence. Now why is it that I can ramble for hours on paper, but can’t string two words together in front of Jordy? Maybe I should try sellotape next time. Sellotape and the cold finger of blame pointed at whichever Primary-age sibling is nearest at the time. Any excuse, anything that would make it socially acceptable to keep my mouth entirely shut the whole time I’m in the room with …him.
I motioned to the squeaky leather sofa in the living room. “Would you like to sit down and wait?” (It came out like “WibbLiKerSssiddowny’youw-waste?” and I was worried I’d inadvertently/incoherently insulted him. Well, I hadn’t; the gnat inside my head working the controls had.)
“S’alright, I’ll just sit here,” he grunted, flopping down on the beanbag (and ooh, there’d be an imprint of his bum there when he got up – hopefully nobody would notice it migrate up to my room later on). I didn’t even mind that he’d motioned a blatant “bog off, freak” by not sitting where I could join him; I was content just to watch from a distance.
The theme tune to The Tweenies tinkled out monophonically, in reminiscence of when Mum used to call me and Charlie “The Twinnies”. I wasn’t sure if Jordy’d ever heard our doorbell before; he’d knocked on arrival. Did he knock every time?
Embarrassingly, someone else hadn’t.
It had to be Fern this time.
Upon opening the door, I found myself face-to-face with thirteen-minutes-younger Twinnie:
“Forgot my key,” he mumbled in apology.
I took the carrier bag full of stuff from him, and dumped it on the kitchen counter. Spotting the Tweenies-confused look on Jordy’s face I scarpered upstairs, sensing that you could cook a Full English on my face.
I collapsed down on my bed, shaking from Jordy’s all-over cuteness. I mean: the eyes, the hair, the smile (not directed at me), the athletic fitness, the laugh…
Ooh…
After that moment or twelve of self-pity, I forced myself to get changed and think about the problem at hand: Mum had rushed out all smiley and gushy and mumsy-hugsy (that’s normal, except the “gushy” bit), in her non-slutty makeup and sensible-but-sexy jeans and T-shirt (OK, she’d never been a jeans-and-T mum; that was Auntie Sharon’s job – but that day that’s what she had on). She’d planted kisses on me and Charlie and Kitty, without even pausing to force Kit to get changed out of her school uniform, or tutting at Charlie for sticking Dad’s (left-behind) Van Halen album on too loudly (something she usual
ly would get all parent-pernickety about, not wanting the sounds of Dad floating around the house) and just vanished off out.
Whatever was going on, it was kinda nice to see Mum happy.
Suddenly I jumped out of my skin at the crap doorbell. Fern.
Or was it? I wasn’t about to waste my time on another pointless door-answering; not when Charlie was just in the living room. I ran to my bedroom window to check.
It was Fern. I watched her disappear into the wall. I heard a clatter. An “Ewww!”
“Coming, Fern!” I yelled. I raced down from the attic and found Zak halfway up the main stairs giving Eminem and Fern a mini heart attack each. Zak, who I’d fully expected to be out at this time! If rats were meant to skateboard, wouldn’t there be some form of crash protection on the market by now? Since there wasn’t, I was opposed to the idea. Sure, it’d looked neat the first time, but that rat had been through some things since that Zak himself wouldn’t do.
“Z’up?” he said coolly, nodding towards the boggling Fern as he let the skateboard bump down the bottom three stairs again.
“Zak, that’s cruel,” I scolded, brushing past him and rescuing the bemused rattie. “Are you OK?” I said absently, pulling my brain out of Jordyland and vaguely addressing Fern and Eminem. “Fern?”
She blinked. “How did you know? Nobody’s called me that here.”
Then I realised what I’d done – call it Mistake Number Four: I’d been calling her Fern inside my head for so long that I didn’t notice that nobody else had. “Sorry; I’ve had a stressful afternoon,” I said in my defence, sounding like I’d joined Club Apologetic along with Fern.
“No, that’s how it’s meant to be,” she added. “It’s my dad’s accent – he’ll introduce me as Fern Ella, like some Disney princess. I like just Fern.”
“Fern it is.” I smiled, petting the wriggling Eminem. “And by the way, what was ‘Ewww!’?” I asked, confused. If she lived above a pet shop, surely she hadn’t been on about the rat…
“That…slug thing under the board.” She pointed timidly to something grey clinging to the underside.
Sure, there was a slug under the board. So what? Maybe it was a little slimy or ugly, but it had a right to stick itself there if it really liked that sort of three-stair G-force. Must’ve been an adrenaline-junkie slug…