I was so horrified that it was hard to keep quiet. “Do you film all our sleepovers?”
“No, I put the camera on right before I got the scissors out – don’t worry!”
Nothing about when she switched it off again…
“You’d film it if it was Charlie sleeping over,” I teased.
“Shut up,” moaned Aimee, so loudly that it woke Kitty up.
“It’s still dark…” she whimpered, sleepily. “Go to sleep, Aimee!”
“Now look what you’ve done!” growled Aimee, once again loudest of all.
“You know what, Devon?” I sighed, slapping the book shut more carelessly than I’d like to admit. “Yes…”
Next door was a mess of cardmaking materials – fluffy chick cake-toppers sawed mercilessly in half and glued to corrugates, fabric flowers cut out of bedsheets and stuck onto daisy-shaped cardboard, little Lego Jesuses…
“Yikes,” I muttered, stepping over the mess and flopping down on Devon’s Queen-sized bed. Stepping into a lit room, I was suddenly knackered.
“Come here and look!” she insisted, creaking the computer screen towards me.
The video wasn’t interesting. It was just me getting my hair cut, which obviously I’d been there for, except viewed from between the bars of one of her wire ornaments so that it looked exactly like the perspective of a small rodent or prisoner. Not helping her case as far as being a creepy spy…
Nonetheless, I stayed at Devon’s. I was already dressed for bed, so when it came to sleep time, we just crashed on her ample mattress. That didn’t last long, however, because apparently when you live at mine, removing yourself to a whole other house doesn’t take you far enough from the madness. The literal madness…
“Harley…” came an unwelcome crackly voice. It invaded my subconscious to the point that I woke up, so the person must’ve been speaking quite loudly. I heaved myself from under Devon’s duvet and knelt uncomfortably by the wardrobe to see into my own room, where the noise was coming from.
It was Charlie in our hallway at our house, unable to see well enough in the dark to tell that I was either not there or far too fast asleep to notice what he had to say. I stayed incredibly still in Devon’s room, willing him to not have a real problem and just go away.
“Harley… Harley I’m scared…”
Oh God, shut up! It’s not fair to wake Kitty again, and if Aimee hears… well, she’ll tear you limb from limb so you’re sorry you bothered anyone with your paranoia.
What a horrible thing to think, but it’s the sort of thing you think when you’re tired and a teenager, and your twin brother who’s also a teenager still feels the need to come and find you in the night. Wasn’t he supposed to be at Andy’s anyway?
“Harley?”
I slithered halfheartedly back to my own bedroom. It would be no better to make him Aimee and Kit’s problem than it would to make our as yet unnamed new rabbity addition Mum’s problem.
My sudden apparition made him jump, but I joined him in the hallway and hauled the door shut so that we couldn’t wake either of the girls. “Charlie, what is your problem? Actual problem, not stupid problem, I mean.”
“Nothing,” he wobbled. “I’m just scared. I was scared at Andy’s so I came back here, but then it was scary at night in the street and now it’s scary here.”
“Just go to sleep,” I sighed.
“I can’t sleep because I’m scared…”
It couldn’t actually be that simple, could it? Sometimes I thought he was that simple, but then he’d always do something crazy like get three Level Fours in his Year 6 SATs and have Mum remind me of that every time I suggested that he maybe wasn’t so smart. I got two fives and a four, and nobody brought that up if he called me stupid.
“I can’t make you not scared, Charlie,” I said, firmly. “I’ve spent years trying-” (because you’re so damn annoying when you wake me up) “-but it doesn’t work. You have to do it yourself.”
“How?”
I was fizzing with tiredness, and I could see all these little specks moving in the dark. When we were all about four, we used to lie in bed together and trace our fingers in the air until all the blood ran back down our arms and it tingled. It felt like we were controlling all the colours, and it was safe and magical and comforting.
“Draw things in the dark,” I said, because I knew he’d know what I meant.
“What?” (Oh, so he didn’t.)
“The finger waving thing we used to do. No? It used to make your arms feel empty afterwards.”
“If Zak wakes up, he’ll laugh. I want to do something else.”
“Just go and lie down and you’ll probably sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep, that’s scary too.”
It was like having a conversation with an overgrown Chuckie from Rugrats. “Listen, Chuck. I’m knackered and I have school tomorrow. Mum’ll probably let you stay off again since you’re so creeped out that you can’t even stay put in the same house all night, so stay up and watch a video and go to sleep in the day. Goodni-”
“Neither did you.”
“What?” I asked, exasperated.
“You didn’t stay in the same house either.”
“Because your girlfriend’s annoying!” I sizzled. Then I had a brainwave. “You go and sleep in her bed. She’ll get the fright of her life, saying goodnight to one twin and good morning to the other.”
“Freaky Wednesday!” he snickered, cheering up on the spot. “I’ll do that!”
#6 The Glossy, Bossy Girl
I went to Rindi’s after school to help her plan her sleepover. We both knew she’d need to have a plan, or Chantalle and Keisha were prone to drag us all into bitching and Bloody Mary dares – and with Fern stuck at home with yet another case of the sniffles, the duty fell to me. All day I had that niggling feeling that there was some reason I had to be home after school, but I couldn’t remember, so I ignored it.
We’d got a good long list going by the time I realised what I was meant to be back for – Auntie Sharon’s birthday phonecall! Mum had decided we’d try the evening (first thing in the morning in Oz), because she missed their chats and wanted to sideline her into talking all morning. Harry had just upgraded the phone plan, to her joy.
I even spent my emergency bus money to get home, having been hemmed into teatime with Rindi’s family before I could leave. My good manners had overruled my realistic belief that turning down a dinner invitation would save the hosts on food once again.
It was too late. I got in at half past eight, and Mum was setting Kitty to bed after the family phonecall. It couldn’t have been long, because we wouldn’t call anyone before seven in the morning even if the night was wearing on for us. The equivalent time in England, as I’d finally learned off the top of my head, was eight at night.
“Mum! Mum! Did you phone Australia already?” I called out when I realised what room she was in.
“Yeah, sorry Harley, you missed it. Where have you been?”
“I was helping Rindi plan her birthday,” I said, apologetically, lowering my voice because I’d just realised Kitty was on the verge of sleep. “Then her parents made me stay for dinner. Well, they didn’t make me. I couldn’t say no.”
“That’s nice,” murmured Mum.
“Did everyone speak to Sharon?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“How is she?”
“Doing great – she had so much to say about her hairdressing. One of her clients is modelling for her, now.”
Prying Aussies should note that Sharon has always had hair models. Even freelancing before she had the salon, there’d be this or that girl who got all her cuts for free and had pictures taken. They were often on her fridge. When me and Charlie were in Infants, our horrible imitation bowl cuts had gone in her portfolio in heartstoppingly glossy quality. Our actual hair was quite glossy around that time as well, because Mum couldn’t afford shampoo and had to use just conditioner on us for about two weeks.
>
“That’s nice,” I said, shuddering at the thought of my long-ago slimy hair. It had the same effect as the eggy head prank with the clapping every time I thought of it. (I practically want to wash my hair right now.) I finally mustered the courage to ask the burning question (with a couple of small additions so I didn’t sound so preoccupied). “Did Uncle Peter and Shelley and Lioum talk, too?”
“No, love, just Shaz. They had to get off to work and school, and you know it still costs a bomb. Harry’s trying, though. He was on the line to BT all day Sunday, trying to get us sorted for international.”
Well, that wasn’t so bad. You couldn’t be ignoring me, because you hadn’t spoken to any of them either. School was always a good excuse, especially if it was anywhere near as hectic as mine. All I needed to do to sleep easy was to avoid the hefty nostalgia trip in the form of Kitty’s Brownie uniform. It was strewn about our carpet, and Mum was eyeing it with disapproval as if she was about to try picking it up.
“No, Mum,” I said, bending over myself to get it for the wash. “Probably don’t do any crouching until the baby’s here…”
“You worry too much,” said Mum, ridiculously. I couldn’t imagine her body being able to stretch that way at this, seven months pregnant point, but she would say that, given that this was her fourth pregnancy and fifth baby.
“Just… promise you won’t try to bend over,” I said, sickly.
OK, maybe I was just really naïve about how wombs work, but the very few months’ experience I’d had dealing with mine gave me some awful visions of the result of squashing a baby. I just hoped it was the sort of thing that was going to bother me for a day – not the next two months – and that Mum wouldn’t be picking up any dirty laundry from floor level…
#7 A Different Perspective
I hadn’t slept as well as I’d hoped, what with the Australian situation and Mum’s belly. My dreams were invaded by crank-handle Play-Doh sausage factories and unhappy families. I was also visited by Charlie, who seemed to have picked on me ever since he’d deduced that Zak wasn’t afraid of headbutting anyone who woke him up.
For that and various other reasons, I’d started to be mega-glad we’d never sent the younger brother to Judo when he asked. When I finally found sleep again (i.e. after Charlie had made his way to Devon’s for the second night running), Zak karate chopped Charlie’s head clear off. Sure, all of these dreams were like cartoons, and I sort of knew it wasn’t real, but they just left me feeling disturbed that my own imagination could concoct such things.
Devon walked to school with me, instead of Charlie. She was excited to hear about my mad mind, and I was relieved to have someone to tell. For some reason, talking about it in the cold light of day made it all less real. Then she said something surprising…
“I don’t dream.”
She didn’t dream? DEVON didn’t dream? That made about as much sense as raspberry flavoured cheese. I was honestly taken aback.
“What do you mean, you don’t dream? You have a dream diary.”
She sighed. I knew her sarky voice was coming. “When I lie down in bed and close my eyes, I just go unconscious. I make all the diary stuff up when I’m awake, so I can still analyse it.”
Well, yeah, usually. For months at a time I’d be certain I just didn’t dream anymore, but then in the end I’d wake up and remember one.
“You do dream,” I explained. “You just don’t remember it. Lucky.”
“That’s what Charlie said.”
“Everything’s about Charlie,” I yawned. It was a real yawn, too – I’d lain awake for hours inbetween sleeps, and the second consecutive night of having to tell him where to go hadn’t helped a bit.
“You’re the one who keeps sending him my way,” she giggled, as if there was anything funny about that. “He told me so.”
“Well, you deserve it,” I pointed out. “You’ve got all that space to yourself, and no one to share it with, and you don’t scare easily.”
She grinned. Well, good. I’d given up trying to keep them apart when their own denial was working overtime to do that for me. For all I cared they could get married right now and have babies and live happily ever after somewhere else. After a few decent months of not being bothered by my needy twin, I’d finally started feeling like I maybe hadn’t been put on this earth just to look out for him. And if I wasn’t, he’d probably grow up to need some other sort of casual carer, what with how he so often skinned his fingertips on the cheese grater. There’s clumsy, and then there’s a whole other plane of helplessness that he seems to fly around in like a baby bird that can’t use its wings properly.
* * *
Art was second lesson, and Mrs Wright was in a particularly nice mood – she was handing back the homework we’d given in last week, and giving Dev the most extreme praise.
“You absolutely must take Art as a GCSE! I will not take no for an answer!”
“Oh, thank you, Miss,” Devon gushed back “That means so much to me coming from you!”
Please! Get a room…
My work was passed back next. “Brilliant work again, Harley – I’d encourage you to take Art as well. One thing: I think you need to concentrate more on the ‘perspective’ side of things – that tree in the foreground should really be only a patch of visible trunk…”
“I thought it would be a bit boring, though – a large patch of brown,” I rationalised.
“But you could put so much detail in!”
“I guess.”
“Well, try a little harder on the next piece – you could do as well as Devon if you put in a bit more effort; I just know it…”
Mrs Wright has this bizarre habit of starting to walk away while she finishes her sentence. I was glad she’d gone, because her “advice” was starting to wind me up. I’d spent three hours total on my homework, and watched Devon do hers in half an hour while watching Hollyoaks. Parts of it weren’t even shaded neatly, but Mrs Wright would of course call it artistic license. I was beginning to think you had to earn one from some wafty secondary school teacher before you were allowed to slack off.
“Her hair,” sighed Devon. “It’s got so… beautiful. Do you think I should tell her?”
This was nuts. Mrs Wright’s greyish straight hair that we’d got used to over the last two and a half years had started knotting and curling as if it hadn’t been touched in a month. It wasn’t that it looked bad, but as far as I was concerned there was nothing super-good about it either.
“You’re crazy,” I said. “But tell her if that’s how you really feel.”
“And you’re a sad loss to the pop-cultural norm,” sniffed Dev. “Now that’s a hairstyle.”
The pop-cultural what? I was about the least trendy person I knew. Even though most of my friends were at least halfway as poor as I was, I got all my clothes from charity shops unless Sharon bought me something for my birthday. Sure, given the right allowance I probably would shop somewhere like New Look, but how did that make me any worse than Devon, who also scoured Barnardos every weekend and acted like that made her some sort of saint? Yeah, she was helping out the causes by doing that, but it left nothing to be seen dead in for families like mine who dreamed sugar-speckled dreams of being able to buy comfy loungewear from M&S.
“Explain to me what’s so good about it,” I muttered. “I just see a bunch of knots. I could have that if I stopped brushing my hair – anyone could.”
“But you wouldn’t stop,” sniffed Devon. “That’s what makes it different and special. Those are freeform dreadlocks, and they’re natural and beautiful.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t stop,” I groaned. “I lost my hairbrush at Guide camp once, and had to leave it for the best part of a week. It all clung together and pulled and it was horrid.”
“You’re a slave to western ideals,” she insisted. “Let your hair grow free and unmeddled with.”
I have no problem with hippies – don’t get me wrong – but the thing with Dev was that s
he talked a load of rubbish. What could she possibly know about dreadlocks without having dreadlocks? She’d never mentioned it before she got that stupid girl-crush on our Art teacher. Otter had what I would call dreadlocks, and he’d dyed them green, so that was hardly a lack of meddling. And then there was Charlie. Hadn’t Devon personally helped him black out his hair to fit in with the emo style he so badly wanted? Dev herself slept with a cloth or silk scarf on her head every night so that you wouldn’t even think she had hair – and even in the day I’d never seen her roots. She was not the guru on being natural, is all I’m saying.
“That’s an excellent structural drawing, Andy! That’s how perspective should be done – maybe you could show this to Harley so she can get the knack?”
Oh, great. Now Andy the owl-buyer would think he was going to tutor me in Art outside of school. I didn’t want people messing with my art. Back in Primary I’d been the one who could copy Nick Sharratt’s cartoons by eye, and who got penny sweet commissions to draw Danielle a sketch of a wild rabbit or Chantalle a dolphin, and it was my biro borders of random doodles that got selected and photocopied for years and years to go on the church programs at Christmas and Easter and for the Harvest Festival service. Who cared if you didn’t use perspective when drawing cartoons?
Andy went to get up, actually looking like he wanted to show me, like that had made his day or something, but tripped over the badge-laden strap of Charlie’s holey messenger bag and went face-first into the counter along the wall, landing but a centimetre or two from the guillotine.
He blushed when Mrs Wright rushed over to see if he was OK, but laughed it off awkwardly. It was like he had a crush on her too, and I didn’t get it because she certainly wasn’t young. I was pretty sure she had to be older than Mum, to have hair streaked with whites and greys from top to tip.
“That was close,” he chuckled. “Coulda lost my face, there.” Andy put his hand to the side of his head and winced. “Miss, am I bleeding?”
“Yes, oh dear,” she said, passing him a tissue from her pocket packet. “Would you like to go to the nurse?”
“Yeah, please,” he mumbled. He hovered awkwardly, because of his height, while he waited for her to write out his note, and retreated from the room via the door on the other side, so that he didn’t even pass us.