“Dev,” I said, when we caught up, as she’d already started speedwalking ahead as if cross. “You don’t need anything that much. I feel like you’re going to get stabbed one day for not giving a mugger your purse.”
“You would say that,” she snapped. “Money’s money. Possessions are different. I need my scarves.”
“You could’ve got another. What’s so special about it?” asked Charlie.
“You shouldn’t judge,” sniffed Dev, though no one was judging.
That was when another blast ripped her hood back down, and I realised her secret. In her matted, wet hair, was a line of clips. Attached to the hairclips were thick layers of dripping brown locks, drenched straight. Her own hair, slightly darker, was punctuated by patches where it was sparse or even completely missing. It was as startling as the beautiful tabby cat I once saw with most of the fur shorn off its belly where it had had an operation.
So this was why she hated to take off her scarves…
Devon blinked at us like a small, scared animal in the road. This, us knowing, was more cause for concern than any fierce traffic.
“Yes, I wear extensions,” she said, finally.
Neither of us said anything.
“I don’t really have curls…”
I felt Charlie fumble for my hand, uncertain what to do in this situation. I denied him, because at thirteen and a half I would sooner have died than be seen holding hands with my twin in the street over this.
“And you can’t tell anyone!”
Fantastic – my third and possibly most disturbing secret of the month. I didn’t even know what to make of it…
#14 Feeling Rectangular
We’d been stuck in this pose for three hours, now.
Devon had dragged us right back to her house (with hood up) and proceeded to shamelessly unclip her extensions and set to herself with a hair dryer. It took only minutes to deal with what was left on her head. All that was missing was at the back – from the front, she could’ve faced you with a fairly average hairline, the remains of what was once a layered cut still available to frame her face. She’d kept it off her face all this time, so it was strange not to see the shape of her cheeks and neck so clearly.
Me and Charlie sat on the bed, unsure whether we were supposed to look, or not look, or say something. Charlie kept glancing at me with disturbance. It was a bit like finding out your gran’s teeth aren’t real – but not, because it would be relatively obvious why someone needed dentures.
“It’s trich,” she told us, casually. “I get stressed and pull it out. Gran doesn’t know.”
I’d read about hair-pulling in a magazine, once. The girl was telling her story – all about how it was a compulsive habit and couldn’t be stopped, so that she was left with so little hair that she had to shave it all off. Then she started on her eyelashes.
Devon at least seemed to have enough eyelashes. They were perfectly thick and long, though she often wore false ones to annoy the teachers. Her eyebrows, also, were immaculate. Those were the things that made people accept the beauty of her face, even though she wore a headscarf – something no other person at our basically monocultural school did.
“Like self-harm?” Charlie asked, awkwardly.
“Kinda. Well, it’s stress. I’m not sad at all.” She tried smiling, but it was so exaggerated with all the makeup running down her face from the rain that he started like he’d come across a clown.
None of us really had any more to say. She loved hair to the point of preoccupation; it was obvious. I was sure that she wanted more than anything to stop, but if her stress was anything at all like my stress, I could understand how that might be hard.
Devon propped up three warped mirrors I hadn’t noticed before. She arranged them against things as best she could. Then, she spread a Twister mat in front of them. “Will you be part of my Art project?” she asked us.
We couldn’t say no. As much as I wanted to get home, nab our own hairdryer before Charlie, then get straight to the ginger nuts and reading, I couldn’t say no to that face. Devon got what she wanted out of people through pressure, and here was a great example of it working on both of us at once.
“OK,” I said. “What do we have to do?”
“Jump onto the Twister mat, both of you. Play as usual, and then when I say stop, you stop, and I draw you the way you look in the mirror.”
It was a better idea than any I’d had. It still astonished me how she was able to come up with these things, while I just muddled through.
We couldn’t have known what we were getting ourselves into. A hundred and eighty minutes later by her bedside clock, we were all still very much in position – me doing the crab with my face next to Charlie’s feet, and Devon cross-legged on the bed, adding and adding to the image on her giant artists’ sketchpad.
“Just a few more minutes, guys,” she mumbled, sharpening her pencil into a little dolphin mug for the thousandth time. She’d been telling us that for over two of the hours we’d been there, and it was really wearing on my patience, stamina and sanity.
“Did you know,” Charlie panted, “that Dimebag Darrell was shot on stage?”
I sighed. It was not his first useless fact. “Firstly, I’ve no idea who this Darrell person is or was; secondly, your grungy trivia is driving me mad; thirdly, do you really think any of that knowledge is going to be helpful in life?”
“Well, yeah, to buy myself time outside the sex dungeon if I ever get kidnapped by any of my groupies…”
“Your ‘groupies’,” I snickered. “How does that affect me?”
“What if they held you hostage?”
“They wouldn’t!” I growled, exasperated. “And even if they did, they’d only want to know about you, and I’ve got nearly fourteen years’ worth of useless information already. Why all the rubbish?”
“I’m bored,” he whined.
I was certain that his odd ramblings could only have to do with the discomfort of knowing about Devon and her self-inflicted bald spots, but he really needed to curb it or she’d probably pick up.
“So’m I, but I’m not making a huge deal about!”
That seemed to do it. For a minute or two there was some much-longed-for silence. A minute or two that didn’t seem to have been part of that last minute or so Devon promised she would take.
“Harley?”
Grr.
“This’d better be something life-threatening,” I warned him, promising myself that I would never have a car and a child at the same time. His behaviour was sickeningly reminiscent of the way he bugged me on long journeys.
“I was only gonna say, I’m starting to feel sick… And Devon?”
“Yeah?”
“ARE YOU NEARLY DONE YET?!”
The volume of his voice made me slip, losing my pose, and the force of my hopeless grab at the Twister mat pulled him down with me.
“Now that you say it, I think I just about am…” Devon mused, finally showing us her expert sketch.
I copped a good look, praying it was worth it (i.e. halfway flattering). The picture was made up of three rectangular boxes. Each was filled with the view from one of the mirrors – we were all wonky heads, muscles in entirely the wrong places. In one, I’d turned into a bouncy-bellied, flat-chested, bug-eyed, frowning alien. It was basically an inverted version of my desired appearance. My twin was an elongated, long-haired spotty creature from the deep with a contorted face and huge teeth.
Except he wasn’t. When I turned to see his reaction to the portrait, his eyes were dribbling with horror. It took me a moment to figure out that it had nothing to do with his representation in the sketch.
“Charlie,” said Devon. “What’s the matter?”
He shook his head, as if to say he didn’t want to share it with her. Obviously the matter was her, which I thought to be ridiculously insensitive.
“Oh, hang on,” she added. “Dry your eyes. I meant to get a photo of you two in that pose to accompany the
picture – in case Mrs Wright doesn’t quite get it.”
“No!” we both yelped, diving for the wardrobe exit as fast as our overstretched limbs would take us.
#15 Milk Mission
The middle of Wednesday night at our house is typically as quiet as the middle of Wednesday day.
In the mornings and afternoons, we all ping about like angry atoms, bouncing off each other on the way to work, school, homework, dinner, the phone, a friend’s house, etc. At night, save for the occasional snuffle or shuffle, all is silent and peaceful – just like being the only one home at lunchtime, except dark and creaky.
This so far was a night without man-made disturbances – Charlie had stayed in his room, Zak had worn himself out again, and Kitty wasn’t stirring. Despite my tiredness from yet another long walk and the lingering muscle strain from Friday’s static game of Twister, I was having trouble sleeping. My head was spinning with the barefaced randomness that had been going on of late.
Mum was seven months pregnant, and I knew what she’d be having before she did. Aimee was also pregnant, and nobody else knew she was having it at all. And now, out of the blue, Devon being a stressy cow had ceased to be funny, as if automatically.
I tossed and turned, and my mouth became dryer than a desert on dry pills. Time for a milk mission.
Halfway down the stairs, trying not to trip on anyone’s trainers, fluffy scarf (actually Dev’s, of the neck variety), or missing Bratz doll, I paused to avoid the funny (i.e. squeaky) step, just in time to notice the cat. It wasn’t Fred, our own moggie, but rather one of the waifs and strays that had continued to enter through our cat flap for a warm place to curl up all winter. Misty.
I tickled her behind the ear before carrying on. Harry would not be pleased if she was still there come morning. I wondered how he would feel if he realised that the neighbourhood cats had seemingly changed their natural sleep pattern to flip him the bird. The house creaked and buzzed gently, and I could hear the ever more aggravating tssis! tssis! tsssssis! of an mp3 player left on in someone’s pocket. Then, there was another sound. The sound of a conversation I wasn’t meant to be part of.
Voices in the kitchen that were gentle, not worrying – some sort of whispered night time chat.
Mum. “I’m so glad you told me – I know we can get through this together. It’s awful on your own…”
Aimee. “Thanks, Sandie. I just can’t believe it’s happening to me. Out of all my mates, I always thought ‘I’m never going to be that girl’. But now I am…”
Mum. “Well, that’s OK. You’re going to be OK. You’re sure to be sixteen when you have the baby. I can’t fathom why, but that makes it OK as far as most people are concerned.”
OK? Was she bats? Next to no one thought a sixteen year old with a child was alright. But then again, that was Mum. She’d raised us practically singlehandedly, and it wasn’t like Dad had earned most of the money. Even when he did, you could get the same on the dole after he’d taken his drinking cut.
Aimee. “But I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I can’t look after a kid. Children are annoying, like- I mean… I don’t even want one.”
“We’ll just see, Aimee,” said Mum. “Let’s have you seen to at the doctor’s tomorrow.”
The sick feeling was back. All of a sudden the last thing I wanted was milk. Seen to? That could surely only mean one thing, right? A thing I didn’t even think Mum was OK with in the first place. You learn something new every day…
Mission aborted, I tiptoed back up both flights of stairs as fast as I could go without tripping or squashing anything. Once in my room, I threw myself into bed carelessly and pulled the covers up over my head. I couldn’t think of Mum with her belly, condoning what would probably happen at the doctor’s tomorrow. It wasn’t that I didn’t think people should be able to get rid, but it made no sense coming from my mum. Where was the footnote about how totally worth it we’d all been? Had we been worth it? How could she be so chilled out about it and not even mention us? Even Aimee had nearly mentioned us! Maybe I was personally offended more than anything – personally offended and tired.
It all made my head hurt. Really thinking about what Dad was like, how could I ever be sure any of us were wanted at all?
#16 Airing Out The Laundry
Today’s headscarf was a deep blue one with silver stars and moons. Devon was wielding the giant plastic folder with her homework when she grabbed me and my twin on our way out of the front gate. It was tipping it down once again, so on top of the scarf she’d attached a denim peaked hat, with ironic big round pink sunglasses to match, much like what Charlie had tried a few months ago. I could just see the tail of her headscarf trailing down next to her heavily crimped extensions.
“Dev, either run, or I’m going ahead without you,” I teased, trying to sound normal amidst the things I thought I’d known that only I could see spinning up into the sky like Dorothy’s brown and white world.
“This picture, though.” She beamed. “I love you guys!”
Before I knew it, she’d flung her arms around us both at once, despite the metre or so between us, like something out of a cartoon. We must’ve looked nuts, stood hugging in the rain.
After that, she obliged with the increased-pace walkrunning to school, and as a result we were only marginally late. Things at school were surprisingly fine all the way until we’d left PSHE to head for the Art block and were suddenly trampled by a crowd of overeager/undereager-but-late students, crumpling her flimsy plastic folder.
Devon whipped the portrait out, to check for damage. “Look at that!” she grumbled, pointing to an indistinguishable scuff that could really have been duff shading on the now much blacker picture. “They could be a little more careful!”
“Look at that!” Andy mocked, in a friendly manner. “You could leave it in the case so it doesn’t get soaked!”
He was right. Outside the block, it was still spitting quite a bit.
“It’s not raining anymore,” said Devon, who was closest to the door. Right then, another surge of kids knocked her down into a huge, muddy puddle.
“My charcoal!” she yelped. “I added that after you guys left!”
“How bad is it?” I enquired, helping her up.
“Completely ruined!” she snapped, thrusting the unrecognisable picture at us. “I knew I should’ve taken that photo so I could redo it!”
Art and excuses aside (it turned out that Mrs Wright had taken such a shine to Devon that she wasn’t angry at all) there were further shocks in store. No sooner had I got in the front door, Aimee rushed towards me and hugged me.
She actually hugged me, again. “I’m so far gone!” she shrieked, excited. “It’s nearly half over already and I think I can DO this!”
“Well! Good for you!” I grinned, doubting her maths but deciding it wasn’t important.
It turned out that Mum hadn’t meant anything like an abortion. Sorting things out didn’t just mean tidying up mess, to her – sometimes it was just a little mess stabilisation, like making sure a girl with a baby inside her has a good doctor to go to. Somewhere amidst all this, I managed to ask her what she thought about it anyway – I had to know. There was so much about my mum that I’d taken for granted, and not all of it was good anyway.
“Of course I wanted you,” she tutted. “Where on earth would you get an idea like that? If I’m OK with abortion and I’ve had four children, that can surely only mean one thing.”
Yep. It meant that my tired brain had spectacularly failed at logic once again.
The single pebble in the cogs of our family now was how Harry would react. I heard Mum drag him and his bubbling daughter into his study the moment he got home from work, while I was still busy writing this. They’ve been in there an hour! Even though his word on the matter probably wasn’t pretty, I somehow can’t wait to find out how it went.
I can’t wait for a lot of things – enough to make a list! I may have the Spanish exchange and som
e SATs to suffer through, but the future’s looking brighter than ever:
1) Mum’s baby! I’ve kept my word about not telling anyone what it’s going to be, but I think I can trust you. It’s not as if you’re in the business of phoning home or anything – and for all I know, you might not get this letter until after he’s here.
2) Aimee’s baby. If it’s anything like her and Ben, we know it’ll at the very least be attractive. As long as she wants to have it, I’m as excited as she is.
3) August, when you’ll be coming back.
T.T.F.N. Harley & Co. – “Co.” standing for the huge collection of dirty laundry waiting for me in the hallway. It’s seriously overflowing the basket at this point, mostly on account of Charlie’s bedsheets, and I am not looking forward to our appointment.
P.S. I just heard something from Harry, and while it doesn’t sound great for America, now I’m fizzing from the idea myself: “I’ve already booked our family holiday for JULY!”
The next book in the recommended reading order is: Not Zebedee!
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https://www.dilliedorian.co.uk
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About The Author:
Dillie Dorian is an English author of child and YA realistic fiction. She is notable for offering all fourteen titles in her debut series, A Bended Family, for free online.
Dillie has been “writing” since a very young age, and her mother probably still hoards innumerable sellotape-bound “sequels” to everything from Animal Ark to The Worst Witch.
Her first serious project began in September 2006, with “Oops! Did I Forget I Don’t Know You?”, which sparked countless official sequels of its own within months. Working on this series between the ages of thirteen and fourteen taught her everything she knows about writing, and she hasn’t stopped expanding on the Hartleys’ lives since!
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