An Amicabubble Breakup

by Dillie Dorian

  The expected whoops and groans reverberated around the class. I dazed awkwardly out of the window to avoid eye contact. Focusing on Jordy’s rugby lesson would be at least somewhat more comfortable than giving my full attention to whatever carnal knowledge Mr W was about to impart.

  “Aren’t we doing about drugs, Sir?” asked Andy, eagerly. “I got some hospital stories off my dad specially.”

  “We already did about the girl who died of ecstasy,” said Jake. “Make with the sex videos!”

  “Leah Betts did not die of ecstasy,” said Mr Wordsworth, clearly flustered that he was struggling not to smirk at the phrasing. “She most likely died of hyponatremia, which is-”

  “Water intoxication!” said Andy, proudly. “She drank seven litres of water!”

  “Correct,” sighed Mr W. “The accepted advice at the time was for ravers to stay hydrated when dancing – especially because the influence of drugs can alter your awareness to the point of not noticing the passage of time.”

  “But Leah wasn’t dancing,” Andy added, with a smugness that made me feel ill. How could he be so fascinated by something so tragic?

  “Also correct,” Mr Wordsworth admitted.

  “How do you know?” asked Justin. “Were you there?”

  “No, Justin – I am not quite that old.”

  Several boys snorted.

  “Look, one of my close friends nearly died under the influence of alcohol and ketamine. I do not find this subject funny.”

  “Why did you say alcohol first?” asked Jake.

  “Because I believe it was the alcohol that caused the problem,” Mr Wordsworth explained. “It’s complicated, but the bottom line is that if you absolutely must take drugs, make sure you don’t mix them with anything else. That includes alcohol and any other drugs.”

  “Can you still smoke if you do heroin?” asked Justin.

  “Well, yes. Unless you’re smoking crack – then no, please don’t use crack or heroin.”

  “What about weed?” asked Andy.

  “I’m not qualified to comment, but I’ve heard that smoking weed under the influence of alcohol can make you whitie faster.”

  “Is it true that weed makes you sterile?” asked Callum.

  Mr Wordsworth tutted. “There have been studies that have shown a small correlation, yes. That’s in very heavy weed smokers, mind you.”

  There was a surge of titters as neighbours hissed to each other about this.

  “And no, that does not mean that you can use marijuana as a contraceptive!”

  The lesson wound on and on like that, meandering in and out of drugs, sex, cultural awareness and a number of other things. It’d be cool to say I yawned my way through it, but to tell the truth you can never know enough and I was quite interested. Why stare at Jordy’s seriously distant bum when your kinda-sexy English teacher is right in front of you attempting to look hip-yet-serious while preaching the law of the vagina to a bunch of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds?

  Mr Wordsworth busted some myths, and we learned a little from his PowerPoint. We found out that the female orgasm doesn’t help sperm travel, pulling out isn’t a failsafe method, old people still have sex, you can get pregnant on your period, and that you can have sex if you’re pregnant. Most importantly for Chantalle, we learned that it’s totally fine to swim if you’re not a virgin, and she seemed too relieved to be embarrassed when all our friends’ eyes were on her. I walked to Science with as close as possible to the buzz of a happy ending.

  #7 Un-Smiley Brothers

  “No probs, got the place!” Charlie shouted, coming into the house just as I reached into the cupboard for more more Fairy. (Kitty was conducting a “Science lesson” in the bathroom, and I’d tricked her into washing the dishes for us.) “They did have a guy, but he was fulltime and they just lost him.”

  I was about to ask where they had lost him, but half expected my gothy brother to start on about how only he could joke about death because after all his friend (read: Andy’s big cousin) Otter had parents who were dead.

  “Huh,” I murmured instead.

  Charlie slipped his shoes off and grabbed a banana which he then made off with. “Uh-huh. I think you have a crush on Mr Wordsworth…”

  Without pausing to ponder the psychic twin rumour, I replied, “Mmm, and I think you have a crush on Devon, but she’s got her eye on someone, so butt out.”

  He slipped into a singsong voice, not unlike the way our friends had jabbed at Chantalle this morning. “You have! You’ve got a crush! On our English teacher! Have fun on Work Stalking!”

  “Shut up.”

  “And what about Jordy? I know you like the idea of him in his little sports kit!”

  “Shut up.”

  “And-” he stopped. “Actually, I feel really mean now. I’m going to put this banana in my gob and go watch High School Musical. Or! OR it can be my mic!”

  “Good for you,” I said tiredly. “Keep the volume down, and I mean the one on your mouth, too.”

  “I know someone who fancies you!” he blurted, at the last minute. “Wait: I’ve said too much…”

  “Charlie!” I called after him. “Tell me!”

  “No!” he yelled back.

  Oh well – he had to be joking anyway…

  I held that thought as I dashed up to the bathroom. Kitty had overflowed the bath.

  “I thought you were using the sink?” I groaned, eyeing the green bowl of still dirty plates.

  “I was,” she said, “but then you took ages, and the teddies wanted a swimming lesson!”

  I gasped. “Did you get them wet?”

  “Not yet; they’re getting changed,” she whispered, secretively, nodding towards the bathroom cabinet which had fun-fur sticking out of the slide-door.

  I opened it, and Maisie, Lulah and Bobo sprang out of their cramped hiding place, nestled beside the spare shampoo, Harry’s razors and a pack of Always.

  “Please don’t get the teddies wet,” I chastised her, slipping the little clothes that were lying on top of Harry’s aftershave and shower gel back onto the toys. “They’re very special to me and Charlie and Shelley. Lulah belongs to Shelley, and she’s going to want her back when she comes home.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kitty said, coldly. “Old toys and old friends and stuff are from ages ago. Emily didn’t want Jessie, so she gave her away.”

  “Emily? Really?” I asked, confused. Last I’d heard of Kitty’s little friend, Barbies were “too grown up” for her.

  “Emily in Toy Story 2. She grew up and she gave Jessie away.”

  Oh… “Oh.”

  All the same, it was a disheartening thought. I’d known I was growing up a bit when I first cried at Jessie’s sad heartbreak song when I was ten, and now it was all coming back. Was it possible that you wouldn’t be interested in me after a year away?

  Charlie burst into the room. The door had been open, so he didn’t have to burst, even though he looked about to. “Kitty! Don’t get Bobo wet!”

  “Sorry, Charlie.”

  “What’re you even doing?”

  “Science and swimming.”

  “Not with Bobo, please,” he said, looking like he’d been really terrified for a second or two. “Actually, Harley, can I have him back?”

  “You softie,” I teased, just as I got Bobo’s neckscarf and silly hat back on. “Here you go…”

  “Erm. Actually, can you put him in my room? I’d like the bathroom to myself.”

  “’Course,” I obliged. “You can have the washing up to yourself, too.” I towed Kitty up to the attic and placed Bobo on Charlie’s unmade bed on my way, feeling stupidly sad about how different we all were to when we were Kitty’s age. Zak wasn’t about, and he’d been doing an awful lot of Being Absent recently, as an alternative to hanging around to argue with Charlie. (Hang on, that had always been the way.) “D’you know what I’m doing on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, Kit?”

  “What are you doing?”

&n
bsp; “I’m being a teacher. Well, not being a teacher, but I’m helping out?”

  “Why?”

  Uh, because he offered? Because he’s handsome? Because it’s better and more appropriate for a budding writer to be an English teacher’s assistant than a car saleswoman?

  “Because.”

  “Oh. That’s that thing that grownups say when I ask them a question they don’t want to tell me the answer of. Like the first time when I asked Mum how Lemmy got in her tummy. But now I know.” (In case I missed that out, Mum let her in on the facts of life last month.)

  “Yes, you do now. What’s the next game we’re doing?”

  “It’s playtime. Maisie and Lulah want to jump rope!”

  Yuh-huh, and I wanted to hang from rope rather than do any more activities that were going to make my tummy knot up with nerves about three days with Mr W.

  “Are we still playing school?” I tried not to sigh.

  * * *

  As Doomsday Wednesday ticked nearer, I became filled with a sense of dread at whether I was fully (or even partly) capable of looking at Mr W without a heart that went “thud!” and a belly that went “squidge!”. I was to meet him outside the English block at eight-thirty in the morning, as he had no intention of arriving any sooner himself.

  When Kitty took me through her jumble of lessons before tea, my brain was knotting up over how unfortunate it was that Mr Wordsworth had perched on my desk a fortnight ago, and how I’d probably never have given his appearance or personality a second thought if he hadn’t been so friendly.

  Snap out of it! I told myself. He’s twenty-five! Give up, because it’s stupid to love a teacher and you’ve always said that!

  But why was that stupid? What would be stupid would be to go out with a teacher; there was nothing wrong with window-shopping. I decided that a teacher was exactly the sort of person I would end up marrying.

  He’s obviously got a girlfriend his own age! She’s probably into art or music. Definitely not an ex-pupil – he’s not old enough AND it’s his first year here. Maybe he’s with another teacher. What about Miss Bowman? She’s young and pretty, or Andy certainly thinks so.

  And why was I even thinking about all this? If my imagination was that good, then why was I fantasising about him when I could be making up school-y stuff for my sister, or starting to actually write a book, or focussing on Jordy, who although I had about as much chance with was at least the right age.

  “You’re not very good at Maths, are you?” said a voice in my ear.

  “Huh?” I mumbled, glancing down at my wobblishly handwritten sheet of Year 2 Maths homework and realising that I had just got “£1 + 75p” wrong. Now that I thought about it, I might’ve been being counter-tricked into doing it for her, as revenge for the washing up idea.

  “Alan has £1 pocket money then Grandad gives him 75p. How much does he have altogether?”

  I began to worry about the results of my SATs again. I had written the answer to “11 x 75p” which is “£8.25”, having misread it.

  “Sorry, Kit – it’s one pound seventy-five, I know that.”

  “Alright. What about question two? ‘Anna sees that apples are 7p each. She wants to buy five. How much do they cost?’…”

  “Thirty-five pence.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m going to stop you there,” I said, twigging that she had just copied down my answer, even though I figured she could probably work it out quite quickly herself considering that she understood estimates. “I have homework of my own, and I need to do it.”

  “OK.”

  I sat down at our desk and set about inventing my own characters. I’d had one in my head for a while, sort of like… a conscience? The voice that shouted “run!” whenever Jordy walked by, or narrated the stupidity of someone else’s metaphor. A little like the cartoon Lizzie on Lizzie Maguire.

  No. I didn’t want my kids’ books (if they did turn out to be kids’ books) to be that much like my own life. I scribbled her out.

  This was no good. I wasn’t cut out to write even for girls the age that Zak was going out with – I’d have to start at the bottom with Biff and Chip types, or maybe even toddler books.

  I pondered how horrid it would be to be stuck in a rut of timelessness like in those books. I mean, if we stayed Primary age forever, I don’t think us Hartley children would be having cute little adventures with a magically un-horny dog and a key, a diverse set of friends and two perfectly happy-together parents.

  No way; if we stayed that age forever, Lemmy would never have got born, Kitty would be a baby, Zak would be little and Dad would be a bully. I know it sounds like I’m being over the top about it, but I hardly think the world needs Jacqueline Wilson for four-year-olds. Save it for someone old enough not to be traumatised. I didn’t want to write about what my homelife used to be, but when you know all that goes on, how do you focus on writing for kids too naïve to realise that other people go through those things?

  I could hear Zak and Charlie raving at each other again, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with their taste in DVDs this time…

  Zak: “You make me want to cut my ears off!”

  Charlie: “I never thought I’d say this, but I wish you’d never got born! You were a nice distraction for Dad so he wouldn’t pick on me so much!”

  Zak: “That’s your fault. Try being normal, and people will like you more!”

  Charlie: “If being ‘normal’ means paying to watch a bunch of losers kick a bag of air around the park, then I think I’ll pass!”

  Zak: “So it’s that different than you weirdoes piling into the stadium to watch some tit prance about screaming in your faces and making squealy noises with guitars? And don’t they get girls pregnant who are about twelve?”

  Charlie: “If you don’t like it, ignore it!”

  Zak: “Well, we don’t make so much noise the next neighbourhood can hear it!”

  Charlie: “You do when you come out drunk and smash up the suburbs and puke on nice people’s lawns!”

  Zak: “Because no one ever got drunk and drugged up at a metal gig!”

  Charlie: “Just give it a rest, Zaccy! If you’re so popular, why don’t you just go back out with your little mates and slander the whole town? While you’re at it, just move in with your bloody girlfriend!”

  Zak: “Maybe I will! Just because you’re so sad that you don’t have the option!”

  Sound of front door slamming.

  Sound of Charlie stomping up the stairs and flopping down on his bed.

  Growl.

  Music.

  Bedroom door shutting.

  Silence.

  Kitty turned to me. “Why are Zak and Charlie always yelling?”

  “They’re just arguing about rubbish.”

  “But Zak said the T word, um-mah! If Mum heard that she’d be really angry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Zak’s gone out and Charlie’s being quiet now.”

  “Oh! I have to do my reading!” she remembered. From her bookbag she produced a low-budget kids’ title called “Dick’s Fun Game”.

  I didn’t think I could make it through that without laughing, and by the time she got to “Harry had a new car. Tom got in the car. Dick got in with Tom”, I had to put the book down and bury my face in a pillow.

  “What’s wrong?” Kitty whispered.

  “Nothing. Just read.”

  “Are you laughing or crying?”

  “Both. Just read.”

  “Oh. Miss Atherfold told everybody off for laughing at it. It’s ’cause Zak called Charlie ‘Dick’ this morning, and Mum told him off, and I asked why because it’s a name but it’s not Charlie’s name, and then Mum told me it’s a bad word, and then when Miss was reading the book I said ‘um-mah’ and everybody laughed, and I got an un-smiley sticker and my name on the board.”

  I struggled hard to stifle my amusement. It shouldn’t be funny that my little sister got in trouble for misunderstanding something,
but my nerves over Work Experience had taken over. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only a word. I think your teacher was just cross because some of the children maybe didn’t know it was sometimes rude. It’s the stupid book’s fault – let me see the date.”

  “Date?”

  I flicked the pages to the start. “Published in 1978 – that’s a really old book. Back then, Dick was short for Richard, only you don’t hear it so much now because it’s a naughty word for a boy’s willy.”

  “You hear it all the time!” she objected, looking confused.

  “What I meant was that nobody likes to be called that,” I groaned, really struggling with this conversation. “All I’m going to say is that you mustn’t use that word, ever, ever, and it’s best to stay quiet and not let anyone know what it means.”

  Mum appeared in the doorway, frowning. “Kitty, a moment? Emily’s mum just phoned. She says you told Emily a bad word today.”

  “Sorry, Mum,” said Kitty, looking suddenly gutted.

  “I’m not angry. It’s only that you really mustn’t say that. I know Zak did, but he’s in trouble for it.”

  “He’s out,” I said truthfully. “Mum, can you just let it go? They’re just not getting on.”

  Mum sighed. “Sorry, but no. CHARLIE!!”

  I heard the music die and the door creak open across the hall. My twin brother appeared. “What?”

  “Which swear words did you say to Zak, and what did he say to you? Kitty needs to know that we don’t use bad words in this house.”

  “I don’t really remember,” he mumbled. “I don’t think I said anything.”

  “Well, your little sister heard you arguing, and I’d like you to apologise.”

  “Sorry, Kitty,” Charlie grumbled, looking really sorry and really annoyed. “I won’t do it again.”

  “That’s OK,” said Kitty, in as irritating a voice as she could muster.

  “And what did Zak say?” Mum prompted Kitty, since Charlie didn’t seem to remember.

  “Oh, Zak just said-”

  #8 Wandering & Wondering

  At quarter-past eight on Wednesday morning, I was already outside Mr Wordsworth’s classroom with a pen, a folder and a wad of paper.

  Of course he wasn’t there, yet, but I was making the most of that to collect my brain together and ditch my crush.

  I closed my eyes and tipped my head back against the wall, muttering. “I do not fancy him, I do not fancy him, I do not-”