by Anna Carey
‘Yes,’ said my mum brightly. ‘Like me!’
‘Well,’ said John, and he smiled. ‘Not quite like you. I write pretty serious stuff.’
‘Ah,’ said my mother. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eye. ‘I see. What sort of things do you write about?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said John. ‘I write about real life. Real issues. War. Love. Death. Adventure. Philosophy. Escaping conformity. Not, you know, romantic fluff.’
‘Wow,’ said my mother. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Yeah,’ said John. He looked very seriously at my mum. ‘I couldn’t write the sort of light entertainments that you write.’
‘I bet you couldn’t,’ said Mum.
‘I’m working on some theatre pieces at the moment,’ said John.
‘Very impressive,’ said Dad politely.
‘So,’ I said desperately. ‘Don’t we have to go? Aren’t we late for Celine?’
‘Ah,’ said my dad. ‘I suppose we are. Nice to meet you, John. Good luck with the musical – Rosie and I were in a musical ourselves once so we can’t wait to see it!’
For a terrible second I thought he and Mum were going to go on about The Pirates of Penzance for the ten millionth time which would have sent John running for the hills, but luckily they didn’t.
‘Yes, I’m sure it’ll be brilliant,’ said my mum. ‘Keep up the good writing work!’
‘I’ll try,’ said John, and smiled at them very politely. He looked at me and grinned. ‘Bye, Rebecca.’
And I had to go. Obviously there would be no kissing goodbye in front of my parents. When we were in the car (Rachel had waited there because she, unlike SOME PEOPLE, know that most people do not want to come out of a rehearsal with their sort-of boyfriend and find their entire family waiting for them) Mum said, ‘Well, he seems like a … very serious boy. He cares about his writing.’
‘Of course he does,’ I said. ‘He’s a proper artist.’
‘Hmmm,’ said my mum. And then she started arguing with my dad about the best route to Celine’s house.
On the plus side Celine wasn’t as irritating as usual. She had a terrible cold so she couldn’t say very much and we didn’t have to stay long. And when we got home my parents got another posh take-away to cheer us up after the visit. So the day wasn’t a total disaster. But still, I wish my stupid parents hadn’t turned up. I bet John thought they were enormous freaks. Which they are.
SUNDAY
Oh my God. Just when I thought my parents had run out of new ways to embarrass me, they come up with a new one. As if yesterday wasn’t bad enough, today we were having dinner and Mum and Dad started going on about The Pirates of Penzance yet again. And then Mum said, ‘You know what, Ed? I’d really like to do it again.’
Rachel and I looked at each other.
‘Mum,’ said Rachel patiently. ‘You can’t just put on your 1985 production of The Pirates of Penzance on your own. That’s insane. And I can’t imagine all your old castmates would want to do it anyway.’
Mum looked at her. ‘I don’t mean put on the Pirates again,’ she said. ‘Of course that’s a mad idea. Not least because nothing could ever capture the excitement of that particular production. No, I mean your dad and I could join a musical society. There’s one in Glasnevin as far as I know. We should check it out.’
I hoped Dad would say, ‘What a ridiculous idea, Rosie, you must have gone mad.’ But he didn’t. He looked delighted.
‘That’s a great idea!’ he said. ‘I’ll go and look it up online after dinner.’
And he did. And it turns out that not only is there indeed a local musical society, but they are holding auditions for their next production in about six weeks. My crazy parents are counting the days.
‘I’ll have to dig out my tap shoes,’ said my dad. ‘I bet they’re up in the attic somewhere.’
‘You have TAP SHOES?’ said Rachel in horror.
‘Of course,’ said Dad. ‘I did all sorts of dancing in the Pirates. Jazz ballet, tap, disco. I’ve told you, it really was an imaginative production.’
The mind reels. Luckily, Rachel is just as appalled by the idea of our parents prancing around on stage again as I am.
‘Our only hope,’ she said later, when we were loading the dishwasher like the servants we are, and our parents were relaxing in the sitting room, ‘is that it’s almost two months until that audition. Maybe they’ll forget about it by then.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ I said. And I wouldn’t. I know my mental parents. Once they get an idea into their heads, there’s no stopping them.
I can’t tell John about it. I have a feeling he thinks my parents are trivial fools anyway. And this would only prove him right. We met up this afternoon and went for a walk around Griffith Avenue. John started talking about life experience and how important it is to LIVE before you write.
‘I want to experience everything, Rafferty,’ he said. ‘I want to live, and laugh, and love!’
Heavens.
Anyway, that gave me the chance to ask something I’d been wondering about. I remembered Bike Boy saying it was ages since John had broken up with his last girlfriend – or sort-of-girlfriend – ages ago, but John had never said anything about it himself.
‘So,’ I said. ‘Have you ever … have you ever, like, gone out with a girl? Before me?’
‘You know I don’t like to be pinned down, Rafferty,’ he said. ‘But yeah, I was with a girl called Lucy last summer. I met her at a poetry workshop thing. She was pretty talented, actually.’
I instantly hated this Lucy.
‘What happened?’ I said, even though I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.
‘She just didn’t understand me,’ said John. ‘She didn’t get my writing. She was more interested in her own stuff. Not like you, Rafferty. You know how important it is to me.’
Ooh.
I thought he was going to ask me about my romantic history, such as it is, but he didn’t. But I thought I should bring it up, so I said, ‘I was seeing someone last year too.’ I was going to say that I met him because of his Paperboy role, but somehow I didn’t want to. It felt like, I dunno, too personal. So I said, ‘We got together after I was in the Battle of the Bands.’
‘Oh yeah, your band,’ said John. ‘You know, I was thinking about what I said the other week, and I really think you should try and learn the guitar. Or at least the bass. I mean, you don’t really want to be stuck back there behind the others, sweating away on the drums, do you? It’s not very dignified, is it? It’s not very, I dunno, ladylike.’
I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I don’t want to look like a total hobo, but I would always rather have fun and do something cool than be ladylike. So eventually I said, ‘I don’t really care about being elegant on stage. I mean, I’d rather play the drums.’
And John laughed and kissed the top of my head and said, ‘You really are one of a kind.’
I have to admit this really annoyed me. Like me caring about my drums was just some sort of silly quirky thing. But before I could do anything about it, I got a text from my dad telling me I was half an hour late and I had to come home for dinner, so I just had time to say goodbye and trot up Gracepark Road at top speed (oh, John is such a good kisser). And now a few hours have gone by I’ve thought about it and I realise that John just doesn’t understand my love of drumming because he’s never actually seen me do it. Once the band is back together and he can see how much I love it, I’m sure he’ll come round and realise how awesome it is. Paperboy thought it was great that I played the drums. I am sure John will too.
MONDAY
Mrs Harrington brought in the first of her Rosie Carberry collection today. It is a giant hardback and it weighs a ton. I might have known she’d have all the first editions.
‘Can you get your mammy to sign it “To Patricia and Gerard”?’ said Mrs Harrington. ‘And I’ll bring another one in tomorrow!’
Oh God, I’m going to be carrying
giant books to and from school for weeks. AND when she turns up on Saturday she’s going to find out that I lied about Mum and Dad going that night. What have I let myself in for?
That is not the only thing I feel slightly guilty about. After rehearsal today, I was about to tell Cass and Alice I was leaving with John when he said, ‘Oh, come on, Rafferty, we’ll be here all night if you have to find both of them, and we hardly get to spend any time together as it is! You don’t have to tell your friends about your every move!’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I suppose not.’
‘So let’s just go,’ he said. ‘They won’t mind. I mean, Cass is off backstage somewhere and Alice seems, you know, otherwise engaged with Richard.’
So off we went.
‘You know, Rafferty, you worry too much about other people,’ said John. ‘You need to put yourself first sometimes! It’s the only way to get what you want. You can’t be a doormat.’
I know he is right. My problem is that I am meant to be actively trying to be nicer and not a selfish beast. Surely there must be some sort of mid-point between being a doormat and being, you know, nice and thoughtful? Anyway, I clearly haven’t found it because I feel a bit guilty now. I texted Alice and Cass to say sorry and they both said it was fine, but still. Leaving Cass to walk alone is one thing as long as we’re both, like, aware of it, but sneaking off seems a bit wrong.
It was lovely walking with John, though. We talked about books we loved.
John urged me to read Jack Kerouac. ‘It’s written in what he called spontaneous prose,’ he said. ‘Like a stream of consciousness, everything just tumbling out. It’s really intense. You have to read it. He’s like, playing with language.’
‘I’m reading a great book too,’ I said. ‘The Pursuit of Love. It’s by a woman called Nancy Mitford and it’s all about these posh sisters and their cousin and they end up, like, being in wars and stuff, but it’s really funny and …’
‘There’s nothing funny in On the Road,’ said John sternly. ‘It’s all about passion and life. And the need to just, like, get in a car and drive across America.’
‘Well, there’s some travel in The Pursuit of Love,’ I said. ‘The main character ends up going to …’
But John was so caught up in his love for On the Road, he didn’t seem to notice I’d said anything.
‘I’d love to do that this summer,’ he said. ‘Just go to America and hit the road like Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty.’
‘Wow, can you drive?’ I said. ‘I didn’t think you could get a licence until you were eighteen.’
‘Well, I can’t actually drive yet,’ said John. ‘But I’ll be sixteen in July. I could do the test in America. I heard you just have to, like, start the car properly and you pass your test over there.’
‘Wow, that would be cool. But how will you pay for it?’ I said.
‘Oh, Rafferty, all these questions!’ said John. ‘I’ll always find a way to do what I want.’
I bet he will too; he is so determined. I wouldn’t know where to start if I wanted to fund a drive across America. I only have a hundred euro in my savings account and I have to ask my tyrannical parents for permission to take any of it out.
TUESDAY
We have rehearsals every day this week because the musical is on Friday. All the other teachers are getting pretty cross. Miss Kelly, unsurprisingly, is the worst.
‘I want all of you in this room giving me your full attention on Monday when this nonsense is over,’ she said grimly. ‘There’ll be no more excuses for lazily done homework and girls staring out the window thinking about dance steps instead of concentrating on serious geography issues. I might even give you a test.’
We all stared at her in horror. Kelly’s tests are terrifying. Not least because they are generally about what terrible environmental disaster is most likely to afflict various parts of the world. Jessie had nightmares about nuclear power stations and earthquakes after the last one.
Anyway, Kelly relented by the end of the class and said she wasn’t going to give us a test.
‘At least, I won’t give you a test next week,’ she added. ‘But maybe the week after that. So I want you all back working very, very hard on Monday.’
I can’t really imagine what it’ll be like when the musical is over. It feels like it’s been our entire universe for the past couple of months. I can’t believe it’s only a few weeks since we were all standing around a piano going through those songs for the first time. We know them all backwards now.
I still felt bad about deserting Cass and Alice after rehearsal yesterday, so when today’s rehearsal was over I told John I wanted to wait for Cass so we could all walk together. He rolled his eyes but said, ‘If you insist, Rafferty.’
Cass seemed faintly surprised but pleased when she saw me waiting for her and we all strolled out together. She was covered in paint from some last-minute set-painting.
‘It’s all coming together now,’ she said. ‘Did you see the carousel?’
‘Yeah, it looks great!’ I said.
‘A bit garish, though,’ said John. ‘I wish we could have a more, you know, experimental set. Like, instead of an actual carousel, there could just be some giant white spheres in a circle.’
Cass looked at him. ‘I don’t think Richard and Vanessa would be very comfortable trying to sit on giant white spheres,’ she said.
‘It was just an idea,’ said John loftily. ‘I suppose I’ll have to think more about that sort of thing when I’m studying drama.’
‘Oh, you want to do drama in college?’ said Cass. ‘Cool.’
‘Well, yeah, of course I do,’ said John. ‘I’ve always known exactly what I want to do when I leave school.’
‘But you’ve got another two years before you have to think of college,’ said Cass. ‘I mean, maybe you’ll decide that it’s better to do, I dunno, another arts degree and read loads of stuff and then become a director. Or you could even become something else.’
John looked appalled. ‘I’m not going to waste time on anything like that! I’ve got a vision!’
‘But, I mean, you’re sort of pinning yourself down, aren’t you?’ said Cass. ‘You should leave your options open!’
‘I don’t need to,’ said John.
‘Don’t you want to be a set designer, Cass?’ I said, trying to smooth things over. ‘That’s a vision!’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Cass. ‘But I’m not sure how I’ll end up there at the moment. I mean, I might go to college and find something else I like and do something totally different. Or I might apply to, I dunno, set designing and not get in and then have to think of something else.’
‘I’m going to get in to drama college,’ said John, but he looked very annoyed. ‘Not everyone wants to faff around waiting to find out what they like.’
‘Fair enough, I suppose not,’ said Cass. She didn’t seem bothered, but somehow John seemed more sulky than usual. I was kind of relieved when we reached the corner of Griffith Avenue and she walked on home while I stayed to say goodbye to John.
‘God, I thought she’d never go,’ said John, which was a bit unfair because as soon as we reached the corner she’d said, ‘See you tomorrow!’ and left. ‘I know she’s one of your best friends but God, she’s so argumentative!’
‘Oh, she’s not really,’ I said. ‘She just disagreed with you! And she was very nice about it. It wasn’t a big deal.’
‘Maybe not,’ said John. He smiled at me. ‘I suppose it’s because I just wanted to be on my own with you so I could do this.’
And then he kissed me. I wish Cass knew how sweet he can be when it’s just the two of us.
WEDNESDAY
Alice is getting a bit nervous about Friday. Not because of the show itself – at least not just because of the show. But because her parents will meet Bike Boy for the first time.
‘Why are you so worried, Alice?’ said Cass. ‘I mean, it’s not like Richard is really rude or obnoxious or anything. He’ll be fine
! They’ll love him!’
‘But what if they decide he’s not, like, worthy of their family or something?’ said Alice.
‘Alice,’ said Cass. ‘You are not living in Victorian times. They’re not trying to marry you off to a lord. Plus you and Richard have, you know, basic social skills – well, he does anyway. I’m starting to wonder about you. And your parents are pretty normal as far as parents go.’
‘Apart from liking my mum’s books, but that won’t affect them with Richard,’ I said.
‘True,’ said Cass. ‘So yeah, I’m sure the meet-up will go okay.’ She turned to me. ‘It was fine when Paperboy met your parents, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘They only met him a couple of times but they loved him.’
‘And that was after your mum had caught you snogging outside the Knitting Factory after the Battle of the Bands!’ said Cass. ‘But even that didn’t prejudice her against him. And what about John, didn’t they meet him on Saturday?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘Um, that was fine too.’
This seemed to comfort Alice a bit. Actually, the whole thing got me wondering about meeting John’s parents. On the way home from rehearsal today I asked what night they were coming.
‘They’re not,’ he said. ‘Coming, that is.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘That’s a shame. Why can’t they come?’
‘I told them not to,’ he said. ‘How can I concentrate on my art when I know those two idiots are in the audience cheering and clapping? It would be a distraction.’
‘But don’t they want to come?’ I said.
‘Oh, they want to come all right,’ said John. ‘But I said that if they came, it would totally wreck my performance, and did they want that on their consciences? Also, they’d have to buy their tickets through me, and I won’t get them for them. So they’re not coming.’
I felt a bit sorry for John’s parents. But, on the other hand, I can understand where he’s coming from. I kind of wish my own parents weren’t coming. It will only fuel their musical obsession. The only bad thing about this school musical is that it triggered my parents’ memories of their supposed glory days. I never want to hear the words Pirates of Penzance again.