Pretty Funny for a Girl

by Rebecca Elliott

  “That was because of you and Chloe!”

  He stops pacing for a moment and looks at me. “It was? Well, didn’t she tell you what we were talking about afterwards?”

  “No,” I say, “she didn’t. Though I probably didn’t give her the chance. She really said that about me?”

  “Yeah, she did.”

  Hmm.

  “I was just so pissed off with her—for, well for flirting with you and for putting my name down when I hadn’t asked her…”

  “No, I did that,” he says, with a guilty smile.

  “What? ARGH! No! Why did you do that?” I yell, throwing my hands up in the air.

  “Because by then I’d figured out you’d written me those cute notes with the jokes, and I thought you should give it a go.” He’s leaning on the fireplace beaming at me.

  “Brilliant. Thanks,” I say, trying to remain pissed off, but his use of the word “cute” has made that difficult to sustain.

  “Well, I didn’t know it would end up like it did, did I? You’re not ready for it yet, but your mum’s right—you will be in a couple of years. You’ll be a huge comedy star, you wait.”

  “Thanks. Well, anyway, I’d better go,” I say, still pissed off. “Don’t want to cramp your style any longer, not when that impressive popularity of yours could be snatched away any minute if someone were to—gasp!—see us talking together.”

  “Look,” he says, walking back over to the sofa and sitting next to me, even closer this time. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I’m going to be really honest now. You don’t know what it’s like—to be the, well, the token black kid.”

  “I guess it is pretty bland and vanilla around here.”

  “Yeah, so brown faces kinda stand out and not in a good way. People don’t automatically look at me and think, clever, funny, bright future, so I have to work twice as hard as anyone else to get people thinking that.”

  “Yeah, okay. It’s a completely different boat, but I do know what it’s like to put up with preconceived notions. I’m a plain, short, daughter-of-a-poor-single-mum, fat girl. People hardly look at me and think, clever, funny, bright future.”

  “I do,” he says, then he turns to face me. “And you’re NOT fat—why do you always say that about yourself? It’s like you want to get in there and say it before someone else does.”

  “So, what’s wrong with that?” I look down at the cuff of my sweater, which I’ve pulled down over my hand and am now scratching at with my thumb.

  “Well, maybe no one else is going to say it, or think it. You’re a curvy, funny, beautiful girl, Haylah. Other people can see it so maybe you should start seeing it too and stop presuming the world’s out to get you.” There’s a short silence before he says softly, “So why didn’t you want Chloe to flirt with me?”

  He keeps his eyes on me. His words “curvy,” “funny,” “beautiful,” and “girl” still dancing around my head, making me dizzy.

  I take a deep breath and, like diving out of an airplane into a horrific but exhilarating free fall, I just go for it.

  I look up and lean over to kiss him.

  And, for a moment, I think he’s going to back away, but he cups one hand around my cheek as he slowly leans toward me, and when our lips meet—fireworks explode in my head.

  We kiss.

  Actually kiss.

  And it’s heaven.

  I don’t know who pulls away first, maybe him, maybe me, and then we stare into each other’s eyes for a moment as he holds my face in both his hands.

  Then his eyes flick away from mine to the clock on the wall behind me. “Argh, I’m sorry. That was amazing but, I’m sorry, I’ve gotta be somewhere in a bit,” he says, a little breathless.

  “Yeah, of course. I’d better be going anyway,” I say with a smile that might never fade.

  And we hold each other’s hands to the front door.

  “You do have a bright future, you know,” he says. “You could be anything, do anything, if you really want it.”

  “You too,” I say.

  “See you on Saturday, yeah?” he says.

  “Saturday,” I agree, still pulsing with a delicious electricity as he watches me walk away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I walk home, standing tall, holding my head high, and feeling like I just won the lottery, Strictly Come Dancing, and the Nobel Peace Prize all in the same day.

  A favorite song of Mum’s, “This Kiss,” plays over and over in my head as I walk. I can’t remember the words though and I’m pretty sure they’re not “This kiss, this kiss! Unploppable. This kiss, this kiss! Abdominal…” But it’s working for me and when I cross the road I actually skip a little bit.

  At home, me, Mum, and Noah watch The Lion King, curled up on the sofa together, and though I of course tune in when Timon and Pumbaa are onscreen, for the rest of it I mostly just close my eyes and replay the kiss over and over in my head. Leo’s hands on my face, his lips on mine. Hakuna my matatas, I wish I could freeze that moment and stay in it forever.

  “Are you okay, love?” Mum asks flatly when the film’s done. “You look like you’ve got your head in the clouds as always.”

  “Me? Yeah, I’m amazing. I’m great.”

  “Things going well with Leo then?” she says.

  For a second, I think about telling her about the kiss, but I’m not sure she’d approve. Oh sure, she’d love it if I actually had a boyfriend, in a six-year-olds-holding-hands kind of way, but probably not a random kiss at an older guy’s house that might not actually be part of any kind of boyfriend-y relationship.

  Oh God, it might not actually be a boyfriend-y relationship.

  It didn’t feel like that though. I mean, we have got a relationship, right? We make each other laugh, love spending time together, talk about proper stuff, write comedy together, like (still can’t believe it) kissing each other. Just because we haven’t talked of boyfriend-girlfriend titles doesn’t mean we’re not pretty much there, right? Which is frickin’ daydream-becoming-a-reality awesome beyond words!

  I spend the rest of the evening constructing new daydreams in my head where me and Leo become the king and queen of comedy, topping the bill at Live at the Apollo, hosting TV comedy panel shows together, starring in our own sitcom and getting our disgustingly lavish wedding photos in Hello! magazine. As I drift off to sleep, Stephen Fry is asking for our autographs at the end of an awards show where we’ve just won everything.

  The next day at school, I see Kas and Chloe sitting at the back of our homeroom as always, and I desperately want to talk to them. I want to tell them what happened. I want them to gasp and ask me questions and tell me how amazing it all is. But Chloe thrusts her nose in the air and turns away as I approach them, so I go over and sit with the crafting dorks in the other corner. And I have no intention of telling them anything about Leo and me.

  I know now that Chloe wasn’t flirting with Leo at the pub; she was actually just talking to him about me. And I know it wasn’t her who put my name down on the open-mic list. But I’m still angry with her about everything else. And with Kas for going along with her.

  They still think Leo’s just using me because they can’t imagine a boy might like me for me. And I also know they wouldn’t understand why he doesn’t talk to me at school—how could they ever get what it’s like to have to work doubly hard because you’re fat or plain or poor, when fate gave them flat stomachs, beautiful faces, perfect hair, and all the free gifts life showers on you when you have those things?

  AND Chloe told me I should lose weight. I haven’t forgotten that. I mean, I know she might be right, but friends aren’t supposed to point out your faults. They’re supposed to make you feel better about them. After all, I don’t point out she’s an airheaded tart. (Okay, so I may have pointed that out a little bit in our argument, but I kind of think it’s a trait she’s proud of anyway.) Well, the hell with her. She can keep Kas and little hedgehog-headed Stevie.

 
I have Leo. I don’t need them.

  And that thought keeps me going for the rest of the day. Apart from when Dylan notices me eating lunch on the grass on my own, watching something (comedy of course) on my phone, and can’t resist being a jerk.

  “Whatcha watching, Pig? Is it ‘Sexy Suzy in her See-through Nightie?’ Can I come and watch it with you?”

  He walks toward me as his friends laugh.

  “No, go away,” I say in a tired voice.

  He nudges my shoe with his. “Aww, you know you love me really.”

  His friends laugh again.

  “Just piss off, Dylan,” I hiss.

  He raises his hands as he walks away. “All right, all right, I was only being friendly.”

  At the end of the day, reimagining for the sixty-thousandth time my kiss with Leo, I walk through my front door and hear Noah crying like I’ve never heard him before. The sound tears at my insides. I mean, sure, he cries all the time—he cries when he falls down, even if it’s a slow fall onto soft grass. He cries when I tell him he can’t have a third bag of chips; he cries when I won’t let him play with my box of tampons; he cries when we point out a tractor we’re driving past but by the time he looks up it’s gone; he cries when I tell him soup isn’t finger food—I mean, the boy can cry like a pro.

  But this is different. He’s really sobbing, quietly but desperately. I rush into the living room and over to where he’s curled up in Mum’s arms and kiss his wet face.

  “What happened?” I ask Mum.

  I look up at her and see that her cheeks are smeared wet with her own tears. I hate seeing Mum cry.

  “Oh God, who’s died?” I ask, suddenly really panicked.

  Please don’t say it’s Granny Mo. Let it be creepy old Uncle Terry. He barely moves or says anything anyway so it wouldn’t be all that much of a change for him.

  “No one, love, it’s fine. I’ll talk to you in a minute. Just help me calm him down first.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  And together we talk softly to him, fix him snacks, give him cuddles, and play a bit of I-spy to get his mind off whatever was bothering him. Eventually, we settle him with Mum’s iPad and an episode of Dora and then Mum leads me out into the kitchen. We sit next to each other at the table, and I hold her hand.

  Again, I ask her what happened.

  “Your dad called.” She gulps hard and, through gritted teeth, says, “To wish Noah a happy birthday.”

  That fart-brained bag of bull crap—how dare he!

  “What? That’s two weeks from now, and when has he ever done that in recent years anyway?” I say, my insides burning with rage.

  Mum tells me that she was in the bathroom when he called, and so Noah picked up the phone. By the time she came out of the toilet, Noah was sobbing down the phone and asking Dad when he’s coming home and promising he’ll never be naughty again if he does.

  I honestly don’t think Noah can even remember living with Dad—he left when he was so little. But he hears his friends talk about their dads, and I think it’s just the idea of a dad he wants to come home, rather than actual Dad.

  But of course he’s never coming home. Which is good. But Noah doesn’t understand that. So now he’s pissed off with Mum, who grabbed the phone and told Dad where to stick it.

  “Noah asked me why we never talk about Dad and why I’m mean to him when he phones,” says Mum. “Argh, I’ve tried really hard not to bad-mouth him in front of you guys, but I guess he’s picked up on it anyway. I dunno, maybe I’ve gone about the whole thing all wrong.”

  She rests her head in her hands as the tears start rolling down her cheeks again. The only thing worse than seeing Mum cry is seeing Mum cry because of Dad.

  “Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to Noah, okay? He’ll understand. I mean, not fully—the boy doesn’t even understand that clowns aren’t an actual race of people—but…”

  She laughs a little, but not much, and my heart aches for her. It’s so not her fault Dad’s a complete family-wrecking scumhole.

  “Thanks, Hay.” She goes back to sniffling, and then says something I haven’t heard in a very long time. “I just wish it could have been different for us, you know? Maybe if I’d been different, been a better wife, he wouldn’t have…”

  I always hated it when she used to blame herself for Dad’s twattishness.

  “That’s rubbish, Mum, and you know it. You did nothing wrong. Dad’s a complete fanny-fart, and he didn’t deserve you.”

  “Oh, Hay, don’t hate him. It wasn’t all bad when he was around, you know. I mean, he used to make you laugh so much. You remember that, don’t you?”

  I think about that for a moment. “Yeah,” I say softly, “I remember.”

  Memories of him reading bedtime stories to me, doing all the voices, and prancing around my bedroom, making me giggle so much my belly hurt rush into my head. Memories I usually block out.

  “He does love you guys. He just, I dunno, he couldn’t settle, always wanted more, more than me.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Mum. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, babe. I shouldn’t be putting all this on you, Hay. You’re too young for this stuff. I’m sorry.”

  But the truth is I’m glad she’s talking to me, really talking to me for once. We bottle up all this crap in our heads—it’s good to pour it out once in a while.

  “Don’t be. I like it. I mean, I don’t like what happened with Noah, but I like that we’re talking, about Dad and everything.”

  She gives a small smile. Then throws her hands up in the air. “Ugh, but I’m hardly sending out the strong feminist vibes I want you to have! I mean, you know our worth shouldn’t be defined by what guys think of us, right?”

  I roll my eyes just a tiny bit. “Yeah, I know, Mum. Girl power and all that.”

  “I’m serious, Hay—don’t ever let a guy get between you and happiness. Being with someone, well, it should only ever make everything else in your life better. It’s just the icing on top of the cake. The cake itself is the important bit to get right. If the icing tastes like crap, you can always strip it away and start again.”

  “Dude, you’re just making me hungry now.”

  She laughs, but I know what she’s saying. And I squirm a little in my chair as I think about falling out with Kas and Chloe just because of Leo. They’re definitely major ingredients in my life cake. Problem is Leo’s just such a delicious icing. With sprinkles and everything. God, I wanna eat a cake right now.

  Mum sighs, lost in her own thoughts. “Your dad, well, by the end he made life taste really bad. But I dunno, I really thought Ruben was different…”

  “Ruben?” The tiniest of alarm bells begins to go off in my head.

  “Yeah. I mean, I know it was still in the early days, but I thought we had something that might last. And that he just seemed to want to make my life better, and that he liked me the way I am, which… God, it felt good. It boosted my confidence so much. And yeah, Hay, I know this stuff makes you wanna vom, but I actually felt attractive for once, which I know I go on to you about not being the important thing in life…but dang, it feels nice, not to be attractive to the world but just to one person, you know?” She buries her head in her hands again. “Huh. Show’s what I know though, right? I mean, maybe I’m just not the kind of woman that makes guys want to stick around.”

  “You are, Mum. Of course you are,” I say, starting to understand that maybe Ruben was actually good for her and also feeling the weight of guilt begin to crush down on my shoulders.

  Bloody conscience.

  “Then why did he leave me, Hay? Didn’t even give a good reason, just said it wasn’t really working out. I guess maybe he didn’t think he could ever love me. Oh, I’m so sorry, Hay. I don’t know what I’m doing any more.” Her voice goes all squeaky and high.

  “Oh, Mum, don’t cry…”

  But she does anyway, making my heart sink down to my toes. The only thing worse than
seeing Mum cry because of Dad is seeing her cry because of me.

  It’s possible I’ve really screwed up here. I thought she’d just forget about Ruben when he left. I mean, he seems utterly forgettable, doesn’t he? But I guess Mum might actually (eurgh) love him.

  And now he’s gone. Possibly, partly, well, almost definitely, because of me.

  And now she’s depressed and heartbroken and really snotty and high-pitched and it’s all my fault. Mountain-man beard and lack of socks aside, I guess Ruben wasn’t all that bad, not really. He was actually even kind of sweet. Gentle, even funny, I suppose, for a bearded guy, and great with Noah…and, well, yeah, he made Mum happy. And I scared him away. To be fair, I’d had a really crappy night, and all I was trying to do was to protect Mum and us from getting hurt (again) by an idiot guy (again). But I guess I’d tried to stop something from happening by trampling on it first.

  Which is kind of dumb.

  I should tell her it was all my fault. What’s the worst that could happen? She slaps me? Never. Bans me from the house? She needs me for Noah’s childcare. Hates me? Ugh. Possibly. But then she might appreciate my honesty, hug me, say I did the right thing and she’s just glad she knows now. Who am I kidding? But frankly anything she does to me can’t be as bad as my conscience, which now has my brain in an armlock and is pummeling it with slaps of shame. I take a deep breath.

  “He does love you, Mum,” I whisper.

  She turns to me, hers eyes wide open in surprise. “What?” she says.

  “That night he babysat Noah and I was at Chloe’s… I came back and we talked and…he told me he loved you and stuff, but, well, I told him you…”

  She shoots me a jagged look and her voice goes all growly. “You told him what?”

  Oh God. Maybe she will actually slap me.

  She’s drumming her fingernails on the table as I look anywhere but at her.

  “I told him you didn’t think of him like that, that he was, erm, nothing to you and it, well… I said it would be better for everyone if he just…left us alone.”