“Then I’m glad I did something right by you,” he says and we hug. And he leaves. And I’m actually totally okay with that.
I’m not angry or hurt any more, I’m just excited. About my life, about my future, about being me, the me me, the me that was inside and is now outside, proudly dancing around like an unashamed naked toddler after a bath.
As everyone’s milling about and starting to take their seats again, Dylan, of all people, pulls me to one side and I think, Oh, please don’t ruin this moment.
“I just wanted to say, I mean, I just wondered…”
“What is it, Dylan? Because if you want me to ask Chloe out for you now’s not the time.”
He actually blushes and looks mortified. “What? Chloe? No, I just…well, for a while, I’ve…look, I just wondered if you wanted to go out sometime. With me. To the…movies or something?”
What? Is this the same guy who normally at best has some smart-arse remark about everything I do and at worst is persistently a complete git to me?
“Go out? With you?”
“Yeah,” he says, kicking at the ground with his foot, unsure of himself for once.
And it genuinely doesn’t even look like he’s messing around. But, even if he’s not, he’s always a jerk to me. I mean, what does he expect me to say?
“Erm, thanks? But very much no.” I go to walk away, but he holds his hands up to me as if pleading for me to listen.
“Okay, okay, look, I know what you’re thinking. I’m always saying dumb stuff to you, right?”
“Well, duh.”
“And yeah, okay, that’s true, but it’s because, well, it’s because”—he scratches the back of his neck—“I dunno, whenever I see you I just say anything to make you look my way. Because…I like you, Haylah. A lot.”
And I can tell he worked really hard to get that sentence out, like seriously there have been babies that were born more easily than that sentence, and I can also see that he, bizarrely, genuinely means it. Which is kind of shocking and also a bit lovely. But still. Dylan?
“Okay, you… You get that being a jerk is a really dumbass way to show someone you like them, right?”
“Right. But hey, I wasn’t just mean to you—I’ve flirted with you as well.”
“That was flirting?”
“Yeah, okay, so maybe that wasn’t super clear. Look, I’m a guy, I’m stupid. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do know I think you’re awesome, and funny and…argh, forget it, okay? I’m sorry, and we’ve gotta sit down again anyway, and this is your night—just forget it.”
He gives me a sweet, sad smile then turns to leave, but this time I stop him by touching his shoulder, just for a moment. He looks back at me.
“I’m not going to say yes now, but ask me again,” I say, “in a week or so. If you can be cool to me, at school, in front of everyone for a whole week, then, well, ask me again and maybe. Okay?”
His face lights up. “A week?”
I nod. “Then maybe.”
“That’s great. I will. I’ll do that.” He starts walking away from me backward, then points at me with both hands like guns, before quickly putting them down again. “Sorry, don’t know why I did that! But, erm, yeah. In a week, got it.” Then, as the auditorium lights dim, he trips over a chair, gets up, raises his eyebrows at his own doofusness, turns, and jogs away.
It’s almost kind of cute.
As I take my seat, I look over to Chloe and Kas, who jointly mouth the words, “WHAT. WAS. THAT?”
And I mouth back with a smile, “I’ll tell you later!” and they giggle.
“C’mon, Haylah! Darlin’, sit down—they’re going to announce the winner!” shouts Mum from her seat.
The MC bounds back onto the stage with a piece of paper in his hands as I sit back down. Apart from the odd random whoop and cheer, the atmosphere is tense, but I feel strangely calm about everything.
The crowd hushes as he starts thanking the audience, the contestants, and Van and James for organizing the event and then tells a couple of weak one-liners, but even he can tell that at this point the whole audience is thinking, Just get on with it!
Then, as he opens the envelope, silence fills the place as everyone holds their breath and he announces that the winner is…Ayesha Lewis. The girl who sang the surreal songs.
Everyone turns to me with a “you was robbed!” look on their faces as she goes up to receive her prize.
And for a moment I’m almost disappointed. Then the other half of my brain merrily slaps that half ’round the face and I applaud wildly, whooping and hollering with a massive grin plastered on my face.
A grin which might, actually, never fade.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I’m performing an incredible magic trick onstage, which ends with me producing a laughing rabbit from my silent magician partner, Batman’s pants. Spock, Henry VIII, and Miss Piggy all love it, but Simon Cowell decides it’s not for him so I throw the rabbit in his face. It claws him to death and Ron Weasley grabs my hand as we lead the world in a celebratory samba to “La Cucaracha.” He gets carried away and starts using my jugs as bongos.
It’s then I come to and realize that Noah is sitting on my chest and repeatedly banging his little palms down.
“Ow—Noah!”
I bat his arms away, pry my eyes open, grab my phone and see that I’ve slept in. Again. Some things never change. Some things, on the other hand, really do.
Noah beams down at me, holding his arms out wide. “Look at me!” he says.
“Wow, Noah, you got yourself dressed!”
I mean, everything’s on backward and inside out and it’s his school uniform and it’s a Saturday, but hey, the boy done good. I give him a big smile and pull him down for a big hug.
“I’m so proud of you!” I say. “Come on, let’s go get some breakfast and then I’m taking you to the park to meet someone!”
“Yay, park, park, park!” he chants as we march down to the kitchen.
“Morning, Hay,” says Mum, sitting at the kitchen table and crunching on a piece of toast, bleary-eyed after a night shift. “After brekkie, I’m just gonna get some shut-eye for a few hours, then Ruben’s coming over this afternoon, that okay?”
“Of course,” I say, getting Noah settled in front of a bowl a Chocopops. “He’s said he’d help me out with some homework actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’ve gotta design a bird feeder for a design project and I figured with his pathetic love of ‘twitching,’ or whatever it’s called, he might actually be pretty useful.”
“Well, that’s just great, Hay!” says Mum, her face lighting up. “You guys will have great fun doing that together.”
“Yeah, all right, don’t get too excited, Mum. I still find the man’s lack of socks a massive strain on my gag reflex.” But I say it with a smile.
“Oh, shush, ya big sarky cow!” she laughs.
Then just as I’m putting my bread in the toaster she grabs my side and starts tickling.
“Aww, Mum! I’m way too old for tickling!” I recoil.
At the word “tickling,” Noah’s put down his spoon and with an evil grin is now advancing on me with outstretched fingers.
“Never!” says Mum with a deranged laugh and a split second later she’s chasing me into the living room. “Tickle Monster Mother will never retire from her mission!”
And now she and Noah are on top of me on the sofa and I’m almost wetting myself with hysterics.
After getting showered and dressed, I eventually get Noah into something more Saturday-ey and toward the front door. Though now he’s refusing to let me help him put on his shoes while putting zero effort into actually putting them on himself.
“Noah, come on, dude—stop putzing around. We need to go.”
“I’m not putzing!” he says, holding a shoe up to his ear. “I’m just seeing if I can hear the sea.”
“You are SO putzing. You’re like Bobby Putzage.”
�
��I am not Bobby Putzage!” he says with a smile.
“You’re Colonel Putzington. Baron von Putzen-hausen.”
And now he’s laughing. And letting me put his shoes on for him. Isn’t the power of laughter amazing?
“Hamish McPutz of the Clan McPutz.”
And boom the shoes are on. And we’re out of the door. And yes, we’re going to be a little late, but you know what? That’s okay. He can wait for me.
When we arrive at the park, we see Dylan sitting on a bench with his little sister. He’s wearing a button up shirt and smart pants, like he’s actually made an effort. As we approach them, I feel a few nerves fluttering around inside me, but nothing I can’t handle.
Stand tall, chin up, norks forward. You’ve got this.
Bigger than the nerves is the doubt that I’m doing the right thing. Dylan? Really? But, true to his word, he has actually been super nice to me at school for the last week, joking along with me rather than at me (and he’s actually pretty funny). Even Chloe and Kas said they thought it was a good idea and that I should give him a chance. And, anyway, it’s not like I agreed to go on a proper date with him or anything. It’s just a play date in the park for our little siblings.
Truth is, everyone’s been nicer to me at school this week. It’s like a different place. Even those who weren’t at the gig have congratulated me on the comedy competition and people are actually starting to move from “Pig” to “Haylah.” A Year Seven even asked for my autograph. Actually, it was a request to fake her mum’s signature on a note to get her out of PE, but still that counts, right?
Leo’s spoken to me a few times around school, in front of his friends, and though it was a bit awkward at least I’m not at all doughy-eyed around him any more. Truth is I don’t know what I feel about him now. I think I just don’t want to think about him for a while. But who knows, maybe we’ll eventually come away from this as friends.
“Hey, Dylan.”
“Hey, Hay,” he says, standing up from the bench he’s been perched on and looming over me.
Good God, he’s tall.
“I bought you a Twix,” he says, sheepishly presenting the chocolate bar to me like a bear delicately presenting a diamond ring.
“Wow,” I say with my hand on my chest, “my favorite. How did you know?”
He smiles. “So this is my little sister Ruby.”
A tiny pigtailed thing emerges from behind one of Dylan’s calves.
“Hi,” she says in a small voice.
“Hi, Ruby, this is Noah,” I say, shoving Noah toward her. He frowns at her and for a moment I think, This is not going to work.
Then Ruby says to him, “I can do a cartwheel—you wanna see?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer before putting both her hands on the ground and kicking her bent little legs in the air, showing everyone her panties for a second before landing in a heap on the floor.
Noah seems impressed and applauds her.
Dylan leans down and whispers to me, “I just hope no one ever shows her what a cartwheel really looks like.”
“I know, right? That’s like the worst cartwheel ever. What is she thinking?” I whisper back with a smile before saying, “Wow, Ruby, that’s like the best cartwheel ever!”
Dylan laughs.
“I can run as fast as Flash,” says Noah in return, and immediately runs off to the sandpit. Ruby follows after him.
Summer break isn’t even here yet but already I feel that air of change, of freedom and new beginnings and the sense that anything is possible.
Me and Dylan sit on the bench together and share the Twix as the two of them start playing and laughing in the sand like they’ve been best friends forever.
And I get the feeling this might actually, just maybe, be the start of something really frickin’ lovely.
So it turns out writing a novel is bloody hard. OK, not compared to, say, real jobs like firefighting, window-cleaning or accounting. And yes, it’s kind of fun too but still bloody hard.
There’s simply no way I could have done it on my own. I’m not saying other people deserve more credit than me because frankly I deserve a little bit. I mean I did write most of these words myself but, seriously, it’s without question because of the efforts, encouragement, and love of so many people that this book came about.
I really have to start by thanking my agent Laetitia, who, thank God, saw some sort of spark in my writing and took me under her wing. With always the right amount of constructive criticism, she gently and tirelessly shaped, poked, and prodded my work until it became something I could actually be proud of. She then worked her butt off to get me published by the best publisher in the world, making all my dreams come true. Genuinely, I can’t thank her enough.
Massive thanks also go out to everyone at Penguin Random House for generally being awesome and working so hard on creating, producing, and promoting Pretty Funny. Special thanks to my editors Naomi and Emma for believing in me and this book, having the patience to work with me on it, and sharing my passion and determination to get it published. Without them and Laetitia, I would never have discovered Haylah lurking in my head and now I’m utterly smitten with her. Huge bagfuls of appreciation also need to go to my US team at Peachtree for lovingly bringing Haylah to a whole new audience.
I would also like to thank hilarious stand-up comic, top friend, and podcasting partner, Kirsty, for all her help, encouragement, and suggestions on the stand-up routines over so many glasses of gin. They were the hardest parts of the book to write and my already huge admiration for stand-ups is now off the scale.
I’m also so very grateful to the first readers of my early drafts of this and previous failed “novels,” Karen, Theresa, Marion, Sam, Helen, Clemency, Lucy, Ben, J, Micky—all of whom said nothing but nice things about my stuff, even though when a mate asks, “Can you just read this book I’ve written? It might be rubbish,” it must be a truly terrifying prospect.
I’m forever grateful to my crazy school friends, especially Rachel, Jen, and Gem who made those days so much fun and etched in me a lifelong love of teenage friendships, making writing about them so much easier.
I would like to thank Stephen Fry for responding to my crazed fan-mail when I was a comedy-obsessed teenager and instilling in me an enduring love and respect for all comedians. I would also like to thank Caitlin Moran for hilariously inspiring a new wave of feminism and for responding to one of my tweets, which made me wee a little bit with excitement.
I want to send my never-ending gratitude to my wonderful parents for loving and supporting (and putting up with) me for so many years and always thinking more of me than I deserve. And especially my mum who reads and edits everything I do before anyone else sets eyes upon it and never fails to big me up and encourage me to keep going.
Big bagfuls of love and thanks also to my son Toby, who makes me laugh every single day, and my son Benjy, who let me write down everything he said for a year and allowed me to steal it for Noah. I will also never stop being grateful and thankful for my daughter Clementine, who I miss every day but who still inspires everything I do.
The person I really have to thank the most is my husband Matthew; my rock, my number one fan (though not in a sinister way), my gorgeous man, best friend, and comedy partner through this thing called life.
Finally, I would like to thank all the girls out there who go out every day and insist on being themselves rather than bending to fit into a world beset with harsh expectations, prejudices, and idiots. You’re all total heroes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rebecca Elliott is an award-winning and bestselling author and illustrator of over thirty books for children, including her ongoing Owl Diaries series. She earned a degree in philosophy and did a brief stint in a dull office before getting around to the whole book thing. Her passions include eating cheese, loudly venting on a drum kit, and podcasting with her comedian best friend. She lives in England with her husband, two children, a sarcastic cat called Bernard,
and a permanently excited dog called Frida.
www.rebeccaelliott.com
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