I sighed. “Charlie, you’re OK, right?”
“Y-eah. I suppose s-so. I w’s just …really scared I’d seen someone die and not been able t’ stop it! I thought he was going to say…”
“So you weren’t upset that it was Malice?” I blurted. Eggshells. Treading. Crunchy omelette.
His slight smile disappeared. “Um… I can’t really ex-plain. But y-eah, I didn’t want to lose her without letting her know I… love her.”
“Oh, you big emo,” gushed Kay, biffing him lightly round the face, making his floppy hair fly out from his head.
Yeeuckk!
#7 Corzette
Kay stayed round after our hectic one day week of school. It wasn’t very fun, because Charlie kept flopping all over her so much that I had to drag them down to the living room before I had to see anything I didn’t want to. (Like them realising they’re made for each other, and thusly the whole Chantalle situation again.)
Down in the living room was Kitty, who was enjoying a Tracy Beaker marathon on TV, to no despair on Zak’s part because he’d decided he fancied the girl who played Justine.
Kay wasn’t going to let them enjoy CBBC in peace though. No sooner had we reached the sofa than she started overtalking it. “Kitty, what do you… not… like?”
“Huh?” mumbled Kit, who at seven hadn’t yet grasped multitasking and was clinging to the thread of her telly programme for dear life.
“Can you tell me something you don’t like?”
“Kay, don’t,” I warned. “Kitty won’t understand this.”
“I do understand!” Kit protested. “I know what I like. I don’t like Disney programmes that have people in them and I don’t like peas and I don’t like cor… corzettes and I don’t like DVDs because I like rewinding videos with my fingers!”
Kitty looked positively triumphant to have proven that she understood disliking things – but would she understand putting something you dislike as your middle name?
“Kitty Courgette Hartley,” teased Kay.
“I’m not a corzette.”
“You have to put something you don’t like as your middle name. It’s the rule of our game that we’re playing, isn’t it Charlie Blood?”
“Eww…” said Charlie.
“Did you call ’im ‘blud’?” laughed Zak. “Orright Charlie, blud?!”
“Look what you’ve started,” I said, weakly.
“What do you hate, Zak?”
“Urrm.” He grinned. “I don’t like Portsmouth.”
“Why?”
“Cuz I’m not allowed there on my own.”
“Zak Portsmouth Hartley!”
“Ha! I only said Portsmouth so I could have my team as my middle name. Do I win the game?”
“You win the game,” I reassured him, implying that it now counted as over. “I think I’m cooking. Who wants to make our own pizzas tonight?”
#8 Twinkly Ringtones & Further Growling
It was Zak’s birthday party on the Saturday.
Harry had organised it to be at Portsmouth Historic Dockyard, and naturally, our little bro thought it would be a yawn. Not only was it the venue of not one but three barely-optional trips arranged by the Primary school between Years 1 and 5, but Harry seemed to be attempting to combine history and ten/eleven-year-olds under the label “fun”.
It didn’t help that the eleventh is traditionally the last proper birthday party in our family.
We weren’t invited, which to me, Charlie and Aimee felt like the one small mercy in an unnecessarily stressful week. I’m usually quite into History lessons, but even I draw the line at traipsing round the same exhibits for the fourth time with the responsibility of the sort of pre-teens Zak would invite to a party.
Of course, my stress was mostly related to Charlie’s stress, and the insufferable Kay. Charlie’s stress was Malice, and how badly he wanted to go round to her house and smother her with all the misplaced affection that had bubbled up out of his angst at being dumped and the shortly following accident.
Aimee’s stress was a little less clear cut. From the protracted muttering, snapping and “grr!”ing I’d been forced to put up with any time I wanted to read or do homework in my room, I could only assume it was GCSE-related. GCSEs and Ben, whose occasional text messages filled the air with twinkly ringtones and further growling.
If having boyfriends is going to be like that, I’m not sure if I want one! Especially if it would mean that the people I live with are subjected to a continual bad attitude where my (often extreme) efforts to be a reasonable person once were.
That is, presuming that Aimee ever had the capacity to tolerate other people before relationships, soaps, and y’know, being a teenager. Harry had gone on at length about the wondrously edifying Junior birthday parties he’d organised for her, but behind her back, and failing to supply the information that we all really wondered about – whether his efforts had been a success.
At the end of the afternoon, in Zak’s case, things had turned out better than I could ever have imagined. The educational element had been distilled from its droopy school trip roots and injected into a fantastic afternoon of Navally-inspired team games and ordered-in fast food. Zak came home beaming and almost tired out, making endless references that didn’t really hold water, but definitely suggested that he’d learned something. (“Mum, don’t bother with that gross bean stew! I’ll have an orange, then at least I won’t get scurvy.”)
Kitty had obviously enjoyed herself as well. She’d returned with a plush shark from the gift shop and one of those giant, flat swirly lollies, which she lay for about two hours patting against her tongue on the sofa while Mum prepared the aforementioned horrible stew.
I’d spent an unexciting day getting all my homework done; a welcome break from any of the usual weekend sleepover madness which had lasted since before Christmas and probably improved my Maths SAT prognosis by a whole grade level. (Though, seriously, if someone didn’t arrange a girly get-together next weekend, I would scream.) It was just that nice not having Kay (who I’d white-lied to about actually attending my brother’s birthday) around to pester me with the very long list of middle names she’d printed from the Internet…
#9 The New, Improved(?), Not-So-Malicious Malice
Peace from Kay turned out to last until Thursday.
She’d been the latest person to catch that lurg Fern had been suffering with like a whole month before, and this, more than the quality of my lying skills, had accounted for the absence of glittery gushing.
In the meantime, Charlie had given in to his inner Romeo and tracked down Malice’s sister Ceri in the Music block. The way he told the story, she’d been taken in by his winning smile and luscious floppy hair and become willing to tell him all.
The way I saw it, having seen this girl around a lot myself, it was more like she appreciated the opportunity to have a moan about Malice, even if the moan recipient happened to be so witheringly in love with her that anything of much substance would rebound right off the coil of his ear, while his stomach still flipped over in anticipation at the next very mention of her name.
Amongst the things Charlie had remembered to remember about Malice were:
1)She’d initially had trouble recognising anyone’s face. Like, including family.
2)She’d taken down her Gerard Way posters because they were creeping her out in the dark.
3)She was now the proud owner of a fleecy tracksuit. (I have yet to hear whether it has “CLASSY” on the bum like Aimee’s latest set.)
4)She thought the Prime Minister was called Gordon Brown. (It gets creepier. According to the doctor who asked the question, there is actually a Gordon Brown with a chance.)
5)She was improving, but wouldn’t be going back to school until things got a lot better.
* * *
By Tuesday, the absence situation had gone from bad to ridiculous. Of course Kay had been off all week, but now joining her (in spirit, from across town in their own snuggly beds) w
ere Chantalle and Dani.
Trust me to have lost my voice over the Crimby holiday, when anyone else who got ill would probably blag a week or two off school, no questions asked, to text in bed about the weirdoes on Jeremy Kyle.
Meanwhile, I had to share my previously paradisial bedroom with one perpetually grumpy older stepsister, and one little squeaky sis who wouldn’t stop exaggerating about the fantastic fun her best friend Emily must be having “right now at Brownies” – all the way from hometime to bedtime, every weekday afternoon.
For instance, I was sure they hadn’t held a fundraiser and hired a bouncy castle; that would never be in a youth club budget in a million years. I was almost certain they didn’t make Coco Pop cluster cupcakes either, because so many little girls in the kitchen at one time would be a disaster, even if they were all like Emily. The local Brownies were absolutely, not in a million years organising a day trip to Foxlease in the summer, to hang out with the Girl Guides- (oh wait, that had been the plausible story).
Aimee hadn’t been much better. She had screamed at me for flicking between radio channels on the portable stereo while she was doing her homework. (OK, maybe that was mildly annoying, but she SCREAMED at me.) Mum didn’t bother coming up to tell either of us off, and I do mean that Aimee seriously yelled loud enough for the neighbours three doors down to probably have heard clearly the words “SCRAPPY BITCH” (whatever they were supposed to mean).
She’d been making a gigantic fuss all week, which I tried to sympathetically write off as hormones and stomach cramps in my head, although it had got wearing when she threw her expensive phone across the room with toddlerlike rage because one of the dogs farted during dinner (and then played innocent with Harry so that he’d put the damage down to “the other stupid kids” and buy her a new one).
I’d tried talking to my mates about it all at school, but Rachel had turned round all snappy and told me right off that I was probably only jealous because my Brownie pack had been so boring (and how hers was “normal” and did loads of trips and sports stuff), and because I didn’t have a dad around to keep buying me stuff when things broke. Then she called me spoilt, and when Keisha of all people tried to stick up for me over the incredibly bitchy “dad” thing, Rachel said she was “allowed” to say that because she barely gets to see her dad either. (Which as far as I’m aware, isn’t true. She may live with her auntie and uncle a lot of the time – in a gigantic house, no less – but she definitely sees nearly as much of her dad as I do of my mum when it comes down to work and other busyness.)
Bothersome family and grating friends into the mix of more torturous homework, smelly pets (yes, I will admit that it can be horrible), and several hangnails was making me bubble over with stress.
#10 Personal, Social & Health Excruciation
“Good morning, Dr Vassiliadis,” said Harry, firmly shaking the orthodontist’s hand.
The first thing which bothered me about this was the terribly forced way my stepfather addressed the man, as if he had a special type of falseness with which to approach anyone who did not happen to be English born and bred. Not to mention, it was with people who had difficult names that he tried his wormy hardest to insert the word into conversation, as if to prove that he could do it.
This was the fourth time I had been to see my Greek orthodontist, and the second time to get my braces tightened. It was the first time Harry had been the only person to come with me, which made everything extra-awkward.
Dr Vassiliadis would speak to Harry as if he was my dad, and then instead of politely letting me speak for myself, Harry would try his utmost to answer those (to me) deeply personal questions about my childhood self-esteem and the family history of hilariously crooked teeth. (The correct answer to both would be “non-existent”.)
This week’s nosey question didn’t even pertain to me. “So, uh, how soon will I be seeing Charlie for his assessment?” asked Dr V.
My guts screwed up into a slimy ball at the thought of that. Me and my twin brother having braces at the same time?! No, no, never! squeaked the little voice in my head. It would be worse than the time Auntie Sharon gave us matchy-match pageboy cuts in Infants because she thought it would be “cute”. The slaggy studio audience of Miss Secondary School 2007 would get a laugh too many and both of our social lives would be in tatters.
“N-not yet…” I stammered, shocked. “He said he doesn’t want them quite yet, like, maybe next year?”
“Ah, what about in the spring? When he sees what an improvement you will have, he’ll want it for himself.” Dr V gave me the most irritatingly perfect smile I’d seen outside of a magazine to complement his point.
“We could arrange an appointment for March,” Harry declared. “Better get them both fitted up before the exams, eh, Dr Vassiliadis?”
I despised Harry for meddling with my plans. He didn’t understand how things could be for a girl and a sensitive boy at a school like ours. Yet, we weren’t allowed to be annoyed or non-compliant, because Harry was the one providing mortgage payments and money for the water and electricity and phone bills, and enough snacks in the kitchen that we’d never have to eat hot chocolate powder and icing on toast for dessert again.
I was grateful; I was. It was just times like these that made me less sure that he actually liked us. Maybe he was just giving us food and heat and sweets on payday because he was having a baby with Mum and there was nothing we could do about it. Maybe he actually hated us. How would I know?
Dr Vassiliadis at least, was easier to read. He definitely wasn’t a horrible person, but he was fully aware that even if he did like to wind me up about my teeth to keep up my motivation with that special double-ended toothbrush, I would still be back every couple of months like slightly irregular clockwork, because I couldn’t tighten the braces myself.
It wasn’t the sort of thought I usually had on my own (mostly because I don’t spend the majority of my time sniggering about sex), but ever since the eternally sneery Keisha had got wind of his surname (“It sounds like an STD!” she’d shrieked with delight. “An STD poking around in your mouth!”) I had been unable to shake the giggles.
That poor man, I guiltily made myself think, as he removed the wire from my braces. It knocked against my tongue and felt like an uncurled paperclip. Only British people could give you that much verbal abuse over a group of syllables.
“Your teeth are looking much better already,” he commented. “Much straighter. Are you pleased?”
I caught sight of myself in the little mirror beside his dental chair (which looked like something you’d decorate a moped with). Not really!
My front teeth were still horribly uneven. Admittedly neither of them had fallen out in those few short moments without orthodontic restraint (unlike Keisha’s), but no, they were not any straighter. The man was a liar! And I would die if he genuinely decided there had been so much improvement that he may as well not replace that very vital wire after all.
“Eh, kinda,” I mumbled. “Not quite there yet.”
“Oh,” he laughed. “They are not ready yet!”
And somehow, it felt even more insulting that he agreed…
* * *
If it had been awkward at the orthodontist’s, it was moreso in Harry’s car. He was driving me straight to school (I’d been dressed the part all morning), and I was having trouble responding to any small talk he made, not only because my teeth were tight and painful, but because I still had no idea what to really say to him.
“So, what subject do you have next?” he asked.
“Puh…” I faltered. PSHE! Which we pronounced “pee-shee”! Did I really want to explain this to my smart-casual stepdad? “Um, P-S-H-E.”
“Uhuh,” he said, half-listening as he navigated a roundabout. “Aimee calls it… hm.”
Awkward, awkward, awkward!! my brain squealed. Say something!!
“Actually, we’ve been doing about careers. The school’s having a Careers Fair tomorrow, and next term we have Work S
hadowing as well.”
Did that sound like a massive hint? It wasn’t supposed to!!
“Oh. Aimee did her Work Experience at the old building in… hm. She didn’t have to do anything but make us tea.”
“I see…” I said, weakly, recognising a certain twinge in my stomach that was about to make my day a whole lot worse. Fortunately we’d reached school, and it was break.
Unfortunately, I was about to miss catching up with my mates for PSHE practical…
#11 Sixes Of Four
“I-pro-mise-I-will-do-my-best-to-love-my-God-to-serve-my-Queen-and-my-coun-try-to-help-oth-er-peo-ple-and-keep-the-Brow-nie-Guide-Law!”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” I teased.
Kitty had been skipping around the house all afternoon chanting the Brownie Promise in her mucky yellow fleece. It was only going to be her first meeting, so she wasn’t allowed to wear the old uniform that was still hanging up in my wardrobe.
“But I want to be a Brownie NOW!”
I’d never seen someone quite so enthusiastic about it. She’d obediently learned the Promise pretty much word for word, by getting whoever was around to read it out for her just like her Nativity lines until she could say it back practically perfectly.
“You won’t be able to make your Promise for another few weeks,” I explained once again. “You don’t even know if you’ll like it yet.”
“But I will like it because of the new friends and badges and Christmas oranges with dolly mixtures!” she insisted.
She’d have nearly a year to wait for that Christmas orange, which was looking just as well, because the things her Infant teachers had to say about “maturity” didn’t make acceptance at Brownies sound feasible. I knew better than anyone that if it was all about the Christingle and camping and tuck, Guiding would be a doddle! It had turned out there were a lot of pointless challenges and inane traffic light party games, and we’d spent forever deciding what Patrol badge to be, and decorating our Patrol boards accordingly, and dusting churches.
It’s each to their own. I’m personally comfortable with keeping the law and promise quietly. I’ve got the honest and trustworthy stuff down pat (though maybe not “reliable”), and I’d like to think I’m a good friend who doesn’t waste time, harm animals or sneeze in others’ faces.
Sitting Down Star Jumps Page 3