Sitting Down Star Jumps

by Dillie Dorian

  “Yeah, Malice In Blunderland isn’t working out without Malice starring as Malice, so he wants to start his own band and get out on the local scene.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “Yeah, with Andy and Jordy.”

  Jordy?! In a band?! The sheer thought put butterflies in my stomach. An excuse other than mucky football matches to watch him shine!

  “Um, how? None of them have any talent. Jordy’s hot and all, but as far as I know you don’t get awarded a record deal just for that.”

  “You totally do!” She grinned excitedly. “That’s the best part! They won’t even have to be good.”

  Ah, now we were getting closer to the truth. Even demented “Devon” didn’t genuinely see the talent flowing through their veins. She probably just wanted to see Charlie get up on stage and all that.

  “But seriously,” I pointed out. “None of them play an instrument. Is this going to be like a boy band?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong! Andy’s cousin taught him and Charlie how to play guitar, and he let them have a go on his drums, too, and Jordy already learned piano so he’s on keyboards.”

  It sounded like what she was describing was one afternoon hanging out, not the months upon months of practise usually associated with calling yourselves a band. “But none of them can sing!”

  “They can.”

  “They can’t. Though realistically, could they be any worse than Malice was?”

  “Charlie can sing. He sung to me.”

  “Well, I know he sings when he’s alone – or thinks he is – but he’s not good. His voice is all husky and stupid, and no one will pay to hear that.”

  “They want me to sing, too,” said Kay.

  “Right, that’s it,” I groaned. “He keeps everything from me – and tells it all to you! About the band, about who he fancies on TV, singing and all!”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Harls,” she said, with the ugliest look of superiority. “At least he’s trying to have an identity. You think he needs you all the time, and they always say one twin ends up with no personality when you have to stick together. I bet you thought it was going to be him, but it’s not.”

  “You can talk! You spend your time trying to make me just like you, with the hair and the fluffy socks, and the whole Devonism and middle naming! Now he’s practically adopted you as his diary.”

  “Because I actually have a style,” she flamed. “You dress like you don’t know how. All jeans and T-shirts and those stupid red trainers that don’t match.”

  “Well, I LIKE that stuff,” I exploded. “It’s not like any of your stuff goes together either. Floral skirt and Nirvana T-shirt? With garters and no socks! At least my clothes are sensible.”

  “Because it’s so sensible when your stupid knockoff Converse make you walk like a duck, and when your jeans get soaked in the rain and take hours to dry, and when that stretchy sunflower T-shirt won’t stretch far enough and shows off your belly to the whole world. If you’re going to be shallow, at least be attractive.”

  I felt like I was bubbling over. I could be pretty angry sometimes, but it wasn’t often that I really had to shout, and even less of the time I’d seriously feel that one of my friends had so much cheek that I didn’t exactly want to be around them ever again.

  “I’m not shallow; I’m just realistic,” I sniped. “Not that you’d know what that means. Some of us don’t dress out of charity shops by choice.”

  And off I flounced, feeling kinda nice to get all of my fury out in the open instead of bottling it up like usual. She could have Charlie, but she certainly wouldn’t be having me any longer!

  #13 Butter Wouldn’t Melt

  Dear Harley,

  No, Laura is not my girlfriend. I do not fancy her. She is one of my best friends. I do not mind Charlie if he is not good at computer games. He sounds musical. Apparently Alfi sent Kay a Nirvana CD. I don't know if that is her interest, but I do not approve of Kurt Cobain. He murdered the rock n roll.

  Last week the whole school computer broke and I fixed it. I had to learn good computer skills because my brother Isaac is a hacker and always hurting with my things. I would prefer not to change to email you because Isaac said that if he had your email he could operate your computer from our house.

  I hope you do not mind. How are you?

  Gerry

  “Well, he seemed to want to impress you,” said Kay. “Kind of like Charlie gets when he’s with me. He likes you.”

  “He does not fancy me!” I protested. “He said he doesn’t fancy Laura, and judging by the photo she gave Charlie, she’s prettier than me by miles! He’d never want me. Not that I fancy him at all!”

  “Suit yourself,” Kay sighed, leaning back over to get something out of her bag.

  “I plan to.”

  “Next Friday is the day!” she announced suddenly, shoving a flyer at me.

  URGENT NOTICE – NON-UNIFORM DAY

  All students are to be notified that we are holding a charity non-uniform day next Friday (the 19th of January), in aid of a local Youth Cancer Fund.

  “Yeah, we have to do something for it,” I explained. “Zak’s mate Ryan received help from them when he was battling leukaemia. It’s our family charity.”

  “The same Ryan who’s Andy’s adopted brother?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh, my God… the poor kid.”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a thing for us. Especially Zak and Andy.” I winced, thinking about how Zak used to visit Ryan in hospital and really had a crap time dealing with the whole thing. It was feeling real all over again, and the last thing I needed was Kay getting all retroactively sorry for everyone like she’s so prone to do.

  I glanced at the KS3 noticeboard on the way out of English – alongside the same slip Kay had showed me, it was littered with additional pieces of paper entitled things like “SHAVE YOUR HEAD FOR CHARITY”, and “FUN RUN”. Things we’d all like to do for charity, but couldn’t for obvious reasons.

  “Don’t s’pose Charlie’d shave his head for charity?” she giggled.

  “No way José!” he answered himself, popping up behind us from the stream of people from his row leaving the classroom. “Which charity, anyway?”

  “Ryan’s cancer charity,” I said. “Don’t worry – we weren’t really going to ask!”

  Charlie’s jovial expression soured to a look of threatening depression once again. “But- I do want to do something. Just not that!”

  And with that, he sped away.

  * * *

  It turned out there was no mystery behind Charlie’s sudden exit. He and Andy had headed straight to the library for a dead serious chat about what could be done for the cancer charity, and having got no further than ruling out any kind of head shave as bad taste, Andy and Ryan wound up round ours after school.

  “I’d never ask for that anyway,” sniggered Ry, when he heard their reasoning. “You emo types are worth more with your hair on!”

  “Aw, Ry,” said Charlie, awkwardly. “I’d do it for you if you really wanted, though.”

  “Chuck, I know you wouldn’t, so quit pretending and think of something else!” Zak hollered from the kitchen, where I was supervising him as he stirred Heinz tomato sauce into a large pan of baked beans.

  “That’s enough,” I said, sickly, as I wafted our veritable bar of Co-op spreadable over the hob to soften it. I mostly meant the ketchup, but I’d managed to get a cracking headache on the way home and was feeling too fragile for any brotherly bellowing.

  “We could play a gig at school,” Charlie suggested. It was a weak shot, but he earnestly wanted to contribute something to the cause.

  “Yeah, your school,” said Andy to Ryan. “We suck so much right now that it’d be like a Comic Relief thing and we’d have to dress as clowns.”

  “Mr Fishlock would break you for singing that song in front of the littlies,” snorted Ryan. “Andy, bruv, you can’t write lyrics that are half about Grand Theft Auto and ha
lf about mushy feelings!”

  “Actually, the feelings part was all me,” Charlie admitted. “There’s this girl and um-”

  “SHUT UP!” said everybody.

  He had to. The ancient Tweenies doorbell chimed its little tune, and I was met at the threshold by an excited Kay.

  “I thought of something for Charlie to-”

  “And don’t go easy on me either!” I heard Ry insist. The boys had obviously decided to settle things like only the braindead sex could.

  “I’m not going easy,” said Charlie, feebly stagfighting Ryan into the kitchen where I could see them clearly. “But if you beat me, YOU have to decide what I do!”

  “Fair enough!” Ryan wrestled Charlie to the floor, effortlessly. I started to worry about them barging into Zak who was draining the pasta all by himself into the sink. “One, two, three – and you’re out! Oh, hi, Kay. What did you want?” He smiled as if it was his house.

  “I had an idea about what Charlie could do for your charity.” She grinned, super-sweetly. Butter wouldn’t melt when Kay was on a goodwill mission. She was struggling to conceal a whole wad of glossy paper in her second-hand mohair jumper. “But I guess you’ve earned the right to choose…”

  Ryan eyed up the contents of Kay’s sweater. (Not like that.) “Nah, I think I’ll let you choose.”

  “Alright then, Charlie…” said Kay. She knelt to peel him off the tiles, and accidentally scattered what I now recognised as wax strips all over the place.

  “All right!” exclaimed Zak, who had by then slopped pasta onto several plates and was reaching for an extra one for Kay. “PREPARE FOR PAIN!!”

  #14 Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!

  “So which part of me are you attacking first?”

  Charlie looked uneasy now that we’d actually got down to the act. Brave as he had seemed to volunteer as our group’s charity guinea pig, his voice was wavering like he seriously wanted to back out.

  “Me? You can do it,” chuckled Kay. “Big boy.”

  “Get a room,” I muttered.

  “What’re you doing, Devon?” he asked, impatiently. I noticed that these days Charlie was using her made-up name.

  “Reading the instructions, duh!” she spat.

  Trouble in paradise?

  “So…” He whimpered with realisation. “You’ve never done this before?”

  “God, are you mad?!” she exploded. “Everyone says it’s really painful! Even Keisha got dry skin from these, and she’s the toughest person I know.”

  It was true. Keisha’s booby Christmas present to Kay had been the mostly-untouched box of wax strips. It was at least twice as bitchy as the out-of-style baker boy cap Chantalle had given me after wearing for absolute yonks last year.

  “I’ll stop you right there!” shrieked Charlie. “I have very sensitive skin, and you are unleashing this punishment upon an emotionally broken man, under the assumption that he will oblige his psychologically wounded legs to your itchy demons!”

  “Very poetic, Charlie,” I tittered. “But you did say Ryan could choose, and I think he was very nice about your manky hair.”

  “Well, get on with it!” He squirmed on the bed. Aimee would be home from her friend’s any minute, and our snippy stepsister was the last person he wanted in the audience as we subjected him to charity torture. “Where’s it gonna go?”

  “I said, you decide – or I’ll stick it where the sun doesn’t shine and leave you to it!” snapped Kay.

  “After less than four months, you’re threatening to stick luxury Sellotape to parts of me that not even Harley’s seen since we were what, three? Four at the most?”

  “Er…” I considered how much to reveal. We’d bathed together until we were Kitty’s age and got too big for the tub. However, he and Kay bitching at each other was proving to be twice as irritating as the uncomfortable flirting. “Nine. He had this phase…”

  Charlie gaped with horror, but didn’t correct me. I felt momentarily bad, having remembered the odd gaps in his memory from when Dad was around.

  “Legs, I think,” said Kay, with satisfaction. “Could be embarrassing in PE!” She yanked the leg of his trousers up to his thigh, revealing what I still think were the hairiest legs in our entire Year. “Make the most of the smoothness, and get a little tan.”

  Charlie folded his arms, probably glad it was January. “No.”

  “Get started, then,” she teased. She was hovering almost as if she wanted to help, but was anxious about actually touching his leg. (I would be too, the total forest they were.)

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he pointed out. “I’m a boy. YOU do it.”

  Without pausing to argue, Kay smoothed the first wax strip onto his leg, smiling this evil little smile all the time. “This may hurt a tad,” she said, ripping it up again.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!” wailed Charlie. I could see tears pricking in his eyes for non-feelings reasons.

  “And again,” she murmured, ironing another one down with the side of her hand.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAA---HA-HAAAGH!!”

  It was comical. Charlie writhing around on my bed in pain, with only two distant patches of hair missing from his left leg. He always had to ruin the fun by dribbling and sniffling so that we couldn’t quite laugh at him properly.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” cooed Kay, giving up the sadistic act and collapsing once again into playing Mummy.

  “Yes!” he insisted, although he was as pale as a sheet and looked about as limp.

  “Sure you’re sure?” I asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  He didn’t act sure. I had to explain to Kay how to pin him down like Mum once had to do when we always ran from the conjunctivitis eyedrops.

  This, I instantly regretted – having to see my on-off substitute bestie straddling the twin brother she so wanted to steal was enough to make me worried I’d barf up my dinner.

  “Is somebody giving birth up here?” joked Mum from the doorway. We hadn’t noticed her approach. She was home from her shift at the tills already.

  “Charity legwax,” I explained. “He should try being a woman, eh, Mum?”

  “My brave boy,” said Mum, wobbling into the room to slick his hair back out of his sweaty face just as Kay ripped off the last strip. “So how many sponsors did you have to get to agree to this, sweetie?”

  “Oh God,” said Charlie, faintly. He dragged one of my bed cushions over his face and groaned continuously for over two minutes.

  Sponsors. Right…

  #15 Backspace The Beanbags

  “Urgh!” I groaned, as I scrunched up another piece of paper. Without a word processer and nifty Backspace button I was worried I was set to singlehandedly destroy all the good work those recycled loo roll companies were doing for the environment.

  Keeping up correspondence with the bog-boring Gerard was really stressing me out.

  What to say?

  Dear Gerry,

  It’s nice to hear about your thing with the school computers. Don’t worry about the email, though. I share it with my two brothers and stepsister, so I never really get on there.

  So you don’t like grunge? Maybe you should be in touch with Charlie, rather than me. He’s started this band, now, and they could do with some tips.

  Excellent! I could palm him off on my brother for one less thing to worry about, and Gerard’s hate for Nirvana might even stir some stuff up with Kay.

  We’ve got a charity day at school this week, and they’re letting us wear our home clothes if we pay a pound. Our family actually knows someone who was helped by this particular charity, so we’re all trying to think of things to do to raise a little extra.

  Was that too depressing? It was meant to be cheerful, but I wasn’t sure how well things would transfer to a non-native English speaker, so I didn’t really want to mention the word “cancer”.

  Have you ever done anything cool to help a charity? I’d love to hear about it.

  Harley. />
  There. Another painfully awkward, boring letter. I couldn’t help feeling like my question was a cop-out, but it was the best I could do considering it was now Wednesday night and nearly time to pick Kitty up from her second-ever Brownie meeting, not to mention only two days until I was supposed to have chosen something brilliant to do for Charity Day…

  * * *

  I guess a small part of me half-expected Kitty to surprise us all with sudden sitting-still-and-gluing-felt skills, desperate to impress Emily and Brown Owl. It’s not that I discounted the benign possibility that everything would be OK, I promise, but judging by Sunday afternoon’s venture into car-washing (Harry’s car, to be precise), it wasn’t looking good.

  After being shooed when she tried to help me with the washing up (so, totally my fault, for being all “Well, Kitty, when I said doing the dishes would be a good turn, it was meant as an example”, as if I was even certain she knew what “example” meant), she managed to empty Aimee’s entire TRESemmé shampoo and conditioner duo over the car out on the driveway before being rumbled by our previously napping mum and step when she slopped the entire terry-soaking bucketful of water down our carpeted stairs.

  It could’ve been worse – if the baby was here already, there’d have been nappies in it. Mum and Harry had been through the box room once again on Saturday, checking we still had most of what we needed left over from when Kitty was smaller, and they obviously hadn’t realised how tempting the pile of mysterious items in the half-painted baby’s room would appear to a kid like her.

  Mum always starts off optimistic. She’d had me and Charlie in terry towels until we were practically potty trained, and there were two of us. I think she managed about six months with Zak, and two weeks with Kitty. At the rate things were going, the new baby would be born wearing a disposable nappy. Among the curious objects in the baby’s room were a brand new set of wall stencils one of the dogs had already chewed up, Kitty’s repurposed (i.e. repainted) ex-wardrobe and bedside chest of drawers, and the ancient wicker basket and fullsize cot we’d had since 1993.

  Kitty had instantly recognised the cot and resolved the sleep in it forever and ever “like in the good old days”. (She has some serious vocab when she wants to.) Harry ended up having to drag her out of there when we heard a familiar small cracking sound emanating from the base of the structure, which if left much longer would mean buying a new cot.