Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging

by Louise Rennison

I said, “Because she calls him ‘my new dad.”’

  Mum ignored that and went on, “Well, I must get back to work. Are you sure you will be all right?”

  I said, “Oh yes, I’ll be all right—wilI YOU be all right?” (I said it really meaningfully but she didn’t know what I meant.)

  Minutes later she came back in the room and said, “Georgia, I know that you like a bit of drama, but I’m afraid that Jem and I are not having a passionate affair.”

  I said, “Oh, what is it, then? A really lukewarm affair?”

  She sat down on my bed. “It’s not any kind of affair. Look, love, I really, really miss your dad.” And it was horrible because her eyes were all leaky.

  I said, “You can’t miss his mustache.”

  She said, “No, I don’t miss that. But I love him. Don’t you?”

  I said, “He’s all right.”

  She kissed me. “I know you do love him, you’re just moody and someone has to suffer, but never mind, we’ll be seeing him soon.”

  Then she left. God, I can’t stand this having to talk about grown-ups all the time! I do wish my dad was here, then I could forget all about him!

  4:00 p.m.

  Robbie will be here in half an hour. I’d better just go to the Ioo again. I’ve only been ten times in the last ten minutes. I hope I’m not incontinent; I’ll have to wear big nappies. . . . Robbie will never stand for that—if he gets famous he won’t want a girlfriend who wears nappies.

  6:30 p.m.

  Robbie has just gone. I feel all hollow inside like a hollowed-out coconut. He looked so gorgeous, all in black, and sort of sad. He gave me a brilliant smile when he saw me and then he just pulled me towards him (quite roughly, actually. . .). I remembered how cross I was though, so I only snogged him for half an hour before I said, “How could you tell Lindsay that I was sad and that I followed you outside and flung myself on you?”

  He looked puzzled. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t. . . . I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

  “Well, that’s what Lindsay said to me.”

  He looked uncomfortable.

  I went on, “And are you engaged to her or not?”

  He looked really puzzled then. “Engaged to her? Why should you think that?”

  “Well, because she wears an engagement ring at school that she tells people you gave her.”

  He sat down. “This is bad.”

  I tried to go on being cross but he looked so gorgy porgy that I couldn’t keep it up. Then he looked right into my eyes. I tried not to blink because not blinking is supposed to be attractive. He said, “Look, Georgie, I’m having real trouble with this. The truth is, I’ve been trying to find a way to end it with Lindsay but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  I said, “Yes, it’s tricky, isn’t it? Because she obviously likes you a lot. Still, I’ve got an idea. . . .”

  He looked hopeful. “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell her, in a nice way of course, that she’s a wet weed and that she’s being dumped. That should do it.”

  He did actually laugh! He said, “You’re mad. Anyway, it’s my problem and I’ll sort it out, but there is something else I have to tell you.”

  Here it comes, I was thinking (but not blinking). He’s going to say, “You’re the girl of my dreams, will you be my girlfriend? You’re the most gorgeous girl I have ever . . .”

  I’d just got to that bit in my head when he interrupted me. “I have to tell you, it wouldn’t be fair to you not to . . . but well, I am attracted to you [I tried not to smirk or smile too much in case he had second thoughts when he saw my nose spreading all over my face] but I can’t go out with you.’’

  I said, “Why not?” and he said, “Because you’re too young. I’m nearly eighteen—it wouldn’t be right, it would be like cradle—snatching.”

  I argued with him. I even said, “I’m not really fourteen, I’m actually fifteen and a half, it’s just that I’m not very bright and they’ve kept me back a year.”

  He laughed, but in a sad way. Then he gave me a last-kiss sort of thing and went.

  midnight

  Too young for him. Oh merde merde merde, double merde.

  I wonder where Angus is? I could do with something to cuddle even if I did get a savage biting.

  monday july 5th

  11:30 a.m.

  Mucho excitemondo!!! Robbie has dumped Lindsay!!! Hurrah!!! She came into school with her eyes all swollen up like little boiled sweets. I passed her in the corridor and she said, “I hope you’re satisfied now, you horrid little girl.” Horrid little girl, that’s nice.

  I could have said, “At least I don’t wear bits of rubber down my bra and a piece of string up my bottom.” But unfortunately I began to feel a bit sorry for her. After all, she would never get another boyfriend, whereas even if I had to wait a whole year I would one day be older and then I could get Robbie.

  5:30 p.m.

  I’m glum, though—a year seems a long, long time and what if he finds someone else before I get old enough?

  6:30 p.m.

  Still no sign of Angus. This is a bit unusual. He always comes back for his dindins.

  7:00 p.m.

  Looking round the street for Angus. I had a dead mouse and a chop to entice him.

  7:15 p.m.

  Just stumbled into Mark, snogging in his driveway with some girl . . . he’s always at it!! If it’s true that stimulation makes things bigger (breasts, etc.), perhaps he had very tiny lips when he was born and he has just overstimulated them by snogging all the time.

  9:30 p.m.

  No Angus. I hoped he might be at home lurking behind the curtain ready to attack my legs, but he’s not.

  11:00 p.m.

  No phone calls, no Angus. Libby came into bed with me. “Where big pussy tosser?” she asked me. I almost cried. I really cuddled her but it made her too cross and she bit me on the chin.

  Had a dream about Robbie. I had blond hair in the dream.

  tuesday july 6th

  7:30 p.m.

  Eureka!!! I’ve got it!!! I know what my dream was trying to tell me. There is a way I can convince Robbie that I am more mature than my fourteen years . . . I have to dye a blond streak in my hair. A blond streak will add years to my appearance!!!

  Still no sign of Angus. Mum said, “I don’t want to upset you, but you know that he stalks cars and attacks them—it may be that this time he’s had a bit of an accident.”

  I can’t bear to think of this.

  midnight

  I think of all the animals in the world and all the sad things that happen to them. Little chickens whose parents go for a day’s outing on the farmyard truck and never come back because they have gone to be on somebody’s table. And all the little sheep who see their mummies and daddies loaded into vans . . . oh I cannot stand this. I’m never going to eat meat again.

  1:00 a.m.

  They say vegetables feel pain. What about the little baby potatoes all snug underground with their brother and sister potatoes and then a big hand comes and uproots them and . . . slices them up. Oh God, now I can never eat chips again.

  2:30 a.m.

  What can I eat, then?

  wednesday july 7th

  8:00 a.m.

  I’m shattered this morning, and upset. I miss Angus. Even Mum does. Mrs. Next Door doesn’t, though. When I asked her if she had seen him, she said, “No I haven’t. And I know he hasn’t been in my yard because nothing is dead or dug up and my dog is not a nervous wreck.” I hate her—I hope her husband gets stuck in his greenhouse and then she will know what I feel like. She will know what true pain is.

  And suffering.

  2:30 p.m.

  Ink fight in RE, which generally cheers me up, but I couldn’t even flick properly I was so upset.

  The gossip at schooI is that Lindsay is not eating and has got what’s it—anorexia. I don’t know how you would know, she’s so skinny anyw
ay.

  Nearly the summer hols, so it will be the last I see of this hellhole for a bit.

  friday july 9th

  8:50 p.m.

  I really think Angus must have been run over or something. I miss him, we’ve been through a lot of stuff, me and him. Stupid furry freak. But I love him. It seems I am destined to lose everything I love.

  sunday july 11th

  2:00 p.m.

  Jas and I looked in all the streets around her house, just in case Angus had followed me one day and then lost his way. We were just by her place when Robbie pulled up in his mini. He looked a bit ruffled but I was too down in the dumps to think about it much. He said, “Have you found Angus?”

  I said, “No, we’ve looked everywhere.”

  wednesday july 14th

  3:30 p.m.

  Every cloud has a bit of a silver lining. I was sitting against the school wall in the shade, just thinking. The others were all sprawled out sunbathing by the tennis courts. The bit of wall I was leaning against was just near Elvis’s hut. I saw him put on his coat and get his shopping bag . . . what a wally he looked. He closed the hut door but he didn’t lock it and then he went off. I’d nothing else to do so I thought I’d go and sit in his hut for a while, see what it would be like to be a school caretaker.

  There was nothing much in the hut—a chair and a table and a little fridge and some magazines he’d been reading. I sat down and flicked through them . . . and my jaw nearly dropped off. Because they were naughty magazines, if you know what I mean. Called Fiesta and Big Girls. One of them was called Down Your Way, and was all full of candid photos of readers and their wives in the privacy of their own bedrooms. Some of them were so fat!! I flicked through the pages to the centerfold. And the centerfold was ELVIS and MRS. ELVIS!!!! In the NUDDY-PANTS!!!! I couldn’t believe it. Elvis in the nuddy-pants. Elvis was standing by the kettle in the nuddy-pants pretending to make a cup of tea, and Mrs. Elvis was doing the washing-up in the nuddy-pants!!!

  I took the mag with me and passed it around the whole class. We were laughing for the whole afternoon. Someone only had to say, “Fancy a cup of tea, my dear?” and we’d be off again. Ooohhhhh, it made my stomach really hurt with laughing.

  Elvis knows someone has got his mag but he can’t say anything. If! see him I just let my eyes drift down to his trousers. . . .

  saturday july 17th

  12:00 p.m.

  Joy joy, double bubble joy. Hadihahahaha. Robbie has just phoned me. He has found Angus!! Robbie had been out searching for him and he heard all these dogs barking so he went to see what they were barking at. And it was Angus, tied up. Some people had found him. He had a bad paw so they had bandaged it up and tied him up until they found his owners. They had put up notices but I hadn’t seen them.

  Robbie said the people were bloody glad to get rid of him as he had already eaten two doormats and a clothesline. They were lucky they got off so lightly.

  Anyway, Robbie is going to bring him round to me at five o’clock.

  1:00 p.m.

  Mum’s out and I am determined to make Robbie realize that I’m a great deal older than I was fifteen days ago. I haven’t any money and Mum has selfishly taken her purse with her, but I HAVE A PLAN.

  2:00 p.m.

  There is some peroxide that Gran uses to clean her dentures when she comes to stay. It’s kept in the bathroom cupboard and I’m going to use it to bleach a really sophisticated streak of blond in my hair at the front.

  2:30 p.m.

  I’ve put it on. I wonder how long you have to leave it? It’s stinging my scalp so that must be a good sign.

  3:30 p.m.

  It’s gone a sort of orange color! Oh bloody hell, I’ll have to put some more on.

  4:15 p.m.

  Now it’s gone sort of bright yellow. I look like a canary.

  5:00 p.m.

  Thank goodness it’s gone white. I think it looks quite good. It feels a bit stiff, though. Oh well, it’ll soften up in time. I think it makes me look at least four years older.

  5:30 p.m.

  Robbie here with Angus. I was so pleased to see him I tried to give him a cuddle, but he lashed out at me and was hissing until I gave him a rabbit leg. Then he started purring. (Angus, not Robbie.)

  Robbie noticed my hair when I stood up. He was obviously impressed because he said, “Er—you’ve got a white streak in your hair.”

  I said, “Oh yes, do you like it?”

  There was a bit of a silence between us. I was thinking, Go on, kiss me, kiss me! but he said, “Look, this isn’t easy for me, I think I should go now.”

  I said, “Thank you for Angus.”

  He said, “Oh, that’s OK, I knew you liked him. The scratches will heal in time and I should be able to replace the trousers.”

  As he was leaving I had one final go to make him see that I was mature and sophisticated beyond my years. I flicked my hair back like they do in movies and then I made the mistake of running my fingers through my hair. The white streak snapped off in my hand. I was just left holding it there, in my hand. Robbie looked amazed. He looked at the hunk of hair in my hand and then he looked at me and then he started laughing. He said, “God you’re weird,” and then he kissed me. (I shoved the hunk of hair on the sofa and Angus pounced on it—he must have thought it was a hamster or something.)

  After a bit of number-six kissing Robbie said, “Well, look, let’s take it easy and start seeing each other, shall we . . . see how it goes, maybe keep it a bit quiet from people at first?”

  So all is well that ends well. I am now nearly Robbie’s girlfriend, hahahaha. Summer love, summer love!!!

  the end

  9:00 p.m.

  Mum came in. “Right, we’re all set—I’ve got them!!”

  I said (in a sort of romantic daze), “What have you got, Mutti?”

  “I’ve got the tickets for us!”

  “Tickets for what?”

  “Tickets for New Zealand. When you said you wanted to go, I went and booked them. Dad paid for them and we’re off to Whangamata next week.”

  Sacré bloody bleu and merde!!!

  Georgia’s Glossary

  “Aggadoo” • The worst song ever written. It won the Eurovision song contest, which is a competition for the worst songs ever written. That is all I have to say. Oh, and grown-ups think it is a ‘laugh” to sing it when they are drunk. It isn’t. (It goes “Agga doo doo doo, Agga doo doo doo” for twenty hours.)

  agony aunt • A woman in a magazine who gives you advice if you are a sad person with no one else to talk to. For instance, Jas might write, “Dear Agony Aunt, My friend Georgia is so much better-looking, cleverer and an all round brilliant person that I feel inadequate. What should I do?” And the agony aunt would write back, “Kill yourself.” (Not really, that last bit is a joke.)

  bangers • Firecrackers. Fireworks that just explode with a big bang. That’s it. No pretty whooshing or stars or rocketing up into the sky. Bangers just bang. Boy fireworks. Boys are truly weird.

  bloke • You must know what a bloke is . . . it is a person of the masculine gender. Hence the expression “my bloke”—as in “I am dumping my bloke because he is too thick.”

  boot • The bit at the back end of a car where you put everything: suitcases, shopping bags, skis, etc., and, in detective novels, people.

  Boots • A large drugstore chain selling mostly cosmetics.

  Borstal • A sort of young persons’ prison for naughty boys.

  Boyzone • Irish boy band, all very good-looking in a bland way.

  bugger • A swear word. It doesn’t really mean anything but neither do a lot of swear words. Or parents.

  catsuit • An all-in-one suit thing with trousers and a zipper up the front. Usually evening wear. They are supposed to be sexy, and perhaps they are, but try getting out of one quickly if you have to pay an emergency lavatory call. Like a grown-up version of a romper suit.

  chips • French fries.

  crazy color �
�� Hair color that you paint on your hair and it washes out. (Crazy because it is blue or purple or red or green.)

  deely-bopper • Like antenna things with tiny balls on the end that you wear on your head. Popular with five-year-olds.

  Denise Van Outen • She is a blond girl on the television who is a bit on the breasty side. Boys seem to like her, although I can’t see the attraction myself as I am not (probably) a lesbian.

  DIY • Quite literally “Do It Yourself!” Rude when you think about it. Instead of getting someone competent to do things around the house (you know, like a trained electrician or a builder or a plumber), some vatis choose to do DIY. Always with disasterous results. (For example, my bedroom ceiling has footprints in it because my vati decided he would go up on the roof and replace a few tiles. Hopeless.)

  dole • What unemployed people get (i.e., money) to stop them starving to death. Welfare.

  double cool with knobs • “Double” and “with knobs” are instead of saying very or very, very, very, very. You’d feel silly saying, “He was very, very, very, very, very cool.” Also everyone would have fallen asleep before you had finished your sentence. So “double cool with knobs” is altogether snappier.

  duffing up • Duffing up is the female equivalent of beating up. It is not so violent and usually involves a lot of pushing with the occasional pinch.