Everyone around me is having such a fractious day, I’m glad to clamber into Aggy’s van at four thirty and leave Hannah to her prom problems and Lav to her enthusiastically shallow boyfriend. Even the smell of mouldy old furniture is soothing.
“I might sort through some clothes tonight,” Dermot says. “Pick out some things for you?”
“If you’re sure?” I say doubtfully. “Won’t that be hugely boring?”
He shakes his head. “I like stuff like that. How do you feel about sequins?”
“Like I do about skydiving: queasy and scared.”
I drop out of the van when I get home and wave goodbye to my new stylist. As soon as I’m through the door, I can feel something is wrong. All the lights are off and there’s an unfamiliar bleeping sound coming from upstairs.
“Mum?” I call out softly. There’s no answer, so I creep upstairs towards the sound, not bothering to take off my coat or bag. It’s dark apart from a flashing red light in Mum and Dad’s bedroom, accompanied by the bleeping. The room smells sour and Mum is asleep in bed. Her phone is flashing with an alarm that says, Girls. Is it to make sure she’s awake when we come home? I turn the alarm off and sit next to her for a while.
We never ask her how her day has gone any more. When she worked at the university, she always had funny stories about her students and their awful sex-obsessed poetry. But these days, we don’t bother, because all she’s doing is staying at home, watching TV or applying for jobs online.
There’s a noise behind me and I look around to see Lavender beckoning me out of the room. I follow her downstairs. She makes me beans on toast and we eat it in front of the TV.
“It’s nice,” I tell her.
“I put chilli and paprika in it.”
“Ooh, fancy.”
“I think the paprika went off in 2009, but…”
“It’s red dust. What harm can it do?”
“Right?”
“Right!”
There’s some sleepy movement upstairs and eventually, Mum comes down. She’s washed and dressed and seems to be making an effort, though she looks a bit watery-eyed. I’m glad when the front door bangs and Dad is home.
“How’s my flower?” he asks, bending over to kiss her. “Looking completely deskunked, may I say?” he teases and she takes the compliment with a little preen.
“Worrying?” he asks in a quiet voice meant just for her and she nods a bit. He looks thoughtful and goes into the kitchen, rattling around as he makes a cup of tea.
“I want to talk to you about my job!” he calls from the kitchen.
“Oh, yeah,” Mum says warily and I turn the volume down on the TV. I think we’d all like to hear about this so-called “job”.
“So, I’m actually quite good at it!” he shouts through the door. I get the feeling he’d rather talk like this than face-to-face.
“Is it project management?” Mum asks.
“Sort of. More marketing, really!” he says.
“And legal?” Lav and I jump in at the same time with the question we’ve been worrying about most.
“Yes!” He sounds exasperated. “Have a little faith in me. Anyway. I’m actually quite good at it and I’ve been offered the job for as long as I want it.”
“That’s amazing!” I shout and even Mum brightens up.
“It’s not much money,” he warns. “We can keep on top of the main bills but we still need to make some decisions about the house and where we live.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Mum waves away his caution for now, and I’m with her. Just knowing there’s some money coming in cheers us all up. Lav and I lean against Mum and she pulls a blanket over our legs. Mum’s wearing her nice perfume again – she smells of herself.
“It doesn’t matter what the job is,” Mum says quietly, turning to us. “Cleaning toilets, a paper round, deliveries. It doesn’t matter what the job is, right, girls?”
“Right,” we say, and I mean it.
She glances behind her, to check Dad isn’t coming. “You must never be ashamed of your dad, because he’s doing his best for you two.”
“I wouldn’t!” I say, genuinely.
The patio lights flick on, illuminating the back garden and I see Dad scurry across the lawn to the shed. Mum doesn’t notice.
“Mum,” Lav says, firmly, “we’re not snobs.”
“Yeah!” I feel the same. “We would never be embarrassed by Dad’s job.”
As Dad staggers across the lawn, he seems to be hopping into a pair of … massive black boots.
“I’m … I’m proud of him,” I carry on, slightly distracted, “for finding work. Not that… I know you’re going to find a great job too!” I add hastily. Dad marches back into his shed, in his big black boots.
“Good.” Mum looks relieved. “I’m glad to hear it. Being cool means nothing when you’re an adult. Anyway, I always think your dad’s cool.”
Now Dad strides out of his shed, fully dressed, dramatically silhouetted in the back garden, and all Lav and I can do is stare. Mum finally turns to see what we’re looking at.
“Oh, hell, no,” she says.
On our patio, a massive bumblebee stands, legs apart, hips rocking in rhythm to Lady Gaga’s “Applause”. I don’t know where the music is coming from, but the sound quality is fantastic. The bee shoots his arms in the air and launches into a flawless dance routine. Despite the boots, he moves with uninhibited grace and fluid hipwork. I recognize some Zumba moves.
“I think he’s got speakers in his bottom,” Lav says, going to the patio door to admire him more closely.
“What am I looking at?” says Mum.
“The mascot for the local football club.” I suddenly recognize the costume. “The Bumbles.”
The bee flicks his stinger at us in a sassy fashion.
So, Dad is a big bee.
WORRY DIARY
Dad is out of work
Dad is a big bee.
This is progress. It’s the first worry I’ve crossed off all term.
Mum and Dad are still asleep as I head downstairs for breakfast. I can’t get used to this, it’s weird. Mum and Dad were always the first up, racing around pulling on their work clothes and shouting about laptop chargers. First Dad stopped doing it, now Mum too, and Lavender and I are the only ones up most mornings. I feel like I need more parenting than this, I think, as I tip out my own cereal. Hannah’s mum still gives her a French plait every morning while she eats high-protein slow-release grains or whatever Debs decrees now.
I’m wolfing down the rubbish emu cereal before it collapses into mush when Lav comes into the kitchen.
“Hey, Lav, now Dad has a job – of sorts – do you think we can go back to the old cereal?”
“Maybe. What’s wrong with this one?”
I tip the bowl up and show her my soggy emu shapes.
“Ew.”
“Are you not gonna eat breakfast?”
“Nah… What? Lou, why are you staring at me like that?”
“Nothing. You’re just looking a bit scrawny these days.”
“I’m stressed.”
“Well, if you lose too much weight, everyone will think you’re trying to get model-sized because you love modelling and want to be a model and—”
Lav glares at me and starts shaking out a bowl of cereal. Result. I am a good sister, caring and manipulative. But this really is the sort of thing Mum or Dad should be up and keeping an eye on.
Lav’s phone vibrates: Toot toot, from Ro. She looks unenthused. “Can I swap and take the van?” she asks.
“Are you still annoyed with him?” I ask.
“Yep. Not sure he’s even noticed – he’s been talking to brands.”
I tip my bowl into the sink and hurry out of the house to see if Gabe is with Ro this morning. He is!
“Hello, stranger.” I go round to his window to chat.
“I’m sorry.” He looks mortified. “I’m so buried in schoolwork and extra classes and debating practice…
I know I’ve been a bit quiet.”
“That’s OK! I’ve been busy too,” I say, and immediately regret it. I don’t want to tell him too much about Perf Class in case it gets back to Hazel. Thankfully, he’s already looking at his school books again and I see Aggy’s van trundling round the corner, right on time.
“I’ll see you later.” I wave and Gabe blows me a kiss. A few seconds later, I clamber into the van, and Dermot hands me his phone.
“I’ve got lots of potential dresses for you,” he announces.
I scroll through the photos.
“For you to get an idea of what they’ll look like on…” he says, unnecessarily.
I’m looking at ten photos of Dermot wearing vintage dresses.
“Dermot,” I say seriously, because this is very serious. “Don’t ever let your phone fall into the hands of someone at school.”
“OK.”
“No, I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you need to. Look at me. If Karl Ashton got his hands on this, he would make your life HELL.”
“He’s been doing that for years.”
“This would give him fresh ammunition. He’ll be picking on you till you’re thirty.”
“I’ll be a fashion designer by then, so my security will deal with him.” Dermot folds his arms, looking stubborn.
“Fairy nuff.”
I flick through the photos. Some of these are very, very cool. There’s one that’s way too weird for me, but I can think of someone who’d look good in it.
“Could Lav borrow one of these?” I ask, and Aggy nods.
“Of course! Just be careful – some of them are worth a lot of money.”
“How much?” I ask. Bit uncouth but that’s how I roll.
“Several hundred,” Aggy says. Wow.
“Can I borrow one that isn’t, please?” I say, thinking of my own clothes, dotted with various meals.
As Dermot and I pass the NO MOBILE PHONES ON SCHOOL PROPERTY sign by the entrance, I remember I need to send a text. I join several people standing by the sign, tapping on their phones. I’m not sure this warning has the desired effect.
Lav! If you need a dress for the competition ceremony thing, Aggy’s got a beautiful one you can borrow!
Dots pop up to show Lav’s replying and I suddenly worry I’ve been tactless, so I add, but you might not want to go. Her reply surprises me.
Well, maybe.
You’re going?
Did you know that Amelia B’s cousin’s girlfriend is in the final too?
No? (Although I guess that must have been what Mr Peters was talking about…)
I really hate Amelia B.
Lav really hates Amelia B. For good reason. Amelia B is a gossip machine and is also not above throwing someone’s bra out of a window when they’re getting changed for netball. Last term, poor Lav had to go and retrieve a bright orange bra from the middle of the yard, with about three classes watching. Since then, Lav has nurtured a strong and lasting hatred of Amelia B.
Well, Ro’ll be happy you’re going! Looking on the bright side.
Lav gives me the emoji with a flat look on its face. I always wondered what that one meant, and now I see it’s a fond irritable weariness.
I stop texting as I realize Dermot is waiting for me and we head into school.
“I wonder if Hannah’s sitting with us today?” he says. “It’s always a sign of how well or badly the prom is going.”
Dermot gets to the form room ahead of me then looks back with a comical Eek! face. Hannah is sitting with us, reading a history book as if it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever read. When we both know it isn’t.
Dermot sits behind and I flump down next to her.
“Nice evening?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says quietly, eyes on her book.
“Thought not,” I say. “I texted but you never—”
“I’m sorry!” She gives me a quick glance. “I’m jus—”
“So busy, I know.”
She shakes her head, still pretending to read the history book so the Prom Committee don’t know she’s talking about them. “It’s such a mess,” she whispers. Dermot leans forward to hear. “We spent so much money going to gigs to ‘scout’ bands and we used prom money.”
“Han!” I say, scandalized.
“I KNOW! It wasn’t my idea, obviously. Cammie said it was research. Now Mr Peters says we can’t put it on at the Rothermere Estate because it’s too far away. So we have no venue, no entertainment…”
“Well,” says Dermot, trying to be positive, “what have you got?”
Bless him. Hannah stares down at the history book, thinking. There’s a long, long silence. Dermot and I exchange a look.
“We have … food!” she whispers finally. “Melia’s family are doing the catering. They’re not happy about it but Cammie bulldozed them into it. And we have a sound system from Cammie’s uncle.”
“Is that the VJ thingy?” I ask and she nods.
We sit and think.
“You’re a bit stuffed,” Dermot whispers.
“Thank you,” Hannah says sarcastically.
“OK, guys!” Mr Peters runs into the classroom, even later than usual. “Adams!”
“What have I done?” Pima Adams looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“Nothing! High-speed register. Come on, class, look lively. Alexandrous!”
“Yeah!”
“Anderson!”
The bell goes, and we all start packing up our bags.
“Au Yong! Stop moving. I need to get a look at you, see who’s here.” Mr Peters is trying to be heard over the noise. He gives up. “Fine, just tell me if you notice someone is missing – we’ll do it that way!” he shouts as we leave.
Cammie, Melia and Nicole are more subdued than I’ve ever seen them. At lunchtime a kid in the year below trips and lands with his face buried in his tray and they say nothing. This is usually the sort of thing they would elevate into a school-wide snark-off until the kid has to change schools, dye his hair and adopt a new name. But they just sit, silently eating their salads.
Roman steps forward and helps the kid up, offering him a tissue. I get the impression, from the way he keeps glancing back at her, that he’s trying to get in Lav’s good books. She’s sitting with her friends, not with him, and does seem to be treating him to her chilly side. Which, as someone who once used her tweezers to unblock a plughole, I can attest is pretty fricking cold.
Just then, I spot Gabriel. It’s rare to see him at lunch –he’s usually in some extra class or dweeby club – so I bounce on over to see him. “Heyo!” I say, with more enthusiasm than cool.
“Hey!” he says. “I was coming to find you.”
We sit down at the nearest table. Gabriel says he’s taking a break from Debating Club; he’s getting a bit fed up with Hazel.
“Oh no,” I say, SUPER-MATURELY. “That’s a shame.” I don’t start listing possible reasons why. Is it her controlling personality? Her rudeness? The way she dresses like a stuck-up gnome and you feel like popping a miniature fishing rod in her hands? Hopefully I’ll be able to cross her off my Worry Diary list soon enough. I am racing through these!
I spot Hannah and Dermot over Gabe’s shoulder, looking a little lost. “Hey!” I wave them over. There’s not much room at the table; they have to squeeze in where they can.
“Yeah, I, er…” Gabe continues. “I think she was hoping me and Lara would … um…”
“Would um…?” I ask, but with a nasty feeling I know what he means.
“You know, go out.”
“But what about me?” I say, more baffled than angry. Though angry will probably come later.
“I don’t know if she really thinks about other people’s feelings,” he says, slowly, like he’s cracking a complicated mystery.
“And how did Lara feel about the matchmaking?”
“I’m not sure she even knew what was going on. I think Hazel just likes to manipulate p
eople for the fun of it. She can be a bit mean, actually.”
“You. Don’t. Say,” I reply, in tones drier than Mum’s couscous.
Gabe turns a wondering look on me. “Did you not like her?”
“Gabe.” I can’t kiss him in school or there would be wolf-whistles and detention, so I put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think you’re smart enough for Lara. You should stick with your basic b girlfriend.”
The bell goes for end of lunch. PERFECT TIMING. I flash him a smile and head to class, Hannah and Dermot in tow. Just occasionally, once in every blue moon, Lou P. Brown is cool.
The rest of the day is surprisingly good. Without constant snarky quips from Cammie and her lot, I speak up in class a lot more, and thanks to Dermot, I actually know the answers. I even get a test back in history that’s eighty-six per cent!
Eighty-six! This is the highest mark I’ve ever got, I tell Dermot excitedly. I see him subtly cover up his ninety-two per cent. It’s like my emotions are on a seesaw with Cammie’s and we can only be happy when the other one is miserable (a theory I have LONG HELD).
“Eighty-six!” Mum is crowing that evening as she dishes out dinner. “My clever girl. Just for that, you can pick out the courgettes.”
Woohoo! I loathe and despise courgettes – they’re soggy, evil and taste of dishwater. “Can I spoon them onto Lav’s plate?” I ask.
“No,” Lav says firmly.
“Did you get eighty-six per cent?” I ask. “Because if you didn’t, I think you should eat my courgettes.”
“Give them to me,” Dad says. “Fatherhood is nothing but eating the stuff no one else likes.”
“And dancing in a bee costume,” Lav reminds him. He gives her a wink.
My phone rings with an unknown number.
“Ignore it,” Mum advises. I turn it on silent but the Unknown Number calls again and again. By the fourth time, Dad wipes his hands on a tea towel and holds his hand out for my phone. I pass it over.
“Hello?” Dad answers in chilly tones. “Well, yes, she is here. She’s eating right now… Well, OK. I mean, I’d rather not but … if you insist…”
I watch him basically being bullied over the phone. I can’t think of anyone who would be so instantly controlling, except…
“Cammie?” Dad says to me.
Lou Out of Luck Page 15