“It’s not that big a deal,” Cammie says airily.
“Two hundred people in one house? Yeah it is.”
“You should see the state of it, though,” says Karl, bluntly. Mr Peters walks in just in time to catch that. Bad timing.
“I’ll see you later today, Karl?” he says, and when Karl looks blank, he adds, “In detention.”
BOOM!
Hannah arrives and Cammie gestures her urgently over to their table. Hannah gives me an exasperated face and goes to join them. She takes a minute to mouth, Feeling better? and I give her a thumbs-up.
I don’t feel jealous as the Prom Committee huddle and whisper throughout registration. I know Hannah would rather be sitting with us. Still…
“What are they talking about?” I remark to Dermot, a little louder than is strictly sensible. “My dad organized the prom, Hannah got the band and you’re hosting it. There’s nothing left for them to actually do.”
The four of them stop talking and look over at me. Even Mr Peters glances up.
“Is that true?” he asks. I shrug and nod. It must be the last gasps of my fever making me reckless!
Mr Peters looks at the Prom Committe. “Anything to add?” They look surly.
Except Hannah, who says, with a rueful laugh, “That’s pretty much it.”
“Cammie, Melia, Nicole and Hannah, can you sit there, there, there and there for English? I’ve turned a blind eye to talking in class as I assumed you were busy organizing. Guess not.”
Cammie thumps me in the back with her bag as she walks past but I do not care. They all owe Dermot and me HUGE for digging them out of their prom mess. Cammie sits down and fixes me with a cold stare, which I return with a big smile. After a long couple of seconds, she turns away.
Dermot grabs my arm. “Lou, I think the fever’s gone to your brain.”
“I think it has too.” I feel my clammy forehead. “Good thing it’s half-term next week.”
“Yeah, you can spend it changing your identity.”
Ha. I’ll be doing that anyway after Perf Class at the prom. For a moment, I imagine myself back in bed with a flannel on my head – “Wish I could be there, Uliol, but I’m ill! Genuinely ill, legitimate excuse!”
“I’ll be glad when this weekend is over,” I say to Hannah as we head to our second lesson. She agrees fervently.
“Because Lav will have won twenty-five thousand pounds?” Dermot says, always optimistic.
“Yeeaahh … that’s it.”
However, the rest of our year seems to be getting excited about prom, now they’ve finally got their invitations. Cammie, Nicole, Melia and Hannah are surrounded at lunchtime by people asking excited questions about what they have planned. I watch this from a distance, stabbing at my packed lunch as if it’s wronged me.
“Who cares?” Lav has joined me, with Roman. I’m glad to see they’re getting on better.
“I cares!” I splutter. “They wouldn’t even HAVE a prom if it wasn’t for Dad. They’d better thank him.”
“They won’t.” Lav is confident, and probably right.
Over on Cammie’s table, she’s telling a long and flamboyant story and I bet it does not involve her perched on a paint can in my dad’s shed begging for his help.
Between the prom and the awards ceremony, everyone’s talking outfits on our table. Roman is showing Dermot numerous photos of him posing in suits. He’s doing his selfie face again.
“Very slim fit, that one.” Dermot’s pointing at Roman’s phone.
“I’m going to do a juice cleanse Thursday and Friday then fast on Saturday.”
Lav looks up at that. “What, just starve all day?”
Ro’s nodding like this is totes normal.
“So you won’t chew anything for three days. Seventy-two hours.”
“S’pose not, no. Come on, Lav. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”
“Ahem-hem-hem,” I say. BFF right next to me, very recent eating disorder? “Ahem-hem?” I keep coughing but he’s not getting it. Lav boots him firmly in the shin.
“Anyway,” Ro prattles on, “we get a car to and from the ceremony so it’s cool if I’m lightheaded.”
“From starvation,” Lavender says, flatly. Roman does the guns at her.
WORRY DIARY
Star has dropped out of the prom. Apparently, there’s “something going round”. (Yes, Star: cowardice.)
It’s contagious! Eight more drop out. Now it’s just me, Dermot, Patrice, Eli and his awful poem.
Even Mum and Dad are getting nervous about me performing at the prom. Over breakfast on Saturday, Dad says, “I’ll bring Monty, in the boot of the car. Just say the word and I’ll groove onstage and rescue you.”
“I won’t need rescuing,” I say, nettled.
“You’ve never seen me work my magic on a crowd, Louise. I’m extremely charismatic.”
“I bet.”
“I put myself in mind of a young Michael Jackson.”
“Do you now?”
“The strength of JFK.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“The charm of Take That.”
“What?”
“And the twinkle of—”
“Mum, make him stop.”
“No, but seriously,” Mum says, “you might need him.”
“Mum!” I’m outraged. “You’re meant to have faith in me even when you don’t. That’s basic mothering.”
“I know! I do! But I’m also realistic. There was an improv group at my old university, and gigs could go very … badly. Once people are drunk, bad improv can make them riot.”
“Bad? Thanks for that. For starters, they won’t be drunk. It’s a school prom – there’ll be teachers there.”
“Someone will spike the punch,” Mum says, and Dad scoffs.
“They can try,” he says. “Let’s see little Harry Hipflask and Gennifer Supermarket Gin get past me.”
There’s a long silence. Mum strokes my hair.
“What are you thinking, Goldfish?”
I’m thinking, When Harry and Gennifer Whatsit get past Dad and the whole party gets drunk and riots at my terrible Perf Class performance and I have to run away and start a new life, I’ll go with Effie Nimplestick as my new name. It’s fun and ethnically vague.
“Nothing,” I lie.
“Anyway…” Mum clearly feels she hasn’t been very helpful here. (I second that.) “Who wants pancakes?” she says, like I’m five.
Me, I want pancakes.
There’s a thumping noise from the hall as Lav bounds downstairs with some of her old exuberance. “Did I hear pancakes?”
“I’m actually kind of looking forward to the ceremony now,” she confesses, stabbing at the hard bits in the sugar tin. “There’ll be loads of cool people there. As long as Ro behaves himself and doesn’t try to hog the limelight, it should be quite fun.”
There’s a silence. I think we’re all imagining Ro sashaying up and down the red carpet, trying to get photographed.
“He’s too weak to be any trouble,” I say. Which is true. The juice cleanse on Thursday and Friday left him sluggish and (I didn’t mention it) with bad breath. I saw him yesterday at lunchtime, his long frame folded languidly over a table, trying not to look at everyone’s food. Mine in particular as I was stealing Dermot’s packed-lunch pad thai.
“It’s a shame Roman’s not in the competition,” Dad muses. “He’d have enjoyed it more than you.”
“I know, right?” says Lav.
“Lav, will you do my make-up?” I ask. “I can do my right eye fine but I really struggle with my left.”
“Tell you what, why don’t I do both? Like normal people.”
“Actually, Lou, what are you doing today?” Dad asks.
There’s no Perf Class so I’ve been looking forward to a lazy day. “Have a bath, slap on a face mask. Maybe go see Pete, do some last-minute begging and pleading—”
“TRICK QUESTION. You’re spending the day with me, pre-p
repping the prom.”
“That’s a lot of Ps.”
“Sorry I spat on you.”
“What is pre-prepping?”
“You’re going to find out!” he twinkles, as if it’s an exciting, magical experience when we both know it won’t be.
“Fine,” I say. “On ONE condition.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Dad’s sitting in the car, reading the newspaper. I don’t blame him, this is dragging on a bit.
“Pleeeeeease!” I call up again.
Pete’s face appears at a window on the second floor. “Go away.”
“Aha! I knew you were still there. Please come tonight.”
“Nope.” His face disappears again.
“No one will dare heckle you! They’ll behave if you’re onstage! WE NEED YOU!” I carry on begging. I’m standing on Pete’s family’s driveway calling up at the windows since Pete shut the front door on me, saying, “Never gonna happen.”
I’m getting a sore throat.
I look back at Dad, who shrugs without looking up from his paper. I’ll remember this when he wants opinions from me about “pre-prepping”.
“Peeeete…” I’m getting whiney now. “I could’ve turned my back on you when you needed someone to train you last year. I could’ve said, No way, you’re not swimmers, you’re dancers. I can’t help you.” I’m getting dramatic now. This is like the closing speech of a courtroom drama. “But I didn’t.” I slap my chest. “I ploughed time, heart and blood, sweat and tears into you guys.”
“Sounds disgusting,” Dad pipes up from the car.
“I helped you, Pete!”
His dad is now watching me from another window. Possibly – but hopefully not – the toilet.
“We paid you.” Pete opens the window and leans his arms on the windowsill, with the complacency of a man who knows he’s won an argument.
This is a good point. I forgot about that. “Do you want me to pay you?” I say desperately.
“Can you?”
“No,” says the voice behind me.
“Dad, PLEASE,” I shout over my shoulder.
Pete’s dad sniggers from his window.
“Bye-bye.” Pete shuts the window and draws the curtains.
I get back in the car and Dad starts the engine. “Hey, funny thing. Some girls from your school just walked past and it looked like you were begging Pete to go to prom with you!” He chuckles, as if this is a nice story and not totally humiliating.
WORRY DIARY
Girls from school think I was begging Pete for a date.
This humiliation will seem tiny compared to the Massive Big Shame this evening.
We pull up at Dermot’s house, which looks neater than I’ve ever seen it. Aggy’s gnomes stand clean and straight along the driveway, waiting to solemnly salute guests as they arrive.
Dad gets out of the car. I follow.
“Where did the clipboard come from?” I ask.
“When you’re made redundant, you steal office supplies on your last day,” he tells me, heading for the front door. “It’s like a tradition. I’ve got a laminating machine in the shed.”
Dad dings the doorbell, and Aggy answers, eating a piece of toast. “Oh! Totally forgot you were coming.”
Dad gives a little shake of his head, and I KNOW he’s thinking, What would they do without me?
May I answer that? I’d be relaxing in a bath right now, wearing a face mask and it would be brilliant.
We walk into the hallway and admire the results of all our cleaning work. When we left last weekend, Aggy and Dermot kept working. There are feathers hanging from the chandelier, and fairy lights woven up the banisters. It’s proper Hogwartsy.
I wish I was seeing it for the first time this evening, that would be breathtaking. But, as Dad is marching me through every step of the prom, minute by minute, it’s completely ruining any magic.
“Where’s the actual Prom Committee?” I interrupt Dad as I’m walking up the stairs, pretending to be my whole year group. (It’s difficult, even with weeks of Perf Class behind me, to embody 200 people.)
“Don’t worry, they’re working hard,” he says, eyes on a stopwatch.
“Better be.”
“Right. So: arriving at eight, three minutes of milling around in the foyer, add two minutes for cloakroom queuing and depositing…” Dad clicks on his stopwatch. “And by the way, you’re manning the cloakroom.”
“Oh what?”
“Womanning then.”
“How long do I have to do it for?”
“Only half an hour, ninety minutes tops. It’ll be fun.”
“How will it be fun?”
“You’ll be able to look at everyone’s coats. And you can have a friend to help you.”
He has a very sketchy idea of fun. I can’t believe he’s in charge.
“Now can you go in the living room and mingle?”
“Mingle with myself?”
“Yes.”
Sigh. I head off to make small talk with myself.
“Where’s Dermot?” I shout back at him.
“Sewing his outfit. He’s busy.”
“Fine,” I mutter.
“I CAN’T HEAR MINGLING!” Dad shouts. I start complimenting myself about my excellent contouring. “Thank you,” I answer myself. “I’ve been watching a lot of videos online and there’s been some trial and error…”
Dad comes into the room and walks around me in a figure of eight. “Waitresses, waitresses, waitresses…”
“Waitresses? Ooh, fancy.”
“And now –” he clicks his stopwatch – “it’s nine twenty-five. And your … ‘comedy thing’ will be up on the stage at nine thirty.”
“Comedy,” I interrupt.
“Eh?”
“Not ‘comedy thing’ like you said it, in air quotes, like it’s allegedly comedy. It’ll be funny; it is funny.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Hang on, an actual stage?”
“I’m going to build a stage.” Aggy reappears.
“Oh, wow, that’s really… Wow. How high will it be?” I ask nervously. “Just out of interest?”
“About four foot?”
Well, there goes that last shred of hope. I was thinking, if I managed to push our performance back a bit, everyone would be getting rowdy and by the time we started “Perfing” we might get lost in the crowd. Fat chance, if we’re on an actual stage.
My stomach squeezes a bit and I do some Hari breathing exercises. It’s hard to do these subtly.
“You all right?” Dad glances up from his clipboard. “Are you going to be sick?”
“N-yes. Yes, I am. Unless I go home and get a face mask on.”
“Oh, fine. I’m pretty much done. Aggy! We’re heading off.”
“That’s cool!” She looks up from chalking where the stage will go. “Anything else I can do tonight?”
“Actually, yes. I was going to ask you and Flora to check the girls’ toilet every fifteen minutes for drink, drugs and general illegal activity.”
Aggy pauses, a measuring tape in her mouth. “I thought they were fifteen and sixteen years old? Not hardened criminals.”
“It doesn’t matter when it comes to event planning. Always expect the worse.”
“Gotcha. I think I’ve got an electric cattle prod here somewhere.”
WORRY DIARY
It’s 5 p.m. and we’ve only just got home. I have to get my make-up and hair done AND my outfit on.
Probably should stop complaining about it and actually get started.
“Lav!”
“AARGH!”
“Sorry.”
I’m wearing a lumpy orange face mask, I look like a squashed Wotsit. I’m enjoying creeping up on my family and scaring them. Although I should stop annoying Lav – I need her help. She is all dressed and ready, with green eyeshadow to match her dress and some loose curls through her shiny dark hair. She looks astonishing – if this competition was up to me I’d give her the twenty-fiv
e thousand on the spot.
And now it’s my turn.
“Go and wash that off your face,” she tells me. “Get dressed and I’ll do your make-up.”
I put my jumpsuit on. It’s so soft and silky! I add the cowboy boots to admire the full effect, although we’re not supposed to have shoes on upstairs at home so I have to tiptoe quietly into Lav’s room. I look like the world’s most stylish burglar.
Lav plaits my hair and piles it on the top of my head. It looks elegant and “out of the way”, she says, making it sound like a naughty dog. I sit on the end of her bed and bounce with excitement as she unpacks her make-up kit next to me. She drapes something over my shoulders and gets to work. It’s a lovely feeling, the soft make-up brush gently dusting my face. Then she comes at me with an eyeliner pencil. Not so nice.
“Stop flinching,” she tells me.
“I’m not doing it on purpose!”
“You have to control yourself or you’re gonna get zigzags over your face.”
“Are you decent?” When we shout out that we are, Dad pokes his head around Lav’s door and watches her. “You look nice, Louise. Although…”
“Although…”
“I’m not sure about that – cape thing?”
“I’m wearing a tea towel round my shoulders, Dad. So I don’t get make-up on my jumpsuit.”
“That’s good cos it looks a bit frumpy.”
Mum appears in the doorway and does a twirl.
“Lovely, Mum!” We all make ooh noises at her, which is the sound you must produce if someone does that in front of you. Only a monster lets someone twirl in silence.
She’s wearing a long slouchy trouser suit, all tailored and androgynous. Neither word I would ever have used before I knew Dermot. I’m starting to appreciate clothes. Although my main criteria for dresses are still: 1) Dark enough to hide stains, and 2) Pockets.
“I’m sure Mr Peters will enjoy looking at you with his lovely eyes,” Dad mutters, pettily.
“I’m sure he will,” Mum preens. She is in a better mood than I’ve seen her in for ages. I’m so glad the prom is good for someone. “Now what are you wearing?”
“I don’t know.” He frowns.
“Something you feel comfortable and confident in,” she suggests, helpfully.
“That would be the bee outfit.”
“Dad.”
Lou Out of Luck Page 20