They reach “backstage”, and I step back to let them in.
“Hey, I’m Jase from Plastic Jesus,” says a tall guy with a huge head of dyed white hair.
“Oh yeah, Hannah’s cousin!” I say.
“Well, that’s why we’re doing it for fifty quid,” says a guy holding a pair of bongoes, looking sour.
“Come on, man. It’s for charity,” Jase says to him.
“Err, no—” I begin but Jase treads firmly on my toe. Shut up.
“Yes!” I say. “Charity!”
Look at me, thinking on my feet, creating fake scenarios, I hope Uliol’s proud. But when I look over, he’s not even noticed the band’s arrival and is busy balancing on his head.
“Can you be in charge?” Mr Peters interrupts. “I’ve left the punch bowl unattended and I know Marianne M. was hovering nearby. Her handbag was making glugging noises.” He hurries back out.
“Don’t worry,” Jase assures me. “We have several songs about the evil of drink.”
“Brilliant,” I say. “So long as people can dance to them?”
“Oh, yeah. We’ve played a lot of religious festivals. What time are we on?”
“About nine forty-five,” I say. “After the improvised comedy.”
Plastic Jesus all pull a face like, Eeew. I know. It’s a terrible idea. I can hear whoops and yelling in the main room. Prom is getting rowdy. We’re going to be torn apart. I swallow the thought and show Plastic Jesus where they can relax and have some snacks.
“Is that OK?” I ask, unsure how to cater for a rock band. “Um, do you want beer or something hot to eat, or…?”
“No, this is great,” Jase tells me. “If we eat too much, we get sleepy onstage.”
I never knew that. Good thing I haven’t eaten yet, though there’s no chance of me feeling sleepy now. I’m practically vibrating with nerves.
I leave Plastic Jesus to it, because I’ve got something I need to do urgently.
I need to sit in a corner of the room and stare out of the window. I don’t want to go out onstage in front of everyone I know from school. I just want to run away and hide.
I clutch my Worry Diary tightly. I’m glad I brought it, it feels like a gloomy security blanket. I run my fingers over the cake on the front. Oh, I realize, feeling all the bumps and sprinkles, it’s not a cake, it’s a doughnut.
I frown at it then start laughing.
Doughnut worry!
Do Not Worry.
I’m such an idiot! That joke was staring me in the face for weeks!
“Lou?” Uliol is looking at me across the room. Even he looks a little green, and I can barely hear him over the riotous noise of prom. “It’s time.” I tuck my diary away under a sofa. Doughnut worry! the cover tells me, breezily. Stupid book – you’ve no idea.
I give one last wistful look out of the window and see something moving. I hope it’s not gatecrashers or intruders, I think, before I recognize that familiar lanky shape sprinting across the front lawn, hurdling lights and kicking over Aggy’s gnomes. Pete! He came! I AM a manipulative genius, Lady 86% FTW!
“Hang on.” I turn to Uliol, Dermot, Patrice and Eli. “We’ve got one more performer on the way.”
Uliol claps his hands and bounces on his toes and we’re still doing that together like a pair of mad rabbits when Pete finally hurtles through the backstage door.
We are (I sneak a glance at my watch) two minutes into our performance and already Uliol’s nerves are jangling. I told him it wasn’t children. I told him it wouldn’t be “lovely”. But he wouldn’t listen – and now here we are. I can see Mr Peters and Ms Peel leaning against a doorway, their brows creased as if in pain. Ms Peel catches me looking at her and hastily slaps an encouraging smile on her face.
“So. Let’s try again. I want you to shout out a location.” Uliol holds up a finger, practically quivering with rage. “NOT a toilet, not a sexual health clinic, not inside an animal’s backside.”
There’s a long, bored silence. Fine by me – this is all eating up our fifteen minutes. The second my watch hits half past nine, I am getting offstage. Uncle Don can’t take the silence any more and yells out a location: “Essex!”
“NO!” Uliol explodes with rage. I feel sympathy for my uncle. I made that mistake too. “SMALLER!” Uliol shouts.
Uncle Don shrugs and goes back to staring out of the window, clearly feeling he tried to help, and now Uliol’s on his own.
“A cupboard?” a kid at the front says, looking concerned for Uliol’s mental health.
“NO, NO, NO!”
Several tentative hands go up from the audience. “A – a post office?”
“Fine!” Uliol is calming down. “Excellent. A post office.” Patrice, Pete, Dermot and I nod obediently. Uliol turns to the audience. “And what are we doing in the post office?”
Sasha looks bored. “Posting letters, obviously.”
“NOOO!” I swear you could hear Uliol several streets away. “Something else! The location and the activity need to be different or else it’s not fun!”
“This is fun?” Karl looks genuinely baffled and, for the first time ever, I agree with him.
“Karl!” Ms Peel barks from the doorway but it’s clear her heart isn’t in it.
I catch sight of Gabriel in the crowd and make pleading eyes at him. He frowns back, questioningly. Say something, I mouth.
“Modelling!” he shouts from the crowd. Which is a terrible suggestion but, whatever, I’ll take it.
“Fantastic!” Uliol is his bright-eyed enthusiastic self again and he skips across the stage to let us begin our scene. Pete sashays into the “post office” and queues, lounging and pouting like a model. Several boys wolf-whistle but he doesn’t react. He’s such a pro and I feel a new burst of gratitude that he’s here.
Dermot follows Pete, with a manly glance at his watch and a thoughtful stare into the middle distance like a catalogue model. Rule of three – no pressure, Lou, but the third one has to be the funniest! I put my hands up into paws and strut onto stage, kicking my hind legs and joining the queue like a poodle at Crufts. There’s a big laugh from the prom, like 200 people properly belly-laugh, and the sound is amazing. I’m actually shaking with relief.
Patrice gets into position as the post office worker and we start to play out a scene. The boys refuse to lift their parcels up to the counter in case their arms get muscly, and I’m just a dog, so I bark and pee on things. (PRETEND to pee on things.) I’ve really chosen the easy role here but it’s the one that gets all the laughs.
We keep going until Pete gets a massive laugh from a daringly rude joke about getting his bits waxed and I’m sure Mr Peters is relieved when Pete slaps the floor as a sign that we’re done. Everyone applauds and I start to breathe more easily. This might be OK! This might actually … be … good?
Dermot’s looking enthusiastic, but then we know he’s immune to shame. Pete’s looking happy, though, and I take him as a more reliable barometer. I have a quick look at my watch. We meant to do two scenarios but Uliol spent a surprisingly long time berating the room, so now there’s only two minutes left. Shall we go now? Leave on a high?
I glance backstage. Plastic Jesus are waiting with their instruments, ready to come on. Just as Jase puts his foot onstage, Eli pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. That’s all the signal I need.
“This is a spoken-word—”
“Thank you, everyone, and goodnight!” I shout. “Please welcome Plastic Jesus! The singer is Hannah’s cousin!”
Not the smoothest intro but it’ll have to do. Pete and I grab Eli’s elbows and persuade him offstage. Plastic Jesus shove past us and immediately launch into a blistering cover of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off”. I guess they have done proms before.
They electrify the whole room. Perf Class bundles backstage, where we all have a shaky laugh, compare how sweaty we are (very), agree that was a bit hairy but that we got away with it and say, Sorry, Eli, did you want to do your poem? So s
orry, we didn’t realize.
When we rejoin the party, everyone is dancing. I go looking for Hannah and find she’s changed into a red dress that’s so tight she can only dance by pogoing. I pogo next to her, the pair of us bouncing high, bodies straight.
“You were amazing!!” she squeals.
“I was OK,” I concede. “But more importantly, it’s over!”
We dance some more. I’m so happy that’s done. I think I might even have enjoyed it?
“They’re not what I expected!” I yell at her over a Kanye mash-up. I thought Plastic Jesus would be a lot more … Bible Metal.
“Yeah,” she marvels. “They say this is their prom set.”
“Oh God!” Mr Peters dashes past me as an oil painting almost gets knocked off the wall. “Dave, put Sasha down! Off your shoulders, right now!” I spin round to watch everyone help Sasha down onto a sofa, in a tangle of arms and legs. I see Dan and Brendon dancing near by. Dan has a prom flower in his buttonhole, Brendon has one behind his ear.
“Well done, Lou!” says Dad, bouncing up to us, a little flushed. “You were great and I thought you’d be rubbish! You’re so funny! I called Mum to tell her and she couldn’t believe it wasn’t a disaster!”
He gives me a big rib-cracking hug while I pick through the insults to find the compliments.
“Also –” Dad points at some couples entwined around each other in various corners of the room – “so glad we nailed the bedroom doors shut.”
I wonder where Gabe is, so I pogo as high as I can to look over the room. This is where being crazy tall has its benefits. I spot him leaning over Roman, who is crouched in a corner like he’s being sick. I hurry over to them.
Ro is squatting down and Gabe is taking off his jacket to fling over his brother’s head.
Dad is hot on my heels as I approach them. “Boys,” he says, unusually serious, “what’s going on?”
Gabe and Ro both swivel round to shush him. Ro is holding his phone to his ear.
“Don’t shush me at my own prom!” says Dad, outraged. Is it me, or is he starting to sound like Cammie?
Gabe hunkers down next to Ro and puts his ear by the phone. Dad, Mr Peters and I stare down at them for a long minute, then Gabe and Ro explode with energy at the same time, leaping into the air.
“Third!!” they shout, hugging each other and waving the phone at me. I snatch it out of Ro’s hand.
“Lavender?” I can barely hear her over the sound of Plastic Jesus. I try to stick my head out of the window but Dad locked them all shut because teens are morons who don’t understand gravity, apparently.
I’m struggling to hear her, but finally, I get the few very simple words she’s yelling at me.
She came third. And she won five thousand pounds.
It’s not twenty-five thousand but I’ll take it! I tell Dad and his yelling delight confirms that yes, five thousand pounds in the teapot could make a world of difference.
Now, I think it was at this point – while Dad was hugging Mr Peters and I was explaining to him over Dad’s shoulder how brilliant five thousand pounds is and how much we hate Evil Grandma – that someone spiked the punch and events began to unravel a little.
I had two cups of punch because my mouth was still so dry from being onstage, and I remember feeling woozy as I watched Melia’s family load up their catering van, give Cammie a final piece of advice about her attitude problem, and take off down the driveway. It’s a shame I wasn’t all there for that bit as I would’ve really enjoyed it.
Everyone was so hot from dancing to Plastic Jesus that they were all knocking back the punch, and my uncles soon had to “escort” several people outside to “calm down”. (Basically, sit in the rain until they sobered up.)
I went to the toilet, suddenly so tired, and rested my face on the toilet roll holder for a teeny tiny nap. I thought it lasted about twenty minutes, but when I tidy up my smudged make-up and head back out to prom, it’s a lot emptier. I’m surprised by how quickly it’s come to an end. I ease my cowboy boots off and pad downstairs.
Karl slopes downstairs ahead of me. “Oi.” He turns back. “Where’s my coat?”
“Where’s your ticket?”
“I don’t know.”
“No ticket, no coat, sorry.”
“Louise!” a familiar voice shouts. “Help him.”
“Mum! What are you doing here?”
Mum’s in the hallway, kissing Dad hello. “We wanted to come and celebrate Lav’s win with you lot.”
“Plus, the celebrities were rubbish.” Lav is lying on a chaise longue, exhausted. “I didn’t recognize anyone. Nice nibbles, though.”
“That’s because you don’t know any celebrities!” I spot Roman rubbing her feet, still paying penance, I see. “Describe everyone you saw and I’ll tell you if they were famous.”
“No, Roman.” She pats him on the head. “That won’t be fun for me. Will you pull my fake eyelashes off?”
I go into the cloakroom. There is one lone coat hanging on the coat rack. Karl is such a numpty. I’m not sorry I wiped my nose on that. I bring it back to him and he says thank you. Well, it sounds more Finally.
The last few prom guests are getting in cars on the driveway. I can see a couple of parents exclaiming in horror that their kids are soaking wet. But better wet than too drunk to stand, I can see Uncle Vinnie explaining to them. I can hear someone complaining about it being too early as they’re marched to their waiting parents, but … “Always leave them wanting more,” Jase winks at me as he and Plastic Jesus carry their instruments out to their van.
“By the way –” he turns back – “you guys are really funny.”
“THANKS!” I gasp. Be cool, Lou. “That means a lot coming from a fellow performer such as yourself!”
Louise. That is no one’s idea of cool. And now you must stop talking as you’ve proved you cannot be trusted with words and human interaction.
I wave Plastic Jesus goodbye, feeling warm in my stomach. I think it’s pride and spiked punch, but it feels good.
I sit down heavily on the stairs. From there I can see Gabe and Dermot stretched out on sofas, sound asleep with their jackets as duvets. Roman keeps rubbing Lav’s feet – he’s got a lot of grovelling to do, despite the five thousand pounds. I can’t see Hannah; she must’ve gone home. My eyelids are drooping, and Dad ruffles my hair as he walks back upstairs to root out any final guests. “Probably trying to steal…” I hear him grumble as he passes.
Uncle Vinnie and Mr Peters are drinking the spiked punch and laughing at how strong it is. Aggy is bringing around a plate of leftover food but I haven’t got the energy to chew. I watch her put down the tray and join Mum, who has a bin bag and is roaming the house, stuffing rubbish into it. I suddenly remember my Worry Diary. I should go get it from the backstage area, make sure they don’t throw it away, but I’m so warm and sleepy.
I sag against the wall, which is surprisingly comfortable when you’re tired enough. I’m not sleeping, I’m just resting my eyes. Just resting them … for a minute.
“Gadzooks? Would Monty really say that?”
“Stop reading over my shoulder.” Mum shoos me away. “And yes, he would. He has an old-fashioned vocabulary because he learned to read and write from museum leaflets and is a little insecure about it. So he uses needlessly formal language to compensate. Bees don’t go to school. It’s called a back story.”
“I’m sorry I even asked.” I mean that sincerely. She carries on writing, with the rapid tap tap tap that feels so familiar. It’s nice to hear it in the house again, even if she does keep stopping to snicker at her own wit.
I leave her to it and go to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. It’s a weird job, being your husband’s ghostwriter, but when Monty became so popular he started getting requests to write articles for websites and magazines, Dad baulked at the thought of it. “I express myself best through two media: dance and spreadsheets.” So Mum stepped in, with her beautiful vocabulary and years of cre
ative writing, and Monty the bee has become a minor celebrity! (Dad wouldn’t say minor.)
It’s not hugely well paid but it’s fun, much like Dad’s mascot job. So we still have money problems, but they’re no longer the wake-up-sweaty-with-fear-in-the-middle-of-the-night sort, now they’re just the sort where Mum and Dad pretend to open bills like bomb-disposal experts, crawling towards them on the mat and opening the envelopes with dramatically trembling fingers.
But the threat of living with Evil Grandma has been lifted, and we’re all grateful for that. I reach for my cereal, it’s my favourite brand. When Mum started getting regular writing work, we were each allowed a treat. Lavender petitioned for more heating and hot water, and I wanted to see the back of that horrible emu. Dad said he was proud his daughters had such low standards for happiness.
Lav rushes past me with a bathroom towel in her hand and panicked look on her face. She rummages silently in the cupboard under the sink for stain remover and starts scrubbing hair dye out of the towel. She puts her phone on the side and I see a text from Roman pop up, something about using salt on stains. He means well, even Mum agreed that – once she’d sat him down for a good long talk about trust and privacy and respect.
“It’s nice for once that Janet’s kids are the idiots,” Dad smirks, oblivious to our feelings. My phone buzzes.
Bloop.
I still get an excited feeling in my stomach whenever Gabe gets in touch, even if he is just saying Bloop and sending me some vegetable and civic building emojis.
Want to come and clear a haunted house?
Haunted??
Well, it could be. Certainly old and creepy.
With Dermot and Aggy?
Obvs. Bring Hannah.
I pull my coat on as I text Hannah. She replies instantly. Since I lost Hannah to the Prom Committee and got her back again, I appreciate her a LOT more. I’ve been taking care to balance my time evenly between her and Gabe, which is definitely easier now that they get on.
Lou Out of Luck Page 22