Benji grins at me, the worry dropping from his face.
‘I need to talk to your brother and sister and I think that it would be okay for you to take one more biscuit and have some iPad time,’ I tell him. ‘Just because it’s Friday. And take Dogger with you.’
I don’t need the dog getting any ideas about delinquent behaviour either.
I wait for him to skip out of the room and then I sit down opposite my two oldest children and wait. One of them will crack before too long; they always do.
‘Dylan is being a prick.’ Scarlet obviously feels that attack is the best form of defence in this instance. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’
Dylan rolls his eyes. ‘Everyone knows that he’s a drug dealer.’
‘Whoop-de-doo. Big freaking deal.’ My daughter and I obviously have different ideas about what constitutes a big deal.
I take a deep breath. ‘Scarlet. I am going to ask you some questions and the answers will be either yes or no. Do not attempt to go off-topic or muddy the waters by slinging insults at your brother. I will accept one-word, one-syllable answers only, otherwise you are grounded for the next month, regardless of whatever you have or have not done. Is that understood?’
Scarlet nods sullenly. I never used to speak to my children like I was an off-duty prosecutor, but experience has taught me that unless I wish to drown in excuses and explanations then it is wise to limit their opportunity to talk.
‘Are we talking about Ashley Dunsford from school?’ I say gently, despite knowing the answer. Best to start your suspect off with a simple question. It helps to create trust and build a sense of security.
Scarlet nods, which I accept. For now.
‘And is he a friend of yours?’ I smile encouragingly at my daughter, putting her at ease.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say he’s a friend as much as—’
‘Ah, ah, ah.’ I wag my finger at her. ‘Yes or no?’
She glowers across the table. ‘Yes.’
I would actually make a great interrogator. There would be no need for any unpleasantness either; it would all be very civilised and clean.
‘And does Ashley partake in illegal substances?’ I enquire, dropping my voice an octave. I read somewhere that children are so accustomed to the high-pitched sounds of the female voice that they respond to a lower-pitched voice with more respect and authority.
‘What?’ Scarlet looks at me in confusion. ‘What’s wrong with your throat?’
‘Is he on drugs?’ I ask, in my normal voice this time.
Scarlet shrugs. ‘You’d have to ask him that, Mum. It’s not like he’s shooting up in our Maths lesson or anything.’
‘That’s not an answer, young lady.’ I lean forward so that she can’t avoid my stare. ‘Does he take drugs?’
‘Fine. Yes. Sometimes, I guess.’ Scarlet stares back at me with defiance. ‘But you can’t be mad at me because I happen to know someone who does something that you don’t like.’
‘It’s not about whether I like it or not,’ I tell her. ‘It’s about whether you’re friends with people who are safe.’
And for your information, young lady, I do not like it. Not one little bit.
‘He’s not going to ram a needle into my arm while I’m trying to figure out quadratic equations,’ snorts my daughter. Even Dylan cracks a smile. ‘Not without me noticing, anyway.’
‘What drugs does he take, exactly?’ I pale, imagining scenes from Trainspotting in the Year Eleven toilets. ‘I need to speak to the Head about this.’
‘No!’ Scarlet looks panic-stricken. ‘Honestly, Mum. If you grass him up then don’t be surprised if you start getting bits of my body delivered to you in the post. There’s a code of conduct, you know.’
I stare at her for a moment, feeling my stomach drop. And then Dylan bursts out laughing.
‘She’s winding you up, Mum. Our school might be crap but it isn’t run by the Mafia.’
I push my chair back and stand up, feeling both angry and foolish; a dangerous combination. ‘That’s it. If you aren’t prepared to have a serious conversation about something that is clearly a serious subject then I’m going straight to the Head and you can tell him all about it yourself.’
Scarlet holds up her hands. ‘Ok, I’m sorry. Sit down and I’ll tell you what happened today.’
I stare at her suspiciously, but I don’t really have any choice. ‘Does he really take drugs or was that your idea of a joke too?’
She nods. ‘He smokes a bit of weed now and then. And he might sell it to his mates, which is what Mr Moral Police over here was going on about.’ She jerks her head at Dylan. ‘But you don’t need to worry, Mum. I’m not interested in that stuff.’
I have no idea if she’s telling me the truth. I only have her word to go on. It hits me, not for the first time, that parenting teenagers involves an awful lot of blind faith.
I stare at my beautiful girl and contemplate how the last sixteen years can possibly have flown by so quickly. I wonder if Nick and I have equipped her with the necessary skills to navigate this complex, murky world that, despite all our best efforts, is totally bewildering to anybody under the age of thirty-five.
Scarlet stands up and walks behind my chair, bending down to rest her chin on my head.
‘I’m serious,’ she says and there’s no joking in her voice now. ‘I like talking to Ashley because he’s a laugh but I’m not mixed up in the crowd that he hangs out with. They’re not particularly nice to girls, if you know what I mean?’
I twist my head and look at her, hoping that my voice sounds calm and unthreatening. ‘In what way?’
Scarlet moves back to her seat. ‘Oh, you know. They think that every girl is put on this earth to give them something to look at.’ She pauses for a second and picks up her mug. ‘It’s kind of hard to work out whether it’s worse if they think you’re pretty or totally ugly – you get the same amount of attention, just a different flavour of abuse.’
‘Do they say things to you?’ I ask, glancing at Dylan. His jaw is set and he looks angry.
Scarlet laughs. ‘I’m female. Of course they do!’
‘And do they say things about you being nice to look at, or—’ I stop. These are not questions that I want to ask my daughter. It won’t somehow be less awful if the boys think she’s attractive.
Scarlet shrugs. ‘It depends on what’s going on. Like, when Martin wanted to go out with me then he wouldn’t stop talking about how sexy I am and then, when he finally got the message that I wasn’t interested, they all started slagging me off whenever they saw me, asking me if I was a lesbian or frigid.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘As if those are the only possible reasons that a person might have for not wanting to go out with pervy Martin.’
I am speechless.
Dylan is not.
‘Which one is Martin?’ His voice is low. ‘Is he the one who sent the revenge porn of that girl in the year below you?’
Scarlet nods. ‘That’s the one. He’s a charmer, can’t you tell? He’s good-looking but he’s a bit of a nob.’
I shake my head, trying to activate my brain. ‘Did he get punished for doing that?’ I don’t remember any incident involving a Year Ten girl.
‘Who was going to punish him, Mum?’ Scarlet picks at her nail varnish. ‘The girl was too embarrassed to report him and her friends probably all fancy him. And all the boys who saw it probably got off on it, so they weren’t exactly going to complain, were they?’
This is hideous.
‘We need to do something.’ I slam my hands on the table. ‘I can’t just sit here and listen to you telling me that this kind of thing is happening in the place where you’re supposed to be safe, for god’s sake.’
‘What can you possibly do?’ Scarlet sounds curious. ‘Boys want girls to act like they’ve just stepped off the set of a porn flick – it’s how it is. You can’t change how they think.’
‘Not all boys, thanks very much.’ Dylan glares at her. ‘Don
’t lump us all in with the likes of pervy Martin.’
In the midst of everything, I feel a sense of relief about Dylan’s response. He’s right. Not all boys. Not my boys.
Scarlet nods. ‘Okay. Some boys want girls to act like porn stars and some girls are prepared to play along, especially if the boy is gorgeous. But you don’t need to worry, Mum. I’m not that stupid.’
I want to tell her that stupid will usually dress itself up as all kinds of other things. Stupid is a superb chameleon, disguising itself as love or bravery or a desire for recognition or acceptance. Nobody embarks on a situation thinking that they’re being stupid.
But I don’t, because the one skill that my daughter needs above all others is self-confidence and a belief that she can make decisions that won’t hurt her. I give her a hug, crack open the bar of emergency chocolate that I keep hidden at the back of the fridge and sit with my girl at the kitchen table while she talks about everything and nothing. The dramas and the angst and the friendship issues and the worries that are all so incredibly easy to dismiss as teenage hormones, but which are the foundations of her world right now.
Chapter 22
Cassie phones me during the afternoon and begs me to meet her for a drink.
‘I thought you had a hot date?’ I ask, gesturing silently at Benji to stop chasing Dogger around the kitchen table. It’s been raining solidly for the last week and both Benji and the dog have got a serious dose of cabin fever. The weekend feels like it’s going on forever, despite the fact that it’s only two o’clock on Saturday.
‘He stood me up.’ Cassie sounds indignant. ‘Can you believe the cheek of the guy. He didn’t even bother to lie about it – just sent me a message to say that he’d been reviewing my online profile and had second thoughts about our matchability.’
I stifle a laugh. Cassie created her online dating profile one night when we’d both had too much to drink and I have to admit, if I were looking for an Internet date then Cassie’s profile would terrify me. It mostly consists of a list of non-negotiables that include things like ‘no excessive facial hair’ and ‘no wearing socks with sandals’ and ‘no eating avocado on toast’. I suggested, once we’d sobered up and reviewed her account, that she might want to edit it a little bit, but Cassie was adamant that it stayed as it was. She said it would weed out the hipsters and therefore was entirely what she wanted.
Sadly for Cassie, there seem to be an awful lot of bearded men wearing socks and sandals in our locality who appear to enjoy a cheeky avocado toast as a late-night snack.
‘So I’m your second choice then?’ I dodge to the side as Benji leaps over a chair, trying to encourage an aged and slightly overweight Dogger to follow him. Dogger, never one to forfeit a challenge, gives it a valiant attempt.
‘Yep. Will you come?’
The chair crashes to the floor, narrowly avoiding squashing Dogger into a two-dimensional replica of herself.
‘I’ll be there.’ I glare at Benji, who is standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking sheepish. ‘In fact, I might head down there now and get the drinks in while I wait for you.’
*
In reality, I do not spend the rest of the day sitting peacefully in the pub. Instead, I race around the supermarket as if I am a crazed contestant on a quiz show, before dashing home and attempting to cook lasagne while simultaneously juggling laundry and supervising homework and asking Benji to clean out Fluffy Rocket’s cage about fifty million times before he actually does it.
Throughout all this, Nick is lying underneath his bloody Land Rover, making muttering noises and occasionally swearing loudly. I hope the neighbours don’t hear; I work very hard to pretend that we are a nice, normal family who don’t do things like swear in front of their kids or open bottles of wine at four o’clock in the afternoon.
I have just put the lasagne in the oven and am contemplating whether I have time to shower and change into my slightly less unfashionable jeans when Scarlet comes into the kitchen.
‘What do you think?’
I turn around and see her striking a pose. Her hair is glossy and her skin is clean and she looks healthy and fresh and gorgeous. And she is wearing a T-shirt that has the words Feminist as F*ck emblazoned across the front.
I am presented with a variety of options.
I am too tired to consider which of these options makes me the best parent.
‘Very nice,’ I say, wiping my hands on a tea towel.
Her face drops in disappointment and I feel a distinctly un-maternal flash of triumph.
‘Have they got one in my size? We could wear them together and make double the statement?’ I’m on a roll now.
Scarlet frowns at me and flops out of her vogue pose. ‘Why would you want one?’
I smile kindly at her. ‘I know that this may come as a shock to you, but your generation did not invent feminism. Neither did mine, actually. Women have been campaigning for equal rights for years and years, in many different ways. I’m just as feminist as you are.’
Take that, Millennium child.
‘Yeah, right.’ Scarlet puts her hands on her hips and stares me down. ‘So what have you ever done, then?’
Where do I even start, young lady? I cast my mind back over the last forty-three years, searching for the most pertinent examples from my lifelong membership of the feminist club.
‘I have three children and I also go out to work,’ I tell her. ‘That isn’t something that used to happen. Women were expected to stay at home and tend the fire and scrub the floors on their hands and knees.’
Scarlet shrugs. So much for the sisterhood.
‘Big deal. You only work part time and you always tell Dad that it’s his job to light the fire.’ She pauses and then delivers the real blow. ‘And I haven’t ever seen you scrub the kitchen floor.’
We both glance down at the floor in question. There are dog paw prints everywhere and breadcrumbs lining the gaps between the tiles. I don’t dare to look under the table where I know full well that the dust bunnies will be having a party. I don’t know why I even bother trying to keep this house clean.
‘Do you think I’ve got it easy, then?’ I keep my voice level. ‘Because I know that Dad works full time, but I’m not exactly sitting on my backside on my days off, you know.’
Oh dear me, no. I’m eating chocolate and trying to write the increasingly frustrating story of the gorgeous but slightly freaky Daxx and the vulnerable yet up-for-anything Bella Rose. It’s harder than you might think to pull off those two characteristics and remain within the realms of realism.
‘I didn’t say you’ve got it easy.’ Scarlet swings herself up onto the kitchen counter. ‘But it’s not exactly chaining yourself to the railings outside Buckingham Palace is it?’
‘There are lots of ways to fight inequality, Scarlet.’ I can hear my voice rising in pitch and make a concerted effort to keep my cool. ‘But while we’re on the subject, I’m not entirely sure that the slogan on your T-shirt is much of a rallying cry. It is possible to make your point without being offensive.’
Scarlet gives me a look. ‘What’s so offensive about it, then?’
I am absolutely not in the mood for this, but my daughter is clearly spoiling for a fight. I am going to take this opportunity to show her that, contrary to her own, firmly held opinion, the world was not created by people born in the twenty-first century.
‘It says “Feminist as Fuck” on the front.’
I am calm. I am measured. I am merely stating the facts. Not even a sixteen-year-old girl can argue with that.
Scarlet’s eyes light up.
‘It doesn’t, actually. It says “Feminist as F – asterisk – C – K”.’
I have walked straight into her trap. The only way out is obscured by teenage logic and pig-headedness.
I sigh, showing her that I am incredibly bored by this whole transaction.
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Scarlet. We all know what the suggested implication is and removing
one letter doesn’t make any difference. Everyone who sees that T-shirt is going to know exactly what you’re saying, which is why it’s fine to wear in the house but not out in public.’
Scarlet scowls at me. ‘I bought it to wear on non-uniform day next week.’
I scowl back. ‘Over my dead body.’
My delightful daughter gives me a look that suggests that this is a price she may be willing to pay.
‘It’s hardly my fault if your brain sees a swear word, Mother.’ She leaps down from the counter and walks across to the fridge. ‘Maybe it means “Feminist as Fock”. Or “Feminist as Fick”.’
Dylan chooses this moment to walk into the room, catching the tail end of the conversation.
‘It could mean Fack,’ he suggests, grinning at his sister before turning to me. ‘That’s a song by Eminem in case you’re wondering. Do not Google the lyrics, Mum. I’m serious.’
Scarlet screws up her face. ‘That song is disgusting. It’s offensive to women and it’s totally against animal rights. Ashley played it in our Maths class the other day and I thought I was going to throw up.’
I wonder when they started to listen to music that needs a parental advisory alert, and how I’m supposed to police what they’re listening to as well as everything else.
Dylan laughs. ‘Good point. Being “Feminist as Fack” is the total opposite of equality. It’s not going to work as a pro-feminism slogan, that’s for sure.’
‘Do you even know what a feminist is?’ Scarlet asks him. ‘Or are you just like the rest of them?’
Dylan shrugs. ‘The dictionary definition of feminist is “hates all men”, yeah?’
Scarlet’s howl of fury makes my ears ring.
‘I’m joking!’ Dylan holds his hands up in self-defence as she starts towards him. ‘Honestly Scarlet, you need to chill out.’
‘You try chilling out when you’re asked fifty times a day if you’re a lesbian and called a feminazi when you walk into a classroom.’ Her face is red and her eyes look suspiciously bright.
‘She’s right,’ I tell Dylan. ‘And you should know better.’ An image of Daxx pops into my head. I wonder if somehow I’ve been allowing Dylan to get away with the same arrogant and shoddy behaviour that Daxx displays. The idea is mortifying.
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