Jenny Q, Stitched Up

by Pauline McLynn

  Uggs favours making bath bombs because he thinks that’s slightly more macho than him knitting anything (though he is getting really good at it). He says bath bombs are somehow scientific and therefore more for him.

  ‘I’m not going to make anything just yet for Bumpy Quinn,’ I tell them.

  I don’t know why but I don’t want to attract too much attention to the new baby in case it’s bad luck. He or she needs to get out into the world before I go there on the gifts scene. I’m also sort of getting used to the idea that he or she will be with us for the New Year and not for Christmas, so no gift need apply, and I am maybe, maybe getting a tad excited about it all too.*

  What’s really getting to me right at the moment, though, is that the trials for Teen Factor X are now only a few weeks away and I haven’t decided what to sing. Not being able to ask advice from the Gang because I haven’t told them is eating me up.

  I’m just so afraid someone will say, ‘Don’t be daft,’ because it probably is a really stupid idea. Uggs and Dixie are my Bestests but they would have ammunition for teasing me till Doomsday if they knew I was trying out for it. And if I tell one of the Gang, I have to tell both.

  The only time this wasn’t an issue was when I got my period. I told Dixie about that but not Uggs. It would be way too embarrassing for him and me to have to discuss that kind of personal thing. I know he won’t mind and in time he’ll guess that I’ve started menstruating,† like when we’re in our twenties or so, which is aeons away.

  I don’t know if there’s anyone in my family I could trust not to blab either. Probably not. Mum would tell Dad, natch. Gran can’t keep anything to herself, not if there’s torture value in it and she’d find plenty in this. I don’t have a sister (yet … ). And Dermot wouldn’t be interested, though he would be only too delighted to have an opportunity to tease and embarrass me about a whole new thing. I’m humming a lot.

  ‘Why are you humming so much?’ Dixie wants to know. ‘What’s the matter?’ She and I are knitting away, so I should be all chillaxed according to Dixie’s philosophy.

  I have to be quicker than a very quick (knit) wit here. ‘I’m going to be a middle child and therefore forgotten,’ I say, and I am well pleased with my ruse. It’s a deflection. Then I top it with a deadly fine change of subject. ‘Why are you not speaking to Jason the Tongue any more?’

  ‘Well … he posted a picture of me on Facebook.’

  ‘And that was bad for why?’

  Dix puts down her knitting needles. ‘It’s entirely unflattering and from a very strange angle, all of which would have been fine because I was unrecognizable but then the oaf only went and tagged me in it so everyone knows it’s me.’

  This is indeed unacceptable behaviour. And it needs to be investigated urgently or, as the French might say, ‘toot sweet’. I fire up the laptop and log in and sure enough there’s a v v horreeblah photo of Dixie for all to see.

  ‘Eeep,’ I say.

  I understand completely. Dad is forever taking photographs of us and then framing them around the house in full view of any visitor to JQ HQ. If it’s true that a little bit of your soul is robbed every time your photo is taken, then I am probably close to being an empty husk by now, courtesy of my father. And that’s before we even get to the embarrassment factor, which is to the power of for ever. Thankfully, after some harsh words (and some foot stamping), Dad agreed to keep all the portraits of us naked, or in silly clothes and with awful haircuts, in our parents’ bedroom. After all, they are the only ones who could possibly ‘enjoy’ looking at them.

  ‘There is nothing else for it; you’ll have to put up one of him being the Tongue.’

  ‘Correcto,’ Uggs says. ‘It’ll balance out the awfulness.’

  Dixie looks unsure.

  ‘You’ve got one from the Youth Club,’ I remind her.

  ‘It’s the only way, Dix,’ Uggs tells her.

  ‘It’ll be karma,’ I say. ‘Coming back to bite him on the behind.’

  Dixie usually likes the idea of justice in the world, so I think she’ll like this too. Besides, it’s hardly much of a payback – all we’re doing is replying in a language that the Tongue understands. He posted a photo of Dixie that is at best odd and at worst mortifying, he didn’t ask her permission and then he named names = nah-ah-ah!

  ‘If this backfires, in ANY way AT ALL, you are both dead,’ she warns.

  The stakes are high. We both nod encouragingly. Within minutes the photo is posted and Jason Fielding tagged. All is well in the world, for another few hours at least. And I have avoided speaking about Teen Factor X. Phew.

  Lists

  I love making lists and I especially love crossing things out on those lists when they’re done. I select a blue pen with a mauve feathered top from my newly upgraded and expanded stationery selection and write down the knitted items I intend to make in my make-and-do notebook. I’ll probably cross out ‘done’ items in red pen when the time comes, because that will be final and dramatic, and achieved.

  In order of difficultness:

  GRAN = fingerless mittens*

  DAD = skinny tie

  MUM = cowl

  DERMOT = beanie hat

  Dix tells me the trick with the mittens is to knit a flat rectangle and then make it into a ‘tube’ by sewing up the side, leaving one hole for the thumb and the four other fingers just stick out the top. Foxy tip and proof that I’m still in the kindergarten of knitting, whereas Dix is, I think, a graduate.

  Uggs is going to make stuff from found objects, or recycle jars and such like. We’re all agreed that jam jars would make nice hanging nightlight holders and coloured jars would be even more ideal. We are officially on the hunt for Interesting Items now.

  ‘And saving the planet,’ Dix says.

  It’s a lot to take on.

  ‘Where’s your list?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’m still at the planning stage in my head,’ she says. ‘Preparation is the most important part of the process, you know.’

  That’s a bit preachy, I think, and she’s avoiding work, but I let it go. I don’t want her getting uppity and maybe turning the spotlight on me because then I might spill the beans about my Teen Factor X plan, which would be v v not good. So, with superhuman effort, I cease humming too.

  ‘I’m going to knit Gypsy a little sweater,’ Uggs says.

  ‘Tremenjus,’ as Mr Ford would say, though I really don’t see what Uggs sees in that dog or why he would bother making her something.

  ‘We’ll need to go to town to get supplies for our various gift efforts,’ I say.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ Dixie agrees.

  ‘You don’t need to come along,’ I point out. ‘You have no plans and therefore no shopping list.’

  ‘It’s shopping, no matter who it’s for,’ she squeals. ‘I can’t miss that! Besides, you need me. I will be a discerning eye, without emotion or bias, when it comes to making important decisions.’

  Both Uggs and I give some ‘hmmms’ but we all know we don’t mean them.

  ‘I may be inspired by the day,’ she says. ‘You can’t deny me that chance. It would be thwarting my creativity.’

  She has me with ‘thwarting’, because she knows the power of a good word over me. Uggs is nodding because he understands that too and he enjoys a good word, well used, himself, it must be said. Then Dixie nails it with ‘stifling me’. She’s good, very good … oh yes …

  Grubby

  The radio is playing ‘Crazy in Love’ and Dixie shouts, ‘Choon!’ and turns it up. We all love a bit of Beyoncé. My mind wanders to Stevie Lee Bolton, as it is inclined to do. This always makes me hot and bothered and today is no exception. It strikes me that being in love must be a bit like being afraid, because it seems to have all the same symptoms. Then again, I don’t really know Stevie Lee that well, so could I really be in lurve? So I’m guessing that Stevie Lee does something chemical to me and therefore it could be merely a crush/lust on my part. I’m not sure he notic
es much about me unless I fall over and show my pants,* so it’s hardly what we could call a relationship … or love …

  Suddenly everything’s all blown apart by the sound of cannons firing. Gypsy starts barking somewhere in the distance. There’s also, simultaneously, a lot of loud music coming from Gran’s garage. It sounds like there’s a battle going on in there.

  ‘OK, I’m going to have to ask two questions,’ Dixie says, in a resigned tone. ‘Question one: where is your mum?’ She waits for an answer.

  ‘Yoga.’ Though how Mum can be bendy with a bump is beyond me. She says it’s about relaxation but it’s still all bendy stuff as far as I can make out. Bet it looks v v strange. And apparently it’s a class for pregnant women, so they’ll all be bendifying themselves† with bumps getting in the way of the bendiness.

  ‘Question two: what in the name of Beelzebub is that noise?’

  The din is bad news for the Quinns. Gran is playing the 1812 Overture and not in honour of the Proms or anything like it.

  ‘Gran’s gearing up to cook,’ I say. ‘That’s her version of that thing the New Zealand rugby players do before a match.’

  ‘The haka?’ Uggs says.

  ‘Yeah. She’s psyching herself up.’

  ‘Whoa,’ Uggs says.

  The whole house now feels like it’s shaking: a 6.5 on the Richter scale.

  ‘Is this a regular thing now?’ Dixie asks.

  ‘No, she doesn’t do it if she’s just cooking for herself, it’s only when she’s in charge of the main family meal.’ I shrug as if to say, Whaddayagonnado?

  Truth is Gran can’t cook. The Quinn Clan would be better off if I knitted us a meal; that would be tastier, more nutritious and easier on the eye and tummy, no matter what I knitted it with. Even an embroidered tomato would be better than whatever Gran might do to the real thing. She has been known to merely wash fruit and yet still destroy it or make it inedible.‡ It’s an astonishing skill.

  Gran bursts into the kitchen on her mission, Gyp yapping at her heels. They are both in high good form.

  ‘Aha! The youth of today, scheming and scamming I hope?’

  We nod guiltily, although we were scheming for GOOD, which is actually more than can be said for her and what she’s about to do to an entire family – a generation could be wiped out!

  ‘I have decided to be recession-busting and make tonight’s supper from whatever ingredients are available in the cupboards and fridge,’ she announces.

  Uh-oh – last time she tried this she made a loaf of some sort which tasted like the wooden spice rack had been soaked in water and heated up in the oven.б She called it a meatloaf but it was, in fact, a crime against humanity.

  ‘I think there are some pizzas in the freezer,’ I yelp, helpfully.

  ‘Why the fried egg§ would we want them? No good in them at all,’ she declares. ‘They’re snacks for watching TV, not a meal.’

  ‘Should we not wait for Mum? She might have something planned for us?’ I’m sure I sound desperate, panicked.

  ‘Nope, she asked me to do it.’

  Mum must be well annoyed with us for something we did, or perhaps the baby has eaten her brain, which has been known to happen to pregnant women for the nine-month term before the child emerges into the world.

  I decide to spring into action, which is not natural or acceptable for my kind: I am a teenager so my default position is lying about moodily, complaining about my circumstances or sleeping (like a cat). This, however, could be a matter of life and/or death.

  ‘Domestic Drama in motion,’ Dixie whispers.

  Gran is rooting through the vegetable rack. ‘I could make a big stir fry,’ she says.

  I look over and see that the ingredients for this would be turnip, rhubarb and cabbage. Yumtastic, not!

  ‘Mushroom and baked-bean omelettes?’ she wonders. ‘Or mango and chickpea soup?’

  Uggs is paying way too much attention to his bath-bomb formula now, which means he is trying not to laugh.

  I shout up the stairs: ‘Dermot, Gran is planning supper,’ and quicker than ‘Stop you right there!’ he’s here in the kitchen.

  ‘Steady on, Gran,’ he says, leading her to a chair. ‘I forgot to tell you that Mum said for you to relax and Jen and I can look after the meal.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’ll be a great, em, team-building event for us.’

  ‘Ah! I’ll have a glass of wine so,’ Gran says.

  I look at Dermot conspiratorially. We intend her to have a few if it will save her from murdering us, or from a charge of manslaughter, or clanslaughter, or whatever a court of law might throw at her.

  Dixie, Gyp and Uggs take their leave, smirking (Gyp) and wondering in whispers to me if we’ll make it through the night (my more human friends).

  Dermot and I take the pizzas from the freezer and heat them, adding some extra cheese and tomatoes – a foxy Quinn trick to jucify and tastify them even further. We serve them with a bag of salad found in the fridge for some fibre and greenery, followed by fruit with a scoop of ice cream for afters and ‘Shallakazam!’ supper is sorted and the family saved.

  Mum and Dad arrive home just as the pizzas are ready, raising an eyebrow or four at the sight of their children in the kitchen. I admit it is a rare sight in the Quinn household but they could at least try to keep their mouths from hanging open.

  ‘Emergency,’ I say, nodding my head towards Gran.

  ‘1812 Overture?’ questions Dad.

  Dermot holds up the turnip and rhubarb that he’s returning to the fridge, and no further explanation is required.

  Gran is slightly giddy by the time we get to dessert and smiling broadly at the world. She even sings a short medley of songs, which is usual when she’s had a glass or two of vino because she can never remember all the words to any one song. Then she tries to get us to do some party pieces but Mum eventually convinces her to go watch television in her own place. Dad looks like he might have a heart attack trying not to laugh out loud in front of either Mum or Gran.

  For once, I wouldn’t have minded a sing-song, as I need to practise in front of people** and choose a song for Teen Factor X. A made-up song on the delights of the day performed alone, or for my mum, is one thing, but a performance number is altogether another. I also don’t want to make the mistake of doing anything too recent or too popular because everyone else will surely be doing that and I’d prefer not to be like the rest of the herd. Perhaps there will be something in Mum and Dad’s ancient CD collection that will make the judges think I am ‘classic’ and other such star-quality buzzwords.

  Thinking about my song choice makes me feel slightly sweaty, and a little bit guilty. My pizza does a jump inside of me as my nerves kick in again. I must be insane thinking I can do this. I wish I could tell the Gang but, in this case, a problem shared might be a problem trebled.

  Kissing

  Later that night I finally break down, overwhelmed by curiosity, and text to ask Dixie what kissing Jason Fielding was like. I figure texting should save us both any unnecessary embarrassment, even though we are Besties. She replies immediately: wet.

  Frankly that doesn’t fill me with desire to kiss guys, if it’s gonna be all slobbery. I might as well kiss a frog for the sliminess involved. And I’m not sure I want someone else’s tongue in my mouth. But then I imagine what it would be like to kiss Stevie Lee and it’s not at all spitty; it’s gentle and romantic. His lips are soft and caress mine* and if he does want to introduce tongue action I just know it will be lovely too and not at all like Jason Fielding’s.

  Actually, now that I think of it, I can’t imagine what Dixie was thinking of, letting the Tongue snog her. Did she like it? Does my Bestest like spittiness? It’s a worrying thought. Stevie Lee Bolton does not slobber and he smells nice.† He also appears to wash regularly, so that’s a definite plus. I think he holds my face with both his hands when he’s kissing me too, like in the movies.

  It makes me agitated to think of all this roma
nce because it may be entirely hopeless. It IS hopeless, unthinkable. The age gap between us is too huge – three whole years. I haven’t a hope, really. I am resigned to the fact that despair is all that I can look forward to when it comes to Stevie Lee and me.

  If I die without kissing him, I’ll DIE!

  Lol

  I catch a glimpse of Stevie Lee Bolton as I’m crossing the schoolyard in the morning with Uggs and Dixie. He nearly makes the Oakdale uniform work. I find myself laughing too loudly at something Dixie says in the hope that he’ll notice us, look over, glance our way.* It’s a split-second of madness and I sound like a deranged hyena.

  ‘Steady on, Jen,’ Dixie says. ‘It wasn’t that funny.’ She pauses and considers. ‘Or was it? Yes, maybe it was.’ She is now delighted. ‘Watch this space, folks, I may be having one of my brilliant days.’

  ‘Look out, day,’ Uggs says and gets a casual thump for his pains.

  Even though SLB didn’t look our way, I have a little flutter in my heart that he’s in the building. This crush is getting out of control, but then again I think that’s supposed to be the general nature of crushes. It’s my first proper one on a real person, so I’m new to all of this and not quite sure how exactly it should go.

  In our classroom Mike Hussy is running amok. He’s tipping desks enough to make books and pens tumble to the floor, then pogo-ing around and shouting rude songs and insults and banging into people.

  ‘That jerk’s got issues,’ Dixie says.

  ‘Well, good morning, LADIES,’ he says to us, eyeballing Uggs.

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ I tell him. I know it’s super lame but it’s a reflex retort and all I have at this early hour.

  Mr Foley arrives for History and the class settles. Mr Foley is v v proud of being Irish and that’s good. But as a History teacher I think he stresses the Irish stuff a bit too much, all the trouble in the past particularly. Ireland is more than that now and we need to move on, and being Irish means a lot more than it did when he was growing up in the 1960s (or whenever, last century).