One More Little Problem

by Vanessa Curtis

  I finish as fast as I can, aware that whoever is on the other side of the frosted glass front door can see my shadow leaping about.

  Well, I’ll just have to pretend I was head-banging to thrash metal or something.

  I finish my jumps off, tidy my frizzy black hair in the hall mirror and approach the front door.

  There’s something familiar about the small slouching shadow on the other side of the glass.

  Doesn’t look like the postman. He’s tall and ginger.

  I pull open the door and then I nearly fall over in shock.

  Tiny frame, long fair hair dipping over her tired face, dark circles underneath her huge eyes and the usual black outfit of baggy trousers, biker boots, armbands and T-shirt with the white moony face of a satanic death-metal singer staring out at me.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to ask me in, OCD?’ says the small girl. ‘Jeez. I’ve come about two hundred miles to visit you. You could look a bit more pleased.’

  She pushes past me.

  I stand for a moment on the front doorstep trying to pull my shattered thoughts back into order.

  Then I close my gaping mouth and follow her into the house.

  Chapter Three

  Caro. The girl who made my time at Forest Hill House either a complete and utter nightmare or, sometimes, a bit of a relief. There was never much in between.

  Forest Hill. The place I was sent to three months ago when my stepmother decided she couldn’t cope with my rituals any longer.

  I’d heard from some of the other kids at Forest Hill House, but not Caro.

  I’d kind of missed her but now she’s sitting in my kitchen with that weird look on her face – half-grumpy, half-defiant with a micro-speck of shyness hidden somewhere underneath – I remember how much air she seems to suck up. And how many grey vibes of angst she can puff out into the atmosphere without even speaking.

  Caro can change the mood of a room by just sitting down in it.

  She can be very tiring.

  I click the kettle on and look down the garden to where my father is spraying the leaves of a giant marrow plant with some weird mixture of milk and water that he insists gets rid of mould.

  Caro follows my glance.

  ‘Jeez, OCD,’ she says. ‘I know you’re posh and all that, but I never knew you had a gardener.’

  My back prickles with indignation and I’m about to stand up for Dad, but then I look out again and see him through a stranger’s eyes and I feel embarrassed and confused and too tired to bother explaining. In his old brown apron and worn-down shoes with grotty gloves and a weird flat cap, he does look a bit like a sad old gardener.

  ‘Yeah,’ is all I say. ‘He’s good with vegetables. Coffee? Tea? Hell’s Juice?’

  Caro does her small cheek-twitch smile, the one where it looks as if a baby moth has landed on her face and she’s trying half-heartedly to remove it.

  ‘Coffee,’ she says. ‘Black. Obviously. Is there any other colour?’

  I give her a cautious smile back. She fiddles with her fingernails, the black leather wristbands on her thin arms sliding up and down.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ I say, spooning evil black granules into a mug. Dad drinks a lot of rubbish instant coffee. Heather is forever trying to hide the jar and force him to drink The Proper Stuff, as she calls it. She makes this in a large shiny pot from some designer kitchen store, and serves it in giant white ceramic cups with tiny flowers on them and little caramel biscuits in nice sanitised plastic placed on the side of the saucer.

  I plonk a cracked mug and half a packet of stale Bourbons next to Caro.

  ‘Cheers, Big Ears,’ she says, rolling up a cigarette and putting her heavy-duty black boots up on the edge of my chair.

  She tips her seat back and takes a long drag from the fag, blowing smoke up into the air.

  I duck. Major Dirt Alert !

  Caro smirks.

  ‘Still got your funny little habits then, OCD?’ she says. ‘Saw you jumping on the stairs just now. Figured you might have cut out all that rubbish.’

  ‘And have you stopped cutting yourself?’ I shoot back. Caro really is winding me up. She’s taken over the kitchen, eaten five biscuits in three seconds and is polluting the air around my head.

  Caro’s smile fades a little and she tugs at her sleeves to hide her wrists.

  There’s no need. The sleeves are already down to her fingertips, covering up her arms.

  ‘Dunno, really,’ she mutters.

  Typical Caro. I mean – she must KNOW if she’s cutting herself or not. Unless she’s possessed by the spirit of Marilyn Manson while she’s doing it and enters some sort of trance. Which I doubt. Because you have to be dead to become a spirit, right? And Manson’s not dead.

  I rescue the last biscuit, check it for cigarette ash and pop it into my mouth.

  ‘I take it that you’re still cutting, then?’ I say.

  My voice sounds harsh and unfeeling. I’m ashamed. Maybe she has come an awful long way to see me. Her angelic face is etched with tiredness and there are the usual mauve shadows underneath her eyes.

  Caro breathes out a quivering smoke ring above our heads and stubs her limp cigarette on the biscuit plate.

  I remove the plate with my fingertips and dump it in the sink at arm’s length.

  I catch her eye.

  The tension in the room hovers, evaporates, and then we’re both laughing.

  Proper laughs.

  ‘Look at us,’ says Caro. ‘You couldn’t make us up, could you?’

  I tell Caro about Heather and my dad’s unemployment and how I’ve managed to cut down some of my rituals since I last saw her.

  She gives me an appraising stare.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘You look more relaxed. At Forest Hill you were always jumping up and washing the whole time. Or thinking about washing.’

  I’m just basking in the glow of this rare compliment when she does another typical Caro thing by following it with a dazzling insult.

  ‘You’re fatter though,’ she says.

  I’m not going to let her get to me.

  ‘Perhaps I could say the same to you,’ I say.

  We both know that Caro is about as far from fat as it’s possible to be. She’s got to be at least a Size Zero. And even then there was a girl at Forest Hill who made Caro look obese in comparison.

  ‘OK, OCD,’ Caro says, holding up her hands in mock-defence. ‘Chillax! I touched a nerve there!’

  I sneak a look at my watch. It’s gone lunchtime and Dad will come in at any moment to make himself a limp cheese sandwich and a can of lager, his usual I’m-unemployed-can’t-be-bothered-oh-woe-is-me sort of meal.

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude,’ I begin, ‘and it’s great to see you, it really is. But – erm, how long are you planning on staying?’

  Caro tips some worm-like shreds of tobacco out of a green pouch and starts to roll up another cigarette. It’s like she exists in a different time zone to everyone else. A zone where time doesn’t exist.

  ‘Might hang out here for a while,’ she says, all casual. ‘Not getting on very well with my olds. My foster olds, that is. Had a huge ruck last night and I kind of walked out on them.’

  ‘How did you get here from Somerset?’ I say. ‘Where did you spend the night then?’

  ‘Lorry,’ says Caro. ‘Hitched a ride with some old dude delivering boxes of underwear to London. Made a pillow out of knickers and kipped in the back.’

  As ever, Caro leaves me floundering like a small lost fish in a big rough sea.

  Just as I’m wondering what on earth to say to this, Dad slopes into the kitchen, casts a brief look at Caro, ferrets around for white bread and starts slicing up some dubious green-mould Cheddar.

  ‘Yes please, gardener man,’ says Caro. ‘Got any pickle?’

  I nearly fall off my chair.

  My dad chuckles, a rare and much-missed sound. He gets some extra bread out of the packet and produces a jar of rancid chutney fr
om behind a row of out-of-date Pot Noodles.

  ‘I don’t know who you are,’ he says. ‘But it’s about time people said what they felt. Too many people dither about all around the houses. I like a girl with attitude.’

  I’m even more shocked.

  ‘This is Caro,’ I say in my prim voice. I’m eyeing up the butter-laden knife with distaste. Butter and I have a long historical relationship of mistrust.

  ‘You know – Caro?’ I try again. ‘We were at Forest Hill together? I might have told you about her?’

  My father turns round and sizes Caro up with renewed interest.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘You’re the one who slices yourself to bits. Interesting hobby. Can’t you find something less dramatic – acting classes or whatever?’

  I nearly pass out with embarrassment and fear. Fear of what Caro might do or say to this astonishing remark. But to my surprise Caro laughs and pushes her packet of worms towards Dad.

  ‘Smoke?’ she says.

  Dad nods and rolls one up, even though he hasn’t smoked roll-ups since about 1980.

  ‘Your gardener’s OK for an old bloke,’ she says to me, chomping down on the sandwich as if the packet of biscuits was a phantom snack.

  ‘Her gardener is in fact her father,’ says Dad. ‘But I take it as a compliment from one so young and bitter.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Caro. ‘So you’re the old dude who pays the mortgage here. Right?’

  Dad nods.

  ‘In that case,’ she says, ‘I need to ask you if I can stay. For about six weeks. As much free tobacco and verbal abuse as you can handle.’

  Dad screws up his mouth on one side. I can see he’s trying not to laugh.

  ‘Can you cook?’ he asks.

  Both Caro and I laugh at this one.

  ‘No she sodding well can’t,’ I splutter.

  ‘Clean?’ says Dad.

  Caro raises one scornful pierced eyebrow and says, ‘Pur-lease!’

  ‘Got any money for rent?’ says Dad. I swear he’s enjoying this. I haven’t seen his eyes spark up in that way for quite some time.

  ‘Nope, skint as a badger,’ says Caro.

  ‘And do you get on with my daughter?’ says Dad. ‘That’s the all-important question.’

  At last! He’s showing some signs of fatherly protectiveness. I heave a quiet sigh of relief. I mean – I do like Caro in small doses and all that, but the thought of having her here the entire summer while I try to clean the house and get Dad to his interviews on time . . .

  ‘OCD?’ Caro is saying. ‘Yeah. She’s all right. Bit demented with all the jumping and stuff.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ says Dad. ‘But that’s my Princess. That’s Zelah.’

  Gee, thanks, Dad.

  I go over to the sink to wash up. I’m in shock. This day is getting weirder and weirder.

  Just as I start running the taps I turn around to see Dad and Caro shaking hands.

  ‘Deal?’ she says.

  ‘Deal,’ says Dad. ‘Welcome to our crazy house of love.’

  With that, my entire summer falls about my ears.

  And crashes to the floor.

  Chapter Four

  There’s a small ray of hope when Dad rings up Caro’s foster parents to ask whether they mind her staying with us.

  Turns out they’re not best pleased about her hiking down the motorway without telling them.

  I’m upstairs listening on the extension and keeping my fingers crossed so tight that the blood flow is cut off and my knuckles are all white and transparent.

  Honestly – I love Caro, but even living in the room next door to her for a month at Forest Hill nearly finished me off. Caro’s not the type to sit down and read a book or watch a good DVD. Either she’s blasting out her satanic rock metal CDs at top volume or she’s in a screaming mood, banging doors and smashing glasses on tables and hurling abuse at authority figures.

  And then there’s all that blood.

  Blood and OCD are a vile combination. Blood is Dirt Alert AND Germ Alert.

  It’s bad enough that I’ve got to put up with Caro all summer without having to mop up her blood too.

  The thought of it makes me come over funny and I drop the phone on the bed for a moment.

  Dad’s voice booms out of the receiver.

  ‘She’d be no trouble at all,’ he’s saying. ‘It would be a pleasure. Any friend of Zelah’s is welcome in my house.’

  I come over all funny for a second time. I’ve never thought of Caro as a friend, exactly.

  She couldn’t be less like Fran if she tried.

  I’m tempted to pick up the phone and shout something desperate to try and stop the whole horrid blood-soaked nightmare from beginning. But Dad would be angry and I feel too tired to cope with that. Although in some ways, his anger is easier to deal with than this new I-love-everybody sort of Dad.

  ‘OK,’ says a high female voice. I presume that this must be Caro’s foster mother. From the way that Caro used to describe her you’d think she was the Spawn of the Devil. Instead she sounds soft and mild and worn out.

  ‘I suppose it would be nice to have a bit of a break from her,’ says the tired voice. ‘She’s a good girl at heart but can be a little – well, demanding.’

  Dad gives a friendly chuckle.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me about having a demanding daughter,’ he says. ‘Believe me – I know!’

  I slam the phone down. Don’t care if he’s heard me now. This is beyond a joke. Me? Difficult? I am an angel child compared to Caro!

  ‘Zelah!’ Dad shouts up the stairs. ‘It’s very rude to listen to people’s conversations on the phone.’

  I pretend not to hear.

  I go downstairs to see what Caro is up to.

  She’s plugged into her iPod and has her biker boots up on the kitchen table while her head sways in a sort of corpse-like trance to the hideous sounds of Marilyn Manson.

  I push her legs on to the floor.

  ‘OK, chill, OCD,’ she snarls. ‘Few bits of dirt won’t kill you.’

  I sit down next to Caro and watch her head-bang for a moment.

  Is this how my entire summer is going to be? Me trying to be polite and her ignoring me and tainting my nice clean surfaces with smoke, blood and cigarette ash?

  ‘What are you listening to?’ I yell, in a bid to restart conversation.

  Caro unhooks one earpiece and inserts it into my ear.

  I remove it – major Dirt Alert – wipe it and hold it just outside my eardrum.

  Manson is growling and muttering his way through a ‘song’ with a demonic-sounding guitar repeating the same jerky riff underneath. The ‘song’, according to the little screen on the iPod, is called ‘The Beautiful People’.

  ‘Yeah. It’s – good,’ I offer. I pass the earpiece back to her and wipe my hands with a shudder.

  Caro snorts.

  ‘You’re a rubbish liar, OCD,’ she says. ‘You always were. Like when you pretended that you didn’t fancy Sol.’

  I flush a horrid hot crimson. Sol was the only boy resident at Forest Hill House during my month-long stay. He never spoke because watching his father run over his mother had traumatised him. It was just an everyday story of family murder in the streets of South London.

  We kind of clicked.

  But then Dad came and found me at Forest Hill and in the excitement of seeing him I kind of forgot about Sol and when I left the house for good he’d gone back to South London with his father to try and start a new life.

  ‘See,’ Caro is saying. ‘Even just thinking about him you’ve gone all moony and pathetic.’

  I clear my throat and get up from the table.

  Chapter Five

  The phone rings later on when Caro, Dad and I are sitting around the kitchen table eating miniature Brussels sprouts on toast.

  The sprouts are not supposed to have been picked until Christmas but something went wrong and Dad had to cut them off their stalks three months early.

/>   ‘Thank God,’ I mutter as the insistent ringing coming from the hallway gives me a chance to abandon both the hideous food and the weird conversation my father is having with Caro – something about legal versus illegal tobacco. Great.

  ‘Hi, kiddo,’ says a familiar voice on a crackly mobile phone. ‘How’s everything going?’

  At the sound of Heather’s voice something unexpected happens. I well up with pathetic girlie tears, even though she’s not my real mum. Heather kind of gets Dirt Alert and Germ Alert and I feel as if we’ve got An Understanding. Plus she’s all adult and not moody, unlike most people in my life.

  And now she’s trusted me to look after Dad and catch up on my schoolwork and this isn’t exactly happening the way she planned it.

  Do I tell her?

  ‘Dad really misses you,’ I start (true), ‘and I really miss you as well,’ (also true), ‘and I’m doing loads of homework,’ (complete lie).

  Heather says ‘Oh, good!’

  In the background are lots of clinking and splashing noises.

  ‘Sorry kiddo,’ she yells over the noise. ‘Champagne poolside party. You know how it is! But tell me what else you’re up to?’

  My mouth kind of freezes half-open when she says this.

  I don’t know where to begin.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I manage. ‘I’m having a great summer holiday.’

  I feel tears welling up again at this reference to some mystical faraway paradise that I can only dream of, so I grab a clean tissue to stop them in their germy little tracks.

  I want to tell Heather about Caro turning up and Dad going weird. And I really, really want to tell her about the website I’ve just registered on and my fears about Boys.

  But I don’t.

  I just go: ‘Have a lovely time. Thanks for ringing, I’ll get Dad,’ in the voice of a strangled chicken and I put down the phone and get Dad.