by Jean Ure
I don’t personally care overmuch about growing boobs, in fact I sometimes think I’d just as soon not bother with them. And as for putting on weight, Mum says I hardly eat enough to keep a flea alive (not true!) but there are lots of people who do agonise over these things. Harriet Chance knows everything there is to know about teenage anxieties. She can get right into your mind! When Mum dropped me off at Annie’s the next day, I said that I was allowed to use her computer just to type out my book review.
“We’d better tell her,” said Annie. “Old Bossyboots.”
“Oh, do what you like!” said Rachel, when Annie told her. “I’ve washed my hands of you.”
“That’s good,” said Annie, as we scampered back to her bedroom. “P’raps now she’ll leave us alone.”
But she didn’t. I’d just finished typing out my review when she came banging and hammering at the door, shouting to us “Get yourselves downstairs! Time for exercise!”
“We exercised yesterday,” wailed Annie.
“So you can exercise again today!”
There wasn’t any arguing with her.
“You get out there,” she said. “It’s good for you! You heard what your mother said, Megan.”
She kept us at it until midday, by which time we had gone all quivering and jellified again.
“OK,” she said. “That’s enough! You can go back indoors now. I’m going out for a couple of hours. I want you to behave yourselves. Otherwise—” she twisted Annie’s ear. Annie squawked. “Otherwise, there’ll be trouble. Geddit?”
“Goddit,” said Annie. And, “Geddoff!” she bawled. “You’re breaking my ear!”
“I’ll do more than just break your ear,” said Rachel, “if I get back and find you’ve been up to nonsense.”
“She’s not supposed to leave us on our own,” said Annie, when Rachel had gone. “I’ll tell Mum if she’s not careful!” And then this big sly beam slid across her face, and she said, “This means we can do whatever we want, ’cos a) she won’t find out and b) even if she does, there’s nothing she can do about it! ’Cos if I tell Mum, Mum’ll be furious with her. She promised your mum that Rachel would be here with us all the time.”
“So what shall we do?” I said. “Watch more videos?”
“No! Let’s get some lunch and take it upstairs.”
“And then what?”
“Then we’ll think,” said Annie.
So we grabbed some food and went back to Annie’s bedroom to eat it.
“Sure you don’t want to visit the bookroom?” said Annie.
I said, “No! Don’t keep pushing me.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” said Annie. “You’ll never guess who I talked to!”
“Who?” I said.
“Harriet Chance’s daughter!”
“Lori?”
“Mm!”
“You spoke to Lori?”
“Yes!”
I swallowed. “What did you talk about?”
Annie giggled and said, “You!”
“M-me?”
“I told her that you were Harriet’s number-one fan. I told her you’d got every single book she’d ever written—”
“I haven’t!” I cried. There are three of her early ones that I’ve only been able to find in the library, and one, called Patsy Puffball, that I have never even seen. (Though I did read somewhere that Harriet Chance was ashamed of it and wished she’d never written it.)
“I’ve got most of them,” I said, “but I haven’t got all.”
“So what?” said Annie. “You’re still her number-one fan! I thought you’d be pleased I’d talked about you!”
I suppose I should have been, but mainly what I was feeling at that moment was jealousy. Huge, raging, bright-green JEALOUSY. I was the bookworm! Not Annie. I was the one that ought to be talking to Harriet’s daughter!
“We could visit right now,” said Annie, “and see if she’s there.”
I pursed my lips and shook my head. Inside, I was seething and heaving like a volcano about to erupt.
“Megs, it’s harmless!”
If I did erupt, I would spew bright-green vomit all over Annie. Great gobbets of it, splatting in her face and dripping through her hair.
“It’s just books. Just people talking about books.”
Annie didn’t even like books. She only read them because of me.
“There’s no grown ups. Nothing bad. No one talks about sex, or anything like that. It’s just kids! Nobody over fourteen.”
I came back to life. “If it’s nobody over fourteen,” I said, “what’s Lori doing there?”
“Why?” Annie blinked, owlishly. “Is she over fourteen?”
“Yes, she is!” I knew all about Harriet Chance’s daughter. I knew everything there was to know about Harriet Chance. Well, everything that had ever been written.
“So how old is she?”
“She’s fifteen,” I said. “She was fifteen in January.”
“Oh! Wow! Fifteen!” Annie went into a mock fainting fit on the bed.
“You said nobody over fourteen,” I reminded her. “Anyone could just say they were fourteen!”
“Why would they want to? Just to talk about books!”
I hunched a shoulder. Annie had made me feel all cross and hot.
“OK, if you don’t want to,” she said. “I’ll probably visit later and have a chat. I’ll tell her you’re too shy.”
“Don’t you dare!” I said.
“So what shall I tell her?”
“Tell her … tell her that I’ve chosen Harriet Chance as my favourite author and I’m writing a review of Candyfloss for the school library!”
“All right,” said Annie. “I don’t mind doing that.”
Annie is a very generous and good-natured person. More good-natured than me, probably. She knew I was cross, but she didn’t want to quarrel. Annie never quarrels. Rachel is the only person she ever gets ratty with; but then Rachel is enough to make a saint ratty, I would think.
“Hey!” Annie suddenly went bouncing off the bed. “Look what I’ve got!” She snatched up a box and rattled it at me.
“What is it?”
“Make-up! All Mum’s old stuff that she doesn’t want any more.” Annie tipped the contents of the box on to her dressing table. Little tubs and pots rolled everywhere. “Loads of it!” she said. “Let’s practise making ourselves up!”
So that was what we did. I still felt sore at the thought of Annie talking to Harriet Chance’s daughter, but I was determined not to be tempted and I really didn’t want to go on being cross, and messing about with the make-up was quite fun. After we’d made ourselves up to look beautiful – we thought! – we went a bit mad and started on Dracula make-up, and Cruella de Vil make-up. Alien-from-Outer-Space make-up. Monster-with-Red-Eyes make-up. Anything we could think of! We forgot all about Rachel. We were taken by surprise when she put her head round the door. She was taken by surprise, too.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she screeched.
Me and Annie flashed toothy lipsticky smiles at her. Annie had drawn black spider legs all round her eyes and daubed big red splotches on her cheeks. I had painted my mouth green and my eyes purple. In addition, we had both tied scarves round our chests, beneath our T-shirts, and stuffed them with knickers to give ourselves boobs. We could hardly look at each other without collapsing into giggles. It was really funny! Needless to say, Rachel didn’t think so. She has no sense of humour. (She exercises too much. Well, that is my theory.)
“Honestly, you look a total sight,” she said. “You’d better just scrub all that muck off yourself, Megan Hooper, before your mum comes for you!”
RACHEL’S DIARY (SATURDAY)
That tubby little scumbag has been whining to Mum about me making her exercise.
“M-u-u-u-um,” she goes, “it’s not fair! She hasn’t any right!”
The really irritating thing is that Mum agrees with her. That is what is NOT FA
IR. Mum always takes her side! She is so spoilt it is just not true. I was never spoilt like that.
Old Tubbo goes on wailing and moaning. “She made us run round the garden, Mum! She kept us out there for HOURS.”
So Mum then tells me to “just let them be. Let them do their own thing.”
I snap, “I thought I was supposed to be keeping an eye on them! How can I keep an eye on them if they’re locked away upstairs?”
Mum says, “You wouldn’t do anything naughty, would you, Annie? You know Megan’s mum doesn’t want her going into chatrooms?”
To which Tub, all big-eyed and positively OOZING virtue, goes, “Mum, I KNOW. And I wouldn’t, EVER. I wouldn’t, Mum! HONESTLY.”
And Mum believes her! Quite extraordinary. She never believed ME. She still doesn’t. It always, like, the third degree when I’ve been anywhere.
“Are you SURE you didn’t? Are you SURE you haven’t? Are you telling me the truth?”
But with old Tub, it’s like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She’s such a sly boots! I wouldn’t trust her further than I can spit.
“SEE?” She’s all gloating and full of evil triumph. She doesn’t actually say it out loud; she just mouths it at me. I mouth back at her. Something really rude, behind Mum’s back. Fatso sticks her tongue out.
So childish! She then rushes across the room and twines herself round Mum, all cute and little-girly. Totally SQUIRM making.
“Tell her, Mum! Tell her she’s not to boss us!”
“I’m sure she won’t,” says Mum, “so long as you behave yourselves.”
“Mum, we do!”
Huh! is all I say to that. Huh huh HUH. But Mum accepts it. She says all right, that’s all she wanted to hear. Later she gets me on my own and tells me to cool it.
“Give them a bit of leeway. They’re not bad kids. You get on and do your thing, and let them do theirs.” She then adds that, “You’re not in the police force yet, you know!”
I tell her that it’s the police SERVICE, not the police FORCE, which in fact I have already told her about two dozen times before, but Mum just waves a hand, like it’s not important, and says, “Whatever! Go easy on them.”
It’s absolutely no use looking to Dad for support; he keeps well out of it. Bringing up girls is a woman’s job. It’s always “Ask your mum. See what your mum says.” What a cop out! But then Dad is a bit of a throwback. Not a modern man at all.
Anyway, that has done it, as far as I am concerned. I wash my hands! They can stay upstairs and moulder all day long. What do I care if Little Goody Two-Shoes is led astray?
Besides, I have other things to think about. Well, one other thing, basically. TYRONE! Tyrone Patrick O’Malley. He’s far more gorgeous than anyone I met on holiday. Mum can keep her Spanish boys! Jem says if it weren’t for having Kieron, she would quite fancy him herself. But she has promised me faithfully not to do any ogling! I am still consumed with jealousy as they are still stacking shelves together.
Oh, I can’t bear it! The thought of Jem actually standing next to him – maybe even TOUCHING him!!! It is agony. She says they’re both on early shift next week, which means they finish at one, so if I go down there I can join them in the canteen for lunch. THEY get to eat free, but Jem says loads of people just drop in for a quick bowl of soup and a roll and butter. I can afford that! I could afford a whole three-course meal if it meant being with Ty!!!
The dear little girls will just have to get on by themselves. After all, it’s only a couple of hours.
On Sundays me and Mum always go off to visit my gran. It’s a really long journey, as we have to catch a bus into town, then another bus out of town. It takes over two hours and is quite boring. Unfortunately, it is equally boring when we get there, as Gran’s home where she lives is full of old ladies (and a few old men, though not very many) and there is absolutely nothing whatever to do. We can’t even talk to Gran any more, as her mind has wandered and she doesn’t know who we are. Sometimes she calls Mum “Molly”, which we think was a friend of hers when she was young. Other times she calls her “Kathryn”. We don’t know who Kathryn was. She doesn’t call me anything at all, which is sad, ’cos me and Gran were the hugest of friends when she lived with us.
In those days I didn’t have to go round to Annie’s in holiday time, as Gran was always there to look after me. We used to have such fun! We used to play board games, and word games, and read things to each other. Sometimes Annie would come and spend the day, and then we’d have even more fun! Gran used to laugh at Annie and the things she got up to. That was when she called her doolally.
“That girl is completely doolally!”
I can’t remember when Gran stopped laughing; when I was about ten, I think. Now she just sits there, staring. I don’t really enjoy going to visit her. I don’t mind so much about being bored, as I can always take a book to read, but it makes me unhappy to see Gran just sitting staring. And I hate that she doesn’t know who I am! Mum says maybe she does know, somewhere deep inside. She says that is why we have to keep visiting.
“Imagine how hurt she’d be if there’s a little part of her which can still recognise us, and we didn’t come any more.”
I couldn’t bear for Gran to be hurt! Once or twice, when I’ve been really upset, Mum has said that perhaps she ought to leave me behind. Except that who could she leave me with?
“I can’t keep parking you at Annie’s.”
Annie wouldn’t mind; but when I think about what Mum said, that maybe there is a little part of Gran, somewhere deep down, that still recognises us, I know that I can’t let Mum go by herself. I have to go with her; just in case.
To make myself a bit braver I always remember Clover in Daisy and Clover. Clover has to go and visit her gran in a home, and she feels just the same as I do. When Clover’s gran doesn’t know who she is, Clover says, “I wanted to burst into tears and cry, ‘Gran, it’s me! Don’t you remember? All the things we used to do together?’ But I didn’t, because I knew it wouldn’t be any use. Gran had gone, and there was no way of reaching her.”
It is truly amazing how Harriet Chance describes every single thing I have ever felt or thought. Surely she must have been through it all herself? Or maybe she just has this incredible understanding of how it is to be a young person.
Some of the old ladies in Gran’s home are what Mum calls “real characters”. (What Gran would probably have called doolally.) There is one who is a particular friend of mine. Her name is Mrs Laski, but I call her Birdy as she is very tiny and fragile, and she speaks in this high twittery voice, like a bird. Me and Birdy have these long, interesting conversations together. Like Birdy might say, “It’s very whizzbang out there today.” That is one of her expressions: whizzbang. I don’t quite know what it means, but lots of things are whizzbang.
“Whizzbangs all over the place! They’re arriving in hordes! Did you find any?”
And I will cry, “Yes! I found loads!”
She likes it when I play the game the way she wants it played. She does not like it if I am stupid enough to say something such as, “Found any what?” That makes her cross. But so long as I answer intelligently, we can go on for ages! Birdy will ask me what colour they were, these things that I had found loads of. I will say, “Red! Bright red!” Then Birdy will say, “Not green?” – I mean, this is just an example – and I will say, “Well, maybe some of them were,” and she will nod and say, “I thought so! It’s the time the of year. Very whizzbang! They’re all on their way. Swarms of them!” And before I know it we will be in outer space, surrounded by aliens, all whizzbanging about in their flying saucers, on their way to earth to suck out our brains. Everything always comes back to the aliens sucking out our brains.
Harriet Chance has never written about anyone like Birdy. Maybe I should write and suggest it to her! Except that I once read she almost never uses ideas that come from other people. She says she has “a resistance” to them.
There is another old lady in G
ran’s home whose name I don’t know so I call her Mrs Yo-Yo, because her favourite toy is a yo-yo. She yo-yo’s away like crazy! I know it is very sad, when maybe she has been something important in life, and had a job and brought up children, and now she does nothing but play with a yo-yo all day, but at least she is happy. She beams, and laughs, and skips. I would rather Gran played with a yo-yo than just sat in a chair doing nothing.
Mrs Yo-Yo wasn’t there that Sunday, but Birdy was. We had a bit of a chat about whizzbang dustbins full of aliens come to suck our brains out, then a woman that I think is her daughter came and took her away. She said, “She’s not on about aliens again, is she?”
I said, “Yes, they’re hiding in the dustbins,” and the woman looked embarrassed and said she was so sorry and that I wasn’t to take any notice. I don’t know what she said she was sorry for! I enjoy my conversations with Birdy. She has a really good imagination.
After she had gone, and Mum was sitting with Gran, telling her all the things that had been going on in our lives during the week (which was not a lot. Nothing as interesting as aliens hiding in dustbins) I settled down to finish my project for school. I’d done the review; now I had to do the biography. Biography of Harriet!
I’d looked her up on the Internet at school, and I’d also read about her in a book called Children’s Writers. Plus, of course, the little bits that publishers put at the front of books, like telling you where the author lives and how many children they’ve got. Plus an interview that she had done for a magazine which is in the school library. I knew everything there was to know! I could have written a whole book about Harriet. But our teacher had said not more than three hundred words, so I thought it would give me good practice in picking out the things which were most important. Otherwise I would just go on for ever! Annie had asked what was the least number of words, as she didn’t think she’d be able to manage more than about twenty. Other people were just going to copy out stuff they’d read. I don’t think there is any fun in that.