The Bex Factor

by Simon Packham

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Kyle never did half the stuff they said he did. All right, the thing on the roof was kind of true, and all that fuss about Catchpole’s war graves trip, but most of the time he only got the blame because he was a Dogshit Kid.

  ‘Oi, Geez,’ says Kyle, looking up from Countdown and shouting over his headphones. ‘What do you think you’re doing with my sister?’

  If Matthew reverses any further he’ll be stuck to the wall like that fairground ride. ‘I’m not doing anything with her.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get on with it, Geez,’ says the comedian in residence. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?’

  My brother wets himself laughing. Matthew just wets himself. I have to get him up to my bedroom before he’s too stressed out for anything. ‘Shut up, Kyle, it’s not funny. And put some clothes on, yeah? You look well disgusting.’

  ‘Dad’s still in the shower,’ he grunts.

  And I’m like, Nooooo! Because I so should have seen it coming. Every day, when they get home from work, it’s the same old routine: they chuck their overalls in the washing machine, Dad goes up for the first shower, and when he comes down again he’s always wearing . . . he’s always wearing . . . WE HAVE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE.

  ‘Come on, Matthew. Why don’t we . . .?’

  Too late. An out-of-tune elephant is bellowing, ‘There’s no business like show-business’. Two seconds later, Dad’s standing at the bottom of the stairs wearing Mum’s pink fluffy bathrobe. And I wish I was dead.

  ‘Hello, beautiful.’

  ‘Hello, Dad.’

  ‘Sorry, matey,’ says Dad, spotting Matthew and frantically rearranging Mum’s bathrobe. ‘Didn’t realise we had visitors. What’s your name, son?’

  If he wasn’t weirded out when he saw Kyle, he certainly is now. ‘It’s Matthew, Matthew Layton.’

  ‘You look soaked,’ says Dad. ‘Tell you what – why don’t you nip upstairs and borrow some dry clothes from my wardrobe?’

  ‘No! I mean, er, no thanks, Mr McCrory, I’m fine.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ says Dad. ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

  Matthew reaches guiltily for his hair. ‘I don’t think so, Mr McCrory.’

  ‘You’re the lad who played that belting guitar solo at the school concert.’ Dad grabs his hand and tries to shake it off. ‘Talk about The Tingle Factor! The hairs on the back of my neck were doing the Charleston. ‘’Course Bex is the musical one in our family, but you probably know that.’

  If he gets started on the baby photos, I’ll have to shoot myself. ‘Sorry, Dad, we need to go upstairs. Matthew’s helping me with some homework.’

  ‘That’s what they call it now,’ says Dad. ‘All right, love, I can see you’re in a hurry. But before you go, I want a quick word with Matthew here.’

  Matthew looks terrified.

  Dad looks dead serious for once. ‘Bex’s mum is working late again, but if you’re brave enough to risk my toad-in-the-hole, you’re welcome to stay for your tea.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t,’ says Matthew, hurriedly. ‘I’ve got to be home by quarter to six.’

  Which means I’ve got about forty minutes to get it over with. Is that long enough? I wonder. I mean, it’s not like I can ask him the moment we get up there. ‘Then we’d better get a move on. Come on, Matthew, I’ll show you my room.’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’

  He looks if he’s nearly as desperate to escape as I am. I just hope he doesn’t see me blushing when my stupid brother shouts, ‘Here, Geez; don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  Matthew

  Her bedroom is so tiny it feels like a prison cell.

  ‘Wait here,’ she says, taking some jeans and a T-shirt from a white chest of drawers. ‘I’m going to the bathroom to get changed, yeah?’

  This is all Mum’s fault. If she hadn’t been desperate for me to hook up with Dad, I would never have done anything so totally out of character. Because this isn’t me, you know. I don’t do girls, and I certainly don’t do spontaneity. And, trust me, there’s no such thing as destiny. Bad stuff just happens.

  What does she want, anyway? I thought she was just some random girl I could spend a random hour with. I even thought it might be a nice break from the same old same old. But that was before I knew she was Kyle McCrory’s sister.

  The main thing is not to panic. I mean, just because her brother’s a certified psycho who needed five policemen to drag him down from the science block roof, doesn’t mean she has to be a complete headcase. But I’d feel a whole lot happier if I knew what she was playing at. So I search the room for clues.

  It’s got that girlie smell of fresh towels and apple shampoo, and the floor is so tidy you could actually walk across it. If you ask me, you’d have to be out of your mind to want Rihanna looking down on you 24/7, but I guess that’s pretty normal too. So’s her CD collection: a couple of OK albums and a whole load of what Curtis Morgan calls ‘R&B lite’.

  Even so, I’m quietly shitting myself when the door bursts open, and I have my second near heart attack in under ten minutes. ‘I haven’t touched anything, promise.’

  ‘Hold her, will you?’ barks a voice I don’t recognise. ‘I’m desperate.’

  She’s what Curtis Morgan would probably still describe as a ‘hot chick’ in baggy sweat pants and a stain-splattered hoodie. She practically rugby passes me a pink blanket with a warm squidgy thing inside, before rushing back into the hall screaming, ‘Oi, Bex, get a bloody move on. I’m gagging for a poo.’

  Suddenly there’s this rank smell in here, and even though my head is telling me to get the hell out, my legs won’t seem to budge.

  Which makes it all the more chilling when the warm squidgy thing starts moving. And making this noise, like a cartoon duck in a liquidiser. And . . . OH MY GOD. IT’S A BABY.

  I don’t do babies. They can’t talk, they stink of puke and they wouldn’t know an Xbox if it bit them on the bottom and whistled the theme tune from Family Guy. At least my legs seem to have rediscovered the art of motion. But only in circles. So I stagger round the room, vainly hoping for someone to rugby pass the smelly thing back to.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I can’t believe I’m actually pleased to see her. ‘It’s a . . . baby.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ says Bex. ‘Here, give her to me.’

  I hand over the wailing stink-bomb. The wailing stops. ‘I don’t understand. What’s it . . . ?’

  ‘She’s my sister’s lurve child,’ says Bex, taking the baby’s hand and waving it at me like a puppet. ‘Her name’s Yasmin. Gorgeous, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes . . . I s’pose.’

  Bex looks much better in jeans than her school uniform. I can’t help noticing some new curvy bits. ‘How about a smile for your Auntie Bex?’ she coos.

  I’m just wondering why the female of the species gets so gooey about this sort of thing when I remember what Dad said about girls off council estates who get pregnant on purpose so they can claim more benefits. ‘I think I’d better go.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ says Bex, holding the baby above her head and whizzing it towards me like an aeroplane. ‘I want to ask you a big favour.’

  Suddenly it all clicks. Tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m putting two and two together and making a fish. I mean, first she tells me what a great guitarist I am, and then she lures me back to the Dogberry Estate and bounces a baby in my face. Maths isn’t really my subject, but it all adds up.

  ‘What kind of a favour?’ I ask, trying not to sound like I’ve figured it out.

  ‘It’s OK if you don’t want to, yeah? Look, I know it probably feels a bit weird . . . considering we’ve only just met and everything, but I was just wondering if —’

  ‘Cheers, mate, you’re a lifesaver.’ Jogging Pants Girl is leaning in the doorway looking a bit like a model from one of Mum’s catalogues.

  Bex looks furious. ‘Do you mind, Natal
ie? We’re trying to have a private conversation here.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  ‘And do something about Yazz’s nappy,’ snaps Bex, handing her the burbling bundle. ‘If I had a beautiful daughter like that, I’d make sure I looked after her properly.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ says the girl with the baby. ‘Anyway, who’s your boyfriend?’

  ‘His name’s Matthew . . . and he’s not my boyfriend. Now, could you just get out, please?’

  The girl with the baby rolls her puffy eyes. ‘You want to watch her, Matthew, she’s evil.’

  ‘Sorry about my sister,’ says Bex, slamming the door behind her. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure she won’t come back.’ She takes a piece of paper from under her pillow, sits down on the edge of the bed and gives me her serial-killer smile. ‘Now about that favour. You see what it is . . .’

  Her mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Time stands still as we size each other up, like boxers at a weigh in. I was right about her eyes – they are brown. The rest of her’s not bad either. She looks quite pretty with her hair tied back.

  You see, when I said I don’t do girls, I didn’t mean I don’t want to. But it would be pretty embarrassing bringing anyone home with Mum the way she is. Which is probably part of the reason I haven’t even kissed a girl, not properly, let alone . . . you know.

  It’s the only thing they ever talk about at school. The other kids are always bragging about the latest girls they’ve got off with. According to Mr Catchpole, it’s probably just a ‘crude display of adolescent bravado’, but even Curtis went out with Demi Corcoran a few times.

  I’m pretty hot on the theory. It’s practically all we’ve done in PSHE for the last four years. (Apart from drugs and bullying, of course.) What if this is my only chance to put it into practice?

  OK, supposing I just kiss her? I mean, it’s what she wants, isn’t it? If I don’t do something soon she’ll probably jump on me anyway. I’m kind of thinking that a pre-emptive strike is the only way to go. So I sit down next to her and make a grab for one of her curves.

  Bex

  ‘What are you playing at?’ I yell.

  ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘Get off me, you idiot.’

  ‘What’s the matter, aren’t I doing it right?’

  ‘Look, stop it, will you or I’ll call my dad.’

  He flies off the bed, like a human cannonball. ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought what exactly?’

  This time he’s the one having trouble getting his words out. ‘I thought you . . . I thought you wanted me to . . . you know . . .’

  I’m not sure whether to laugh or smack him in the mouth. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, grabbing his face and hiding behind his hands. ‘You seemed pretty keen that’s all. What else was I supposed to think?’

  Now I’m sure I want to smack him in the mouth. ‘Don’t worry, I get it, OK? You took one look at where I came from and thought I must be gagging for it.’

  ‘No, I . . .’ He peeps out from between his fingertips. ‘You mean you don’t want to . . . you know?’

  ‘In your dreams, sad boy.’

  ‘Oh right,’ he says, letting out a rather insulting sigh of relief. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Forget it, it’s not important.’

  ‘Come on. You might as well tell me now.’

  If it wasn’t the most important thing in my life, I’d be telling the geek with the guitar where to get off. If I didn’t want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything, I wouldn’t be handing him this piece of paper. ‘I got the music off the internet. Do you think you could play it?’

  He takes one look and smiles smugly.

  ‘On the guitar, I mean. You could play it, yeah?’

  ‘You’re really into this stuff, aren’t you?’

  ‘What, so you’re not then?’

  ‘It’s an OK song, I suppose. If you like that kind of thing.’

  ‘I don’t care what you think of it. Can you play it?’

  ‘It’s got six chords,’ he sneers. ‘Of course I can play it.’

  I reach under the bed and pull out the mini guitar that Dad bought me in Alicante. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘On this old thing?’ he says, twanging a very out of tune string.

  ‘You said you could do it.’

  ‘I could.’ He shrugs. ‘But what would be the point?’

  And now for the really embarrassing part. ‘I want you to, like, accompany me. While I . . . sing.’

  ‘So you’re a soloist now, are you?’

  ‘What, so you reckon kids from round here can only be in the chorus, is that it?’

  ‘No . . . no, it wasn’t that, I just . . .’

  ‘It was a stupid idea anyway.’ Lucky I didn’t tell him the whole story. Lucky I didn’t blurt out what I really wanted him for. Now that would have been embarrassing. ‘Go on, get out, you know you want to.’

  ‘I’ll give you a couple of bars intro,’ he says, finishing tuning and then strumming a chord.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to sing.’

  ‘I do but . . .’

  ‘Go for it. I’ll give you a note if you like.’

  The first time I try to come in, I sound like an alien off Doctor Who. ‘Sorry, can we start again?’

  ‘Sure. Maybe we should take it a bit slower.’

  This time he hums the first line with me. And once I’ve got going, it sounds all right. More than all right. ‘Umbrella’ is my favourite song. I must have played it like, about a million times. OK, so I’ll never be as good as Rihanna, but it’s way better than when I did it yesterday.

  Matthew actually looks like he might be enjoying himself. When we get to the chorus, he closes his eyes and sings along. And even though he does that funny thing with his mouth, I still get this tingly feeling all the way up my spine. If that’s not a good omen, what is?

  ‘Not bad,’ he says, opening his eyes and flashing me a non-smug smile. ‘You’ve got an OK voice.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, deciding that he’s probably trying to be nice. ‘So have you.’

  ‘Let’s try it again, shall we? But how about you start unaccompanied, build gradually to a climax in the B flat section and then do a slow diminuendo through to the end?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, pretending to understand exactly what he’s talking about. ‘Let’s do it.’

  I may not know much about B flats and diminu . . . what he just said, but this time it’s perfect – just like I imagined it. No, better. Wherever I go with the tune, he follows. And when we get to the chorus it’s kind of like the music takes over.

  ‘Wow,’ he says, slowly stroking the neck of the guitar with his thumb. ‘I can’t believe you sing like that. You just don’t look big enough.’

  I so have to ask him.

  ‘And that’s it?’ he says. ‘All you wanted was to sing with me?’

  ‘Well, yeah . . . I mean . . . no, not quite. You see, what I . . .’

  And I’m just about to spill when I hear knocking. The door opens and in bounces Dad. At least he’s got his trousers on. ‘Sweetheart, that was a different class. ‘’Course I’m a musical theatre man myself, but I’ll tell you something, kiddo, you’re going to knock ’em dead.’

  ‘Dad,’ I say, trying to shut him up before he gives the game away. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s still chucking it down outside. I thought your friend here might need a lift.’

  Matthew practically bites his hand off. ‘Yeah, thanks, Mr McCrory. That would be great.’

  ‘Where do you live, matey?’

  ‘Parkside. Just opposite the tennis courts.’

  Dad whistles. ‘Very nice too. We’ve done a couple of extensions up your way.’

  Matthew grabs his rucksack.

  It’s now or never. ‘Sorry, Dad, could you give us a minute, please? We’ll be down in a se
c.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right,’ says Dad, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’ll go and clear out the van.’

  ‘Well, come on,’ says Matthew. ‘What’s the big secret?’

  Just spit it out, you silly mare! ‘I’ve got an audition . . . for The Tingle Factor . . . in London . . . this Saturday.’

  ‘Great,’ he says, still looking a bit confused. ‘My sister loves that show. But I don’t see what all the fuss is about.’

  I’ve practised this a thousand times in my head, but it still comes out all wrong. ‘I want you to come with me, yeah? To play your guitar, I mean.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You said yourself it sounded pretty amazing.’

  ‘You don’t need me. You’ve got a really good voice.’

  I’ve practised begging too. ‘Please. I need something to make me stand out from the crowd. Otherwise the judges won’t even look at me.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, fiddling with his school tie. ‘It could be . . . difficult.’

  ‘It won’t cost you anything. Mum says she’ll get Dad to drive us all in the van.’

  ‘I don’t know, I . . .’

  This must be what it feels like – that terrible silence, at the end of the results show, just before they announce who’s going through to the next week. Matthew sticks a handful of hair into his mouth, and it feels like about ten double geography lessons before he opens it again to speak.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he says, edging towards the door. ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Matthew. This is my dream.’

  ‘Look, I’d like to, honest. I just can’t, OK?’

  ‘But why? It’s one lousy day out of your life. Why won’t you help me?’

  He frowns and reaches for the door. ‘It’s complicated.’

  Dad thinks he’s doing me a favour, making me tag along for the ride. He whistles ‘Love Changes Everything’ and keeps grinning at Matthew and me, squashed up together on the front seat.

  ‘What’s the matter with you two?’ he says, digging me in the ribs. ‘Not shy are you?’

  ‘Shut up, Dad.’