by Lola Jaye
That night, Carla and I swooned over a poster of Bobby Brown and practiced vogueing in front of the mirror, but not once did she ask me about The Manual.
I slipped back next door and into my room as Mom lay on the couch cuddled against the Bingo Caller, whispering sweet nothings. I changed into my yellow pajamas decorated with pink dots and pulled The Manual from its secret hiding place under the bed. The one-eyed teddy stared at me, like he had something to say, and I started to wonder if I was getting too old to have him on my bed.
You’re in secondary school now.
A place where all the curly-haired kids want straight hair, the tubby kids dream of looking like beanpoles, and everyone is desperate to latch on to someone resembling a best friend.
This is fine, but having a bunch of other friends is always a good idea. At least I thought so when I was at school. In the juniors I had three good friends—one was good at Math, one great at soccer, the other okay at English. This all helped considering Math and English were my least favorite subjects!
When I got to secondary school, things were a little different. Just getting through the day without being called certain names was really important, and it didn’t hurt to be around a bunch of boys who were feared, but the rules remained the same. So, now, what was his name…? John or Johnny, I think? Now he was brilliant at both Math AND English. And there was Nick, who everyone was scared of (which obviously brought the name-calling down to a minimum). And then there was Charlie (secretly, my favorite best friend) who was basically good at…well, screwing around mainly.
Look at it this way: some will be good at geography, others good for advice. Whatever their strengths, I’m sure they’ll make such a difference to your life. They’ll teach you loads—good and bad. Believe me on that one.
But hey, perhaps there’s someone you already hang around with and share secrets with. (Carla, maybe? You always seemed so close.) Whoever it is, never let her go. Best friends are a bit special and a bit rare—like sand made out of gold—and when you find a good one, keep her. Treat her the way you like to be treated. And always be loyal.
Admittedly, when you hit your teens, it may become difficult to keep up the loyalty bit as there’s always this urge to join cliques. To branch out and experiment with situations that may not include your original friends. And there’s nothing wrong with this (as long as it’s good stuff), just try not to abandon your best friend in the process—she’s the person who’ll ultimately be there for you.
I’m basically trying to share the type of advice my old dad would impart as he smoked on a long pipe (okay, I’m fibbing about the pipe bit). His sentences would always begin: “Son, listen to me…” Most times I’d do so by rolling my eyes continuously around in my head until the onset of eye-ache. You see, he didn’t always make much sense with his man-to-man speeches, but sometimes he got it spot on.
I don’t doubt you’ll meet a few more friends as you get older, and that’s great, but the ones you can really, truly rely on, you’ll be able to count them on one hand.
I hugged the one-eyed teddy close.
Then there are the not-so-friendlies.
Remember, Lowey, bullies are just wimps in disguise. You may think they’re all brave when they confront you, shout a lot and basically frighten the socks off you. But with bullies, there’s something about THEMSELVES they’re trying to cover up by being horrible and mean to you. So, if you’ve inherited my gangliness, you’re probably taller than a lot of the other girls and boys in your class anyway, which can help, but can also bring on the teasing. Or if you’re anything like your mom’s side—Auntie Elizabeth case in point—you’re probably quite…generous around the middle and a little vertically challenged.
Actually, I was a cross between both sets of families: taller than all the boys in my class, not as slim as most of the girls…
The point I’m trying to make is, school can at times represent one big fat popularity contest, especially these days. I remember it well and it wasn’t easy. I have to admit, being good at soccer was a bonus (especially as I helped win the cup). But it’s just too early to see what you’ll be good at, to make you less of a target. All I do know is that you’ll be a beauty (inside and out) and this in itself might make you popular—or get you beaten up from time to time. Whatever you look like, there will be something that makes you stand out, and if a group of kids, or just one kid with a big gob, cottons on to this—you’re in trouble.
Okay, now for the “try not to be a wimp” part.
LOWEY, DONT BE A WIMP!
If a real big bully has it in for you, never let her know you’re scared. If she starts calling you names about the way you look, the color of your skin, the style of your clothes, just ignore her—this will hurt her more than you actually responding, as it will make her look and then feel a bit silly. If the situation calls for tougher action, then take it like a man and stand up to her (no, not by smacking her about the head with your backpack—however much she deserves it—and she might). Laugh her off or ignore her—she’ll soon get bored. Let her know she JUST ISN’T THAT IMPORTANT in the grand scheme of things. You see, that WILL shock the crap-sorry, heck—out of her for sure. If this doesn’t work, you can make a smart comment, just don’t make the comment too smart, or she’ll probably give you that beating after all. And if all else fails and she’s still coming at you, turn and walk away. You may feel like a wimp for doing so (when in fact you’re behaving like the BIGGER person), but it’s the best way in the long run and just shows how unwilling you are to stoop to her low-down level. I say HER because if it’s a boy then report him to a teacher straight away. No question about that.
I threw the one-eyed teddy across the room in frustration as I thought about Sharlene Rockingham waiting outside the school gates for me. Sharlene Rockingham, the thorn in my side. She’d started her vendetta against me all because she found out I hadn’t cheered for her during sports day last summer. Admittedly, we’d never got on, but the constant snide remarks and dirty looks across the dinner hall were all leading up to something big.
Sharlene was the main reason I often fantasized about bad things. Like her death. Yes. I’d thought about her dying. Far from being a psycho, I’d never actually thought about HOW it would happen, or that I’d be the one to do it—only that when it did I’d be left to get on with things without wondering if she’d follow through with the promise of bashing my head against the science-block wall. I hated being a wimp about it, but not being part of the coolest crowd meant minimal back-up and a good chance of a kicking. Far from ignoring her, I made sure I put up a good-enough front by calmly telling her to “just buzz off” while pushing past and almost swallowing my chest in the process. To be honest I was kind of doubtful this piece of advice would work in the real world.
I read on.
I loved Phys Ed.
PE’s one of those things you either love or hate. And yes, I was one of those morons who couldn’t wait for Wednesday afternoon and a good session, rain or shine. Don’t worry, Lowey, if sport isn’t for you. Just remember it’s rather pointless playing sick each week as you will have to go through PE eventually, anyway. So—and you’re not going to like this—just get through it. Doing so will make you stronger, independent, a leader…or a shivering wreck. If, of course, you really are sick, that’s different. By the way, your dad’s not saying don’t pull the odd sick day, just be smart and spread them out a bit—like twice a term—because teachers aren’t that stupid.
I flicked back to the miscellaneous section of The Manual and soon arrived at a new and surprising heading. Why are boys such asses? I giggled at Dad’s use of the word “ass” while hoping he’d have the power to at last shed some light on the opposite sex for me. An image of Corey in his big British Knight sneakers sprang into my head, basically because he was the only boy I spent time with—as Mom had put me in a girls’ school.
Boys can be such asses, right?
Idiots, cretins, morons, this list goes
on, I hear you cry.
But that age-old question has baffled scientists for centuries—and you want ME to explain this further?
At your age now, males are at their most ass-tastic (okay, that’s not actually a real word). They run around in packs, tease you for no good reason, they’re lazy, moany and their feet smell like slabs of moldy cheese.
How do I know this?
Because I am one. A guy, that is.
Okay, seriously, Lowey, males do get slightly better as they age—a bit like a fine wine—but you’ll have to wait until they receive that telegram from the queen (or, by your time, King Charles) to see any significant changes.
I giggled nervously at Dad’s sense of humor, never realizing he could be so funny. In fact, Mom never mentioned anything about Dad these days, so obsessed was she with washing her new husband’s graying jockeys, laughing at his unfunny jokes, kissing him full on the mouth—and right in front of me, as if I enjoyed bringing up my dinner. My mood, as always, lifted with joy at the thought of getting to know my dad, but was quickly replaced by a stab of sadness at the thought of the following week. My thirteenth birthday, and I’d yet to think of anything memorable to do while I was twelve. I searched my memory bank for something and then it came to me…Dad’s manual. Hadn’t my life changed since it had appeared? I no longer had an excuse to feel like a kid any more. I was on the brink of becoming a woman, and Dad knew that too. But most of all I didn’t feel alone. And that had to be the best bit of all, no longer feeling lonely.
I reopened The Manual, pleased I hadn’t let my dad down and thankful a new memory had been planted.
One I’d never, ever forget.
teabags bursting with hormones
Did you know…? While England won the World Cup, Kevin scored (kissed) a girl for the very first time.
The morning of the Saturday before my thirteenth birthday, I peered out of the window to see the Bingo Caller helping Mom into the back seat of his car, her hand on her tummy. I went back to sleep and awoke to the sound of the front door being banged almost off its hinges. I smiled.
“Get up, you lazy thing!” shouted Carla as I opened the door. She was dressed in a pretty little baby-doll dress I could never wear, (not with my bandy looking legs) and huge trendy boots. “Change of plan. Your birthday party’s gonna be at our house!”
Apparently, Mom had called from wherever it was she and the Bingo Caller had gone and requested my thirteenth birthday party be shifted next door to Carla’s.
“Charming!” I remarked.
“Is your mom all right? My mom wouldn’t tell me what was going on.”
“Probably had something better to do,” I said, feeling a little put out, but hoping she had a good reason for her missing my thirteenth birthday.
Looking around next door’s tiny kitchen—which was almost identical to ours, but filled with pictures of the family and with Corey’s huge smelly sneakers by the entrance—it was clear a lot of effort had been made. Tiny cupcakes (soon to be decorated with hundreds and thousands) were baking in the oven; a wonky stool with dusty footprints was evidence of someone having placed colorful streamers on to the wall. A few friends from my school were invited (with Carla’s help), along with Corey’s friends, assuring a good turnout (even though I still doubted whether anyone would actually show up). Carla’s mom forced a red bow onto my head, even though I’d insisted on wearing jeans and not a dress. But for once I decided not to mind because it was my thirteenth birthday. The biggy.
Mom rang just before the first lot of party guests arrived.
“I’m really sorry I can’t be there, darlin.’
“So, why can’t you come?”
“You know what it’s like with flu. Thought I’d stay away so I didn’t spread it around.”
“The flu? I never heard you coughing last night?”
“It must have started during the, erm, night.”
I shrugged off Mom’s explanation. Besides, I had Dad now, who’d cared enough to write to me every birthday. “That’s okay, Mom. You get over the flu.”
“Really sorry, Lois.”
“Don’t worry. I have everything I need here,” I whispered to myself.
“Never mind, though, your actual birthday isn’t until Monday. I’ll make sure I’m there for that. Okay, darlin?’
“Mom, I have to go now. People are arriving.”
She started to mumble something as I replaced the receiver.
People began to trickle in quite slowly. And quietly. No one saying a single word. There was the odd sound of a leg tapping against a chair as guests basically gazed at each other, as if waiting for someone, anyone, to utter anything mildly witty. The silence was deafening and my life flashed before me—grand confirmation of my big fat L of a Loser status at school. But just as I thought the party was more than over, Carla’s mom turned up the record player and began to move expertly to the fast melodies of “Motown-philly” by Boyz II Men, complete with subway dress and a group of lustful eyes belonging to Corey’s friends. Soon, others followed. My initial fear of mass yawns and exits evaporated and I was free to find the bathroom to let out nothing but a sigh of relief.
I shut the bathroom door behind me just as Carla’s mom, still on the “dance floor,” proclaimed it was indeed Hammertime!
“Lo Bag, where have you been?” asked Corey, sounding like an old man. Voice all deep, as I shut the bathroom door behind me.
“In the John of course!” I shook my head to this silly question, itching to return to my guests and new friends.”
“I…erm…wanted to give you your present.”
“Your mom’s already done that!” I replied. A roar of laughter escaped from the living room and I longed to be among the joviality and not stuck with Corey the Moron outside the toilet.
“When?” he asked with a puzzled look.
“What do you think all this is about?” I said, gesticulating wildly toward my new pair of stone-washed jeans. “And the party!” The kid had been hanging around with his friends too long it seemed.
“Oh! So what did your mom get you?”
“A puffy coat! I told you she gave it to me weeks ago! Look, this isn’t the time to annoy me, Corey!”
“I’m not…I don’t want to annoy you. I wanted to give you this.” He produced a square package hastily wrapped in what looked like Christmas paper. “Sorry, we didn’t have any birthday wrapping left.” He thrust the tiny item into my palm. “From me.”
Before I could say thanks, he’d walked off. So I opened the present to reveal LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” album on tape. Wow! My feet were already tapping to the beat of my favorite track. The one album I’d been after for months but Mom wouldn’t let me buy (because it was rap music) and Corey had just handed it to me! Carla must have told him, I reasoned, along with wondering why Corey would save up his pocket money to buy me a present. The same Corey who up until about a month ago pulled my hair, farted in my face and called me all sorts of silly names. I thought nothing more as I rejoined the others on the “dance floor” and launched into Lois’s very own awkward and stiff dance routine.
For the next week, I was on a high. I stood in the dinner queue, constantly greeted with invisible high-fives from girls who’d never even burped in my direction before. It would seem my party remained on the lips of almost everyone in my year, which unfortunately included Sharlene Rockingham, who cornered me behind the science block as I raced to Math.
“Why didn’t I get an invite to your icky little party, then?” she asked gruffly.
“Why should I have invited you?” I replied. It seemed to slip out before I’d a chance to really think about it as Dad’s advice pounded against the wall of my head, desperate to get in.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you, Lois?”
“No,” I moaned, a little cheesed off that my week of glory was about to be soured. I inched away, trying hard not to look like a “wimp” but without being too “smart” about thi
ngs.
“I’m gonna be late, so I’ll, er, see you…” I said pathetically.
Sharlene’s eyes narrowed with evil. “Yep. You will.”
On the morning of my actual thirteenth birthday, I opened up The Manual.
Happy Birthday baby!
You’re now officially a teenager. From now on, every time there’s a Y in the day of the week you’ll be thinking “I’m not a child any more, damn it! I’m a grown-up!” while at the same time being scared to death (sorry) of becoming one.
I suppose you are a grown-up—almost. And let’s just say, the lads will also be noticing how grown up you’ve become. They’ll start staring at your chest whenever they speak to you for a start (I’ll give you a few seconds to pick your jaw up from the floor in total embarrassment)…
Yes, I did feel a little flushed with embarrassment, but read on.
Actually, I’ll come back to the boy bit later. (This is hard for me too, you know.)
Right now, let’s go back to another subject.
Friends.
They’re becoming more important to you now and you probably hate your mother.
Give her a break, though. Please. It couldn’t have been easy picking up the pieces when I left. She’d never much liked being alone. It wouldn’t surprise me if by now she’s found another guy to spend time with. I expect that. Please don’t give her a hard time for it, though, cut her some slack, Lowey. She’s a good woman.
I slapped The Manual shut, remembering Mom’s sudden bout of flu during my birthday party. I was still angry with her and no amount of words from Dad could change that. Part of me was pleased to know he forgave her for hooking up with the Bingo Caller, though, and perhaps I could try to like him…even if I did think the man was a Loser.
During the next few weeks, I attempted to be civil toward the Bingo Caller.
“Thanks for trying with him,” said Mom, who’d obviously noticed the change in me. General politeness, helping to wash his car; I became the model stepchild.