Honestly—what is she like? “Everyone uses it,” I say, and at least I’m not going on one of those sunbeds that give you skin like an old tortoise. Except that I don’t have enough money left for a whole bottle.
“Good, let’s go home,” says Amber. But then I spot some little sachets of “self-tan towelette” which cost 99p each. Amber thinks they’ll be rubbish, but I tell her to shush and lend me a pound so I can buy three. I will apply it tomorrow when Mom is at the pub quiz with Auntie Karen.
Tuesday
Amber comes around at 6 p.m. to do the deed and we tell Dad we are going upstairs to do our history homework. “I’m glad one of Danni’s friends is having a good influence on her,” he says. Amber’s face goes all pink and guilty-looking. She really is a hopeless liar.
Simon’s head is resting cutely on his “girlfriend.” When Dad tries to pull Mom’s Ugg boots away from him he growls and buries them under his front legs like he’s hugging them. They cost £100 and are now covered in slobber.
“It says you have to exfoliate first,” says Amber, squinting through her glasses at the packet.
“What does exfoliate mean?” I say.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Just ignore it then,” I say, and start taking off my school uniform.
“Are you sure Damian’s worth all this trouble?” she says. “I sometimes think he seems, you know, a bit up himself.”
Poor Amber—she just doesn’t understand boys.
I’m going to do my face and neck and Amber’s doing my legs and arms. It just feels like one of those wet serviettes you sometimes get at the end of a meal in a Chinese restaurant. It says it will make me look “tanned, healthy and glow with summer radiance” within 12 hours. Amber looks doubtful and says it seems a bit cheap. She’s such an old woman, that girl. We rub it on and then I hear Dad bringing Phoebe upstairs to bed. She wants to come in my room, like always, to be with the big girls. I shove a T-shirt and some jeans on and tell my dad she can come in for ten minutes, tops, because we’ve got a lot of Roundheads and Cavaliers to get through, actually.
Phoebe plays with my pencil case, pulling things out and saying, “I have this?” and, “I keep this?” while me and Amber run around destroying the self-tanning evidence. Amber says she’d better be off home and scuttles out of the house. Honestly, she’s such a wet sometimes.
“You smell funny,” says Phoebe, climbing on to my knee and sniffing my face like Simon does when I’ve got strawberry lip gloss on. It is true that the tanning towelettes do whiff a bit like smokey-bacon chips, but that’s not a bad thing, is it? I tell her to button it or I won’t read Room on the Broom to her for the 472nd time.
Wednesday
7 a.m.
Wonder what I’ll look like? I don’t expect to look exactly like Treasure, but at least I’ll be brown like one of those contestants on Celebrity Love Island. I look in the mirror in my room, ready to drink in my bronzed loveliness. OH. DEAR. GOD. ABOVE. It looks like I’ve turned into an elephantine rasher of streaky bacon. My face is striped like a bumble bee and my hands are so smeared it looks liked I’ve wiped my bum with them.
Luckily Mom is still in bed because she’s tired—again—but Rick sees me when I go down for breakfast. “Ha! You’ve been Tango’d,” he says.
I try covering it up with Mom’s foundation cream, but the orange streaks show through. My dad says I could always pretend I was using Phoebe’s wildlife face paints and it all went wrong. Phoebe, quite seriously, asks if I want to borrow her pussycat ears.
Dad seems to think this is hilarious until he realizes it won’t wash off. “Get to school before your mother sees you,” he says. I’ll have to save the mascara for another day.
8:25 a.m.
I’m waiting at the bus stop wearing a duffle coat with the hood up and a scarf around my neck. It is almost June. Some kids from Year 7 ask me if I’m dressed like that for a bet. I tell them to go away, except I use a very bad word.
Can I just say here that Amber is no help? When she arrived she just kept staring at me saying, “Oh girlfriend, that’s so bad. SO, so bad.” Why does she speak like this too? Does literally everyone think they’re American?
I decide I just have to tough it out before I melt and so I take off the coat and scarf and just sit on the bus miserably awaiting my fate. It comes in the shape of James Burgess from Year 9 who comes over and holds his hands up to my face going, “Aaaah, that’s toasty,” as if warming them against a fire.
“At least I haven’t got a gap in my teeth you could fly a light aircraft through,” I say. He looks a bit chinned.
In school, everyone is gathering around me asking whether I’ve been burned on a sunbed or had an allergic reaction to carrots. Ho, ho, how my sides are splitting. Then I see Treasure arriving with Damian.
“Oh Danni, you HAVEN’T been trying to put self-tanning lotion on yourself, have you? Oh, that’s so sweeeet. But you should only ever have it done by a professional. Otherwise you’ll end up looking like that—a big, smudgy mess.” Damian pulls her away.
Miss Judd comes in. “What on EARTH has happened to your face, Dench?” she booms.
“It’s, er, a fake-tan towelette that went a bit wrong, miss,” I say, knowing that this sounds quite funny. The classroom roars with laughter.
“Why you girls think it is attractive to have orange faces I will never ever know,” she says. “Go to the principal’s office.”
10 a.m.
I have been sent home by Mr. Cook. Quelle result! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Planning to spend all day updating my Facebook page and watching CBBC. (I know—pathetic. Don’t tell anyone.) Wonder whether I should buy a year’s worth of tan towelettes as an investment. I could sell them at school.
3 p.m.
Mom comes home from work early after collecting Phoebe from nursery. She’s so wrapped up in herself she doesn’t even notice my face until Phoebe starts stroking my hair saying, “Here, kitty, kitty. Naughty kitty need baff.”
Mom is quite angry that I’ve been sent home and sends me to lie in the bath for an hour with some of her essential oils. Another result.
6 p.m.
Amber comes around with Megan to cheer me up. Megan is my second-best friend but sometimes I promote her when I want to borrow her iPod/red jacket. We watch a DVD and then go to my room to sing on the Karaoke machine Dad got me from Argos for my birthday last year.
Megan, who wants to leave school and be a singer when she’s 16, does Born This Way by Lady Gaga. I put on my mom’s white high heels, shove two socks down my bra and do an impression of Treasure doing a Cheryl Cole song and tossing her hair. Amber and Megan are rolling around my bed laughing so much they nearly wet themselves. I should be on the stage really.
Dad shouts up that we have to turn it down and that other people live in this street too, and that if he wanted to listen to cats being skinned alive he’d prefer if it was those ones that use our garden as a toilet. He’s such a self-centered man. Come to think of it, he’s looking a bit old and careworn these days too, like my mom. Grumpy old pair of miserable boots.
I show Amber and Megan my Pact with God to make Damian like me. They look at each other a bit funny.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing!” they say, in voices that are too high.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll let Deirdre out,” I say (Megan has a fear of rodents).
That does the trick. She tells me that on Friday, when I was off sick, Treasure announced to a group of girls that she’d been to the pictures with Damian to see some stupid film in 3D and that they exchanged friendship bracelets. She kept getting it out and showing anyone who was walking past.
I stare at them. Feel super sick, like I’ve been kicked in the kidneys with a pair of wedges. Here’s my advice to anyone who’s interested—NEVER make a pact with God because He doesn’t listen. In fact this is proof that God doesn’t exist. There’s no way I can compete with Treasure. She’s pretty and
has boobs AND an iPhone. To my horror and shame I start howling until big bubbles of snot come down my nose.
Mom and Dad come rushing up the stairs. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong?” asks Mom.
“Damian’s given Treasure a friendship bracelet,” I wail as tears run off my nose.
“Jesus, is that all?” says Dad. “Lads your age are ten a penny—they’re like s*** in a field.”
Megan and Amber start snickering at this but I tell them it’s not remotely funny or relevant to compare my heartache to cowpats.
Monday
Didn’t sleep much. I keep my head down all day at school, pretending to have a cold. My eyes and nose are red from crying, or possibly all the soap I’ve been rubbing into my face. I hide in the library at lunchtime and don’t go to the toilets all day, even though I’m bursting, in case Treasure is in there, touching up her makeup and holding court to her giggly, stupid followers. Her mom buys her Clinique “invisible” foundation so the teachers won’t know she’s got it on. Can you believe that? My mom says she could get a full shop in from Asda for what that costs.
But then, just as the last bell of the day goes after French and I’m scurrying out of the main doors with Amber, I literally bump into Treasure and she drops her math exercise book right at her feet. She is surrounded by her smirking, fawning Klingons.
“Danni, are you OK? You look AWFUL,” she says, in a delighted voice.
One of the Klingons repeats, “Yeah, awful.” What a cow.
“I think there’s an echo in here,” I say. “Either that or we’ve got a very stupid ghost in the school. Anyway, it’s probably just pneumonia—nothing serious.”
Treasure is smirking, knowing she has bracelet-power. So I pick up her book and say, “Here’s your math book. Oh dear—only 11 out of 20. Still, I suppose you don’t have much time for revision at night after you’ve scraped all that muck off your face.” Her face clouds over—well, as much as it can when it’s bright tangerine—but then she sees Mr. Cook in the distance and smiles falsely instead.
I’m thinking, Don’t show me the bracelet, don’t show me the bracelet …
She doesn’t. Now I’m annoyed and thinking, Show me the bracelet. Show me the bloody bracelet. “Well, I hope you feel better for Thursday,” she says. Thursday? Thursday? What’s happening on Thursday? “The youth-club disco,” whispers Amber. Oh NO. I’m not going. I’m NOT GOING.
6 p.m.
Go home and cuddle Simon. He licks my cheeks, probably wondering why they smell of pet food. Thank God for animals. Take him for a walk and he chases Fat Madge, the cat that lives at number 28. Her owner, Mr. Robinson, who is also fat, tells me I should learn to control my dog. I tell him he should learn to control his pet’s rations of Kitekat so it might be able to run a bit faster. He tells me I’m a cheeky little *beep word* and he’ll have a word with my mom. Good luck with that, pal. She barely even listens to Phoebe these days.
Eat one miserable baked potato with baked beans for tea while my murdering family all have spaghetti bolognese. Cow killers. I must buy a “Meat Is Murder” badge.
Wednesday
Sean O’Connor asked me today at school if I was OK. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I snap back.
“Because you’ve hardly spoken for two days and normally you, erm, never stop,” he says, fiddling with his Lucozade bottle. Strange boy. The cheek of it though! I am quiet and mysterious, aren’t I? “Isn’t a person allowed to be ill?” I say, flouncing off.
Thursday
Wake up to angry voices in the kitchen. Simon is in disgrace. So far in one morning he has chewed:
• one cushion from the living room (red)
• one lip gloss (mine, actually)
• a three-pack of Dove soap (he’s definitely going to vomit)
• a talking Peppa Pig with pull string (Phoebe is inconsolable and has been promised a trip to the Disney Store to stop her squawking).
I, the beta child, have just been told, once again, “That dog only brings stress to our lives. It’s supposed to be your responsibility.” It? How rude. He is a pain but he’s got a face like a teddy bear and his paws always smell of cheesy Wotsits. What more do they want? Plus—if there’s a better laugh than taking Simon through a car wash (in a car, natch), then I’d like to know what it is. He thinks the giant brushes are monsters and has a fit trying to fight them.
Realize that thinking about this has made me smile. I feel a bit better now. Maybe I will go to the disco tonight. Yes, I’ll make Amber and Megan come with me.
5 p.m.
I literally have not a stitch to wear. Mom offers to lend me something of hers. Thanks, Mother, but it’s not OAP theme night. I put on the Tesco sparkly top and jeans and slap on some of Mom’s most expensive foundation cream. That’ll teach her.
10 p.m.
Why did I let Amber and Megan selfishly talk me into going to the disco? Treasure was there, flaunting her stupid bracelet and standing with Damian all night. She did look stunning, in a spoiled-brat sort of way. She was wearing a denim playsuit thing and there were loads of drippy girls oohing and aahing around her all night.
“She can be quite nice sometimes,” said Megan. “She lent me her felt-tips in history once.” Well, pardon ME. I’m SO sorry to have misjudged her. Put the bleeding flags out. (Note to self: Megan the traitor is now relegated to backup friend.)
When I go to the toilets to reapply my Rimmel lip gloss (borrowed from Mom—I’m sure she’d have said yes if I’d asked) who should come in after me? Treasure.
“Oh, hi, Danni,” she says, in a treacly voice. “Seen the bracelet Damian gave me?”
“Is it a shag band?” I say airily. “You must have quite a few of those by now.”
I can see she’s annoyed by this, but she laughs sarcastically instead. “That’s just about your level, Danni. Actually it’s a commitment bracelet.”
Commitment? COMMITMENT? The word is “friendship,” you desperate, push-up-bra-wearing airhead.
“Aaah, sweet,” I say, in my best Not Bothered voice. “I used to have one of those when I was in primary school.”
She is rattled by this. But she is determined to deliver her killer line. “Who knows,” she says, so simperingly I could slap her, “one day after we’ve been to university, maybe Damian will make it an engagement ring.”
I have gone red like a sweaty raspberry but I’m not going to let her know I’m jealous. “Oh, I doubt that,” I say. “Not when he sees what you really look like under all that slap. I bet your parents would barely recognize you underneath six inches of concealer.”
I must say that was a pretty good retort even for me. Treasure looks winded. “Oh, go home and clear out your ferret or whichever filthy caged animal I’ve heard you keep in your Clampett bedroom,” she says. Yes, I think I came out the winner there.
Time to go home.
Sunday
My parents are in the kitchen again, whispering, not smiling. Why are they whispering? Why are they not smiling? Something’s going on. Maybe they’re splitting up! Maybe my dad’s having an affair. Brilliant! Thank you, God! Oh, except no one would have him, not with his disappearing hair and jelly belly.
Rick, who has just come back from taking Simon for a walk to get out of the way of them, agrees with me that they might be having marital troubles, because he caught Mom crying in the bathroom but she pretended she had just poked herself in the eye putting in her contact lenses.
“She looks like a woman scorned,” he says. Then he thinks for a moment. “Who would you live with if they split up?”
This is a good question. It’s like being asked to choose between tuberculosis and appendicitis. Neither is very appealing. “Dunno. Mom probably, because of access to her makeup and hair straighteners,” I say. “What about you?”
“I’d go wherever the Sky box was,” he says.
It must be so rewarding having children.
I’d like to talk more about this with Rick but he’
s gone into the Stink Pit and won’t discuss it anymore because he’s going out with his friends from his class and must get into cool and aloof mode, which mainly consists of ignoring me.
2 p.m.
Mom has gone out, taking Phoebe, who’s asleep in the pushchair, with her. Not a thought for beta daughter, note. I suppose it could be the other way around. My mom could be “carrying on with another bloke” as Gran puts it. Mom is still quite pretty in a Nolan Sister kind of way and does keep talking about having to get rid of her love handles. Very suspicious. When I mentioned the other day about needing £4k for my nose job when I’m 18 she fell about laughing, grabbed her thighs and said, “If there’s any spare money for cosmetic surgery in this house, these are getting hoovered out first.” Self-obsessed woman. She’s too old for anyone to care much what she looks like anymore. Her life’s nearly over, whereas I still need to find love.
5 p.m.
Mom and Phoebe are back. Mom looks sheepish and says, “We went shopping with Gran.”
“I got a Don Lewey balloon!” says Phoebe. She means John Lewis. It’s come to this. We are so neglected that my baby sister thinks a free Sale balloon that’s been tied to some vacuum cleaner in John Lewis is a treat.
Mom and Dad go and whisper in the living room as per usual, but then they realize Phoebe is holding Deirdre up at the kitchen window and a line of neighborhood cats with saucer eyes are staring at her from the garden and licking their lips.
This is another of Phoebe’s—and my dad’s—favorite pastimes, especially when one of the cats leaps at the window and brains itself. Dad especially enjoys that and always says, “Nice one, Pheebs—ten points.”
My Family and Other Freaks Page 3