We are a deeply sick family.
June
Monday
8 a.m.
My mother looks R.O.U.G.H. Maybe she’s been hitting the Tia Maria that Aunty Karen brought back from Turkey. Or maybe she’s been out with her fancy man! She was missing for three hours yesterday and I bet Phoebe was asleep for most of them. Plenty of time to do The Deed. Ugh.
Mom is still in her candlewick dressing gown. I heard her saying to Dad, “I don’t know if I can do this, Dave. I’m so tired.” Do WHAT? Is living with Dad making her tired? If so, join the club.
Dad seems strangely unbothered that his wife is having a passionate affair and is reading the sports pages of the Daily Mirror. He says, “It’ll all work out for the best, you’ll see.”
What will? WHAT WILL BE FOR THE BEST?
8:10 a.m.
Mom’s in the bathroom and I need to brush my teeth with the new whitening toothpaste I made her buy from Superdrug. I knock on the door. Is she crying? She’s certainly making a weird snuffling noise.
“I just feel a bit fluey,” she says when I ask what’s wrong. She’s a terrible liar, just like her husband. I’ll have to go to school without brushing my teeth. Gross. Maybe I can beg a chewy off someone on the bus.
4 p.m.
Weird day at school trying to decipher my parents’ untruths. I was sitting rocking my chair back on two legs as I gazed out of the window wondering whether it might be something else—like we’re all moving to Scotland. I don’t want to move to Scotland. It’ll be cold and Simon won’t like that and there’ll be no Amber.
“Chairs have one, two, three, four legs,” Miss Judd said, bending down to touch each one in turn. “Use them.”
Why are teachers so obsessed with how many legs chairs have? Everyone knows that story about someone falling over backward and knocking their teeth out with their knees is a total myth. And here’s another thing teachers never shut up about either. “Do you put your feet on the furniture at home?” they say. But when you answer “yes” because it’s perfectly true, they tell you off for being cheeky. Explain to me the logic of that. I’d never be a teacher. What a pointless life.
4:15 p.m.
I tell Amber I need to talk to her and so we go to her house and sit in her bedroom, which is filled with posters about saving rainforests and pandas and remote tribes-people. Sigh. Not ONE picture of Robert Pattinson. It’s not natural.
Unburden myself of my worries. Amber sneaks into her mother’s bedroom to borrow a huge hardback book called Women’s Health. It has a picture on the front of a middle-aged lady laughing while eating a salad. Why would anyone laugh if they had to eat a salad?
She looks through it and eventually says triumphantly, “Thought so! Your mother is going through The Change.”
9 p.m.
Am sitting in my bedroom, feeling sick, trying to unremember all the things Amber read out from that book about The Change. It means a woman is getting old. Past it. Her periods stop, which must be a good thing, obviously, but there was other stuff which sounded disgusting and I don’t really want to go there, to be honest. Basically it means she’ll be getting grayer and moodier with creaking joints and hot flushes and maybe even a hump on her back. So if she does want to have an affair she’d better hurry up because no one will look twice at her soon.
9:10 p.m.
Worse—I’ve remembered that I agreed to let Amber help “take my mind off things” by accompanying her on a protest this weekend against a new bypass or motorway or cutting down some woods or something. I forget what. Anyway, I only said yes so that I can tell everyone at school and Damian will see that I take an interest in the wider world and am so much more intellectual than Treasure. But let’s face it—a Curly Wurly is more intellectual than Treasure.
Tuesday
8 a.m.
Rick is feeding Phoebe raisins for breakfast and telling her that they are dead flies. “Yum, yum,” she says, shoving more of them into her mouth. Weird child.
He likes Phoebe much more than he likes me. I even see him kiss her head sometimes.
“Which is your favorite Disney princess?” she asks, as she does 400 times a day. Rick knows the drill here. We all do. None of us is allowed to pick Sleeping Beauty because she’s Phoebe’s favorite because she wears a pink dress at the end.
“Snow White,” he says. “Oooh, but she’s UGGERLY,” says Phoebe. “She’s got SHORT HAIR!”
Bitching at three years old, I ask you. I should let her loose on Treasure.
I whisper to Rick that Amber has a theory about Mom going through The Change. But he covers up his ears and runs from the room shouting, “Shut up, shut up, you’re repulsive!”
Boys are so immature. No wonder it’s left to women to do all the hard work in life.
6 p.m.
Totally boring day at school except that Damian and Sean came first and second in the boys’ 200 meters in PE and Treasure was jumping up and down like an overexcited cheerleader. I was embarrassed for her so I said, “Treasure, if you jiggle your boobs much more you’ll get two black eyes.” All the girls laughed, but only because they’re all jealous that Treasure is in a B-cup already. Lucky cow.
I tried to hit the ball into her face during rounders but smashed it into the air instead and Megan caught me out. She was instantly demoted to third best friend.
Thursday
Megan is reinstated as second best friend. She is already on an official warning for swallowing helium gas out of a balloon in science last term and singing “Livin’ la Vida Loca” in a Donald Duck voice, but she excelled herself in Miss Judd’s class today. She had basically recorded her cat meowing on her phone and hidden it down her sock, and every so often she pressed it so it sounded like there was a cat in the classroom.
Miss Judd kept swiveling her eyes around the room like a meerkat, then looking under the desks and in the cupboard saying, “If this is a joke you are ALL in detention.”
You know when you know you can’t laugh but that makes you want to laugh even more? I caught Damian’s eye. He was shaking and had tears rolling down his face but he didn’t look away. He smiled at me. He likes me again! Hope springs eternal. Miss Judd said she’d keep us all behind until someone owned up. So eventually Megan put her hand up and said, “Miss, I admit it was my pussy.” Well, that was it—I just spluttered all over the desk and was told to go and stand outside until I calmed down.
Megan deserves deep respect.
July
Friday
Sean O’Connor asked me at school today how my dog was. “Fine—why do you ask?” I said. I never know what’s going on in his head. “Just wondered,” he muttered. Strange boy. He never looks at you when he speaks.
Then he spluttered, “I’ve got my dog now. Mitzy. I’ve had her two weeks. Her owners couldn’t afford to keep her anymore. Maybe they could play together sometime.”
Now hold on a second, mister—I am NOT spending my free time hanging out with Shy Boy Sean. I’m about to say, “Simon has a very busy schedule over the summer actually,” but then I realize—this could be it, the lucky break I have been waiting for!
“Sure,” I say, casually rubbing a spot of paint on the floor of the art classroom with my shoe. “We could meet in the park. I’ll get Amber to come along too and you could bring …”
“Who? Bring who?” says Sean a bit suspiciously for my liking.
“Oh, I dunno—erm … Damian?” I say as if it was just one name I had picked from many at random.
Sean looks a bit grumpy and says he doesn’t think that’s a very good idea after “last time,” by which I assume he means the PI. “But I could bring my cousin Neil,” he says. “He likes dogs and has got a pet gecko.”
Oh whoopidoo—a day out with the world’s quietest boy and his lizard-loving geeky cousin. My cup runneth over. But it’s too late. Before I can think up a decent excuse I’ve already agreed to meet up a week on Sunday. Sean can’t do this weekend because Neil’s busy with so
me project or other which I can’t remember because I’d fallen into a coma by this point in the conversation. Yawn, yawn, yawn.
8 p.m.
Amber stays over at my house as it’s the ecoprotest/march/sit-in/whatever tomorrow and my dad’s giving us a lift. Can’t wait. Not.
We sit in my bedroom eating Nobbly Bobbly popsicles and trying to make Deirdre jump over fences we’ve made from matchsticks. She’s useless. She’s just too fat, like a furry cheese barrel on legs. And she’s not going to get any thinner if she keeps shoveling Nobbly Bobbly down her throat. She holds it in her paws like a squirrel with a nut.
“If you could have three wishes, what would they be?” I ask Amber
She says, “One—an end to pollution. Two—world peace.” And then, clutching her hand to her boobs (what there is of them) melodramatically, “Three—true luuuurve.”
I’m surprised at this third answer. I was beginning to think Amber might be, well, not a lesbian, but just Not Bothered. When we were ten we made a pact that we’d go to the same university and when we get married we’d live in the same street so that we could still see each other every day, but just lately I’ve been suspecting that Amber isn’t like normal girls. I try not to look surprised.
“Just because I don’t fancy Damian doesn’t mean I don’t like boys,” she says huffily.
“How can you NOT fancy Damian?” I say. “It’s not humanly possible.”
“He’s vain,” she says. “I see him checking his reflection in the windows all the time, flicking his hair back,” and she does this impression of someone in a shampoo advert.
I don’t answer this because I too check my reflection in the windows all the time. Who doesn’t?
Some of Rick’s long-haired friends have called for him. I can hear them downstairs calling each other “man” and “bro” again. My dad finds this hilarious. They’re trying to form a band with Rick on the drums. It’s called—wait for it—“Fast Track.” My dad almost died and went to heaven when they told him this. “Fast track to the unemployment line, more like,” he said, rolling around laughing in his chair.
Phoebe comes in holding Mom’s makeup bag which she’s stolen from her bedroom. She wants to give Amber a makeover. I tell her Amber doesn’t wear makeup and to please go away.
“But why, Amber?” she asks. “You might be pretty if you did.”
Phoebe’s bedtime, I think.
11 p.m.
Mom and Dad are laughing in front of the TV. I’m in my room. Amber says The Change doesn’t make you feel bad every day and that her textbook says it can be a “new phase in life.” Will this new phase involve going to the supermarket more often? That’s what I want to know.
Saturday
10 a.m.
Dad is driving us to the protest in our embarrassing two-tone car. “What’s this about again?” he says. “It’s to demonstrate our objection to the new bypass they’re planning, Mr. Dench,” says Amber.
“What’s wrong with a bypass? Bypasses are good!” says my stupid father.
“Oh no, they attract more cars, which cause more pollution and they ruin the countryside, Mr. Dench,” says Amber patiently, as if addressing a person with learning difficulties.
My dad points out—and he does have a tiddlywiddly point—that if we look around us carefully we might notice that we are actually traveling to this protest IN A CAR. “I don’t understand young people now,” he goes on. “Environmental protests! Kids your age should be doing something useful, like robbing gas meters.” He seems to think this is hilarious. Amber and I don’t respond.
As I get out of the car I pause and say, “Dad? Is Mom going through The Change?”
He stares at me for about five seconds. Then he throws back his head and explodes with laughter. “Oh, that’s priceless, that is,” he says. “That’s really made my day.” I seriously think my parents are losing it.
10:30 a.m.
I’ve never seen so many unattractive people gathered in one place. Or face hair. And that’s just the women. Amber has this glowy look about her, like those Jehovah’s Witnesses who knock on your door and ask if you want to be saved. One boy with Harry Potter glasses has climbed a tree and unfurled a banner saying: “The Earth is Yours. Save It!” He is also wearing a dreadful T-shirt with “I’m a lean, mean recycling machine!” on the front. No, you’re not, buddy. You’re a skinny, drippy wimp.
Amber is looking on admiringly. “Amber, if you ever buy a T-shirt like that, then I must tell you that we can’t be friends anymore,” I warn tersely.
Then I spot another boy standing awkwardly at the foot of the tree. It is Shy Boy Sean. “Hello,” he says, a bit embarrassed.
“What you doing here?” I say, astonished.
He gestures with his eyes up the tree to the nerdy glasses boy. “I’m with him. My cousin Neil.” It is the geek in the T-shirt.
Hold on. This is the boy I’m supposed to be dog-walking with next weekend rather than Damian? Oh, my so-called life gets better and better.
“Hello, Neil,” Amber and I say together, shuffling our feet. All the while I am thinking I MUST NOT say Nerdy Neil, I MUST NOT say Nerdy Neil, because I can be a bit Tourette’s like that. It turns out that Neil is starting at our school in September because he’s had trouble “fitting in” at his own school. Right, so he’s been bullied then.
Amber has now shimmied up the tree too. There are eight people up there now, all chanting, “I have a dream and it is green.” It’s toe-curling, but Amber seems happy.
“If they like trees so much, why are they trying to crush one to death?” I whisper to Sean. He snickers. I seize my chance. “How’s, erm, Damian these days?” I ask.
Sean instantly looks shifty. “Fine,” he says defensively.
“I can’t believe he hangs around with trashy Treasure,” I say as breezily as I can possibly manage.
“Well, if they’re happy, it’s up to them, isn’t it?” says Sean, looking at me as though I’m the personification of evil. Lovely. So Treasure’s now even got Shy Sean under her spell.
12 noon
I sulk for the rest of the day.
When Amber’s dad picks us up she’s buzzing like a mad wasp, telling him how they’re now going to march on the council planning meeting (I mean, what are we—old-age pensioners?). Her dad, who fancies himself as a bit of a Bob Geldof, seems impressed. I sit in the back on my own, seething and hating Sean for being so nice about Treasure.
3 p.m.
We are in Amber’s bedroom eating hummus, chips and breadsticks. If anyone tried to kiss us now, they’d die from garlic fumes.
Amber is still raving about the fact that she sat in a tree with some boring people. Oh, to be so easily pleased.
I tell her what Sean said and that I feel depressed.
Amber puts her hand on my back like she used to when we were little. “Maybe you should play it a bit more cool with Damian.”
“What do you mean? I DO play it cool,” I say.
“Well, not reeeeeeally,” she says. “You could try and be a bit less …”
A bit less WHAT?
“Obvious.”
OBVIOUS? I am not obvious! I am the queen of subtlety.
“Well, you could not copy Treasure so much and maybe not STARE at him quite so much. I think people have noticed.”
I know Amber thinks she is helping, but right at this moment I want to flick her very hard on the nose. I’ll get her back one day.
Still, I practice my “I’m not even looking at you” walk in the mirror. Amber says I look like I’ve been hypnotized by Paul McKenna.
Monday
9:30 a.m.
School. Time to put the “I’m not even looking at you” walk into practice. Ooh, ooh, Damian is queuing with everyone in the corridor outside the math classroom. Here goes. But I’m concentrating so hard on staring at the floor I walk straight into the wall. Slam. If this was a Tom and Jerry cartoon I’d have a flat face like a frying pan. My geography lever-arch
file comes apart and the pages flutter everywhere.
I can hear two people laughing—oh, what a surprise. The snickerers are Mickey the Thicky and Treasure.
“Oh Danni you’re so CLUMSY,” says Treasure in a twittery, patronizing voice. “You’re like a baby elephant sometimes.”
I want to cry. I banged the bridge of my (huge) nose when I walked into the wall and now I can’t even think of a cutting reply so I just sit on the floor with my throbbing conk, surrounded by pages about rainforests. I want to cry, but I mustn’t under any circumstances. Where is Amber? This is all her fault for the “too obvious” slur.
Then—salvation. I feel two pairs of arms pulling me up. Strong arms. And a smell of hair gel. It is Damian and Sean. “You OK?” says Damian, as Treasure looks on, giving me the evils.
OK? I’m on the crest of a wave!
“Your, erm, nose is bleeding,” says Sean, offering me a tissue, which I hope hasn’t been used because I’m stuffing it up my nostril. Damian says they’d better walk me to the sickbay. No, no—carry me, Damian! Like Mr. Darcy.
Treasure, obviously sensing the electric attraction between me and Damian, dives in and stands over me saying, “I’LL take her.” Bog off, Treasure.
I ignore her and carry on looking pleadingly at Damian. I consider pretending to faint in Damian’s arms, but then Amber comes running down the corridor—her last class had been kept behind. All she sees is me covered in blood and Treasure standing over me, so she shrieks, “What’s happened? Oh my God, has she HIT you?”
My Family and Other Freaks Page 4