“I know. You’re all pally with Sean now, aren’t you? Damian says he talks about you a lot. I think he’s smitten. Er, should that gerbil be doing that?”
“She’s not a gerbil,” I say loftily. “She’s a degu.”
Treasure is now sitting tentatively down on my Ikea duvet cover which, naturally, is covered in Simon’s dog hairs. She quickly stands up again.
“This coat cost a hundred quid,” she says.
She looks so miserable I feel a flicker of pity for her. Only a flicker though. Let’s not get carried away or forget how mean she was about my mom. “Look, I should probably say sorry too,” I say grudgingly. “I said some vile things to you too. It’s only because I was sort of a little bit, well you know, erm, jealous.”
“Oh, I know THAT,” she says. “And it’s totally understandable. I get all these great clothes, and I know I usually look pretty amazing and everyone wants to hang out with me.”
Hello? What kind of person apologizes for their shocking awfulness while reminding you how beautiful they are?
“And you have such rubbish clothes, and my mom says you never go on proper, foreign holidays. And I feel sorry for you having such lank hair and bad acne when I’ve been so blessed with great skin and can afford to get highlights. But you are quite popular. I’d love people to be my friends DESPITE what I look like, not because of it.”
Can you believe I’m having to listen to this in my own bedroom? What’s that horrid whining noise? Oh, it’s Treasure. She still seems to be talking.
“Because the thing is, when people tell you you’re beautiful, Danni, you feel under pressure to ALWAYS look beautiful. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I spend a whole week worrying about what to wear for a party because I know people expect me to look sensational. I’ve set myself a very high bar. I know it’s hard for you to understand but, believe me, good looks can be a curse, Danni. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
Oh charming. So, to recap, Treasure has complimented me while managing to deliver three brand-new insults. And I thought my hair was one of my better features …
Treasure says she’d better be going because her mom and dad are taking her out for Sunday lunch at Pod, the brand-new restaurant in town, which has computers on every table. Trust her to be the first in our year to go there. I ask what’s happening with her and Damian. She looks blubby again. “He said he wants to cool it off for a while and see more of his friends, but we’ll still be friends.” She shows her naked wrist. “We’ve taken off our commitment bracelets,” she says, blowing her nose copiously again. “He wanted me to say sorry. So I have.”
She looks so miserable (and quite ugly! Hooray—Treasure is an ugly crier!) that I decide I can’t be bothered to say anything snitty back.
“Look, it was nice of you to come,” I say, “and I suppose it was quite brave, considering I could have set Deirdre on you. Shall we try to be nicer to each other next term?”
How grown-up am I? How magnamonous, manganminous nice am I, eh???
For a minute I think she is going to kiss me, but she’s actually leaning over and peering at my neck. Then she says, “I think you’re having an allergic reaction to that face pack.”
2 p.m.
Treasure has gone and I am looking in the mirror contemplating the red, blotchy, peeling horror show that is my visage. Mom says I should only have left it on 10 minutes, but it was more like two hours. I look like the Ood monster out of Doctor Who only less attractive. And I’ll be in a public park—in daylight!—with Sean within one hour.
Thing is, I don’t think he’ll mind.
And, on the bright side, I might have embarrassing parents who kiss in front of my friends and do not know the meaning of contraception even though they’re old-age pensioners, my mother may fail to feed us properly and the towels in the bathroom may always smell of my dad’s armpits, but I wouldn’t swap my family, actually, if you must know (I’m not even totally hating the idea of meeting the blob now). And Treasure Cavendish—the most fancied girl in our year—has just apologized to ME. My work here is done.
I realize I am humming as I get ready to meet Amber and Sean and Neil and Mitzy with a face like the top of a pizza rustica. Yes, in the words of Kylie Minogue, I know that I am lucky: lucky, lucky, lucky.
2:50 p.m.
Cell is ringing. Go away. Oh, it’s Dad. He’s taking Mom to hospital because she’s having contractions. God spare us. Is it going to be like that video they showed us in biology about childbirth? That poor woman was mooing and grunting—she was like an entire FARMYARD, with boobs like big veiny beach balls.
“Your gran’s here with Phoebe, and Rick’s gone out,” says Dad, all breathless. “I’ll call as soon as there’s any news.”
“OK,” I say, feeling a fluttery sensation in my stomach. The Blob is on its way.
“One more thing, Danni. Mom says since we’ve given you a hard time recently you can choose your new brother’s name. Have a think.”
Oooh, Father, my cup runneth over. How will I ever come down from the excitement of naming the new Dench rugrat?
Hold on though—there is potential to really wind my parents up here. Yes, imagine my dad’s face when he has to tell his friends that his new son is called Tarquin Jonquil Tristram Dench.
I walk through the park gates smiling with Simon trotting at my heels …
No, I know what I’ll call my new baby brother. Yes, yes—it’s the obvious choice.
… Damian …
Hahahaha. KIDDING. I so had you there.
But there is one name I’m more and more liking the sound of.
I pick up my phone and dial just as I see him in the distance, waiting under a tree and nervously checking his watch.
“Hello?” says Sean, answering, very uncoolly, after just one ring. He’s wearing his best jacket and has Mitzy on a lead. I’ve got butterflies again. He looks … well … lovely.
“You might not like this …” I say, walking toward him.
He frowns a bit, worried about what I’m going to say.
“… But how do you feel about having a blob named after you?”
The end
My Family and Other Freaks Page 12