Jenny Q, Unravelled!

by Pauline McLynn

  ‘And hello to you too, Dixie,’ says Gran.

  Dixie sighs, v dramatically, and says, ‘Happy festive season to you and to us all.’ Her heart is so not in it, in fact she’s leaking insincerity, though I’m sure she’d pass it off as fabliss irony if quizzed.

  Of course, one of the reasons Dix is in such doodah form is that she’s got lurve problems. She was snogging Jason ‘the Tongue’ Fielding for a while and, even though she says it counts for nothing, I think she really does like him. Then, out of the blue, he only went and posted a pic of them snogging on Facebook AND tagged her in it, without express and prior permission. She was v UNpleased,‡ to say the least. Guys don’t GET stuff sometimes, which is another of life’s trials.

  We both try to stare Gran out of it so that she’ll leave us to a good goss in the kitchen, but there’s no shifting her. In fact, if I had money to bet on it, I’d say she’s doing this deliberately. She is v experienced at being:

  a) an adult, as she is ancient, and

  b) annoying, because she is an adult.б

  She grants us a big beam and says, ‘I’m getting ready for my poker night,’ so we know she’s going nowhere else fast.

  ‘Dixie,’ I start, but she suddenly raises her hand and says:

  ‘Sorry, can’t concentrate, Baby Harry in the room!’

  I understand it completely – that lil guy has an effect on us women. He’s swoontastic! And I don’t think he even knows it.

  ‘Wake him and you die,’ I tell her, although I don’t mean it, because I love it when he’s awake and doing his stretchies and gurglies.

  So, we stand like two eejits whispering stuff into his cradle. It beats leaning over the recycling box by many miles, but that is an observation I keep to myself.

  Seeing Red

  We have the makings of a party now and, you know, it is the season to be jolly and all that. There’s guitar music coming from the next room and I’ve rustled up some tasties for Dix and I. That means it’s almost inevitable that next door’s dog will sense what’s going on. She does. Her radar is impressive, though I will never say this aloud in case it seems like I’m praising her, a thing I refuse to do … in any way. I hear yippy barking and, as the kitchen door opens, a ratty-sized thing runs in, all jigging about and doing a doggy smile. It’s Gypsy followed by Eugene Nightingale, our other Bestie and third member of the Gang.

  The dog is in a red hooded coat that Uggs knitted her for Christmas. She thinks she’s IT in it. So does everyone, except me. I don’t think they realize what I know, which is: that dog is ‘up to something’. Tragically, I am often the butt end of that ‘something’. We will never see eye to eye, her and I, except for those times when she literally brings me down to her own low level by making me fall over.*

  ‘Ah, me jewel and darlin’ Gypsy,’ says Gran, who gets on v well with the mutt. ‘Eugene, I presume she’ll be attending my poker night?’

  ‘Oh yes, she’s looking forward to it very much,’ says Uggs.

  I can only shake my head at the madness of them discussing that varmint critter like she’s one of us. She is not and never will be. End of.

  ‘I’ll take her little coat off, Eugene, or she won’t feel the good of it when she goes outside again.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Uggs says. ‘I don’t want her catching cold.’

  WHAT???? Are they insane?

  ‘If she wakes Harry, she’s toast,’ I tell Uggs. I hope he hears the sincerity in this statement – in fact, I will actually call it a threat if anyone asks. Sadly, they don’t.

  I shoo the beast away and growl at her a bit for good measure. She skips off, ignoring me. Then I catch her eye and I swear she’s actually laughing at me in a kinda grinny, terrier way. It’s insufferable and I can’t believe no one else notices it.

  We need a bit of Gang time so Gran takes over Harry-minding duty. We load up on snacks (including the medicinal Kit Kat for Dixie) and head to my room in the hope of some privacy. Not that the Quinns ever TRULY respect a closed door – to this crazed family, it’s a challenge, as if there’s certainly something worth snooping on in the room with the closed door. Sheesh!†

  Uggs wants to leave the door open – is he mad? Apparently he feels Gypsy would like to divide her time between Gran and Harry downstairs and us in my room. He almost says, ‘She’s part of the Gang too,’ but catches my face doing my ‘don’t go there, Eugene’ in a v v expressive way and he lets the matter drop. I close the door.

  ‘I need a Faceboast,’ Dixie says before we’ve even called the meeting to order. ‘I need to be pursued publicly by a hunky hottie and to wipe Jason Fielding’s face in it and be all fabulously fab in general.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I say, kinda smirking.

  She shoots me a LOOK and goes, ‘YES – do we have a problem with this impossibly brilliant plan?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ I say, ‘with you all the way, Dix.’

  Uggs is nodding like a, well, v v noddy thing – one of those toy dogs on the back shelf of a car maybe – and going, ‘Yes, yes, all the way, Dix.’

  ‘The v good news is that I saw him by accident today and he’s got spots – could be too much choccy over the last week or, more hopefully, the onset of long-lasting teenage acne.’

  Something about the way she says she accidentally saw the Tongue makes me nervous.

  ‘Are you stalking Jason Fielding?’ I ask, quietly and carefully.

  Dix gives a v forced laugh and says, ‘Don’t be ridic, Jen.’

  So she probably is, then – EEEK!

  ‘More good news is that no one has hooked up with him datewise since I dumped him, so he’s a saddo on the shelf.’

  Uggs and I ‘eep’ gently at this, because we’re singularly on that sadsville shelf too. And strictly speaking so is Dix, but this is SO not the time to point that out to her.

  And, while I’m at it, both Uggs and I are prone to outbreaks of spots, so it’s v insensitive of Dix to mention acne or any of its zitty cousins.

  ‘Jen, fire up the computer. I’m going online to announce my availability and therefore lure a suitor.’

  ‘Now THAT is a v v BAD idea,’ Uggs says. ‘Maybe the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.’

  ‘J’agree,’ I say. ‘Très not good, Dix.’

  ‘I am a pioneer,’ she tells us loftily. ‘I lead the way, take initiative. Most of all, je refuse to give up on l’amour.‡ And there’s no way I want to have to settle for dating one of the dorks we go to school with, or any other dork within the general Oakdale area for that matter.’

  She has a point about the lack of serious romantic talent in our world, apart from Stevie Bolton, who is in a different league anyhow.

  ‘It’s what social media is for,’ she concludes. ‘And I might put a lonely-hearts dating notice in the local schools’ newspaper too,’б she adds after a pause.

  I try not to look too horrified. I have to bite my tongue rather than point out that a mere breath ago she said she didn’t want to date any of our school-dorks or even local dorks – that’s Dixie, though, a mass of contradictions and it is v V unwise to draw attention to it. I want to wash my hands of the bonkers scheme, but she’s my bestest galpal so I have to go along with it. Uggs follows suit, looking glum. Another galling point is that if this goes bumcheeks up and Dixie gets landed with a geek, Gypsy will be blameless, as the mutt is not at the meeting, the cunning wretch. I should have stayed downstairs minding Harry.

  ‘Well, the enthusiasm I’m feeling in this room is altogether underwhelming,’ Dixie says. ‘I am fighting injustice here and need the support of my nearests. Which is you two. So look lively a
nd get with the programme.’

  It’s Complicated

  ‘So, we need to talk up my glamazingness,’ Dixie tells us. ‘I’m thinking we should word the lonely hearts something like, “Stunning teen, GSOH,* seeks slightly older, handsome man for friendship and laughter.” What do you think?’

  I’m not loving the use of ‘we’ here. At all. I shrug and make an unimpressed face. I am trying to have as little to do with this as possible. If I engage with Dixie on this scheme, I might end up going on a date as her guinea pig, if she just doesn’t like the look of whatever Lonely Heart turns up. Nothing is beyond the Dix and there are no lows to which she will not let me stoop on her behalf.†

  ‘As for Facebook, I’ll change my status from “It’s complicated” to “Single” and accept lots of new friend requests. That should get the ball rolling.’

  ‘It’s still complicated,’ Uggs mutters and he’s not wrong.

  ‘I may also need a make-over – discuss.’

  ‘It’s v v important to look stunning in case you chance upon the Tongue in your travels,’ I say, bearing in mind she may also be deliberately putting herself in the way of said person!

  ‘Am I hearing highlights?’ she asks.

  ‘The school aren’t keen on anything wild or too colourful,’ Uggs points out.‡

  ‘Subtlety is my middle name,’ Dixie says, without even a trace of irony.б

  Uggs clears his throat and I think it’s to disguise a laugh.

  ‘New perfume is a must,’ I say. ‘The sort that wafts in before you and lingers after you’ve gone, leaving a tantalizing breath of Dixie behind.’

  ‘You know, Jen, that is almost genius,’ she says. ‘I’ll be unmissably snifftastic.’

  ‘Have you unfriended Jason Fielding?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t be ridic, Jen, I have to be aware of his every move. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that. Besides, he’s unaware of my vast wrath, so when the time comes I’ll slay him with fabulosity and disdain and he won’t see it coming – it’s a foolproof plan.’

  I almost feel sorry for the Tongue, because he has no idea what he has unleashed upon himself, the poor gormless eejit.

  Uggs makes an attempt to talk sense into Dixie. He can get all grown-up sometimes and even though that can seem a bit stuffy and old, I’m glad of it right now. He’s a bit of a swot too, and that’s useful during school time.

  ‘I saw a really interesting article that might help you get through this,’ he says.

  Dixie narrows her eyes and goes, ‘Oh yeah?’ Not in a great way.

  ‘Deffo, yeah.’

  Poor Uggs, I’d say he’s sweating now with nerves at how this might go! Still, he’s in the eye of the storm and has to continue.

  ‘It was a list of the fifteen things you should give up on to live a happy life.’

  Dixie snorts. ‘Fifteen? I’m not sure I have those hours of my life left, Uggs, to give up so many things. Bet they’re all good things too. Is chocolate on the list?’

  Uggs is scarlet now. ‘It’s not that kind of list, not material things, it’s more attitudes and, erm, habits.’

  ‘Par example, s’il vous plaît?’

  ‘Well, it says you should give up on the past, for instance, because the present and the future are more important and obsessing about the past just holds you back. And give up on blame too, because that’s such a negative.’

  Dixie holds up a hand to stop him. ‘Uggs, that would just lead to people getting away with bad shizz.’

  ‘It might not,’ he counters, trying to stick to his point.

  I can see he’s wavering, though. Dixie is hard to argue with.

  ‘You’re just giving people permission to do bad things and then wipe the slate with the excuse that it’s all in the past,’ she says.

  ‘Food for thought,’ I say, trying to help, though I’m not sure who. It’s a fairly pathetic try one way or another and they both ignore me.

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll consider the fifteen things when I’m fifteen, how about that? Until then, it’s “stick up for Dixie” time.’

  Enterprise

  ‘Seems weird to be sitting around talking without a project to work on,’ Uggs says.

  We have a Knit ’n’ Knatter Club within the Gang and usually have items or gifts to make on our needles as we work out life and the universe and so on. Uggs mentioning this is, of course, another ruse to get Dixie off her obsession with her ex and her latest bonkers plan to deal with it. Fair play to him for a valiant effort, though I suspect there’s no thwarting Dixie from her new fave topic.

  I should say at this point that I didn’t think Dixie and Jason Fielding were ever a solid, romantic item. They weren’t exactly dating, as far as I was aware. They had a loose arrangement to get off with each other and do some unwatchable snogging on Youth Club nights. I suspect she’s talking it up now for drama’s sake, plus there’s no doubt that she has been scorned and that he crossed a line by Faceboasting a pic of the aforementioned unwatchable snogging. Mind you, he did always get away with calling her ‘babe’, in spite of her saying she’d thump him if he ever did, so perhaps there was a smidgen of something more going on. Sheesh, lurve stuff is exhausting!

  ‘We need to make some moolah,’ Dixie says. ‘Highlights and makeovers don’t come free.’

  We all give sigh because:

  a) yes, we’re smashed broke due to the expense of the festive season’s gifting, and

  b) it means Dixie is about to burst into action and we’ll need serious energy to keep up.

  ‘I’m thinking Valentine’s Day,’ she says.

  She’s a One Hit Wonder right now when it comes to love and all its relatives.

  ‘How about we knit and stuff hearts and sell them at school, like we did Uggs’s bath bombs for Christmas.’

  It’s a v good idea.

  ‘They don’t all have to be red, because maybe people will want to get them for friends or themselves as a love treat. We can use any oddments we have left from last year and even do stripes if we have to.’ Dixie is a Teenpreneur, fureshure!

  ‘We can do heart-shaped bath bombs if we get a heart-shaped bun tin or a biscuit cutter,’ Uggs suggests.

  Another brillig idea!

  The Gang is back in business and I can look forward to boosting my stash o’ cash = hooray!

  Dixie snorts. ‘NO ONE says “bun” or “biscuit” any more, Uggs. It’s all cupcakes and cookies now. Sometimes you are such a doofus.’

  Uggs reddens up but he doesn’t mind.

  Then Dixie drops her most serious bombshell. ‘As part of my makeover, I’ll have to lose a few pounds. I’m carrying some festive jetlag weight – it’s the stress of spending too much time with my family in a confined space.’

  EEEEK! Dixie never goes on a regime alone: we’ll be expected to row in too.

  ‘That would be “die” with a t on the end of it,’ Uggs checks.

  ‘Yes.’

  Dixie leaves the room with a flounce and we mull over our new circumstances.

  ‘We needn’t panic,’ Uggs assures me. ‘She’ll keep it up for a week, max.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he admits. ‘But if past attempts are anything to go by, she’ll hardly even last a full week.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘The only trouble is that Dixie gets quite cranky when she’s hungry.’ So do I. So does Uggs.

  And our parents and teachers would go nuts if they knew we were dieting, because it’s a no-no round these parts, in case anyone thinks it’s in any way a good idea and ma
ybe takes it too far. And that’s quite right, because anorexia is NOT a good thing, ever, even if Dixie did once declare she wouldn’t mind having it just for a few days. We get regular lectures about not believing that thin is good and the word Thinspiration is outlawed because it is bad to glorify a deliberately skinny role model – we should just be the normal size we are meant to be. People come in all shapes and sizes: fact.

  Dixie returns with some news. ‘Obviously, a two-fingered Kit Kat is allowed on our new regime. Daily.’

  So, it’s not all doom and gloom … I suppose … even if she did say ‘our’, so we are deffo tied in, and we can have the chocolate/biscuit bar of the gods. Life is a squiggly road full of hazards and twistiness.

  Fore!

  The downstairs of Quinn HQ is buzzing as the Guitars are leaving, so I quickly slap on some lip gloss and run a brush through my hair. I hear a mild crackling, which means my hair is now electric, in the wrong way, and there’s not a lot that can be done with that in a hurry. I bet it looks like a frightened gorse bush planted on my head. Still, I can’t miss an opp to be seen by the latest and hippest Dublin boy band. The hallway is heaving with young men and would be quite a sight if they were all as F.I.T. as Stevie Lee Bolton but, tragically, they are not.

  For example, there’s Gary O’Brien, who is a dork. He seems to be convinced he’s a badass from a ’hood and wears his jeans v low, with a beanie constantly plopped on his head. The day he opts for a hairnet or a headscarf is the day we will have to shoot him or get him permanently grounded in his home. He insists on greeting his ‘homies’ by riffling fingers followed by a fist bump, and high-fiving everyone else and calling them ‘bro’ or ‘sistah’! Strangely, though, the lustre that Ten Guitars has brought to all in the group has almost made even him* seem cool. Almost.