Jenny Q, Unravelled!

by Pauline McLynn

  The ‘mailbox’ I put in reception is filling up with anonymous notes of goodwill for Ten Guitars, and a few nutty love letters that no one has had the guts to sign. It’s v hard to read anything for Stevie Lee B, especially when it’s telling him exactly how fit he is, because I feel that way about him too. And I don’t want him thinking I might have written any of these. Some of them are v badly spelled, for one thing, and I would never let a letter go from me that wasn’t well considered, with proper spelling and good grammar! And lots of nice, unusual words.*

  Lack of names and addresses means I can’t reply, even on behalf of the guys, so I just tell them that there’s a range of greetings for them and they’re more than welcome to read them. They’re busy rehearsing, though, and few enough of them have the time to go through their mail. PHEW! I don’t want SLB being snapped up from under my nose when his defences are down.

  So the anonymous Randomers are not a threat, so far. The same cannot be said of the Slinkies. Samantha, Danielle and Emma Louise are sleek, older girls at Oakdale High and Sam is Dermot’s girlfriend. But the other two are free range and available right now.

  And always around.

  Always.

  They’re also the same year as most of the Guitars, and certainly SLB, so they have ongoing access. It makes me squirm to think of all the time they get to spend with that guy, even if they are just looking at him and not talking to him and beguiling him.

  The only thing worse than big love is unrequited love, and that’s what I have right here, right now.

  Well, that and the problem of what to wear to the television studio this Saturday for the live show. I need something casually fab that doesn’t make me look like a heap. If I get on TV, I don’t want to look tubby, and apparently the camera adds four kilos or maybe more = nightmare.

  ‘Dark colours, obviously,’ Dixie says. ‘V slimming and chic.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I mutter. ‘I mean, our uniform is maroon, which is a dark colour, and it’s hideous, and even skinny minnies look dumpy in it.’†

  ‘Point taken,’ Dixie says. ‘And well made too, Jen. Yes, our uniform is a crime against students.’

  ‘And I don’t have an LBD because I’m thirteen and that’s not allowed, sexy-wise.’

  ‘I’m thinking your navy-blue tunic with the Peter Pan collar.’

  ‘Won’t I just look like a kid, though?’

  ‘No. You’ll look funky and cute.’

  ‘Hmm. But not fanciable.’

  ‘The most fanciable thing will be you doing your job efficiently, looking after the guys. That’s the biggest attraction of all. Plus you gotta be totes cool and professional.’

  I really want to believe her.

  ‘You need to handle yourself, girl.’

  ‘K …’

  ‘And you’ll need to do something mad with your hair,’ she adds. ‘Totallahfunkify the look, underscore it, complement and challenge it. Leave that to me.’

  Uh-oh …

  Da Blues

  I guess when you get all excited and happy about something (anything) the universe feels the need to balance things out by delivering some shizz. But what in the name of fugly did we do to deserve the unravelling that’s just occurring for the Quinns?

  Mum is still like a friendly zombie in pyjamas wafting round the house. Gran does her best to get her to change into day wear, or at least take a shower, and Mum just gives her a big, vacant smile most of the time. She hardly says a word either, these days, and that’s worrying. I’ve even tried to tempt her into singing silly words to songs, like we used to, but she’s too far gone to take part properly. I hope Dad’s right and her brain does grow back. I have been monitoring the situation and think maybe it is just a case of leave well enough alone and everything will work out. E.g. it can’t be the first time this has happened to a woman, so therefore it will right itself. Hope so … But I do miss my mum.

  The weather is still woejus, belting rain and driving winds. This afternoon I arrive in from school squelching and sodden and have to dash straight upstairs to get changed into dry civvies that aren’t maroon.* There’s a trail of wet footprints on the stairs when I’m done.

  The first surprise in the kitchen is that Dad is home early. He doesn’t look too happy about it, which is odd, because everyone likes time off work, surely? Unless they’re a workaholic pervoid. Also, the conversation stops when I enter, and that can’t be a good sign either. I wonder if I’m in trouble for something I may or may not have done.

  ‘Is Dermot with you?’ Dad asks.

  Bizarro – I mean, why would he be? ‘Er, no,’ I say.

  ‘Less of the attitude, thank you, Jennifer.’

  Jeeps, Dad never talks to me like that. Someone sure ticked him off good earlier in the day if he’s in this kind of mood.

  ‘We’ll need a family powwow later,’ he tells me.

  I so dislike the sound of that. What’s going on?

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of,’ she says.

  And that does make me scared. Even the mention of nothing to be afraid of means there most likely is something to be afraid of!

  Kit Kat and a quick skedaddle out of the line of fire for Jenny Q.

  Dermot knocks on my door later and sticks his head round. The very fact that he knocked is not a good omen. Where does he get off being all polite suddenly?

  ‘What’s with the long faces on the parent types and Gran?’ he asks.

  I shrug. ‘Search me. I don’t like it, though.’

  ‘You and me both, sister.’

  Dad makes his awesome cheese-and-onion omelette for supper, but it doesn’t taste quite as good as usual because of the atmos at the table. Even the crispy, skinny chips don’t help = bizarreballs.

  Finally, he gets to the point and reveals the reason for all the serious solemnity.

  ‘I’ve been made part-time at the advertising agency and there’s a chance I’ll be made fully redundant if this recession doesn’t lift sharpish.’

  Cripes! I sure didn’t see that coming.

  ‘Times will be tough and we’ll have to tighten our belts and all that. Sorry.’

  ‘You have nothing to be sorry for, Douglas,’ Gran says. ‘You’ve always done your best.’

  I feel all choked up. No wonder Mum’s been acting oddly. No wonder Dad snapped at me earlier.

  My heart could break for them, for all of us. And poor Mum, especially, should only have to worry about growing her brain back and looking after baby Harry, and not the fact that we are potentially headed for poverty.

  Jeeps, maybe Dad will have to go on the dole and get charity butter vouchers.

  ‘This is where we have to pull together as a family,’ he says.

  We all nod, but no one looks like they have a magical solution to our new and awful problem or even something comforting to say.

  And just what did we do to deserve this?

  Budget

  My fave duvet cover has died = sad face. It’s been shredding and going threadbare at an alarming rate and has to be retired from active service as bed linen. However, now we’re on an austerity* drive in the house, so I have decided to reinvent it, or recycle it, or up-cycle, or wotevs we’re calling it this year. It’s a fab blue-and-white striped material. I’m going to cut it into strips and tie them together, then knit it all on big needles into a tufty rag rug that I think will look great in the bathroom. In other words, I shall transform it through the magic of knitting. Eyethangewe! Recycling and saving the planet and making something pretty (and free) for the Quinn household.

  I like when something makes me smile, like my pen
s with the feathery tops, and I think this bath rug will make me smile too, anytime I see it.

  I tell Mum my plan and she barely acknowledges it. I am a little crushed, to be honest, and I am starting to feel like a neglected child right now. I thought she would be pleased with my initiative – old Mum would have been. But then she has not been like old Mum for a while now … However, I daren’t complain, because we’re all supposed to be putting our best foot forward and other clichés and so ons.

  I’m in my room with Dix and Uggs and they think my rug plan is gentle genius – or at least they don’t trash it in any way as an idea, so I take that as v affirmative.

  I decide that while I am thusly ahead this may be an excellent time to wonder about some wonderment that I’ve been doing. I hold up a wooden knitting needle.

  ‘Do you think this would be much good for doing away with a vampire?’† I ask.

  ‘Well, it is a pointy wooden stick,’ Dixie says. ‘The bigger sizes would do as stakes.’

  ‘I think they’re pretty much banned on aeroplanes, though,’ Uggs offers.

  ‘So I’d be defenceless on a plane?’

  ‘Against a vampire, yeah, though I think they’re more inclined to travel big distances in their coffins, with a bit of earth from their native country in them. And coffins aren’t all that allowed on planes between Britain and Ireland these days, I think.’

  ‘Safe enough on a flight, then,’ I say, ‘though the ferry might be a problem.’

  ‘Best stay put,’ Uggs advises. ‘And keep the stakes handy …’

  ‘Not that we’ll ever be going anywhere ever again,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, totes bummer about your dad’s job,’ Dixie says.

  ‘I worry that we’ll switch to budget biscuits when the latest batch of Kit Kats runs out.’

  We all shudder for me. There is a real horror waiting to happen, trivial to those foolish enough not to know the worth of proper snacks and their place in teen development.

  ‘Could be good for our healthy-eating kick, though,’ Dixie says.

  Even the mention of healthy eating makes me ravenous. Not that we’ve done anything about Dixie’s regime yet, it’s still TBA.

  ‘Dad says it’ll give him a chance to try things he should have done years ago,’ I tell them. ‘I dread to think what. He’ll probably want to go back to taking embarrassing photographs of his family and showing them in public. He says it’s art.’

  Dixie sighs an understanding sigh and says, ‘Tell me about it.’

  I so don’t want to deal with her Facebook débâcle and I could kick myself for sailing so close to the subject. I am saved by the most unlikely of saviours, i.e. Dixie herself.

  ‘Apropos of vampires,’ she says, ‘may I remind everyone that Kristen Stewart of the Twilight series is a knitter?’

  ‘How exactly do you know?’ Uggs asks.

  I wanted to ask that question, because it’s not above Dixie to make something up and say it so often that it becomes real, especially for her.

  ‘I read it,’ she says, in a tone that suggests, ‘Don’t question the bingo master.’

  ‘Where?’‡

  ‘Where, what?’

  ‘Where did you read it?’

  ‘In a magazine, where else?’

  ‘A Glossy?’

  ‘Of course, a Glossy!’

  ‘Must be true so,’ he mutters.

  Uggs has sisters, so he really really should know better than to goad a gal like this.

  ‘Eugene,б do not cross me on this. It will end badly … for you.’

  ‘For all of us,’ I say.

  Weirdly, at that moment it occurs to me that Gypsy would be an ally in the room – I must be going MAD. This is what happens to me in extreme circumstances: I lose my moral compass and wish for bonkers things like that dog’s presence.

  ‘Ding ding,’ I say. ‘Time out!’

  Uggs has started playing rugby with the school team and I wonder if that’s making him all plucky and macho. It means he’s hanging out slightly less with us, as he has to do practice two afternoons a week after school. I miss him then, but it’s understandable that if he’s got some sporting talent he should follow it.

  It’s rough stuff. Our wannabe class bully, Mike Hussy, plays. He’s a beefy lump and he’s a big part of team scrummages, basically using his brawn to push other lads around. He loves flinging himself on other players too, as violently as possible, and forcing them into the ground. Rugby suits him and his aggression.

  I asked Uggs if he was worried about ending up with cauliflower ears and a crooked nose.

  ‘Nah. I’m fast, Jen,’ he explained. ‘I grab the ball and run like the wind. Can’t be caught. Thusly, I’ll stay pretty.’

  I hope he’s right. It all looks like rough anarchy to me. Plus it is v v mucky during these dismal, dark winter months. And so cold. The one match Dixie and I attended, it was so freezing it looked like the players were following their breath around the pitch. I’m all for exercise as long as it’s indoors, which is why I like playing volleyball in the school hall. Also, it doesn’t have too much bodily contact.§ Rugby, on the other hand, is a game full of lads throwing themselves roughly on other lads and burying them in the mud under a mountain of bodies. And pushing and shouting. Way too dangerous for any sensible and sensitive creature, like yours truly.**

  Pen Pals

  I feel a bit mean doing all the fan stuff for Ten Guitars but nothing to help Delia Thomas. She is a Teen Factor X contestant too, and she’s in my class, and a pal. Well, a pal in as much as the Gang hangs around a bit with her and a new girl called Maya, though not much at home, because the Gang has known one another since we were kiddy small and newcomers just wouldn’t fit so well into that arrangement.

  She hasn’t actually asked for help, so maybe she doesn’t need any. Still, I find myself asking if she’d like me to set up a mailbox for her too, and she says, ‘Why not?’ though I can’t judge whether she thinks it’s a good idea or not.

  ‘I doubt anyone will be interested in writing to me,’ she says.

  Again, I can’t gauge whether she thinks this is the truth or she’s playing up some false modesty. She’s hard to read.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure people will get in touch,’ Uggs says. ‘I loved your routine on TV, and those glasses were cool.’

  Actually, Delia made the front of the free schools’ local paper* over Ten Guitars, with a photo of her from Teen Factor X and the title ‘Spexy Lady!’.

  Uggs is nattering away now and he seems v chummy with Delia and Maya. They’re laughing at whatever he just said, which I missed because I was away in my head remembering the newspaper story. I have missed a vital element of the convo and now I’ll never catch up.

  I suddenly notice that Uggs is a lot taller than me. When did that happen? And his voice sounds a little bit deeper, though maybe he’s putting that on to impress the girls. And OMG that’s another thing – he’s flirting with them!

  I look around for Dixie to share my observations, but she’s further along the corridor giggling at something Gary the Dork O’Brien is saying. She’s also being a little too loud, like she’s trying too hard to be noticed having a super time.

  My Bestests are losing their marbles. But then, my whole world seems to be going a bit skew-whiff, so why should this area be left behind in the mad mêlée?

  I begin to wonder what would happen if Dixie and Uggs got ‘significant others’. I mean it’s going to happen some time (I guess?). We’re not entirely awful, or are we? There must be some hope that we’ll grow into decent human beings, even if we’re a bit unfinished now. But if they pair off with other people
, I’ll be alone. Solo. Because, let’s face it, the chances of me scoring Stevie Lee are minimal.† And as I don’t have any feelings for anyone else in that way, it would just be me, by myself, whenever the others were on dates and so on.

  I am not a jealous kind of person, I don’t think, but, as you’ll have noticed, I am a bit exclusive about Dixie and me and Uggs as a Gang. We’ve been together for ever and, even though we have other friends, they’re the only ones I want sitting in my room chatting and knitting with.‡ No one could ever be as special to me as they are. I can’t bear the thought of being without them or of a big change happening between us: it spooks me. I have to get busy before I get low about it all. I go ahead with the Delia Thomas box and place it next to the Guitars’ one. And I am downright glad to hear the bell ring for classes to begin.

  As we make our way to the classroom, Dixie parts company with the Dork, who’s in a higher class, like the older man she has advertised for.

  ‘What was the hyena routine for?’ I ask, when she catches up with me. ‘There’s no way the Dork was that funny.’

  ‘Ooh, get you,’ is her unfantabulous retort.

  This does nothing to improve my day. I am in no mood to be teased. I actually give a low growl.

  ‘For your info, Miss Snippety Snip, Garyб is a bit of a sweetheart. Obviously he has style issues, but he’s a guy and that sort of drawback afflicts them. It can be worked on. And he is steeped in coolmost from being an Actual Guitar.’

  ‘He is an Actual Geek,’ I remind her.

  Sometimes I think I should charge money for having to point out the glaringly obvious to people, especially those who have gone mental, like Dixie.