Jenny Q, Unravelled!

by Pauline McLynn

  By the time we part company at our gate my ribs ache from holding in the laughter. Dixie is livid with how her brilliant plan has gone so totally awry and Uggs risks death with the cheeky grin plastered across his mush.

  ‘Laters,’ she tells us as she disappears down the street and it sounds distinctly like a threat.

  Gran wants to hear all of the Barnacle adventure.

  ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ Mum begins, and that never bodes well. If Mum wants to tell you ‘something for nothing’, someone is in big doodah. It also means she is planning retribution.

  ‘Watch this space,’ she warns when she’s done telling Gran of the villainy and injustice we have encountered.

  ‘Good outcome,’ Gran whispers to me. ‘She’s furious. That should take the shine off the depression for a while.’

  I look over at Mum. Harry is attached to her boobage and she is tapping two fingers on the table as she formulates her next move. Gran’s right: there is fire in Mum’s eyes again!

  Seconds Out

  The tension is high on the day of the second TFX heat. Tonight is the semi-final, two acts will go home, and next up is the final, when three more will be eliminated during the show and a winner announced. In many ways, it is a short and brutal process, and that’s probably another reason the show is so popular.

  It is Show Saturday and Dad drives me to the venue at lunchtime. I could easily get the bus but Dad wants to run through how we might test out the SASS range again, even as an idea.

  ‘I am going to ask Mel if I can hand out these surveys to the kids waiting in the queue. The surveys ask kids to rate the SASS products between one and five. Then they can hand the sheets back in before they enter the studio.’

  As it happens, it is cold and raining, so being driven to the venue suits me just fine. As Gran said earlier, ‘Oh, if it’s weather you want, you’ll get it here.’ Not exactly sure what it was she was trying to prove, but it sounded like a wisdom and that’s all she wants most of the time: to sound wise even if she’s spouting nonsense.

  I also know I don’t need to be at the venue all day this time. I have a hook on how it works and I can deal with my end of things in less time this week. Also, far more pertinently, I hate having to get up so early on a Saturday – that’s just wrong. A lie-in is a lie-in is a lie-in and to be savoured fully.

  I feel like wearing a mask or a scarf over my nose and mouth today to protect against any further germs lurking to pounce on me, but it’s not a good look for any top Showbiz Secretary. I must take my chances. Mel is v glad to see me. I quickly fill her in on our SASS survey idea.

  ‘Ooh, you are resourceful, aren’t you? Leave it with me. So long as the surveys are distributed outside the studio, it shouldn’t be a problem. In the meantime you can do me a favour and help with the atmosphere in there,’ she says, pointing to the Ten Guitars’ dressing room. ‘TENSE hardly covers it.’

  ‘Are they still eating, at least?’

  ‘Oh yes, no prob there, they’ve gone through the rations of a small army already.’

  ‘They’ll make it, so,’ I assure her.

  ‘There must be something in the air today,’ she continues. ‘Grumpy, grumpy, grumpy. Margo is giving everyone such a hard time, particularly the sound department. It’s unreal in there. You have been warned.’

  Mel has gone all Goth this week and she looks great, like something from The Corpse Bride, but v much alive. She’s wearing so much jewellery that she jingles as she walks. Her hair is backcombed and spiked up. She smells like roses, but darkly exotic ones, with thorns and some danger attached.

  I’ve gone for a pair of dark trousers and a jacket that nearly matches, so it looks like I’m wearing a suit, plus shirt and tie – an ‘androgynous’ look, according to Dixie.

  ‘Do you mean I actually look like a boy?’ I ask.

  ‘Not with that hairdo,’ she tells me.

  She has put my hair in two high bunches, which she says underscore the look while complementing and contrasting with it too.*

  The lads do look pleased at my arrival, especially Gary O’Brien. They have set up my little table for me and Stevie Lee brings me a Coke. I nearly faint at the chivalry, and how v v GORGE he is. Be still my (frantically) beating heart! There isn’t anything left to eat, though I don’t think I could swallow anything while I am busy blushing and gulping in air at the fact that SLB paid me attention. Is this ever going to get any easier to handle, I wonder.

  The Guitars are gearing up for the dress rehearsal and run through the song once again. They’ve chosen another crackin’ rock song and it’s angry and loud and exciting. In fact, I’d bet they’re getting rid of a whole bag of negative energy as they thunder their way through it.

  I wade through the postal offers of marriage, companionship, kisses, and even have to deal with some gifts that have been sent. These range from a key ring to half a bra – HALF a bra? What’s the idea there? Are the two halves to be reunited as proof of who is who on a first date? Bonkers.

  As I suspected, there’s some hate mail (natch). I’m actually beginning to get used to this now. But that’s probably not a good thing either. I don’t want to excuse it. When we grow accustomed to bad behaviour, do we let it go without comment when we really should do something about it? It’s probably not a good thing to ignore a problem and hope it goes away, though I prefer to do that sometimes than to act, espesh if it’s an awkward situation.† I sigh. This makes me think of the Dixie/Kev matter. I’ll have to talk to Uggs about sorting out a plan of action.

  As for ignoring the hate mail, I remind myself of the threat made in the school fan mailbox. It seemed to suggest that the writer might be planning something during the show. I really don’t know what to do. If I report it, I might seem like a hysterical youngster. If I don’t, I’m taking the chance on the threatener being all mouth and no action, which I suspect they are. I think the hate-letter writer is probably more mean than deranged. I hope I’m right.

  The guys are wearing black T-shirts for the performance this week and it really makes the friendship bracelets stand out. Thrillmost for me is that Dermot is wearing the beanie I knitted him for Christmas. I know I’ve slagged off the Dork for hat-wearing, but I am so chuffed that my bro will wear a Jen Q creation. And I know that Harry will be wearing his matching weenie beanie at home while the show is on TV.

  Jess comes a-visitin’.

  ‘How’s she cutting?’ she asks in her sing-song lilt.

  ‘The lads are v uptight,’ I say. ‘Lot of nerves knocking about. You?’

  ‘Grand. I’m lucky, really, because I’ve been writing songs since I was five and I have loads of ’em, so I’m not stuck for choice.’

  ‘What was your first song about? The one you wrote when you were five?’

  ‘Going to school. It’s a ballad. Very sad – I didn’t want to leave home.’

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘A song about biros. How you need loads to suit each letter that you need to write. It’s kind of a love song, y’know?’

  I do, I SO do! Pens, biros, words on paper – it’s my world, in a song. This Jess is a genius.

  Delia arrives and greets the lads. ‘I’m starving. I’ve eaten all my nails so I’ve come scavenging.’

  She’s out of luck, there isn’t even a stray hard pear left on the catering table. She leaves in search of Mel to see if there’s another delivery coming soon.

  Then the day does its speeding-up thing and suddenly it’s show time again. Me and the guys and Jess and Delia all do good-luck hugs backstage, then I go to my place in the audience, still shaking that I got a bear
hug from SLB. Tonight Uggs and Dixie are here too, and it’s funny to see how agog they are at the whole show set-up. We have about ten minutes to go when, from behind the scenes, we hear Margo saying, ‘Aren’t they dreadful? Bunch of spotty, hyped-up, hormonal teens.’

  There is a stunned silence in the auditorium. I feel a giggle coming on. I wonder if the sound department left her microphone on in revenge for her bad behaviour earlier in the day. There is a bit of kerfuffle as the crew and presenter realize what a terrible ‘mistake’ has been made, then Margo’s voice says, ‘Hi, everyone – just getting your attention there.’ She gives a forced laugh. ‘We all love one another on Teen Factor X but we love to do a bit of teasing too. But we’re only joking. How could we not love our talented teens? It’s great to see you all here tonight. Enjoy the show!’

  I bet she is twice the demon now that she was before, but she’ll have to play nice with everyone or be unmasked.

  There is no lack of enthusiasm in the audience, even if some of the stars backstage are a bit jaded and fractious.‡ And you’d never notice from the performances that anyone is at all below par in any area of life, especially the onstage one.

  The show starts with an Oakdale double whammy – first up Ten Guitars, then Delia. We scream and cheer and wave our hands in the air for them. I have an extra layer of anxiety as the Guitars take to the stage because I know someone has made a vile threat against the guys, but the performance is so great I am transported and I forget all about the troll.

  Ten Guitars do a stonking version of ‘American Idiot’ by Green Day but they have changed it to being Irish, so they’re all an Irish-born idiot, and America is replaced with ‘republic’, as in Republic of Ireland. It works really well and everyone is totally rocking out the number in the audience.

  The judges say it has the WOW factor and that it’s totally teen and rebellious and amazing. It is, it was – the Guitars are fantasticular! It is hooray all round. But will it be enough to keep them in the show?

  This week Delia talks about water and how sneaky it is. For example, how did it creep up and make us so dependent on it? It has nothing, no taste, no vitamins, no aspirin, so what’s the big deal about it? And how does it get everywhere if you spill it? I can’t believe how inventive and twisty her brain is. And how much I agree with her about water and how devious it is! I’m beginning to look at the world in a new way.

  Jess wows yet again. She, too, has a twisty look at life. I feel so ordinary compared to everyone up there, except maybe the magician, who so has to be going home this week. He’s OK, just not top-flight entertainment like the others, not inspired like them. That’s me too, but I don’t mind because I like the safety of my limitations – they mean I can hide and be a kid when I want to and let someone else look after me.

  This reminds me that I have to look after people too. Gran said so. I’ve done my duty by Ten Guitars and Dad today, but Dixie also needs help, and I plan to give her some. Probably without her knowing, though – there’ll be less confrontation that way. I’m all for avoiding conflict, espesh with Dix, for she is a fearsome opponent.

  The show is brillo and the tension during the results is at a new horrific high. Margo really milks reading out the results and I wonder if it’s also a tiny bit of revenge on everyone because they heard her make her boo-boo earlier. Two acts are getting the axe tonight and really anyone could go, whether they deserve it or not on their performance.

  ‘I am in BITS,’ Dixie yells in my ear.

  ‘Me too,’ I shout back.

  The noise from the audience is unbelievable as they call out the names of their favourites.

  Uggs is shouting ‘Guitars!’ and ‘Delia!’ in support of our Oakdale stars.

  Finally it is decision time. We all hold our breath. Margo makes us wait so long we almost expire. Then finally she tells the magician and the dance troupe they are going home. We exhale. We scream. We will be back for the final!

  Everyone, bar none, is wrung out. We have been delighted and mangled by the show. I lead the Gang backstage and we’re sort of staggering from exhaustion and euphoria. It’s such a thrill to flash my pass and have Uggs’s and Dixie’s names checked on the list to go behind the scenes – all organized by moi.

  Delia looks disappointed to be through to next week.

  ‘I’ve realized I may not be cut out for this,’ she tells us. ‘I want to be a lazyass teen, not a hard-working comic, not like this, not national. At least if I was doing ordinary gigs, I might have a different audience every night. With this I have to have new stuff every show – it’s killing me. And I’m not enjoying it.’

  Oh. My. Actual. No.

  Then Gary O’Brien strolls up and gives me a post-show hug in a PDA. Quelle horreur! I see that Stevie Lee has clocked it and he looks like he approves. I’d have hoped for just a smidge of envy to keep my slim-line romantic hopes alive, but no. This is all way too serious, as in:

  a) that reaction and

  b) the fact that this public display of affection is all the more unwanted cos it is happening in front of my Bestie, Dix, who has designs on the Dork = ARGH!

  Even Uggs gives a snort of disapproval.

  Like a saviour, Mel arrives with a whole box of our SASS surveys completed = phew! At least that went according to plan.

  Sort It Out!

  The new week brings good and bad all at once. Dad gets the teen make-up gig as a one-off project, but the new agency love SASS so much that they also give him two days a week work on top of that. This is v brill for me because I have:

  a) helped my dad get a job and

  b) I have sort of been offered a job myself too, but I don’t actually have to do the work*

  = v satisfactory all round.

  I have a stroke of luck when I get to school on Monday morning. I’m a bit early for Assembly, so I decide to put some stuff in my locker. Just as I am climbing the stairs I see a lad from the year above me putting a letter in the Ten Guitars fan mailbox and I decide to get it out as I’m passing. It is the only letter in there so far because we’re after the weekend and I was my super-efficient self last week and got to the bottom of the correspondence pile. It is a letter from the troll! And I now know who that troll is.

  I think I might know his reasons too. This guy plays guitar and must have tried out for the band. They only took ten – well, Eleven Guitars just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? – so this lad didn’t make the cut and he’s obvs not dealing well with the rejection. I do have to act on it now, though, because this latest letter has a much more threatening tone than the rest.

  I ponder my Plan of Action throughout the morning, thereby missing some French and Irish verbs and a chunk of the reproductive cycle of the frog. I know where to find the troll’s classroom and then all I have to do is leave him a note and hopefully that will sort this out. Here’s what I write:

  We at Ten Guitars know that you are the one leaving us hate mail. You have been seen and identified by a trusted source. Stop this activity immediately or we will report you to the principal and we will name and shame you throughout the school. We have all the evidence we need.

  At lunch, I deliver the letter. I hope that’s the end of it. If not, I really will give the letters to the principal and testify that I saw who put them in the box.

  NEXT!

  Gran texts: Your mum has gone out with Harry to join the local mother-and-child group

  I reply: TOP NEWS!

  It is.

  NEXT!

  Dixie …

  This is a more complex problem. It’s a matter of the heart. And Dixie is a cussed sort. I love her to bits but she can be s
tubborn and untalkable to. I’m not sure plain reasoning with her will do.

  In the afternoon I miss a Maths equation, the geography of China and the conquest of the South Pole, wondering about the Dixie Dilemma.

  We have a Knit ’n’ Knatter in my room that afternoon as we serio need to get the hearts made for Valentine’s Day.

  ‘I hope our customers like a bit of dog hair in their love gifts,’ I say as I try† to push Gypsy off the yarn.

  ‘Kev wants to meet this weekend,’ Dixie announces.

  ‘Has he actually sent you a proper photo yet?’ Uggs wants to know.

  Dixie hesitates before answering = most unusual for her.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “no”, shall I?’

  ‘He’s shy about how he looks,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Uggs is looking v grim. ‘Is he as shy about how you look?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is he still looking for pics that only you and him will have?’

  Her silence tells us that he is.

  ‘He gave me his mobile number,’ she offers.

  ‘Show us, then.’

  She does and we make a note of it, as proof that he is out there somewhere.

  ‘I don’t like the feel of this, Dixie,’ I say, as gently as I can. ‘It’s hinky. Something’s not quite right.’

  We knit on in silence. Then she says, ‘The way things are going round here, we might not sell any of these. I’m not feeling a great Valentine spirit welling up within Oakdale.’

  We knit on none the less.

  We don’t return to the subject of next weekend as it will only lead to a row within the Gang. It will have to be dealt with some other way.