by Candy Harper
Thank you, Santa.
She claimed afterwards that it was a hiccup, but I think we all know what we heard.
All in all it was a magical night. And now that we’ve got the performance bit out of the way we’ve got the main event to look forward to: the choir party on Saturday. I hope Finn takes the opportunity to do a bit more hand squeezing. I wonder what I should wear. I was thinking of trimming a miniskirt with tinsel.
This morning we nipped into the corner shop near school to buy a little something to see me through till breaktime. I’d just picked up a packet of Monster Munch and a couple of Milky Ways when guess who we bumped into? Finn. Actually, it was Megs who almost bumped into him, but I selflessly threw myself between them to prevent any injuries.
Finn said, ‘Hi, Faith, I’m just maxing my energy levels.’ He held up a banana and a cereal bar.
‘Me too.’ I ditched my snacks and grabbed the nearest piece of fruit, which happened to be a rather ancient-looking pineapple.
He said, ‘Cool.’ And then we all stared at my pineapple. ‘I’m just going to pay.’
Like an idiot I followed him to the till with my withered pineapple. Let me tell you, exotic fruit is expensive; it’s just another reason to eat chocolate. But it was worth it because when we got out the door Finn said, ‘Are you coming to the choir party this weekend?’ Which sounded to me like he wants me to be there.
‘Yes. Definitely.’
‘Excellent. I’ll see you there.’
Even Megs had to admit that it seems like he is completely in love me. (Actually, she said, ‘He is quite friendly to you.’ But, same difference.)
I can’t wait for Saturday.
The rest of the day was the usual end-of-term fun. In our tutor group session, Mrs Webber put on a video for us and then settled down to write her Christmas cards. After that we had a whole school assembly. I had just got myself comfortably positioned for a snooze with Angharad as a pillow when she started doing her squirrel impression and pointing at Miss Pee like she was a particularly big nut (which of course she is). I took my fingers out of my ears and had a little listen. Miss Pee was introducing a lady from Enabling the Elderly. The lady moved to the front of the stage.
‘I’m here to congratulate all of you for the hard work you have put into supporting our Christmas box scheme. It is so refreshing for us to see young women taking an interest in others and giving up their time to do good. I would like to single out the young lady who organised your contribution for praise. Faith Ashby, please can you come up here?’
Well. By Rudolph’s red nose, I was not expecting that. So up I hopped and collected a delightful certificate and (more interestingly) a large box of chocolates. Miss Pee seemed rather confused to see me being congratulated and I’m sure I saw Miss Ramsbottom retching. Brilliant. There was a storm of clapping and my row were on their feet. Lily even risked a little, ‘Woo!’
Best of all, as I was handing out chocs to my mates after school, Icky sauntered past to have a good gawp.
I said, ‘I would offer you one, Vicky, but I know that you’re allergic to dairy products.’
‘What do you mean? I’m not allergic to dairy.’
‘Oh. Sorry. I just assumed. I couldn’t think of any other reason why you always smell like sicked-up milk.’
It seems I am both kind to old folk and hilarious.
Sam has ruined my chocolaty day of triumph. For some reason when I was giving him a sneak preview of the choir concert he recorded me and now he is using my singing as his ringtone. Ordinarily, this might not have been a big problem, but clearly I had a sore throat starting when I gave him that performance because, unlike my usual striking tones it sounds pretty bad. Terrible in fact. And now he is threatening to use the recording in other ways.
I must get that phone.
School finished at lunchtime and it should be all merriness and mistletoe, but there is a slight problem. When I got home I saw Sam texting, so I took this opportunity to grab his phone and get rid of that horrible recording of me. Unfortunately, Sam doesn’t recognise my superior upper body strength and idiotically attempted to put up a fight. While we were struggling on the floor he crashed into the Christmas tree and knocked it over. At that exact moment Dad walked in the door. Now we’re both grounded. And Dad is saying that this means I can’t go to the choir party tomorrow. Having wasted his own youth doing his homework and polishing his shoes, he is determined to spoil mine. I’m going to have to try to talk Mum round.
This morning Mum barged right into my room. I was trying to sleep, but old patchouli pants rudely interrupted.
‘Faith, I try to make this house a haven of calm and order. Is there any chance all these cups and plates are going to make it downstairs before Christmas? Or shall I just trim them with holly now?’
My parents keep on thinking they’re funny. I have spoken to them about this. Sometimes I think they don’t listen to a word I say.
I moaned. ‘Ah!’ I clutched my face. ‘My eyes, my beautiful eyes!’
Mum bent over and said, ‘Faith! What is it? Have you hurt yourself? Let me see.’
‘Oohh, oww! It’s . . . It’s your wit. You have blinded me with it.’
Mum snapped upright. ‘That’s not funny.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. I had the same conversation with Mrs Mac in Biology last week. I had just demonstrated how much more realistic the skeleton looks with pickled onions for eyes when she asked me if I thought I was amusing. I said, “Look around you, Mrs Mac; twenty-eight Year Tens wetting themselves can’t be wrong”.’
Mum puffed out her breath. ‘I can only hope that you’re embroidering on that story for my benefit and that you weren’t actually that breathtakingly rude to one of your teachers.’
I patted her arm (quite kindly, because she is one of those unnecessarily hysterical types), ‘One should always have hope, Mum.’
Mum narrowed her eyes.
‘I know that I try to keep up the hope in my bleak and blighted existence . . .’ I fixed my eyes on the mid-distance and put on a rehearsed expression of gentle goodness under the strain of uncalled-for pain and punishment.
Mum just started stacking the scattered plates on my floor and ignoring me in quite a childish way.
I wiped a hand across my forehead and said, ‘Do I look pale? I think I might be suffering from that thing you get when you don’t get enough sunlight.’
‘Is this about being grounded?’
‘Or my house arrest, as I described it to Childline.’
‘Faith, you and your brother have been warned about fighting. I don’t know why you two can’t have a more harmonious relationship.’
‘Because he is a toad.’
So now I am trying to cheer myself up with some loud music and by trying a different style of eye makeup on each eye, but suddenly it all seems pointless. Why am I bothering when there are deprived children in the world with nothing to look forward to this Christmas? No love or light in their lives. I know exactly how they feel. It is a sad time when glitter eyeliner in peacock-blue can do nothing to raise your spirits.
But I can’t sit around here feeling terrible, I should not be alone and miserable. Christmas is a time for sharing; I must spread the misery. If I am fed up, they will be fed up too.
Fortunately, my grounding allows me to go as far as the shed. If I wanted to make a birdfeeder or count the things that Dad is going to fix ‘next weekend’ instead of having actual fun, then everything would be fine. Think I might pop down there and twist Dad’s arm – I mean, see how dear old Daddy is doing.
Inside the Shack of Geek, Dad was drawing on the back of an envelope. It must have been a grand plan because he was using a ruler.
I said, ‘Daddy . . .’
‘No.’
‘But—’
‘No.’
‘Weshouldpaintthekitchen.’
‘N— What?’
‘Mum would be so happy, she has been asking you quite patiently and w
ith only a little bit of whining for months. Imagine how pleased she would be and how impressed your elderly, I mean lovely, friends would be when they come to visit. “This is a man who uses a ruler when he draws up plans,” they would say.’
‘It’s a big job, Faith. Maybe next weekend.’
‘I could help you.’
He made a gaspy noise.
So I said, ‘I’m really good at painting; my Art teacher says my work is unbound by conventions of style, coordination or taste.’
I left him with that thought. But the day is ticking on. The party will be starting in a couple of hours. It’s time for action.
The thing about doing anything around the house is that it is not as complicated as parents make out. The main thing is just to get cracking. For example: doing the washing. There is no need to poke all of Dad’s socks out from under the bed. If the little stinkers have returned to their natural habitat, leave them there, I say. Also, no faffing about sorting things into colour piles; we all know that scientists have invented the mobile phone, the iPod and lash extension mascara – surely we can trust them with our knick-knocks? This is why I can have the washing on and be watching TV in five minutes whereas Mum takes half an hour ‘doing it properly’.
It’s the same with decorating. Best just to get going. Obviously I am not a complete pillow, so I moved a few manky pans and things to one side before I started to slap on the lavender paint. By the time Dad made his way from the shed with all his equipment (including two rulers and an extendable tape measure – this must be a big job) I had covered most of the wall above the cooker.
Dad turned pale and launched into mega rant, ‘Faith! . . . Dust sheets? Priming the surface? Undercoat? This . . . this isn’t the way to decorate . . . You’ve got to . . .’
Just as I feared he’d start drawing me a diagram on the back of an envelope, Mum came in. ‘My book group will be here in half an hour and— What on earth are you doing?’
Dad did some more squeaking. ‘Me?’
‘Dad, you are the man in charge. After all – you’ve got the ruler.’
Mum glared at me. ‘Stop trying to be smart, Faith.’
‘Aren’t you always encouraging me in the pursuit of academic excellence? Now that I know that it is a waste of my precious time I shall follow my dream of dropping out of school and getting a part-time job at Topshop.’
‘You wouldn’t last a week working in that place.’
‘Oh, Mum! The shop assistants in Topshop don’t work! They try on clothes and have lengthy conversations about boys and makeup. Occasionally, they stop chatting to give dirty looks to fat people who have wandered in by mistake.’
Dad said, ‘I should think you’re overqualified to work there.’
Mum said, ‘Enough of this – I’ve got visitors coming, what am I going to do?’
I said, ‘Have your drunken women’s group in the sitting room. Tell them your lovely baldy husband is decorating the kitchen for you for Christmas. You should probably make him promise not to sing though.’
‘Yes, thank you, Faith.’ Mum turned to Dad, ‘That might be the best idea.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘Shouldn’t you have dust sheets? And have primed the surface and—’
‘I’m on it.’ Dad headed back to the shed.
‘And you, young lady, can go to your room and do your homework.’
‘What? It’s the first day of the Christmas holidays. And I have got the Grump Lord of Shedville to do the kitchen – something that you haven’t managed since we moved in here – and you’re sending me to my room?’
Mum started thinking. I knew it was time to go for the wrinkly throat.
I said, ‘Yes, of course I’ll go and do my homework. I have to do a project on teenage pregnancy for PSHE. You don’t mind if I pop in on your menopausal ladies’ group to ask you a few questions about where babies come from, do you?’
Mum’s mouth twitched. ‘Clearly the only place to keep you out of trouble is a nice, safe, darkened hall with lots of scruffy-haired boys to keep you occupied.’
I allowed myself a small, but dignified squeak of hope. ‘Have you seen my end-of-term report? Miss Ramsbottom did say that I’d made a real improvement, didn’t she?’
‘Hmm. Oh, go on then. But you must be back before eleven. And you must behave yourself over Christmas. No sulking and no polluting our happy atmosphere.’
‘Of course! I’ll be an angel. I’ll be so good you will feel faintly suspicious. I’ll cook, I’ll clean—’
Mum’s face fell.
‘Or not, if you don’t want me to.’ I skipped up the stairs.
Mum called out, ‘Better hurry up; you’ve only got an hour and a half to decide what to wear.’
Fortunately I had laid out my dress before I’d even gone downstairs.
I’m ready. Waiting for Megs’s dad to pick me up. Please let Finn speak to me. And maybe be a tiny bit hypnotised by my beauty. Please, oh please.
I am so happy. You could power a string of fairy lights on the buzz that’s coming off me.
Last night was amazing. When we got to school the Drama studio was looking particularly festive. Someone had dragged the artificial tree in from reception and blown up a load of balloons. Best of all they had dusted off the lighting board and dimmed the lights. Or as Megs put it, ‘Ooh, snogging lighting.’
‘There’s no need to boast just because you’re in the tongue-duelling club.’ The party was an official date for Megs and Cameron. People with boyfriends are such show-offs.
We had a little chat with some of the other girls and then a little dance and then a nibble on the snacks. I like to think that I maintained my glamour and didn’t dribble all over the place. At least not until I saw that they had cheese and pineapple on sticks.
Then Ethan and the boys arrived.
I heard Westy before I saw him.
‘Faaaaaaaith!’ Then he charged towards me, picked me up under one arm, and shook me about a bit. He is such a crazy banana. I am glad that we’re friends again.
While Lily and Zoe showed off their sword-fighting-with-breadsticks routine Ethan came over to me.
He said, ‘I hear that you’ve been awarded some sort of Girl of the Year prize. What was that for – hair and makeup?’
‘No, my outstanding community service.’
‘Oh, your granny-love. I expect you’ve got plans to harass orphans next term, haven’t you?’
‘I’d rather work with a less bite-y minority group. Like endangered tigers.’
‘Speaking of snarly, scary things. It’s good that you’ve stopped being mad at Westy.’
I blushed a bit when he said that because, thinking about it, it seemed like I had been crosser with Ethan than I ever was with Westy. Why did I mind so much more when I thought Ethan had set me up? I looked over at Westy trying to juggle with sausage rolls.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s not really his fault he’s a noodle, is it?’
‘You know he’d never upset you on purpose, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I might have overreacted a bit to the whole thing. I don’t know why, but there’s something about Icky’s triumphant face that makes me want to shout at people.’
‘Really? It just makes me want to slap her.’
Which made me laugh a lot. Because there’s nothing funnier than violence towards people I dislike.
‘Faith . . .’
But he didn’t finish whatever it was he was going to say because Westy came and sat on my lap and said, ‘I’ve been very good this year, Santa, and what I would really like is Faith in a bikini.’
‘Get off, you prat.’
I looked at our little gang and I was really happy. I felt like a weight had been lifted from me – and not just because Westy had got off my lap. I’m glad that Megs and Cam have sorted things out and that I’m friends with Westy and Ethan again.
I had a really good chat with Ethan. He does make me laugh. I think I may have annoyed him at one point because I spotted Finn da
ncing with Icky and I got a bit distracted.
Why is Finn nice to Icky? He can’t really like her. It must just be because he’s such a sweet friendly person that he’s nice to everyone.
When he spotted me he came over and said, ‘Cool tinsel dress,’ to me and, ‘Good party, hey dude?’ to Ethan.
Ethan just nodded and then went to help Westy pick up Cameron by his ankles. Finn smiled at me and looked at the food. ‘No squeezy cheese. Hope you’re not too disappointed.’
Oh dear, he remembers me spraying him with cheese spread. But I think that’s a good thing really, it shows that our time together has meant something to him. It’s like having a song. Except we’ve got a snack food. I didn’t say this. In fact I hadn’t said anything for a bit. I tried a smile instead.
Finn said, ‘They’ve got pineapple. You like pineapple, don’t you? You could chuck that at me instead.’
I still couldn’t think of anything to say to that so I took him up on his suggestion and threw a chunk of pineapple at him.
And he threw a piece back at me. We started cracking up and I branched out and tried a handful of peanuts. Finn was coming back with a mini quiche when Mr Millet appeared and roared, ‘Stop that right now! Any more monkey business and you’ll be sent home. Pick that mess up.’ And he stomped off to spoil someone else’s fun.
Finn and I scooped up the little bits of food from the floor. Finn looked under the festive paper tablecloth that some soppy idiot (Angharad) had put on the table.
He said, ‘Faith, come here. It’s like a little house.’ He disappeared under the table.
Obviously I followed him. Under the table I couldn’t help noticing that Finn wasn’t looking for pineapple chunks. He was looking at me. Then he started crawling towards me. Normally when anything crawls towards me (spiders, crabs, babies) I leap backwards, but I contained my leaping urges and waited to see what the monkey was going on here. He stopped with his face about three centimetres from mine. I really wished I hadn’t eaten that sour cream and onion Pringle.