Love Bomb

by Jenny McLachlan

I roll off the beanbag and wander over to the baby grand. Did I mention the piano? Music is scattered across it. Kat’s sister is grade eight in piano, which kind of puts Kat’s grade six guitar in the shade. Suddenly, I spot a faded yellow music score. ‘No way!’ I say, picking it up. ‘“Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye” by Bettye Swan. My mum and dad named me after this singer.’

  ‘I can play that,’ says Kat, coming over.

  ‘My mum was singing this song when Dad first saw her.’

  ‘Tell me,’ says Kat, sitting on the piano stool. ‘I love getting-together stories.’

  ‘Well, my mum was doing a mini-tour with her band, The Swanettes, during her university holiday.’ Kat is watching me, wide-eyed. ‘So, it’s this warm summer’s evening and The Swanettes are singing at this pub, deep in the countryside and – get this – the pub is called The Falling Star.’ Kat sighs deeply. ‘My dad is sitting in the garden when he suddenly hears this beautiful voice drifting out on the rose-scented air. He follows the voice inside and discovers it belongs to an angel, otherwise known as Lorna. Their eyes meet and she sings the song to him, as though no one else is in the room. Afterwards, he buys her a pint of Harveys and some pork scratchings and they talk for hours as the sun sets over the fields … and the rest is history.’

  ‘That is soooo romantic,’ says Kat. ‘Except for the bit about the pork scratchings. C’mon, let’s recreate it.’ Kat sits down on the piano stool and opens out the music on the stand. She picks at the strings on her guitar then starts to play the song that is so familiar to me I can’t remember a time when I haven’t known the words. It seems only natural to join in.

  ‘Wow,’ says Kat, after the final note has faded out. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to sing that at the concert? That was good, Betty.’

  ‘No way,’ I say. ‘My dad would have a cow. It would be like the ghost of Mum had just been zapped on to our school stage.’

  ‘We’d better stick with the willy song, then.’

  We grin at each other and I think how great it is to be here, with Kat, talking about willies. I gaze around the room. The walls are covered with photos of her mum from her modelling days in the Eighties. You can see where Kat gets her cheekbones and dangly legs from.

  ‘Have you ever seen such minging clothes?’ asks Kat.

  ‘Is that a plastic dress?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep,’ says Kat. ‘And look at this. It’s a gold shell suit.’

  ‘What’s a shell suit?’

  ‘Like a tracksuit made of sleeping bag material. Mum got loads of freebies from designers. There’s a room upstairs full of them: lace gloves, ra-ra skirts, Keds, boleros, shortalls, leg warmers …’

  ‘I don’t know what all those things are.’

  ‘She’s even got ladybird stilettos. C’mon. I’ll show you.’

  Two hours later, we’re heading towards Bea’s house, eating fries and dressed as Eighties supermodels.

  ‘Fashion!’ I yell, and Kat spins round and strikes a pose. Each time she does this, her poses get weirder. This time she’s crouched down on the floor, pointing her milkshake up at the sky.

  Somehow, Kat’s managing to carry off the Eighties look better than me. She’s wearing a neon pink jumpsuit, leg warmers and the über-gorgeous stilettos. Essentially, she looks like an Eighties supermodel. I’m wearing gold rapper pants, a jumper covered with Liquorice Allsorts and red pixie boots. Essentially, I look like a loser. Kat took some persuading – unlike me, she isn’t familiar with the joys of parading around town in fancy dress – but she knew she looked good and couldn’t resist busting her new look.

  ‘Do you think Bea will want to hear our song?’ she asks.

  ‘Definitely,’ I say. I should add that Kat also has her guitar strapped to her back and I’m riding my bike, very slowly. ‘It was her idea in the first place.’

  ‘We could go and sing to Bill,’ says Kat. I look sideways at her. She grins, then takes a long suck of her milkshake.

  ‘Why do you want to show Bill?’

  ‘C’mon, Betty. Bill’s cutesome. He’s a nine out of ten … maybe more.’ She gives me a shove, making me wobble on my bike.

  ‘Nine out of ten? No way. Seven would be generous … and what’s “cutesome”?’

  ‘Cute plus handsome equals cutesome … equals Bill.’

  ‘Nope …’ I picture Bill’s serious face, his messy sun-bleached hair. ‘I don’t see it, Kat.’

  ‘Then you’re blind.’

  ‘Fashion!’ I yell, and Kat spins round then peers at me over her shoulder, three French fries sticking out of her pouting lips.

  We ring Bea’s doorbell and smile in anticipation. Although her house is in darkness, we can hear jivey music playing somewhere. Suddenly, there’s a patter of footsteps and a small pink shape appears behind the glass. The letterbox is poked open by Bea’s little sister.

  ‘Who that?’

  ‘Hi, Emma,’ says Kat, crouching down. ‘It’s us. Can you open the door?’

  ‘OK,’ she says, then she disappears. Several minutes later she returns with a collection of books. She starts to build them into a tower.

  I shove Kat out of the way. Three-year-olds have no sense of urgency. ‘Hurry up, Emma,’ I say through the letterbox. ‘We look really stupid and it’s cold.’

  ‘I’m too small,’ she says. I watch her add a few more books to her teetering pile then she climbs up. ‘That’s better. I can do it now!’ Her hand reaches towards the door handle, then she stops. ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need a wee!’

  And she’s gone again. When she finally reappears, she’s dressed as Iron Man.

  ‘You look tough,’ I say when she finally lets us in.

  ‘You look stinky,’ she replies. Ouch. ‘Bea and Ollie are in the kitchen,’ she says as she scampers back upstairs, karate chopping the banister and yelling, ‘Die! Die!’

  Kat and I head towards the thudding Bim Bam Baby music. As we get closer, we can hear panting and gasping. Now, if it were any other teenage couple behind that door, we might have knocked, but it’s just Bollie – so we walk straight in.

  Ollie is holding Bea up in the air in a position I can only describe as a double-hand butt grab. Next – I can’t really tell how it happens – Bea is sliding between Ollie’s legs and popping out the other side. The music stops and we clap. Bea looks so happy her rosy cheeks could burst. Even though she’s been applauded loads of times for jiving, she still loves it.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Kat, spinning round.

  ‘You look so cool,’ says Bea, examining the stilettos.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ says Ollie, laughing.

  Soon Bea and Ollie are sitting on the sofa with Emma wedged between them. Kat and I are ready to perform.

  ‘OK, Emma,’ I say, ‘this is a song about a pencil that doesn’t want to do any more writing.’ I glance over at Kat and she nods. I take a deep breath, swallowing the last of my singing-aloud fears, Kat hits the first chord and we’re off.

  It doesn’t sound quite as amazing as it did in Kat’s den with her amp and the big acoustics, but our audience seems to enjoy it and when we finish, Emma yells, ‘Again, again!’

  We play it one more time, then Bollie show us a few new moves and Emma sings a song about a ‘naughty gruff’ which may or may not be about the Gruffalo. We all agree it should definitely be in the Autumn Celebration.

  It’s starting to get dark when Kat and I head home. We stand at the edge of the park, ready to go our separate ways.

  ‘Thanks for singing with me, Betty.’

  ‘It was loads of fun,’ I say. We look at each other. It’s so good to be back where we were before I stole Jesus. ‘Hey, I’ve got a question for you, Kat. It’s a bit surprising.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘How do you kiss?’

  Kat laughs. ‘You’re right. I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘It’s just I think there’s a chance that I might kiss Toby one day,’ I say, ‘a
nd I don’t want to look stupid.’

  ‘My sister told me that you just shut your eyes and let it happen. But you could practise on an apple with a wedge cut out of it.’

  ‘Really? That doesn’t sound right. Isn’t that just eating an apple?’

  ‘You don’t eat it – you kiss it. Mum recommended it. She’s kissed loads of people so she should know.’

  ‘It sounds a bit crunchy,’ I say, pushing off from the kerb. ‘Laters, Kat!’ She does a final ‘Fashion!’ pose and I cycle down the road. I can smell wood smoke and my breath puffs out in front of me. ‘I’m going home to snog an apple!’ I yell over my shoulder. Then the road dips and I zoom down with a massive ‘Wahoooo!’

  The next morning, I ‘accidentally’ run into Toby outside his tutor room.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say, all surprised.

  ‘Well hello, Betty.’ He leans against the wall and fixes his eyes on me. We are standing close enough for me to notice that he has a darker circle of blue around the edge of his pale eyes. I try hard not to stare. ‘You need to come to the hall after school to audition for Vanilla Chinchilla,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’ll be perfect. I’ve asked a few other girls to come along.’ Other girls? What does a few mean? Two other girls? Seven? Thirty-four? ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, resting his hand on my arm, ‘I know you’ll rock, B-Cakes. The moment you said you could sing I wanted you in my band.’ He smiles and everything inside me trembles, then he lets go of me and strolls into his classroom leaving me with a deliciously tingly arm.

  I want to follow him, grab his hand and put it right back on my arm, but even I have some dignity. I drift towards my tutor room and slowly my arm returns to normal. My body has had a life of its own recently. Just this morning, when I walked past the attic hatch, the hairs on my arms prickled as I thought of Mum’s letters hidden up there, and then, at breakfast, a hole appeared in my stomach when Dad made me promise to go to Pizza Express with him and Poo on Wednesday. I give my arm a final shake and Toby’s touch disappears.

  I manage to make my body behave until the end of the day. I don’t mention the audition to Kat or Bea – it feels wrong to be trying to get into another band when I’ve only just formed one with Kat. But as I pull open the heavy door to the hall and push my way through velvet curtains I wish one of them was with me.

  The rock music hits me immediately and so does the sight of Pearl, standing on the stage next to Toby and belting out the words to a song I know, but don’t particularly like. Pearl can sing and she knows it. Spotting me, she stares, a smile creeping over her face. She seems to be wearing more make-up than ever these days, and her eyes are covered in black mascara and eyeliner and her hair is a tangled mess. Unfortunately, she looks amazing and, of course, she knows it.

  I walk towards the stage, my eyes following the long ladder that runs up Pearl’s black tights and disappears under her rolled-up skirt. Standing next to Toby, his hair flopping into his eyes as he thrashes his guitar, she looks like she belongs in this band. She looks like she belongs with Toby – two dark angels making a dark noise together … oh, and Frank and Dexter from Year Eleven.

  No one else is in the hall. It looks like Pearl and I are the only ones auditioning. The song finishes and, being the only member of the audience, I feel I have to clap. I don’t put much effort into it. ‘Hi, Sweaty,’ says Pearl into the microphone. Her words echo around the hall.

  So *funny*. Pearl likes to make out that I smell. That’s her thing with me. Pearl’s got a thing with most girls in our school.

  ‘Is it my turn?’ I say, throwing my bag on a chair and standing as tall as my yellow DMs will let me. Bring it on, Pearl, I think as I walk up the stairs at the side of the stage. If I wasn’t sure about being in the band when I walked into the hall, now I want it more than anything.

  Pearl and I swap places, shrinking away from each other as we pass by Dexter’s drum kit. I take my place next to Toby and she slumps in the front row and gets out her phone.

  ‘Here you go, B-Cakes.’ Toby hands me a sheet of lyrics.

  I wave it away. ‘I know them.’ Even though I don’t like the song, I’ve heard it often enough to pick up the words. I can always do that with songs. Staring straight ahead, I take a deep breath and try to feel soulful and confident. The last time I sang on a stage I was in the Brownies and I was dressed as a pumpkin … and I was rapping.

  The band start. They’re shaky, but Toby holds them together. Dexter’s passionate drumming thuds through my body and Toby nods me in. Facing the back of the hall, I start to sing. Pearl’s sweaty comment burns in my voice and all I think about is beating her and wiping the smile off her face.

  The song stops abruptly, although Dexter can’t resist finishing with a series of drum fills. Toby takes the mike off me. ‘Betty’s in,’ he says, looking down at Pearl. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, ‘Sorry.’

  I can’t resist it. Looking down at her, I smile and do our Ladybird wave – thumb tucked in and four fingers wiggling. Pearl invented that wave and we used to do it to each other all day, driving our nursery teacher mad. Pearl stands up, grabs her bag and strides down the centre of the hall, one finger raised behind her back. That’s not our Ladybird wave.

  She lets the door slam shut behind her and my hand drops down. My feeling of satisfaction evaporates into the huge echoing room.

  ‘You totally rocked,’ says Toby, looking slightly amazed. The rest of Vanilla Chinchilla nod enthusiastically, Frank’s red curls bobbing up and down. ‘Where did that big voice come from?’

  ‘Me!’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Well, look after it because our first rehearsal is at my place on Friday.’

  As Dexter and Frank pack up, Toby walks me off the stage. ‘We could hang out together afterwards,’ he says, ‘but only after we’ve rehearsed. We’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re going to be ready for the concert.’

  ‘What?’ I pick up my bag, an icy feeling growing in my stomach. ‘We’re doing the Autumn Celebration?’

  ‘That’s why we need to rehearse.’ He leans against the back of a chair and studies me. The icy feeling spreads until I start to feel sick. I know the rules of our school performances: we can only perform once in the evening.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Toby glances to the back of the hall, to the door Pearl has just stomped out of.

  I have to choose: sing with Kat, or sing with Toby. If I sing with Kat, Pearl gets Toby. I saw them together. I know that’s what would happen.

  I look up at him. ‘Nothing,’ I say with a smile. ‘Just looking forward to Friday.’

  As I walk down the central aisle, my stomach churns, big time, and part of me seems to drain into the scuffed wooden floor.

  Kat is going to kill me.

  I walk home in the rain. Black leaves stick to my boots and the street lamps leave oily reflections on the pavement. A couple of times, I go to ring Kat, but I can’t do it. I can’t think of the words that will make what I’ve done OK, because it’s not OK.

  When I get to my road, I turn off my phone and shove it deep in my bag. Then I let myself into a cold house. Dad’s not in. He hasn’t left a message and it doesn’t feel like he’s been back all day. I love it when I get home and hear his music blaring out from the kitchen, the crash of plates as he unloads the dishwasher and the smell of fresh coffee. I can’t remember the last time I smelt coffee when I walked in.

  The house feels very empty.

  It’s true when I say I don’t miss my mum. How could I? I can’t remember anything about her. But sometimes I feel as if something is missing from my life.

  Without realising what I’m doing, I head upstairs and stare at the attic hatch. My heart thuds. What do I think is up there? A ghost Mum sitting on a suitcase, waiting for me to appear? I get the silver pole from the top of Dad’s wardrobe and use it to twist the attic hatch open. After clipping the ladder in place, I climb up, the metal icy and damp under my fingers.

  Jus
t as I stick my head into the dark space, a tip tap makes me turn round. Mr Smokey has his paws on the bottom rung of the ladder and is staring up at me.

  ‘Go away,’ I say. ‘Cats can’t climb ladders.’ But then I realise it would be nice to have him up here so I go back down, scoop him under my arm and carry him up.

  The dim yellow light reveals paint pots, toys and overflowing bags piled high in every inch of space. I put Mr Smokey down and he disappears in a flash. I go to Mum’s corner, treading over Disney roller blades and a pile of Mr Gum books. The things in Mum’s bit of the attic are more organised and each box is labelled with her familiar handwriting. I quickly find what I’m looking for: a pastel blue box with a photo of a lady caressing her silky legs.

  I sit on a trunk of Swanette costumes and peer inside the box. At first, all I can see is the electric razor, smooth and white like an egg, but then I spot the familiar lilac envelopes tucked behind the polystyrene packaging. I pull out a handful of letters.

  There are four, but they are thick, and each has a different title. There’s The one where I have my first kiss, The one where my mum gets a boyfriend, The one where I fall in love and, at the bottom of the pile, The one where my heart is broken.

  I guess Mum was a Friends fan. I love Friends.

  Rain falls on the roof and downstairs I hear the central heating click on. It’s so cold up here I can see my breath. I long to hear Dad’s key in the front door, but at the same time I don’t want to know that he’s been with Poo, and I definitely don’t want him to find me up here. Mum’s right: this is between her and me.

  I hold The one where my mum gets a boyfriend, but I don’t open it. I’m almost scared about what’s inside, and the shadowy attic and howling wind aren’t helping.

  Suddenly, Mr Smokey lands on my lap, squashing the letter. I scream and then laugh. ‘You scared me,’ I tell him.

  I climb down the ladder with Mr Smokey and the letters. I still have a cold ache inside me when I think about what I’ve got to tell Kat and the fact that Dad’s probably doing a ‘downward dog’ with Poo, but the ache has shrunk from the size of a pineapple to the size of a pear.