‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, like we’re different with different people,’ said Izzie. ‘You’re one way with your parents, another way with teachers, another way with your friends, another way with boys.’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Well, like TJ was saying, she talks to Iz about some things, Lucy about others and you about others.’
‘Yeah,’ said TJ. ‘Like I go to Iz for advice and I come to you for a laugh.’
I had to think about that. Was that a compliment or an insult?
‘Are you saying you don’t think I can give advice?’
‘No . . . yes,’ said TJ looking flustered. ‘I was trying to say something nice about you. Not many people are as much fun as you. Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re being over sensitive today, Nesta.’
‘Yes, don’t be a drama queen,’ said Izzie.
I’m not even going to reply to that, I thought. Drama queen! Moi? As if.
‘All I was saying,’ continued Izzie, ‘was that we’re probably totally different with different boys too. With some, you don’t feel yourself at all and have nothing to say, with others, you can’t stop talking. People bring out different sides of you. Maybe you’ve never brought out what you call the nerdy side of a boy, because you’ve never talked about anything to bring it out.’
‘So you are saying I’m shallow and I bring out the shallow part of people, boys included. And I can’t give advice. And I’m a drama queen.’
‘No,’ said Izzie. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Just maybe, next time you like a boy, try talking about a book you’ve read or ask him what he feels about the purpose of life or something.’
Huh, I thought, not exactly a fun chat-up line in my estimation. I was feeling peeved by what the girls had said. I don’t want to be thought of as an airhead-type drama queen bimbo. I’m not. I do well at school. I do think about things. Like, what to wear, how to do my hair, which is my favourite boy band and so on. But maybe I should talk about ‘deep’ stuff. Books. Um. Maybe I’d better read one – a grown-up one, that is. I used to read a lot when I was younger, but I went off it. I don’t know why. I’ll start again when I get home, I decided. I’ll pick a really intellectual, impressive-type book and that will show them, when I start quoting bits off by heart. Then I’ll find a boy and knock his socks off with my brainy brain-type brain as well as my looks. I shall show them all that airhead, I am not.
Lucy’s DIY Face-masks
Egg and Yeast Mask
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon of brewer’s yeast
1 teaspoon of sunflower oil
Mix into a smooth paste. Apply to face and neck and leave for fifteen minutes then rinse off.
NB: The yeast can stimulate the skin and draw out impurities, so not the best one to use before a big party in case it brings out any lurking spots.
Nourishing Mask
1 whole egg
1 teaspoon honey
1 teaspoon almond oil
Mix together then apply. Leave on for fifteen minutes then rinse off.
Rejuvenating Mask
2 tablespoons of ripe avocado
1 teaspoon honey
3 drops of lemon juice
Mash the avocado, add the lemon juice, add the honey and mix into a paste. Apply and leave on for at least twenty minutes. You may have to lie on the floor with a towel behind your head and neck for this one as it can be a bit runny.
Banana Mask (especially good for dry skin)
Half a ripe banana
1 tablespoon of honey
1 tablespoon of double cream
Mash the banana. Mix with the honey and cream and apply.
(This one’s OK to eat as well!)
Chapter 2
When I got home later that afternoon, I intended to go straight to the dictionary and look up pragmatic then go and find myself a ‘deep’ book from the shelves in our sitting room. However, as soon as I’d stepped into the hall of our flat, I heard raised voices coming from the kitchen. Oops, war zone, I thought as I went in to see what it was all about.
‘But Dad,’ Tony was saying, ‘everyone in our year is taking their test and Mark Janson has even got his own car.’
Dad looked tight-lipped. ‘I said no, and that’s final. We’ll talk about it again when you’re nineteen.’
Ah, I thought, I know what this is about. It’s Tony’s birthday tomorrow. September 22nd. He’ll be eighteen and he wants to do a course of driving lessons in the hope of getting a car when he passes his A-levels. He did ask if he could learn to drive last year when he was seventeen and I remember that there were fireworks then. It’s weird because Dad is usually pretty cool about most things, but when it comes to talking about driving, he clamps up and becomes totally unapproachable. Poor Tony, he really thought Dad would give in this year and had even saved all his cash Christmas presents to go towards lessons.
I decided to step in and help.
‘Don’t be a meanie, Dad. It is his eighteenth birthday, that’s a really special one.’ Well that clearly didn’t help, I thought as Dad’s expression turned from frosty to ice. However, I don’t believe in giving up easily. ‘Loads of people Tony’s age drive, Dad. And Tony would be very careful, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, course.’
‘He may be careful, but there are some maniacs out on the road,’ said Dad.
‘But . . .’ Tony began.
‘I said end of story,’ said Dad, then he got up and left the room.
‘Sorry,’ I said as Tony sat at the counter and put his head in his hands.
‘It’s not fair,’ he groaned.
‘You sound like Kevin,’ I said laughing and went into my impersonation of the teenage character that Harry Enfield plays in the film Kevin and Perry Go Large. He’s a really obnoxious fifteen-year-old who is always telling his parents, ‘It’s not fair,’ and ‘I hate you.’ It usually makes Tony laugh when I do it, but this time he wasn’t going for it.
‘It makes me look like a right dork,’ he said. ‘Three of my mates have been driving for six months already. I hate being the one who has to act like a kid – oh my dad won’t let me. It sounds so pathetic.’
‘So what do you want to do on your birthday?’ When someone is feeling low, my philosophy is to change the subject to something cheerful.
‘Not much I can do, is there? On a Monday? Mum says we can do something special at a later date, maybe a weekend when everyone’s a bit more chilled.’
‘But you have to do something on the day and although, yeah, you have to go to school, there’s always the evening. You could do something nice if Mum hasn’t already got something planned.’
‘Actually she did say we could go out for dinner tomorrow, but who wants to go out with old misery Dad? Not exactly exciting. I’ll probably meet up with some mates after school. You can come if you promise not to drool on any of them.’
‘As if. Anyway I’ve got a dentist’s appointment after school tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I might not be up to eating out if I have to have a filling or something. Why don’t you have a party later? It is your eighteenth after all.’
Tony shook his head. ‘That’s what Mum said. I’ll think about it, but if Mum and Dad want to supervise, I’d rather not.’
‘So what would you really like to do?’
Tony was quiet while he thought. ‘I know what I’d like to do,’ he said finally. ‘I’d like to go out with Lucy. Just the two of us. Not actually on my birthday necessarily, but some time soon after. But I don’t suppose she’ll be up for a date either, you know what she’s like, always blowing hot and cold.’
‘Ahh,’ I said, putting on my moany groany voice. ‘Poor Tony. Itthh noooot faaiiirrr.’
At least this time he laughed. Or grimaced, sometimes it’s hard to tell with Tone.
A few minutes later Mum came through. ‘Ah good. I’m glad to get you both together as I wanted to have a bit of a chat.’
Tony and I looked at each other and tr
ied not to laugh. Quite a few of our mates’ parents have been doing this lately, so we knew what to expect by ‘a bit of a chat’. It was a talk about sex, drugs or drink and how we mustn’t do any of them.
‘So,’ she began, ‘just to let you know how things are at the moment.’
Ah. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Maybe it’s not the ‘It only takes one time and, before you know it, you’re pregnant’ sex lecture. Maybe it’s the ‘We have to tighten our belts’ lecture.
‘As you know,’ Mum continued, ‘my contract at the station was renewed last year . . .’
‘Oh, they’re not talking about letting you go again are they?’ asked Tony.
Earlier this year, Mum thought she was going to be out of a job. She works as a news presenter on Cable and her position, as with all the presenters, is precarious as the producers like to try out new faces or, as Mum says, younger faces.
‘No, they aren’t talking of getting rid of me, no, just cutting down my hours. The producers are doing it to all us diehards and, to give them their due, they do have to keep trying out new people. So. This is the situation. Dad’s got a new film to direct and that’s going well, but there’s not an enormous budget on this one and he’s doing it mainly because of the prestige, not the money. It will look good on his CV and hopefully lead to other things. So money’s going to be a bit tight, plus we’ll have a big tax bill coming in January. So. What does this mean for all of us? Bit of budgeting. Pulling our belts in a little and no money for extras I’m afraid. I know there was a skiing trip you fancied going on with the school, Tony, but that’s out for the time being. But we can live, that’s the main thing.’
‘That’s cool,’ said Tony. ‘I wasn’t that bothered about skiing to be honest. Not since Mark Crawley broke both his arm and leg on the last trip. Seeing him lumber about in a plaster cast put me off a bit.’
‘And I’m sorry, Tony,’ said Mum. ‘About the party for your eighteenth. Do you mind waiting a while? Until things have improved a bit?’
‘No problem,’ said Tony. ‘I wasn’t sure I wanted one anyway.’
He’s great with Mum. They have a really good relationship, much better than he has with Dad, which is interesting seeing as Dad is his real dad, but Mum is his stepmum. His real mum died when he was tiny, then later Dad married my mum. She’s always been there as long as he can remember. Our family confuses a lot of people, because Dad is Italian – dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned. (Actually he’s three-quarters Italian and a quarter Spanish to be precise as Granddad is half Italian, half Spanish and Grandma is Italian.) Tony’s inherited his European good looks, complete with Dad’s movie star type dimple on his chin. Mum’s Jamaican, dark skin, dark hair, green eyes and, although I take after her, I’m not as dark, more kind of coffee coloured. When new people meet Tony and me, then find out that we’re brother and sister, you can see their minds working overtime trying to work out why we look so different.
‘OK, Nesta?’ asked Mum.
‘Yeah. You know me,’ I said. ‘I don’t care in the least about material things.’ Mum did a double-take and Tony burst out laughing. What a cheek. I am clearly one of the most misunderstood people in the history of time. Still, at least what Mum had said explained why Dad was being funny about Tony having driving lessons. Clearly he couldn’t afford them, but didn’t want to admit it. Men or boys, the whole male species are weird about some things and can’t just come out and say stuff like they’re lost or broke or something. As if to admit you’re hard up means you’ve failed in some way. Huh, I thought, I have no problem admitting when I have no money.
‘So we’re poor again, are we?’ I asked.
‘Not poor, Nesta,’ said Mum. ‘Just not rich at the moment.’
We’re always going through these phases – spare money, no spare money. Dad says working in the media is often feast or famine. When I’m an actress, I’m going to make sure I’m mega rich all the time by getting into every play and film going, as I don’t reckon it’s much fun having no dosh. I can see what a strain the ups and downs of finances put on Mum and Dad.
‘Anything you want to ask?’ asked Mum.
Tony shook his head.
‘Nah,’ I said. I planned to go upstairs and learn my audition part for the end of term play at school. We’re doing West Side Story this year and I want to go for the part of Maria.
‘Good,’ said Mum. ‘So you both understand? No extras for a while?’
I nodded. It’s funny, I quite like the fact that Mum treats Tony and me like adults and keeps us informed as to what’s going on, as I know some people’s parents don’t. It makes me feel accepted as a grown-up. On the other hand, I don’t want to know, because I reckon all that stuff is their job, being parents, paying the bills and all that and I want to just be a teenager and not think about any of it. Mum says she tells us about the finances so that we don’t think that ‘Money grows on trees’. As if.
‘Er, Matt, wasn’t there something you wanted to say?’ Mum called into the hall, then turned back to us. ‘And your dad had something he wanted to say as well.’
Ah. Now the sex talk, I thought, sneaking a glance at Tony. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, this should be interesting.
There was a cough from somewhere in the vicinity of the sitting room, then we heard Dad’s footsteps approaching.
He shuffled about on his feet for a few moments. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Ahem. Yes. Er . . . I . . . I wanted to talk to you about contraception.’
‘What! Again?’ Tony groaned.
I rolled my eyes. ‘Mum, Dad. We do all this stuff at school.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tony as he leaned back on his stool and put his hands behind his head in that arrogant ‘You can’t teach me anything’ way of his. ‘But it’s cool, if you want to talk about it. So . . . Dad. Contraception? What would you like to know?’
I creased up laughing. So did Mum and Dad. Phew. War zone safe for a few more days.
Pragmatic: dealing with matters according to their practical significance or immediate importance.
Chapter 3
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. Four minutes left. One, two, three . . . I counted as I lay on the couch at the dentist’s the next day after school. About four more minutes and I should be out of here, I thought, then it’s all over for another six months. Dental surgeries are not my favourite places: the persistent buzz of drilling behind closed doors, the smell of polished wood mixed with antiseptic mouthwash, the anguished screams of despair as patients beg for mercy . . . OK, maybe the screams are in my head, but it doesn’t help that my dentist, Mr Saltman, has a poster of Steve Martin in the film, Little Shop of Horrors, on his ceiling. Everyone that lies back on the chair has no choice but to see the poster as Mr Saltman works on their teeth. In the film, Steve Martin plays Orin Scrivello, the demented and sadistic dentist. Hhmm? What is Mr Saltman trying to say to his patients, I wondered.
‘Scange choich of poh – er,’ I mumbled as I pointed up at the ceiling. I was trying to say, strange choice of poster, but it was somewhat difficult with Mr Saltman’s thumb and index finger in my cheek and my top lip stretched almost up to my ear (not my most alluring look). As he tapped my teeth with some cold metal implement, I closed my eyes and tried to think of nice relaxing things. Izzie had briefed me as we were leaving school. ‘Think soothing thoughts,’ she’d said, ‘positive visualisations to distract you from the pain.’ She’d suggested waterfalls, flowers, dolphins. Sadly dolphins don’t do it for me, nor waterfalls, bor-ring. I decided to try and think up some soothing visualisations of my own. Things that made me happy to think about. The perfume counters in Selfridges. Rails of fab clothes in Morgan. The lingerie department in Fenwicks. Snogging Brad Pitt. Oh, I’m being shallow, I suddenly thought. Clothes, underwear, snogging. No, I can do better than that. I can do deep visualisations or else the girls would have been right yesterday, all I think about is my appearance, boys and clothes. No, I’ll try again. I will think deep meaningful things. I
imagined myself going on a protest march to save the environment. Hhmm, I wondered, what does one wear for a demonstration? Green or brown? Something that looks like you’re serious about the cause, but casually alluring as well in case there’s a hot eco-warrior boy there. Oh no. I was back to clothes and boys. I tried again. Think uplifting thoughts, uplifting, deep thoughts, I told myself. Something to distract from the fact that my jaw has locked and my neck muscles have gone into spasm. No. The visualisation stuff wasn’t working. All I could see now was Steve Martin with his drill in his hand, an evil look in his eye and he was coming closer. I was never very good at getting the right visualisation for the right moment, I’m not like Izzie, she’s so into all that New Age hocus pocus and it seems to work for her.
I opened my eyes to see if Mr Saltman had finished. No. He was still nose to nose with me, only with a mask over his nose and mouth. And glasses over his eyes. He looked like a giant insect hovering in my face and suddenly I had the urge to laugh as the words to Steve Martin’s song from the film rang through my brain, ‘to beee a dena-tist . . .’ Gulp. Arghh, I thought as I struggled to swallow.
‘Ow,’ I cried as Mr Saltman pulled my mouth to the left. Real person down here, I thought, skin may be elastic, but it’s not that stretchy. Sadly he didn’t seem to be picking up on my thoughts and continued to yank my bottom lip as though it was made out of plasticine.
‘So Nesta, have you been flossing regularly?’ he asked.
‘Urg, argle oof,’ I attempted to say. I mean how ridiculous? Asking people questions when they’re lying on their backs with their mouths full of fingers, metal things and cotton wool. I think it may be one way that dentists make their jobs enjoyable. When they get bored or something, they wait until someone is in their chair with their mouth full of dentisty type stuff, then they ask them questions and secretly laugh as they watch their patients struggling to answer.
Mates, Dates and Pulling Power Page 2