by Rae Earl
My old room.
What am I doing? Brain, come back from holiday. I’m going to live with my dad.
#MyFam
As Mum and I drive to Granddad’s, I think about what’s just happened. Mum’s car is a good place to think. She drives like a granny and keeps within the speed limit even when there isn’t a sign or a safety camera. I can turn off reality and overthink things.
Yes. This has been very … civilized, really. That’s the word to use when everyone behaves themselves and acts in a way that won’t get them on daytime telly yelling at each other. My family is like that, really. We have slightly barking streaks of loon (Aunty Teresa), but mainly “the team works,” as Dad says. This is because:
@parents:
My parents are divorced but in the loveliest way possible. Dad and Mum met in Ibiza when they were partying 24⁄7. Mum used to wear neon bikinis and cowboy hats. But after I turned four, Mum and I came back here for school. Dad stayed in Spain and ran a club, then a tapas bar, and then a bungee-jumping business. He came back a year ago and is still looking for something permanent, so he lives with Granddad. Mum and Dad still seem to really like each other—they just don’t want to live with each other. I know! It’s really unusual, but it’s good for me. Dad seems to understand how difficult it is to be my age. I think Mum has forgotten. And Gary Woolton was never young at all. I bet he’s never even been to a party. Except maybe to clean up afterward.
@Granddad:
Granddad is my dad’s dad and is basically okay. He’s a massive sexist. This is because he was born practically before feminism was actually invented. BUT he loves me and sort of doesn’t think of me as a girl. He always says, “You’re different from most women, Millie. You don’t nag, you don’t cry, and you don’t shout at me for having muddy fingernails.” This is shocking, and you’ll be thinking, How do you even deal with that man? Look—you just have to remember that he’s ancient and that occasionally he gives me five pounds from his pension money to buy something nice. HA!
@AuntyTeresa:
Aunty Teresa is La Diva Loca. She got this nickname from a Spanish man called Juan she was engaged to until she found out he was married to someone else from Estonia. She is SO unlucky with guys and work, so she lives with my granddad, too. Occasionally. She’s also lived in a garage, in her friend’s conservatory for six months, and even in a tent in a field near Glastonbury. She thought that if she pitched up there and lived off the land, she’d eventually get free entry to the festival. She lasted five days and made herself ill eating poisonous berries. I’ve basically looked after her since I was born, even though she is twenty-four years older than me. At a job interview once, they asked her if she had any questions and she said, “What’s the best way to get rid of verrucas?” You see—I have to be sensible, as a lot of the so-called adults around me are not.
@Dave:
Dave the cat is actually a girl. Don’t ask. I was three. My mum asked me what I’d like to call her, and I said Dave. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done, but it sort of suits her. She’s a feline rebel who lives on the edge. Actually, she mainly just sleeps and tries to pinch your crisps, but she’s my cat, and we understand each other.
So things were working okay until Gary came along. I lived with Mum, and we would go to Granddad’s every week for Sunday lunch and after school on Fridays. But now I’m going to Granddad’s for much more than that. I just need to look on the positive side of all of this: no more iron rules, no more set bedtimes, no more homework times, no more Gary following me around with a dustpan and brush and a can of furniture polish …
Oh, why do I feel so … nervous? I keep getting this feeling in my tummy like a knot. A big lump of worry.
Dave is not happy inside the cat carrier. She looks very grumpy. Cages don’t fit with her rebel credentials. I tickle her chin through the grate. She pushes all her gray tabby fur through the wire and does a massive tuna-breath hiss at me. I have to be strong. For Dave. She’s going to miss the hedge where she waits for wild-bird burgers.
Come on, Millie. Pull it together.
That’s me talking to me, by the way. Dave can’t talk. Yet.
#GlowStickDad
When we get to Granddad’s, Dad is GLOWING. I’ve made his Saturday night—and probably his life—complete. He gives me a huge hug and says, “MILLS! You’ve come to live with lads who love you. We are going to have so much FUN! I’ve made your bedroom up. Pop upstairs and put your stuff down.”
Mum stands at the front door, looking sad. The outside security light makes her look like a Doctor Who villain. She is not. She is lovely. I see her mouth, Look after her, at Dad.
Dad mouths back, Of course I will.
I say good-bye to Mum and she says something, but no one can hear anything because Dave is howling to be let out. It sounds like she’s in pain, but she’s not. She is having a major tantrum. By the time I’ve stuck my finger in to rub her head (she bites it), Mum has gone.
Luckily, Granddad arrives with a hot piece of chicken and gives Dave a gourmet snack with one of his supercrinkly old fingers. Dave goes to purr factor ten and shuts up. Granddad also gives me a piece and whispers, “Roast meat makes everything on earth happy.”
I think the chicken would disagree, but now is not the time to go vegetarian. Granddad hugs me, and I go upstairs with Dave.
Dad has done quite a good job on my new room. He has moved his bongo drums and taken out most of Aunty Teresa’s junk. There’s still her collection of cuddly toys and Sylvanian Families, though. If you move those things, she’ll go into full panic mode and have to breathe into a bag. I’ve seen it.
So there are miniature rabbits and a massive Winnie the Pooh, but I notice that there’s no actual clothing rack. “Dad—where can I put my school uniform and stuff?”
“Well, I thought you could hang it over Aunty Teresa’s exercise bike. She got it on eBay during a New Year’s sale and was going to use it every day for half an hour during Hollyoaks, but she never got around to it. It’s not forever—just till we … till we … get you something … more appropriate. Anyway, settle yourself in, Lady Mills. I’ll go and finish tea. Will the usual Dad special be okay?”
I tell him it will be fine.
It isn’t really, but he looks so happy that I don’t want to make a fuss or make him feel bad.
I put my jeans over the exercise bike, take a photo, share it, and write:
Sometimes you have to make the best of what you have. Even if that means you have to make exercise equipment into a wardrobe. #Fail
Dad won’t mind. He understands the banter. No one will see it anyway. I’m not Erin Breeler. I haven’t got worldwide followers hanging on my every word.
What I have got is chips and mayonnaise with a veggie coulis waiting for me. Not #Glam but #MyFam.
#LikeAvalanche
When I check my phone after my tea, I get a bit of a shock. The first thing I see is a message from Lauren.
Mills. Massive post! What’s your dad’s place like? x
It’s unbelievable that, in under an hour, a stupid post about an abandoned bike that was bought in a panic from an eBay New Year’s sale has had some shares and LOADS of likes! Plus, I’ve got thirty-two new followers. And it’s quite late and the Wi-Fi is still on! Coming here was the right decision! For now. This is all the savory-stuffing-balls of amazing.
Just as I’m scrolling through all the comments (My mum uses her mini trampoline as a shoe rack!), Lauren calls me.
“Have you seen? Have you seen?!” she is screeching out of the phone.
“Yeah,” I say. “It was only a stupid thing about my dad’s place. It’s not—”
“But, Millie—you’re funny loads of the time, and you notice things that other people don’t. Look how often you make things better by making me smile. You NEVER fail. And Gracie messaged me. Her sister is in tenth grade and was talking about you! Apparently, loads of them are dying at the panda thing that you did to cheer me up. They’ve shared
it everywhere! You’re just GOOD. Honestly, I think you should do a proper vlog or something! Not Instagram, ’cause that’s Erin’s, but a vlog!”
“Come on, Lauren. I’m not that interesting. I’m not, like”—and this is the first person who leaps into my mind—“the Mad Baltic Boy Scientist and his dangerous slime baths.”
“But you could be! Sort of. I mean, you’re not a boy, and I don’t think you should do vlogs involving kiddie pools and explosives. But. Seriously. I know other people would totally love you. You could do it from your bedroom. You could start off by talking about how to deal with insane aunties and their exercise bikes.… Just try it! YOLO!”
YOLO. You only live once. It’s Lauren’s favorite phrase. She uses it whenever she wants me to do something a bit brave or out of the ordinary. I’m not always so good at doing this. Because … all right, I’ll tell you. But PLEASE don’t think I’m being boring, or …
#YOLOSBC
I’m going to be dead honest with you. I’m a bit of a worrier. It’s why I’m on the more … what does Mum call it? The cautious side.
I think it might have started when Mum got run over when I was six. She broke her pelvis and was in the hospital for ages. I don’t remember a lot of it, but I do remember seeing her in plaster up to her actual face and thinking, Oh, don’t leave me, Mum. It just seems like the world is a really dangerous place. And when you google stuff, it gets worse. Six hundred fifty thousand car accidents a year are caused by random insects. A plane once crashed because of some wasps in a tiny tube. There’s a jellyfish the size of a fingernail that can kill you! Okay, it’s very unlikely for jellyfish to be in Devon, where we normally go on holiday, but still! Stepladders, scarves, lawnmowers, cows! All these things have caused serious injuries, you know.
I’d better not google “accidents caused by exercise bikes.” That’ll be another thing to worry about.
Granddad gets it. He seems to see through me. He says Grandma was like this, too. “The Swan,” he called her. She looked graceful on the outside, but underneath, where no one could see, she was paddling furiously. Mum gets it, too. Or used to, before Gary.
So, YES, Lauren. You only live once. So be careful.
This is why I like my bedroom so much. You’ve got friends on Messenger and you’ve got people on YouTube who just want to make you laugh or help you put your lippy and blusher on the right way. AND you’ve got people who seem quite happy to jump into frozen lakes dressed as lizards to promote their band. You can watch other people do the risky stuff. I CAN STAY SAFE.
Who am I kidding? Your bedroom is also the place where trolls can say what they like about you. Or where you can see the photos Mr. Style Shame has posted of you looking like a massive spoon.
Perhaps Lauren is right. Perhaps I should start #YOLOing and just GO FOR IT. I’ve broken free from Mum and the Neat Freak. Perhaps I am braver than I thought. Better than I thought. And being a panda to cheer up Lauren was pretty epic. Perhaps I should just do a vlog. Instagram is great, but with a vlog you can TALK to people. Have a laugh. Perhaps I should just put the camera on now and just … just …
What?
What sort of stuff would I talk about? I can’t talk about fashion or beauty—and, anyway, hundreds of vloggers are already doing it way better than me. Could I pretend to be an animal other than a panda? Maybe my specialty is just comedic bears.
Dave is looking at me. Right now, I think she’d make a better vlogger than me, and she’s currently trying to attack my cardigan and eat her own tail at the same time.
#GrumpyCat
When I wake up, I realize the following:
1. I’ve had the worst night’s sleep ever, mainly because I kept checking my phone every five minutes. I now have 1,086 likes on my bike photo and 859 views of the panda vlog. This is what it must feel like to be Erin Breeler. It’s good. I like it.
2. I am wearing Aunty Teresa’s Christmas pudding beanie because this is actually a fridge pretending to be a house.
3. Dave is staring at me from the end of the bed.
4. Lauren is also staring at me from the end of the bed.
“Who let you in?” I love my friends, but I don’t expect them to actually be under the duvet with me on a Sunday morning.
“Er … no one,” Lauren whispers. “I just let myself in.”
I should have remembered. This is not Mum’s house, with its supersensitive burglar alarm and multiple locks. This is Granddad’s house; there might as well be a massive human cat flap where the front door is.
Lauren is giving me her full-on serious face. She looks like an aye-aye lemur—cute but slightly terrifying.
“Mills. This is … this is … right … this is…”
“This is what, Loz?”
Lauren’s cheeks twitch because her face is allergic to being sensible. If eyebrows could do Pilates … I’m expecting something life-changing, because she looks like she’s about to burst.
“This is a bit epic, Mills. TITANIC.”
And then she makes a movement with her hands like something has exploded in a microwave and covered the kitchen in baked beans. And no—not even I cover my baked beans with cling film when I’m microwaving them. Like Dad says, “Life is too short to give food an overcoat.”
All this makes me giggle.
My laughing makes Lauren cross. “Seriously, though, Millie. LOOK at your exercise bike pic. Someone even said, ‘This is everything. Give me more of your life hacks,’ and LOOK at who liked that comment!”
I scroll through them again. Danny Trudeau thinks it’s a good idea. The new boy has noticed me.
This is not a massive deal. How many random things do you like in a day? Bet you can’t name them. I can’t. Besides, I’m not about impressing men. I do silly stuff for me.
Lauren won’t be stopped. “You could be a major Internet star. I’ve been thinking about it ALL night. You should do … something. I just can’t think of what.…”
Dave jumps into Lauren’s lap and lies on her back with her paws straight in the air. She truly does not care about anything or anyone. She does what she likes when she—
It’s then that it hits me. I grab Dave. “CATS!”
Lauren starts shouting, “Yes! Let’s make Dave a vlogging superstar! Cats always get likes.”
“I’m not sure Dave will, though, Lozza. I don’t think she understands vlogging. But let’s have a go anyway?”
I get my phone out, look straight into the camera, and start recording.
“This is Dave, and I’m Millie. You see a lot of entertaining cats online. But Dave isn’t like the cats you usually see.”
At this point, Lauren catches on and pulls a bag of Doritos from her bag. She tries to balance a Dorito on Dave’s nose. Dave just lies there with her legs still in the air. Lauren then piles up a cuddly llama (Aunty Teresa’s), a science textbook (mine), and a chicken marengo sandwich (Lauren’s—it looks vile) around Dave.
Dave still just lies there. I carry on.
“As you can see, if you want to make your cat go viral, get one that at least reacts to bread.”
At that moment, Aunty Teresa bursts into my bedroom with her masses of black curly hair and her very neon spotty shirt. She’s like a big cloud of slightly manic. She’s also really loud. She takes one look at Lauren and Dave and shouts, “I’m sorry to barge in, Mills, but I heard what you’ve been talking about, and all I’m saying is: VEGETABLES!”
I pause the recording. I don’t want to look completely stupid. Suddenly, you can see that what I’ve been saying about Aunty Teresa makes quite a lot of sense.
Lauren looks puzzled for about half a second, then she and Aunty Teresa start jumping into the air, shouting, “VEGETABLES!! VEGETABLES!!!”
I sit there, zombielike.
“Haven’t you seen it?!” Lauren is staring at me like I’ve suddenly grown four extra heads and an arm.
The worry rises in me like a tight anxiety burp. Usual
ly “Haven’t you seen it?!” means something involving you that everyone else knows about and you don’t. I whisper, “Seen what?”
“MILLIE! Where have you been?!” Lauren says, getting her phone out. She shows me a cat jumping thirty feet into the air after being ambushed by a cucumber. Apparently this is a thing—this cat has had over five million views and four figures of likes.
A cucumber. Probably the most un-terrifying vegetable except for turnips, and they are pathetic AND unpopular.
Aunty Teresa dashes downstairs and brings back a real-life cucumber, three potatoes, a mandarin, and a cauliflower. We remove the sandwich from Dave, and for the next twenty minutes, we film Dave with vegetables.
This includes:
1. Lauren putting a cucumber by Dave. Dave cuddles it.
2. Aunty Teresa rolling potatoes in front of Dave. Dave ignores them.
3. Lauren giving Dave fake eyebrows with mandarin segments. This is quite funny.
4. Lauren making a small helmet for Dave from cauliflower leaves. Dave pulls them off in a really undramatic way.
Then I get a message that the storage is nearly full on my phone.
“There you are! How NOT to make a cat vlog with me, Millie Porter, Lauren, and Aunty Teresa!”
As I press STOP, MUM thunders into the bedroom like a really cross elephant in gym clothes, and Dave decides to rear up on two legs, leap six feet into the air, do a somersault, and land perfectly. The camera is OFF.
Lauren is very impressed. “Wow, Mrs. Porter, can you just do that again so I can turn the camera on and … get…”
You can tell by my mum’s face that it really is time to totally shut up. Aunty Teresa has a rare moment of being a bit sensitive and grabs Lauren. “Anyway, do you want to go and increase our brain bandwidth with some more vlog ideas?”
Lauren says, “Er … yeah,” and they disappear really quickly. It’s just me, Mum, and Dave.
“Millie,” Mum says, “I’ve brought some more of your stuff around. I thought you might want your school things sooner rather than later. And why have you got a piece of holly on your head?”