Rebecca's Rules

by Anna Carey

  LATER

  I suppose I could always ask Mum for writerly advice.

  LATER

  Oh God, I can’t. Just imagine how smug she would be. I will just have to soldier on.

  FRIDAY

  Today John Kowalski told me he doesn’t like the terms boyfriend and girlfriend.

  ‘Why formalise what we have, Rafferty?’ he said today. ‘Why tie ourselves down with labels?’

  Which is fair enough, I suppose.

  I told Cass this on the phone tonight and she was not impressed. ‘If I had a girlfriend, or boyfriend, I wouldn’t mind labelling them,’ she said. ‘It’s not like you wanted to get his name tattooed across your forehead.’

  I should hope not. But anyway, Cass has never had a very romantic soul. And John is very romantic, in a very exciting way. When we reached the corner of Gracepark Road today he quoted a line from an ancient Roman poet called Catullus. You’d never think of ancient Roman poets being romantic but this really was.

  ‘Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand,’ quoted John in a very intense voice. And then he added. ‘What’s good enough for the Romans is good enough for me.’ And then he kissed me. It was better than any labels, so what does Cass know?

  Anyway, when we weren’t talking about Latin poetry we were talking about LIFE. John says nothing could stop him from writing.

  ‘Even if I was told I would have to live in poverty forever,’ he said dramatically. ‘Even if I had to live in a garret …’

  ‘What exactly is a garret?’ I asked.

  ‘An attic,’ said John.

  That doesn’t sound so bad to me. Attics have nice slopey walls which I always think is very cute. Ellie’s bedroom is an attic conversion and it’s nicer than my room. Although maybe he doesn’t mean an attic conversion but an actual attic, with a water tank and no windows? That would be fairly horrible. Still, I can’t imagine why he would have to live in one. I mean, how would it come up? When is anyone going to say to him ‘You must choose between living in an attic or never writing again?’

  Anyway, I didn’t say this to him. And he hadn’t finished.

  ‘Even if I had to lose my entire family,’ he cried. ‘Nothing could stop me from writing! If I had to choose between my parents’ lives and my ability to write, I would have to choose writing! My own life wouldn’t be worth living if I couldn’t write!’

  I don’t think it’s very likely that he will ever have to choose between any of these things, but it just shows how passionate he is about his work. Which is surely a good thing. I felt all exhilarated listening to him, like anything is possible. We have arranged to meet in town tomorrow and I can’t wait.

  I have to admit, though, that when I came home it was quite a relief to just slump on the couch with my parents and watch a silly sitcom. It is very exciting being with John, but it is not very relaxing. Still, that’s what home is for, isn’t it?

  SATURDAY

  John and I met in town today and went for black coffee (him) and hot chocolate (me). I told both Cass and Alice beforehand that we were meeting up and made it clear that I have not forgotten about them. I am sticking to my rules!

  Alice and Richard are meeting in town today too, so I felt a bit bad about Cass being left on her own, but she said she was going to give Liz a ring and see if she wanted to look at guitars and instruments in music shops. So we were all happy.

  It was a lovely afternoon. John brought a book of poetry by WB Yeats and when we went for a walk in Stephen’s Green he stopped by the band stand and read one of them to me. It was about golden cloths and spreading dreams under your feet and him standing there reading it to me in the twilight was the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me. It was like something in a book or a film. It felt very grown up.

  Of course, I was brought back to earth when I got home by my stupid parents. I knew I had to tell them about John because I knew if I didn’t Rachel would eventually say something awful about him, so when I got home I told them I was seeing a boy from the musical called John Kowalski, and he was very nice. And I told them that that was all I was going to say about it so they needn’t bother asking any questions thanks very much.

  You’d think that would satisfy them, but no!

  ‘Kowalski …’ said my mum thoughtfully. ‘Is his dad’s name Jan, by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. I mean, why would it come up?

  ‘It’s just when I went to the garden centre down the road the other week with Maria, we met a friend of hers called Jan Kowalski who has a son about your age,’ she went on. ‘We were talking to him for ages and he seemed very nice. He’s Polish – he’s lived here for years. He runs a community radio project and teaches media classes in a VEC out in west Dublin. His wife’s Irish – I think she’s a social worker. Does that ring any bells?’

  ‘That can’t be John’s parents,’ I said. ‘He says they think of nothing but money and trivial things.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mum. ‘That doesn’t sound like this couple. Maria told me he won some social entrepreneur award last year for all his good works.’

  Anyway, Mum then got a bit patronising and said she was glad I’d met someone else after all my moping over Paperboy (that word again!), but then she said that boys weren’t the most important thing in the world and I shouldn’t think I needed a boyfriend to be happy. Obviously I know this, but I’m not going to turn down John just to prove it, am I?

  MONDAY

  It turns out that the Jan Kowalski Maria-from-round-the-corner knows is John’s dad!

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, a bit reluctantly, when I asked him about it. ‘That’s him. He’s obsessed with teaching idiots how to make radio programmes about local history and stuff. It’s so boring.’

  ‘But you said your parents were obsessed with money,’ I said. ‘I thought they’d be, like, greedy investment bankers who don’t care about the world. Not people who do community work.’

  ‘They are obsessed with money,’ said John crossly. ‘And trivial nonsense. They’re always going on about stupid bills and stuff.’

  I suppose if you are an artist like John then things like bills do seem trivial. Maybe he’s right about Mum not being a proper artist; she certainly goes on about bills all the time.

  TUESDAY

  I told Mrs Harrington a lie today. I said my parents were going to the show next Saturday instead of Friday. She looked so pleased after I told her that I felt a bit guilty, even though she is insane.

  ‘I can’t wait to meet your mammy at last!’ she said. ‘Do you think she’ll mind if my husband and I bring a few books for her to sign?’

  The thought of her bringing in a big stack of books for no reason made me feel even guiltier.

  ‘Um, she mightn’t have time,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you bring them to me at school one at a time and I’ll take them home and get her to sign them?’

  I have no idea why I said that. I felt sorry for her at the time, being lied to by me, but now I’m going to have to cart home books for her. Possibly for weeks. Mum’s written a lot of books and I’m pretty sure Mrs Harrington has every single one of them.

  Anyway, I have got my own allocated tickets now. We cast members can only buy four tickets each. Mine are going to Mum, Dad, Rachel and Daisy. Yes, Rachel is such a noble sister that she is willing to sacrifice a Friday night out with her beloved Tom to see me on stage. At least, that’s what she said. Frankly, I think turning up to see me perform is the least a sister can do. Jessie’s sister, Kate, is coaching her every night and going through all her songs. But then, I suppose Kate is studying music in college. I don’t think Rachel would be much good at coaching.

  At least I don’t have any little siblings. I do not understand small children these days; they’re all mad. I can’t believe I was like that when I was their age. Cass’s brother Nick is bad enough, but that’s nothing compared to my neighbours. When I was almost home from school I met Mrs Mulligan from across the road
with the littlest Mulligan, the one who’s always tormenting me with her stupid dancing.

  ‘Hi there, Rebecca,’ said Mrs Mulligan. ‘How’s the school musical going? Your mum told me about it.’

  The little Mulligan didn’t do anything; she just looked at me in a very innocent way. TOO INNOCENT.

  ‘Pretty well, thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s on next Friday.’

  ‘Well, break a leg,’ said Mrs Mulligan. ‘Come on, Sorcha.’

  And off they went. But when they had passed me, the kid looked back, made a ridiculous face, and gyrated at me in a taunting manner! And, of course, her mother didn’t see a thing.

  On the plus side, I suppose it proves that normal people can be closely related to enormous freaks. Mrs Mulligan and her husband always seem perfectly fine and look what they’ve produced. It’s like me and my parents in reverse.

  WEDNESDAY

  John and I went outside to the bike racks during the break today. When we got there he put his arms around me. He is so tall. Under a lamp post next to the bike racks is not a very obvious romantic location, but, actually, it all felt very dramatic as the light shone down on us. It made John’s eyes look very dark. His floppy fringe was sort of falling over his face and he pushed it back. And then he smiled at me.

  ‘You know, Rafferty,’ he said. ‘I really feel like kissing you now.’ And he did. Which was very nice. Then he took out a little grey book from his back pocket and read me a poem by a person called e.e.cummings who, as he pointed out afterwards, never used capital letters. Who knew you were allowed do that in proper poetry? It was a lovely poem, all about the rain and having small hands.

  The thing is, I am not sure what to do when John reads poetry to me. In a way it is as romantic as it sounds because when he does it he sort of gazes into my eyes and looks very serious and dashing. But in another way I feel a bit awkward. What am I meant to do when he is gazing and reading and being serious? Should I just gaze back at him? Should I smile? Should I look very serious? And what do I do with my hands? I just sort of clasped them together in front of my chest this afternoon, but what if that looks like I am praying? That would be very weird. I had no idea big dramatic romance was so complicated. It never looks like this in films.

  THURSDAY

  I haven’t mailed Paperboy and told him about John. I am not sure whether I should or not. I mean, would I want Paperboy to tell me if he was sort of seeing someone? I don’t think I would. Even though we have officially moved on.

  I talked about it to Cass and Alice at lunchtime today.

  ‘Well, you don’t want to lie to him, Bex,’ said Alice.

  ‘But it’s not really lying to not say anything,’ said Cass. ‘Who owes who an e-mail at the moment?’

  ‘Um, it’s his turn to write to me,’ I said.

  ‘Well then,’ said Cass. ‘Wait until he writes back and, I dunno, take it from there.’

  Even saintly Alice agreed this was probably the best plan. But I was still thinking about this evening so, very reluctantly, I went to talk to Rachel (when she finally got off the phone to Tom, the Boyfriend Who Can Do No Wrong).

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, when I had told her all. ‘If he hadn’t sent you that let’s-move-on e-mail I would definitely say tell him. But to be honest if you both know you’re not still going out, I think there’s no point in making a big deal out of the whole thing. Just leave it and see what happens.’

  I think they are all probably right. Which makes me feel better. The whole thing has made me, I dunno, properly accept that me and Paperboy are not going out anymore. Which is sad, but it is also okay.

  And I do really like John. Every time I look across the rehearsal room my stomach flips over. He always looks so serious and handsome when he’s listening to Cathy, like he’s really concentrating on something important. I am not sure I ever look so attractive during rehearsals. The other day I was concentrating very hard on what Ms Byrne was saying and Alice ended up waving her hands in front of my eyes because she thought I’d gone into some sort of trance.

  ‘Your eyes kind of glazed over,’ she said. Which is not a very attractive look at all, really.

  FRIDAY

  Cass is being very noble this week. She keeps walking ahead of me after rehearsal so me and John can walk down the road on our own. She is truly a great friend.

  ‘I do appreciate it, you know,’ I said. I don’t want her to think I am returning to my old self-obsessed ways.

  ‘Meh, it’s okay,’ said Cass. ‘I can listen to my iPod. It’s actually quite nice, not having to listen to you for a while – I’m joking! Don’t hit me!’

  As if I would.

  So John and I walked down Griffith Avenue together after rehearsal. It is weird. He doesn’t like holding hands when we walk down the road. He says it’s a sign of bourgeois tradition. I am not sure what that means, but I think it has something to do with his strange fear of labels and stuff. But, anyway, I told him about the story and how maybe I should just give in and write something funny instead of a serious exploration of a young actress’s life. ‘Like, maybe I could just write something fun about a girl like me,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’

  But John was not impressed.

  ‘Rafferty,’ he said. ‘You’re an intelligent girl. You’re too intelligent to just waste your time on fluff like your mother.’

  ‘Well, her books aren’t actually funny …’ I began.

  ‘It’s all trivial nonsense!’ said John. ‘I really don’t understand how smart people can read that sort of thing, let alone write it. Literature is meant to be about big ideas.’ He turned to me. ‘I know you can write something great if you really try. You don’t need to write some cheap comedy.’

  And then he kissed me.

  It’s weird, at the time it felt like he was saying something positive about me being great writer, but now I am not sure he is right. About me being able to write something great and serious, and about funny books in general. I mean, most of my favourite books are funny. I am reading an excellent funny book now called The Pursuit of Love, which is about very posh girls in the olden days. Not only does it make me laugh, but it is educating me about life in the past (for posh people)! What is wrong with funny books? Why shouldn’t I write them if I want to?

  But I know he meant well. And surely it is good that he has faith in my literary powers. Anyway, I will see him all day tomorrow at the big weekend rehearsal. The live band – who are all friends of Cathy, apparently – are coming to run through the songs with us. Alice suggested that a bunch of us go out for coffee after the rehearsal, but I can’t because my parents have organised yet another weekend outing. And this time it is not even to someone I like; it’s to my awful aunt Celine, Dad’s sister, the one who likes to poke at me and Rachel and tell us how scrawny we are. She is always being rude about what people look like. I know if we were larger she’d poke at us and tell us how fat we were – I’ve seen her do it to my cousin Katie. She has no manners.

  My mum absolutely hates it when Celine does this. Every time Celine says something about us or our cousins, my mum says that Rachel/me/whichever cousin is Celine’s latest victim ‘looks perfectly fine and absolutely lovely’ in a very firm voice. And as soon as we leave the house, she always says, ‘Just ignore Celine, girls, she means well.’

  I bet she doesn’t. She’s just a rude cow, but Mum has to say this to be polite. Dad doesn’t get along with Celine either, but we have to go tomorrow because it’s her birthday. It’s so unfair.

  SATURDAY

  Today something that I’ve been dreading happened. Mum and Dad met John.

  It happened like this. We had our super-long Saturday rehearsal with the live band, which went pretty well, actually. Although Sam tripped over something on his way on to the ‘stage’. He was covered in ink, too, like a pen had leaked all over his hands. He really is a bit of a klutz. John is the opposite. He looks so debonair on stage. When I met him during the break I said, ‘Hello, Mr Banks.’

&
nbsp; He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, hello, random member of the chorus.’ Then he grinned. ‘It’s really coming together out there, isn’t it? I mean, for a school musical. It’s all such good stage experience.’

  ‘As long as Sam doesn’t fall over anything,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he’s alright,’ said John. ‘At least I don’t share any scenes with him, so I don’t have to worry about him falling over me. My bits should all be fine.’

  Afterwards my parents were collecting me to go to Celine’s stupid birthday party. I had told them to wait in the car and park far away from the school gates, so John wouldn’t pass them on his way home, but, of course, they ignored my instructions. Instead, when we walked up the school drive they were both STANDING THERE AT THE GATE SMIRKING AT ME. Oh, the horror. I hate them.

  ‘Hi, Rebecca!’ called my mother.

  ‘Hi, love!’ said my dad cheerily.

  The shame.

  And, of course, I couldn’t ignore them. And I couldn’t ignore John.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I said grumpily.

  ‘Hi there,’ said my mother, beaming at John like a psychopath. ‘You must be John. I’m Rebecca’s mother, Rosie.’

  ‘Oh,’ said John, looking slightly freaked out. ‘Um, yes. Hello.’

  And he shook hands with both my parents like a proper grown-up and started to look like his usual confident self again.

  ‘So John,’ said my dad. ‘I hear you’re a writer.’

  Oh God, why did he have to say that? It looked like I’d been talking about him to my parents. Which I had, but only because they made me.