by Will Davis
We're very disappointed in you Jaz, he goes, like maybe I hadn't got the message already.
I'm like, Oh really?
He's like, We just can't understand what's got into you lately. We don't know what we're supposed to do. Why are you being this way?
I'm like, Probably because I'm a teenager.
Dad looks a bit stumped by this. Sometimes it's as if he and Mum forget that actually you're a thinking human being. I notice how uncomfortable he looks and how he keeps fidgeting. Mum must have sent him in here saying that she's sick of being the bad guy, but it doesn't matter because you can see he's just some kind of sub-lieutenant and the only reason he's come is because she's made him. He never does anything out of his own initiative. Sometimes I get scared that he's secretly having all these murderous thoughts and one of these days he's gonna like, kill us all or blow up the house or something. The man just has no self-respect so there's bound to be tension mounting. Remembering this gives me a brilliant idea.
I'm like, I just wish someone would talk openly to me about what men do when they're in bed together.
Dad starts changing colour instantly. He's like, the definition of Help Me. After he's gone through the whole rainbow, I decide to let him off the hook and say that I'm tired now and maybe we can resume this conversation tomorrow, at which point he practically runs out of my room, leaving me to think how ridiculous it is that I don't have a lock for my door.
Later on I hear Mum shouting at him. She usually lets off steam this way at least once a week. But it's kind of like, Hello? Some people are trying to sleep here. But I figure it's pretty useful since it's good Bad Mother ammunition for the next time she starts shouting at me for inhaling the wrong way or something. You're probably thinking it's no wonder I'm fucked up, because that's what I think too sometimes when I hear them. It's not like I care or anything, but it can't be good for my sensibilities.
3
I probably wouldn't have bothered putting in that bit about my chronically lame teacher Mr Fellows were it not for what happens next, because it has like, total relevance. This I like to call the Love Scene. It's easily the best bit as far as I'm concerned – it all goes downhill after. OK:
So I'm in the club. Of course Mum and Dad said no more nights out, but they can't exactly chain me to my bed and I do have legs and a front-door key, so no surprises, I'm back in Starlight (the club) three days later.
I'm here with Al and we're a couple of drinks towards a good time. She can sneak out of her house any time she wants since her bedroom's on the ground floor, and she's wearing this full-length floral gown – which we both keep tripping over – 'cos she's convinced the nineties are coming back. I don't have any money since Mum decided suddenly she was being too lenient and withdrew it all the day after the Word, so I'm totally sponging off Al, who's not totally OK with it, and is letting out that she's only here for my sake (like she's got something better to do). It's totally time for me to try and get us drinks off one of the geries who prop up the bar, which is dead boring because then you have to talk to them and simultaneously ward off their ancient fumbling mitts.
Al's going on about how the future should be non tax-deductible or something and just as she's launching into a really yawnable bit about insurance fraud it happens. I see The Guy. We're talking lightning striking, like, multiple times. Heart palpitations, shivers, butterflies, nausea, the works. He's just gorgeous, and totally the opposite to what I usually go for. He's got this dark skin and big jaw and slanty, angry eyes. He kind of floats, if you know what I mean. Well, if you've ever had it bad for someone then you will, and if you haven't then you've got something really special to look forward to, assuming it ever happens for you, 'cos if it doesn't then you're probably doomed to end up like my parents, and I pity you. Deeply.
So I'm like, struck dumb; meanwhile Al, bless her (and just like the nineties neo-conservative throwback she is), doesn't even notice. She starts accusing me of not listening to her and saying she's gonna go, by which she really means it's time for me to prostitute my company for a drink.
I tell her, Fine then, which throws her off track a bit.
What's wrong with you? she wants to know.
I'm like, Are you like optically challenged or something?
She turns and looks. She's like, Who? Him? Seriously?
Like I said, Al's destiny is to be a big fat dyke. It's written in her aura and there's no escaping from it, so I don't know why she doesn't just accept it and move on. She's got about as much clue when it comes to men as Dad does.
Anyway, I've like, got to meet this dude, so I shake Al off and walk forward, only to be nearly decapitated by him as he turns and gestures to the guy he's with (who, incidentally, is from Librariansville and is No Competition).
Sorry, my vision says to me, managing to catch my arm as I stumble backwards. I regain my balance and try to shrug it off.
No problem, I say, but I can hear my voice quavering, which pisses me off no end, I can tell you. I've had crushes before, but this one struck in a matter of seconds with enough force to wipe out all the tourists in Trafalgar Square.
Hey, aren't you a little young to be in this sort of a place? he says with a smile.
I don't know if this smile is a could-be-persuaded/fuck-me kind of a smile, or an I'm-a-licence-inspector/police-officer kind of smile, so I give him a freezing look and step away like I don't want to get contaminated. The librarian he's with looks me up and down and likes what he sees.
Come on, he says in an unexpectedly deep voice. Let's buy him a drink.
I'm OK with that, of course, so a couple of minutes later I'm drinking a Bacardi and Coke (I know, I know) and chatting to this guy. Or listening to him anyway. And it's the librarian, unfortunately, since The Guy turns out to be one of those brooding types. I like this, 'cos in my book it makes him way sexier, but it's annoying 'cos I have to nod along to Mr Chaucer beside him, who's giving me the deluxe literary edition of his life story. God knows what happened to Al but I start praying that she'll come and rescue me.
Just as I'm preparing myself for one last gasp before I die of this fish-man's voice (his name's Cod or Plaice or something), The Guy actually deigns to say something, which is, So where are you from?
OK, so it's not like, an award-winning question, but it's a break and it's from him so I ain't complaining.
London, I say. I realise that's pretty obvious, so I add Shepherd's Bush.
Now when I was a kid, or more of a kid if you like, Shepherd's Bush was a rude thing to say, and the sniggers it produced were of the lasting variety. So it's pretty weird to tell this guy I'm from there and not get so much as a smile, which I figure must be a sign of class, which is alarming but kind of cool. 'Cos The Guy just nods.
What about you? I say.
I'm from Brighton, he says.
Now that's definitely cool. Everyone who's anyone knows Brighton is the place to be these days. I'm planning a trip down there with Al at some point this summer, though chances of it happening without me running away are infinitely smaller now that Mum's got insider info.
I'm like, So what are you doing in London? and he explains that he spends half his time here and half his time down there, since a friend lets him stay here in his flat while he's away doing photo shoots or something.
So how old are you? he goes. That fateful question. Let me tell you so you don't ever make this mistake: it used to be a bit of a faux pas to ask an old lady – well now it's most definitely not something to ask a person in a bar if you're anyone who's not the barman.
Forty, I say. You?
Twenty-two, he says, smiling. Cod the librarian is grinning manically, and I think he thinks he's in with a chance, which is like, so not the situation. Like I'm gonna go for someone with goldfish-bowl lenses and a mullet (which isn't even ironic). But this guy, whose name hasn't even cropped up yet, is killing me. He's completely drop-dead, and it's kind of hard to understand why he's not fending off guys on all sides in a di
ve like this.
You sound really young, he says, still harping on about the age thing. I don't know, maybe gorgeous people just shouldn't talk. No one's ever invented the talking billboard, have they?
I'm like, What is this, an inquisition?
Sorry, he says, finally seeming to get that all this talk about my age is offensive. I look into his big brown eyes and forgive him. In fact I practically melt. Then he goes and spoils it by saying, I remember what it's like when you're young. It's tough dealing with who you are.
This is so not cool. I'm like, Did you ever?
Give him a break, says Cod, mercifully. I have a quick look round for Al while he crunches up The Guy for me. Regrettably, I'm concluding that this is a no-go state of affairs. This guy might have me in the woods physically, but when it comes to chit-chat it's Antarctica.
It's pretty obvious that I'm offended and about to leave. The guy looks sorry and tries to say something about it, but I'm like, LIC GAS. I make as if to go, since it's seriously looking like Al's deserted me, but then The Guy touches my hand. Fireworks ignite on the inside. Look, he says, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. Really.
I'm like, super-conscious of his skin against mine. I can feel the blood rising to my cheeks so I try to play it cool. I'm like, Do you mind? You're invading a chakra.
He's like, No really - I meant it in a good way. You should be glad. I wish I could still pass for . . . seventeen! He laughs and I pull my hand free.
I'm like, I just remembered something better to do.
And I'm about to leave, but then he stops me . . . and I don't know quite how this happens, except that he's leaning in to say sorry once more and I'm leaning in because I'm like, magnetically drawn to him, and the next thing is we're kissing. Hello. I'm not complaining one bit, even though snogging in front of the old-timers at the bar isn't really my thing. Cod's pissed off I think, since I hear sighs from behind The Guy (whose name I still don't know), and there are also a few annoying whoops from the geries.
It doesn't last long. With stonkingly bad timing, Al reappears in my life like the fairy of chastity, and yanks me away, saying we've got to go 'cos she's got a headache. She always makes up shit like this when something's wrong. I turn to The Guy, but he's getting grilled by Cod (joke, ha ha). I decide to leave Cinderella-style and then instantly regret it because I don't even have his number or anything.
As soon as we're outside in the freezing cold I'm hissing at Al What the fuck does she think she's doing? I was like, in there.
I saw Mr Fellows, she says, her lower lip wobbling like it's engine-powered.
Which is ridiculous, and at first I think she's just having me on. But then I notice that away from the multicoloured disco bulbs she's got this mega-freaked-out expression and pale yellowy skin, and I remember how Al's never been much good at faking with me.
What - in there? I say. State of shock.
She nods, and then a giggle erupts out of her turbo-trembling lip and she starts laughing hysterically, and so do I, even though I'm actually kind of disturbed, since Fellows is kind of gross and definitely not someone you want to run into at a club, especially a gay one. Then something occurs to me and I stop laughing.
Did he see you?
She shakes her head in between bursts of laughter. She sounds a lot like a dog that's been hit by a car. We make our way to the night bus desperately huddling against each other for bodily warmth in the vicious cold. It's annoying, because even though I've just met this amazing vision of a guy, all I can think about is Mr Fellows. Al's the same, 'cos she keeps bursting into laughter all the way to her stop, and I can see the other passengers looking at her like they wish someone would come along and put her down or something.
The thought of Fellows snogging another man is what does my head in, though when I reconsider, the thought of him snogging a woman is just as bad. Some people just shouldn't bother, plus he's old. The strangest thing will be seeing him the next day and trying to keep a straight face. I secretly curse my decision to do geography. Then I figure who gives a shit since it's not like I'm gonna be turning up for it much longer anyway.
Mum's waiting for me at home, about as cheery as death. No sooner have I walked in than she pounces on me like a cobra, fangs bared, ready to swallow me whole - it's not even one o'clock yet. I don't get it, so maybe if you're reading this and you're like, over thirty, you can help me out. What is the deal? I mean, what's so bad about the concept of having fun that causes people to practically eat their own brains in fits of total mad rage? I just don't get it. And from what I can see everyone seems to stop having it at some point in their mid-twenties so I'd really appreciate the opportunity to make the most of it while I still know what it is.
Anyway, short version is I get threatened with psychiatric care or something, which, being a lawyer, Mum knows all about. I tell her if she keeps on at me I'll probably need it, which is just guaranteed to get her really pissed off, and then, as per usual, she launches into hypersonic mode (remember?) and I run for the cover of my room, feeling sorry for the neighbours.
Just as I'm about to fall asleep I get a text from Al. It says STILL CN'T BELEVE MR FELLWS = GAY! DO YOU THNK THE SCHOOL NOS?
I'm about to text her back when my door opens and Grandma glides in. It totally freaks me out. She's lit by nothing but the moonlight from the window and she's wearing just her nightdress and has this silly smile on her face that looks like it's plastered on. But the worst thing is she's staring straight ahead without focusing on anything. She looks like one of the zombies from Dawn of the Dead.
I'm like, Grandma? What are you doing?
She looks at me and makes this low humming sound in her throat, and for a second I think she's flipped out and is probably holding a kitchen knife behind her back and has come to kill me. I start making a mental note of all decently solid objects close to hand that I can throw at her head should I need to. But then it occurs to me that maybe she's just whacked out from too many amphetamines. It happens once every now and then, usually at Christmas when she forgets what pills she's taken and ends up having this drug and sherry cocktail.
I get up and switch the light on and this seems to bring her back to her senses 'cos she looks around blinking like she's never seen a room before. She's like, Why do you have all those posters of that young man on your wall?
I'm like, Now is not the time.
I take her by the arm and lead her back down to her bedroom. I think it's sad that she's old and a bit senile. I know it's something that has to happen and all, but I hope it never does to me. I reckon they should freeze people after sixty and wait until they've got like, some formula to stop it before they unfreeze them again.
I put Grandma to bed and just as I'm leaving she starts making her humming sound again, but I figure let her hum if she wants to, maybe it's just a really like, contemporary piece. Before I turn off the light I send Al a text saying OMIGOD. MY GRAN – > OFF DEEP END.
When I get back from school the next day it turns out Grandma's had a stroke and is now in hospital. Mum says she's OK but it must have happened some time during the night. I keep my trap shut about the whole wandering-into-my-room thing. Mum makes us all clean the house which is what she does when she feels guilty. You don't have to be a shrink to see that it's like, a representative for her conscience, and the cleaner it gets the less guilty she's supposed to feel. By the time we're done with the kitchen the floor's like lick-your-food-off-it sparkling, and Mum looks a bit less tense and says we'll all go visit her at the hospital on Sunday and why don't me and Teresa make her a nice card? The Nun dashes off to her room to do exactly that but I'm like, What is this, Blue Peter} and Mum tells me that sometimes she just despairs of me. I'm like, Welcome to my world. Just move on to the living-room, Mum goes.
4
OK, the whole thing with Grandma and Mum is pretty old, but you kind of need to know some stuff which at the moment you like, don't. So I'm gonna rewind a year (which is quite a lot in terms of m
y life) to this thing that happened when she first moved in with us after Grandpa died.
So it's one of those wonderful freak afternoons where school's given us all this time off to revise for our mocks. Me and Al are upstairs in my room, which is now in the attic 'cos I've had to relocate for Grandma, something which did prejudice me slightly against her at first. We're supposed to be studying but instead we're reading this porno I managed to nick from the local while Al distracted the shop attendant with her views on the minimum wage. Al's quite impressed by the content but I'm not - but then, of the two of us I'm the only one who actually has any experience, even if it was just a drunken fumble in the toilets of this club we dared each other to go to. The rest of my experience happens over the course of the coming year, which is when we start realising that actually there is a life out there to be had.
There's a knock at the door and we just about manage to shove the porno under Al's skirt before Grandma comes into the room with two glasses of OJ.
Grandma's like, Who's this lovely young lady then?
Al blushes 'cos she's like, chronically bad with compliments and I'm like, Where? Al slaps me on the wrist (yeah, she used to be one of those).
I'm like, What do you want?
Grandma's like, Look what I brought you.
So I look. Al's like, Thanks very much, and Grandma gives her this solar smile like her whole life's been given a meaning and starts asking her all these questions and basically getting the low-down on her like she's thinks she's looking at her new daughter-in-law (no offence, Al, but it's like, even if I wasn't, as if). I'm like, oozing the vibes of Leave Us Alone.
