Pretty Funny for a Girl

by Rebecca Elliott

  “Seriously, though,” she says, “you OK? You’ve been… weird since this morning.”

  “Weird? Weird how?” I say, weirdly.

  She leans back in her chair and looks me up and down as I try to look anywhere but in her direction. I do not want her to know about my Leo thing. It’s a hopeless, pathetic lost cause. I know that, but the last thing I need is to be told that by Chloe.

  “Guilty-weird,” she says, “and maybe a little bit creepy-weird.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Chloe,” I babble. “I’m just, y’know, getting on with my Thursday. Feeling all Thursday-ey, I suppose. I mean, Thursday’s a weird day, isn’t it? It’s neither one thing nor the other. Friday’s got that Friday feeling, and the weekend’s the weekend, right? Monday and Tuesday have the fresh, beginning-of-the-week vibe going on, Wednesday’s the hill of the week, then you get past that and you know things are picking up. I mean, it’s all pedal to the metal to the weekend, right! Except then you’ve gotta get through the buzzkill dullard that is Thursday. So, you know, if I’m being weird, then that’s all it is. I’m lost in the half-baked cloudy crap of the nothing that is Thursday.”

  She laughs. “OK, now you’re just being normal Pig-weird again. That’s fine,” and she carries on with the copying.

  But, with Chloe thrown off the scent, my mind drifts back to Leo. And suddenly—without my permission—it concocts a Leo-based daydream.

  He’s onstage at a big comedy club, bringing the house down, and at the end of his set he introduces me as the next amazing act. I smile as I pass him and grab the mic.

  Stop! This is tragic and ludicrous.

  I snap myself out of my imagination and get back to dividing fractions, knowing that whatever I don’t get done in the lesson I’ll just have to finish as homework tonight. But it’s only so long before my brain tires of reality and slips back into the warm embrace of the unreal again.

  This pattern repeats itself all day. Every time my brain is left to its own devices, it delves back into the daydream, each time making edits and improvements.

  In English, daydream-Leo winks at me, having spent longer introducing me than on his own set.

  Stop it.

  Instead of concentrating on faking parental letters to get five schoolmates out of PE in the afternoon (my ability to fake grown-up penmanship regularly earns me two quid a letter), the daydream fills my mind again, and the audience chants for me before I come onstage, with Leo longingly reaching for my hand as I pass him.

  Stop it!

  I say goodbye to Chloe and Kas and head off to pick up Noah from after-school club. But the daydream gets more detailed and enjoyable with each step, and now has the beginnings of an elaborate subplot involving various famous comedians all begging me to be the next host of SNL.

  By the time I’ve picked up Noah, I’m being presented with an award for Best Comedy Newcomer by Leo morphed into MC. As I come onstage, he holds my hands and we kiss for ages to thunderous applause from the audience, before I have them all in stitches with my first joke.

  Seriously—just stop it! I really try to will myself as I indulge in this final version while walking Noah home. All the while, Noah does his best to yank me back to his own twisted version of reality by firing his nonsensical questions at me.

  “Why do dogs not wear shoes?

  “Why don’t bald babies wear wigs?

  “Can Jesus fly? And does he live with Santa?”

  And on and on.

  My annoyance with him at least makes me feel less guilty about dragging him a slightly longer way home, that happens to pass by Leo’s front door.

  I only know it’s Leo’s front door because me and the girls almost gatecrashed his party there last year when it got out to everyone that his parents were away and it was an open house. When we got there though, it was really quiet. So, like a spangly, crop-top-wearing James Bond, Chloe led the way as we stealthily crept up to Leo’s window. Our adrenaline-fueled giggles were soon dampened as through it we could just see Leo and a handful of his friends sitting around a table, playing poker. Not even strip poker, just poker. Or it could have been any card game, I suppose. They might have been playing Snap for all I know.

  Chloe swore a lot and called them all “a bunch of dullard fun-sponges,” and we all stomped off back to hers to play Scrabble. Which, yes, OK, sounds as lame as Snap, but at least it was our own version called Blue Scrabble, which is basically Scrabble, but you can only put down rude words. I remember laughing uncontrollably as Kas tried to convince us that in the right context her word “gazebo” could be extremely filthy. So actually it turned out to be a pretty good night.

  And, now I think back on it, I find it so cute and classy that Leo could have yet didn’t throw the big, clichéd, wild teen party. But at the time it wasn’t quite the high-school, rock-and-roll, life-changing evening we, or at least Chloe, had hoped for.

  Anyway, that’s why I’ve been here before. Not because of some seedy stalker intentions. They’re new to today.

  And it’s only now that I notice that this is a much nicer road than the one we live on. But then this is Leo—of course he’d live in a road where people don’t have their Christmas lights up all year round, a road where stolen, wheel-less bikes aren’t left in bushes, a road that you can confidently walk down without being called a “skank” by an eight-year-old sitting on a vandalized postbox.

  “But why are we going this way?” Noah moans.

  “It’s a short cut,” I say.

  “What’s a shot gut?”

  “It just means it’s quicker, OK?”

  “My legs hurt. They feel heavy,” he says, reaching down to grab and raise each knee at every step.

  “Look, I’ll take your bags, all right?”

  He hands me his huge assortment of bookbags and rucksacks stuffed with the soft toys and plastic figures he insists on taking into school every day, and stacks of today’s “drawings” which will be crap as always yet Mum will stick them on the fridge anyway, and a library-load of books we’re supposed to read with him before tomorrow. Like that’s gonna happen.

  And now that I’m laden down, sweaty and panting, like a knackered old bag lady, I’m beginning to regret my decision to walk home via Leo’s house, but here we are all the same. Luckily, he’s nowhere to be seen. I mean, it’s not like I’d talk to him even if I did see him.

  So what the numbnuts am I doing here? Idiot.

  We pass by Leo’s front door. A lovely, modern wooden thing. Not like our dirty white plastic, flowery-patterned glass monstrosity. I allow myself to stare at it for a moment. It’s his actual front door. He’s probably home… I mean, I don’t know but…probably. Just the thought that he might be makes my stomach thunder-crack into a thousand tiny, beautiful, vomiting butterflies.

  Oh, for the love of God, stop it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When we finally get home, I haul Noah’s bags through the front hall and remind Noah to “shh” in case Mum is asleep.

  “I know!” he shouts back.

  I’m about to shush him again when I hear, “It’s OK, guys, I’m up!”

  Mum’s in the living room. I can’t see her yet, but already I know she’ll be lying on the sofa in her checked pajamas, listening to Radio 4, dozens of weight-loss-company-branded food wrappers scattered around her.

  Noah runs in ahead of me, yelling, “Mummy! Mummy!” before launching himself on to her.

  I follow after him. She’s wearing her pajamas with the stripes rather than the checks, but other than that I had the picture spot on. Still, the sight makes me smile as I flop down on the sofa and cuddle up to her just as Noah’s doing. There’s plenty of her to go around, and for a moment we’re just one big bubbly warm ball of squidge.

  “Aww, I missed you guys!” she says, throwing her thick arms around us and drawing us closer to her until her brushed-cotton-clad boobs are squashed up against my face.

  “Aww, Mum!” I complain. I can’t breathe all th
at well, but actually it’s oddly comforting.

  I always feel sorry for people with thin mothers. Slender, minimal-chested, angular women may be what the catwalk prefers, but what use are they when all you need is a warm, bosomy, healing Mum-hug? I guess it’s just whatever you’re used to, but I’ll take my soft and cuddly mum any day of the week.

  Even if it does mean an awkward faceful of tits every now and again.

  “Anyway, how could you miss us?” I say, easing myself out of her boob folds. “You only saw us last night, crazy woman.”

  “I know, I know, but these night shifts, they seem to go on forever, you know?”

  “I know,” I say. “You on again this evening?”

  “’Fraid so, darling. That OK?”

  “Yeah, of course. How was work last night?” I say.

  “Oh, you know, same old. Oh, except…” Mum starts laughing at her own story before she tells it.

  “What?” I say, already laughing a little myself, even though I have no idea what she’s about to say, but I love Mum’s funny stories. Her eyes light up and she always starts talking really quickly, like I do most of the time, and she does the voices brilliantly.

  “So this ritzy woman came in with some serious ‘waterworks’ issues,” she says and starts laughing hysterically.

  “Mum, I’ve gotta say, as punchlines go, that’s not your best.”

  “No, I know, bless her—but I had to get her to give a urine sample, and she took one look at the little bottle and said, ‘Are you seriously expecting me to channel a tsunami into a pipette?’ So I explain that even if she can catch some of the downpour, that’s good enough for us, so she tuts and waddles off to the bathroom and returns ashen-faced. When I ask what’s wrong, she says, ‘There’s something you should know. I had my vitamins earlier. And it may have had a slight effect on my…output.’

  “And then, I swear to God, the tube of wee she hands me was glowing bright yellow and I couldn’t resist it so, in my best Yoda voice, I said, ‘Peed a lightsaber, you have.’”

  Mum and me both lie back on the sofa in hysterics as Noah looks on a little confused, but chuckling along indulgently anyway.

  “And what did she say?” I manage to get out.

  Mum’s still laughing so hard, she can hardly get her words out. “I don’t know—I had to duck down behind the nurses’ desk to hide my laughter while Sue took over!”

  “Well, it’s good to know you take your nursing responsibilities so seriously, Mother!”

  “I know, I’m terrible, but you’ve got to get through the nights somehow, right? Especially as I really do miss you guys so much. How’re you both doing?”

  Her tone has changed a bit now, and she’s not laughing. I wish she wouldn’t worry about us; we manage just fine.

  “We’re OK, aren’t we, Noah?”

  “I’m starving!” yells Noah. “What’s for dinner? What’s for dinner?”

  Mum makes a noise that’s part groan, part sigh, part laugh; a noise that means, “I’m exhausted, but I’ll do this because I love you.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make something,” I say.

  “Do you mind, sweetie?” She’s clearly relieved and settles back down on the sofa, with Noah scrambling all over her.

  “Its fine,” I say, walking to the kitchen.

  The math homework can wait till later.

  After we inhale some fish fingers and baked beans in front of the TV, Mum gets ready for work and I get Noah in the bath.

  “Have you ever seen a chimpanzee in the bath?” he asks as he gets in.

  This is completely out of the blue. We haven’t been talking about chimpanzees. We haven’t watched any TV shows about chimpanzees. We’ve been living in a totally chimpanzee-free environment, but this seems to be how Noah’s four-year-old mind works. Totally randomly.

  “No,” I say, “I’ve never seen a chimpanzee in the bath.”

  “Me neither,” he says wistfully as his little round belly disappears underneath the bubbles. “Can I have a cookie when I get out?”

  And I wonder if the whole cute chimpanzee question was just a way to soften me up so I’d OK a cookie.

  “No, it’s bedtime after the bath, Noah. Mum said no more food this evening.”

  “I want a cookie.”

  “No.”

  “Coo-KEY!”

  “No!”

  It occurs to me that this exchange could go on for many hours, so I think of a way to change the record.

  “Hey, Noah!” I say, like I have something really interesting to show him.

  “What?” he says, trying to remain angry about the whole cookie thing, but finding it hard to hide his interest in whatever I’m offering.

  “What noise does a chimpanzee make when he’s getting in a hot bath?”

  “I don’t know, Haylah. I told you I’ve never seen one!” he huffs.

  “No, no, it’s a joke,” I explain.

  “Oh!” he says, the anger and cookie frustration fading away in an instant. He doesn’t understand jokes but loves them nonetheless. “OK…what noise does a chimpanzee make when he gets in a hot bath?”

  “Ooo ooo ooo ahh ahh ahh,” I say.

  Silence. Then eventually.

  “Ohhhhh, I get it!” he says. “Because when the water’s hot, I make that noise and chimpanzees just make that noise anyway…so it’s funny!”

  “Well…yeah. I mean, ideally you’d just laugh rather than deconstructing the joke, but yes.”

  “I have a joke,” he says.

  “Oh great! Go on then,” I say, knowing full well he hasn’t. He likes the idea of them, but hasn’t actually got a clue how they work or what they’re for. Much like me with exercise equipment.

  “What…does”—his eyes go up to the ceiling as he thinks of something that to his mind sounds like a joke—“a chicken say when it gets into the bath?”

  “Noah, why do most of your jokes involve chickens?”

  “They’re funny!”

  “OK. I don’t know. What does a chicken say when it gets into the bath?”

  “Bok bok bok bok bok.”

  He looks at me expectantly for a laugh.

  “Hmm, that’s not really a joke, Noah,” I suggest.

  “Why not?”

  And like an idiot throwing coins into a change machine at an arcade and thinking, This time I’m bound to win big! I have one more go at explaining the concept of comedy to him.

  “It’s just not—it doesn’t work. You’ve gotta take one expected thing and turn it into something unexpected that still works. Eurgh. Look… OK…a chicken and a frog walk into a library…”

  “Then what happened?” he asks as if I’m telling him a factual anecdote from my day.

  “The chicken points around the room saying, ‘Bok bok bok bok,’ and the frog says, ‘Reddit reddit reddit.’”

  “Then what did they do?”

  “No—that’s the joke! Because they’re in a library. Full of books. And the chicken sounds like he’s saying, ‘Book, book, book’ and the frog sounds like he’s saying, ‘Read it, read it, read it…’ Get it?”

  He stares at me and then actually laughs for a bit, though it’s clear he doesn’t really know why he’s laughing.

  “Kind of!” he says, still laughing away merrily. “OK, OK, I have another one!”

  “Have you thought of it already?” I say.

  “Yes,” he says confidently.

  “Go on then.”

  “Knock knock.”

  “Oooh, a knock-knock joke—classic. Who’s there?” I answer.

  “Chicken poo,” he says, already giggling at his own comedy genius.

  “Chicken Poo who?” I say.

  “Ha ha haaaa! You said chicken poo!” he says, splashing his hands down in comedic triumph.

  “Brilliant,” I say as Mum bursts through the door, her hair tied back, glasses on, looking proper nurse-y…although also somehow different, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  “I’m
off now, sweeties,” she says, leaning down to kiss us both. “You lock the door after me, OK, Haylah? You know the drill—only call me if it’s an emergency, and there’s always Hal next door if you need someone quick, OK?”

  “I know, Mum! It’s fine—go, go nurse people. Ya big-boobed hero, you!”

  She smiles. “Love you guys!” Then I realize what’s different about her.

  “Hang on, Mum. Are you…did you know you’re wearing lipstick?” I say as if pointing out to someone that they have spinach in their teeth.

  She immediately looks shifty. “Well, yes…” she stammers. “The store was giving them out for free when I bought my foot-fungal cream and a Venus lady razor. Just thought I’d slap some on. Anyway, gotta go—love you both, byeee!” And she quickly sweeps herself out of the door and down the stairs.

  “A lipstick AND a razor?” I shout after her. “You’re shaving your legs again! Does that mean I can start now too?”

  “No!” she calls brightly back to me before we hear the door closing behind her.

  Mum never normally shaves her legs or wears makeup, at least not since Dad left. And whenever I’ve begged her to let me start shaving my legs (as it’s bad enough that they resemble two wide tree trunks, to the point where if I dare to wear shorts in the summer small children do bark rubbings on them—so it might be nice if at least they weren’t covered in a thick layer of fur as well), she’s always said no. Then given me the old faithful, “a true feminist doesn’t conform to society’s pressures of physical beauty just to please the male onlooker” routine. Which is fine until you get changed for PE and your friends compare your bushy legs to their dad’s. Or Chewbacca’s. Or Chewbacca’s dad’s. But, before I can consider Mum’s traitorous preening activities any further, Noah starts squirting me in the face with a miniature water pistol.

  “Aww, Noah!” I say, wiping the soapy water from my eyes, but he stops my anger in its tracks by poking out his little bottom lip and doing his big sad-eyes face. “What is it?” I ask.