“So…if I have a belly button, does that mean I have a baby in my tummy?”
“No! I told you, you were fed through that when you were in Mummy’s tummy. And only girls can have babies anyway.”
“Why?” is his inevitable response.
This conversation is getting wildly out of hand. I hold out Noah’s towel for him like a matador trying to make the crazy bull change direction.
“They just do,” I say, struggling to sound breezy. “Boys and girls have different bodies. Boys have winkies and girls…don’t.”
And even before the words are out I realize I’ve just made it a whole load worse. In desperation, I reach down into the water and pull out the plug, which normally freaks him out as he thinks he’s going to be sucked down it. Though apparently not today. Instead, he calmly steps out of the bath and lets me wrap him in the towel, though the conversation is, troublingly, still not over.
“How do girls wee then?” he asks, shivering a little as I kneel in front of him, rubbing the towel up and down to dry him.
“Erm…they have a…hole.”
What is wrong with me? I definitely shouldn’t have said that.
“Oh, OK.” He looks around the bathroom like there’s a sea of questions erupting within him and I brace myself.
This is bad. I don’t know how to answer the questions he’s about to ask. How I answer them could affect his whole future outlook on women, relationships, sex, marriage…everything… If I get it wrong, I might screw him up for life. An image of Noah as a depressed, middle-aged, lonely fat man sitting on a psychiatrist’s couch, pathetically saying, “You know I think I can trace all my problems back to a conversation with my sister, in the bath, when I was four years old, and she graphically and inappropriately told me about the facts of life.”
Oh God, I need Mum. He needs Mum. What am I going to say?
Then he stops looking around, pulls an arm out from under the towel, points a podgy finger at the corner of the bath and says, “What’s that character on the shampoo bottle called?”
I look at the kids’ shampoo bottle. It has a cartoon of a bear dressed as a superhero on it. Nothing to do with boys and girls and babies and belly buttons. Noah’s magpie-like brain has just seen something else that at this moment seems shinier to him and he’s flown off in an entirely different direction after it. God love him. I let out a small laugh of relief.
“It’s not funny,” he says. “I need to know his name.”
“Of course, sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what his name is…erm…Bobby?”
“No,” he answers firmly.
And the conversation is mercifully over. As he leaves the bathroom in his towel maxi-dress, I grab him and kiss him on the cheek. “You’re a complete nutcase, you know that?”
“You’re the nutcase,” he says and shuffles off down the landing.
The rest of the weekend is spent looking after Noah, avoiding any serious conversations with Mum when she is home in case they turned to the subject of Ruben, writing as much funny as I can and daydreaming about Leo.
When Monday morning finally comes around I manage to drop Noah off at preschool early for once, and then rush on to catch up with Chloe and Kas. All weekend I’ve been bursting to tell them about Mum’s new “friend” but wanted to do it face-to-face as sometimes there aren’t enough vomit emojis in the world to express your feelings on an issue.
“So I have super gross news to share,” I say with a smirk.
“Oh God, yes please,” says Kas, grabbing my sleeve desperately, “anything to take my mind off my weekend at my cousin’s wedding—I had to sit at the kids’ table with a bunch of eight-year-olds while my Dad flossed on the dance floor. I was like, kill me. Kill me now.”
“Well I had to stay at my Dad’s all weekend,” says Chloe, “which was a total snooze-fest, so yes, please Pig, tell us something interesting, we don’t care how gross!”
So as we’re walking I tell them everything about the furry-faced loser and save the best until last.
“And then I noticed”—I finish the story with the grand finale as we walk through the school gates—“he WASN’T WEARING SOCKS!’
“Eurgh!” says Chloe, pretending to throw up. “That is completely unforgivable.”
“That is so not right,” says Kas, followed by a giggle. “Though I bet you he’s the sort of person who WOULD wear them with sandals. The twisted freak.”
And I love them both even more right now for their totally brilliant and supportive responses. In the warmth of the moment, I even think about opening up to them about Leo and the locker joke, but then I stop myself. Perhaps because I like that it’s just between Leo and me. Perhaps because I know they’ll make a scene over it. Or, worse, they’ll get all serious and tell me I really don’t stand a chance. Either way, I don’t want to hear it. So instead, as we walk down the hallway to our homeroom, I start up a game of “Would You Rather?”
“OK, so would you rather…”
“Oh God, I love this game,” says Chloe.
“Just don’t make it too gross, Pig, all right?” says Kas.
“As if! OK, if you HAD to pick one, would you rather lick a stranger’s sock or kiss the back of Mr. Jacob’s hairy hand?”
“Eugh! Dude! Why would you put that in my head? Why?” says Kas, holding her belly and pretending to retch.
Chloe swiftly and confidently chooses the hand and sticks to her decision even after I point out that the hand she’ll be smooching is still fully attached to sweaty dullard Mr. Jacobs, rather than just floating there like Thing from the Addams Family, who, between you and me, I’ve always found a strangely attractive character. Kas, still ashen-faced by the very question, tentatively chooses the sock, even after I point out that it’s a stranger’s sock and God only knows what kind of oozing foot diseases they have.
“Well, what are we supposed to say then? You came up with this nightmare situation! What would you do?” says Kas, laughing.
“The questioner doesn’t have to answer. Them’s the rules,” I say as we wind our way through the desks in the classroom to ours at the back, throwing our bags down as we collapse on to our chairs. I tear open a four-finger KitKat I’d brought as a morning-break snack, though, like the Titanic, it was obvious it was never going to make it that far. I’ll just eat half and save the other two fingers for later, I think optimistically.
“OK, I’ve got one,” says Kas, leaning across the table, resting her chin on her palm. “Would you rather…own a talking cat or a tame polar bear you can ride around on?”
Chloe, inspecting her face in her compact and applying more unnecessary foundation, goes for the bear because she figures she’d look fabulous riding around on its back in fur and winter boots, even after it’s pointed out to her that the choice doesn’t necessarily require her to live in Antarctica, but she says you’d need to wear them anyway, to complete the look.
Me and Kas, on the other hand, point out that the polar bear is all well and good, but, after you’ve ridden it into town and back looking “fabulous,” all you’re left with is a massive scary bear in your back garden who could rip your face off if he’s hungry enough. So instead we go for the talking cat, although I wanted to firstly ascertain what personality this cat has and whether or not it liked me. After all, what’s the point of having a talking cat if it’s boring and hates you?
“Got to be honest,” says Kas, “I hadn’t really put that much thought into it.”
Some of the rest of the class join in as we go on to cover other such important questions as “Would you rather go to school without pants or a skirt, or go in a public swimming pool wearing only panties and a bra?” (Generally, the girls opted for the swimming pool, as it’s pretty much what they wear anyway, apart from me who’d never be seen dead in anything resembling a bikini, and the boys opted for pantsless, apart from Dylan who figures he’d look “damn hot” in a bra.)
Then it was “Would you rather fart popcorn or sneeze gummy bears?
” and “Would you rather have octopuses instead of hands or guinea pigs instead of feet?” And then the question that Noah randomly asked me this week, which we all felt was the most philosophically challenging of the day, “Would you rather be a potato or a tomato?”
The bell goes and Mrs. Perkins blusters in, making a couple of alarmingly loud yet painfully dull announcements. Chloe puts down her mirror, leans toward me, and says with a worrying smirk, “OK, Pig, would you rather…Leo thought you were the funniest girl in school or the prettiest?”
“Oh, shut up, Chloe! Like he’d ever think either of those things. And I couldn’t give a diddly squit if he did!” I say, turning away from her and toward Mrs. Perkins as if fascinated by her monotonous drone.2 Kas puts her hand on my shoulder. “Aww, you have a really pretty face, Pig—everyone says it,” she whispers.
I turn to her and she’s got her head to the side and is giving me her most patronizing, teeth-sucking grin. I am more than a tiny bit annoyed.
I roll my eyes and shrug off her hand. “That’s just what everyone says to fat girls, Kas, because they think it makes us feel better. It doesn’t, OK? Because what you’re actually saying is, ‘you have a really pretty face for a fat girl.’ It’s like saying to the Elephant Man, ‘At least you still have really handsome shoulders.’”
Kas laughs nervously and whisper-shouts, “You’re not fat, Pig!”
“You’re really not, Pig. You just have some curves on you! There’s nothing wrong with that. I wish I had a couple of your curves,” says Chloe, looking down at her own flatter-than-a-touchscreen chest.
“You can borrow some of mine if you want,” I say.
“How generous of you,” says Chloe with a grin.
“Well, fat people are known for their generosity,” I say, raising my chin, and they laugh again, but I can tell I’ve made them a bit uncomfortable. Good.
Mrs. Perkins takes attendance and, as we gather up our bags and books and sit on the edge of the desks, waiting to make our way to first lesson, we talk about the open-mic night at the pub and I’m relieved that the conversation has veered away (a bit) from Chloe’s Leo question.
The plan is for Chloe’s sister to take us, and me and Kas are going to tell our folks that we’re going over to Chloe’s for the night. There’s no way Mum would let me go to a pub, not unless it was with her, in the day, and to a soulless “family-friendly” place that gave out child menus with connect-the-dots of smiling vegetables and a beer garden with a swing hanging from a plastic tree. You know, somewhere classy.
“The problem is if Mum’s working nights then it’s not gonna happen,” I say.
“Hey, but maybe now sockless dude is in the picture he’ll look after Noah for the evening if she’s out, yeah?” says Chloe.
“Maybe, I guess but, eurgh, sockless dude,” I say, with my head in my hands. “I don’t know, maybe he is just a ‘friend.’ That’s what Mum called him.”
“My mum had a ‘friend’ from work—now I have to call him Uncle Nick and he leaves his toenail cuttings in the sink,” says Chloe.
“But Nick’s all right, isn’t he? You like him, right?” says Kas.
“Yeah, he’s all right. Plus, even Dad likes him, which is weird, I suppose, but it makes my life easier.”
“At least you still have your dad around and you can escape to his at the weekends,” I say. “If the sockless beard moves in, I’m stuck with him—and Noah’s so young he’ll start calling him Dad, which means I’ll have to call him Dad and…eurgh! That’s just too gross to think about.”
Just then the bell rings and we all begin to pile out of the classroom and start roaming the hallways to our first lessons.
“It’s no better when your parents stay together,” Kas says as we walk. “Mine are a nightmare.”
“Really? I love your parents—they always seem so happy together,” says Chloe, walking in between me and Kas, linking arms with us both.
“Well yeah, they don’t fight or anything, not really. It’s far worse than that, instead they have little digs at each other, like ALL day, even when we’re in supermarkets and stuff. Mum calls it ‘affectionate bickering,’ I just call it super embarrassing. Then they make up at the end of the day by drinking a barrel of wine in front of Polish soap operas and making out on the sofa. It’s disgusting.”
I guess we all have to put up with whatever particular parental horrors we’re dealt. Which seems unfair as our parents have at least some say in what kind of child they have. They set the rules, design our childhood, decide our clothes, our schools, our moral outlook, mold us, and push us and pull us into the kind of shape they think their child should be, whereas we have absolutely no say in what kind of parents we have. We just get dropped randomly into the care of fully formed people, who may scar us for life, cripple us with embarrassment, or make terrible decisions about bearded trolls. And there’s nothing we can do about it.
“Parents, eh? Who’d have ’em?” I say. “But yeah, I’ll see what I can do about Friday.”
“So, not long now till you get to stare at lovely Leo onstage again!” says Chloe, squeezing my arm.
I do wish she’d drop this, though the truth is at the mention of his name my heart skipped a little again. Then I remember the new joke in my bag. The new joke for Leo. And I know its crazy, and SO risky putting another joke through his locker door, but just the thought that we have this little secret between us, and the idea that I might make him laugh again, spurs me on.
“Look, guys, I’ll see you in English. I’ve just gotta run to the bathroom first, OK?” I say, breaking free from Chloe’s arm.
“We’ll come too,” says Kas.
“Oh, er, no, I wouldn’t if I were you.” I grab my stomach and lower my voice. “Got a bit of belly ache. What came out of me this morning defied science—it was a solid, a liquid, and a gas all at once.”
“Eurgh! Pig, that’s gross!” laughs Kas.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Kelling you’re going to be a bit late,” says Chloe, grabbing a body spray from her bag and handing it to me. “Best give that a bit of a spray around you afterwards, yeah?”
“Er, thanks,” I say and when they’ve disappeared around the corner I eat the other two KitKat fingers because, well, why wouldn’t I? Then I make my way over to Leo’s locker. I get out the latest piece I’ve written for him, hoping it’ll make him laugh just as much as the other one. Fingers crossed. Not KitKat fingers. They’ve gone. Mourn them if you wish, but I’m talking about actual fingers. Well and truly crossed.
This is the bit I’ve written for Leo. (In case you didn’t know, “bit” is what comedians call sections of their routines. Oh yeah, being a proper comedy writer now, I totally get to use their lingo.)
You know what I hate? So-called “inspirational” memes. Sappy, supposedly uplifting crap in a bad font against a sunset background.
I mean, why do people repost this twaddle? There’s nothing less uplifting than wading through your social media and finding:
“Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.” Really? Yeah, well, joke’s on you because I’m not making any plans. I’m scratching myself and spending hours reading endless arse-drivel like this.
“I wish I wasn’t so healthy…said no one ever.” OK, fine, but equally, “I wish I was friends with a sanctimonious, gym-obsessed health freak…said no one ever.”
“One small positive thought in the morning can change the entire outcome of your day.” Well, I guess that’s true, especially if that thought is, “You know what, I think I will get that face tattoo today.”
At the end of the day, I wait by the lockers again, surrounded by a bustling herd of students, then watch as Leo opens his locker and finds my joke. I crouch down at the end of his row, pretending to search around in my bag for something, and glance up at him out of the corner of my eye. My heart drums a steady, forceful beat around my body as the tall girl with braces who’s always following him around, Keesha I think her name is,
leans over his shoulder to see what it is. He snatches it out of her view and smiles and laughs as he reads it.
And a great tide of warm sunshine floods my brain and I can’t help but smile.
“So, you got any new comedy stuff for the open mic yet?” I overhear his friend Mikey ask as he digs around in his own locker.
“Yeah, actually,” says Leo as he folds up the note and stuffs it into his pocket. “I’ve got a couple of new things. Just not sure if I’m allowed to use them!”
He says this last bit loudly, and my heart bounces into my throat as I realize he’s talking to me! OK, so he doesn’t know he’s talking to me, but he’s totally TALKING TO ME!
My bent knees are now shaking a little as I slowly stand up straight, grabbing my phone out of my bag so I have somewhere for my eyes to look. I tap my slightly quivering fingers randomly on it, pretending to be doing something vitally important.
Oh God, is he looking at me? Does he know it’s me?
Quickly, I shove my phone to the side of my face and loudly start up a pretend phone call. What else could I do?
“Hi, Mum, yeah…yeah…”
Why the hell did I choose my imaginary phone call to be to my MUM? I should have pretended to be talking to some hot boy called Brad or something. Eurgh, I’m USELESS.
I pause while phony “Mum” talks back to me and look in the opposite direction while actually still listening to Leo.
“What you on about? Why can’t you use the new stuff?” says his friend Mikey.
“Oh, nothing,” says Leo. “They’re just mostly jokes about your mama being so fat, and I’m not sure she’d be OK with that.”
“Oi!” says Mikey with a laugh. “Although yeah, she’d probably be fine with it as long as you paid her in marshmallows.”
“Oh! You made a funny! Everyone—Mikey made a funny!” says Leo, slapping Mikey on the back as they walk past me. Quickly, I enthusiastically resume the fake phone call to “Mum” again.
Pretty Funny for a Girl Page 7
