by Holly Smale
I shut the door firmly, turn on the light and slump into a large cardboard box full of towels and drying-up cloths. Then I plug my phone in and rummage around until I find one of Poppy’s banished chocolate bars. I cram as much of it into my mouth as will physically fit, turn my phone on and hit speed dial.
“Hi. It’s Nat. Leave a message or don’t. Whatever. I’ve probably already been eaten by a sheep anyway and this phone is now lying in a big pile of poo, just like my life.”
BEEP.
I guess Nat is still pretty angry with her mum. At least I hope she is, or judging by that message this is going to be the beginning of a really weird and slightly depressing sixth form.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s me – I just needed to …”
This is not OK. I can’t just steal my best friend’s modelling dream and then sit in a cupboard, whining about it. A soulmate’s job is to make somebody’s day better, not worse.
I swiftly adopt my brightest, breeziest, happiest voice and spoil the surprise present I bought for her.
“Umm … Nat, you know you said that looking like a My Little Pony was super cool, right? Well, I found these amazing rainbow hair extensions in Harajuku. What colour would you like? Pink? Purple? Turquoise?” I pause and try to swallow a hard, distinctly unbreezy lump in my throat. “Anyway. Hope things are getting better in France. It’s all amazing here and I’m having soooooo much fun.” Rein it back, Harriet. “I miss you. Bye.”
Then I hang up, shove another chocolate bar into my mouth and try a different number.
“Hello. This is a digital recording of the electromagnetic wave of Toby’s voice, which has been encoded on to a binary system of data. Leave your own electromagnetic wave, and I will call you back when I’ve finished playing Plants versus Zombies but that could be a while because frankly it’s almost impossible to get through the iron bucket on their head with a few bits of sweetcorn and a cabbag—”
BEEP.
I swallow the chocolate whole. Nat can be quite flaky in the mornings, but Toby always answers his phone. Especially when it’s me. It’s one of his most redeeming characteristics.
Seriously, what is the point in having a stalker if they’re not at your beck and call whenever you need them?
“Toby? It’s Harriet. I’m just ringing because …”
Because everything’s going wrong and I want him to make me feel better? Because even though I left without saying goodbye, it’s his job to be there for me regardless? Because all I’m thinking about is myself?
Again?
“Umm …” I clear my throat. “I thought you should know that if you laid all the Lego bricks sold in one year end to end they would stretch five times round the world. You can put that as a pop-up box in your Lord of the Rings video. You know, make it a bit more interactive.” My phone makes a tiny pinging noise. I knew those facts about Lego would come in handy one day. “I hope you’re having a great summer, Tobes. Speak soon.”
Then I hang up miserably and click on the text that’s just come through:
HARRIET STOP RING ME ASAP STOP WE NEED TO TALK STOP WILBUR KISS KISS STOP
I stare at it in confusion – my agent seems to be under the impression that his phone sends Morse code – and then close my eyes.
Did Wilbur just call me Harriet?
Oh my God: I am in so much trouble.
Eyes starting to well up again, I desperately search through my contacts for somebody else to talk to and realise I’ve run out of options already. Unless I want to confide my problems in one of my local bookshops or the National Trust.
Which means I’m going to have to do what no self-respecting teenager does under any circumstances.
I’ll have to ring my parents.
t takes a good six minutes for Dad to pick up.
Predominantly because he can’t work out where the phone call is coming from. I’ve rung the home computer from my mobile, and this complicated trick of modern technology creates total havoc. By the time Dad has run round the house, finally worked out what’s going on and pressed the right button, all I can hear is him shouting upstairs: “Annabel, there’s a video phone in our computer! Was that your idea?”
The webcam finally clears, but all I see is Dad’s dressing gown. “Look,” he adds as I hear Annabel lumbering heavily down the stairs. “Harriet hasn’t died. We’ve still got a teenage daughter. Cancel the application for a replacement or we’ll end up with two.”
I scowl. “Nice to see you too, Father.”
The dressing gown moves slightly. “Can she see me?” Dad’s stomach asks curiously.
“You need to sit down, sweetheart,” Annabel says.
There’s a swift, stripy movement of dressing gown. “Is that better?”
Now all I can see is Dad’s left ear. Annabel wheels him across so he’s in full screen. Then she pokes her head into the corner of the screen.
“So, what delights of the fashion world have prevented you from ringing us until now?”
I shrug awkwardly. I didn’t realise I’d be so happy to see them, but now I feel so homesick I just want to climb through the screen, curl up in the armchair and never ever leave again.
But I can’t, can I?
It’s just better if she’s not here.
“Somebody wants to say hello,” Dad says, handing Annabel what looks like an olive covered in peanut butter. “You’re so disgusting, Bels,” he tells her proudly, scruffing up her hair. The screen suddenly fills with white fluff. “Grrrr-d morning, Harriet. How are woof?”
I smile. “Hey, Hugo.”
“I miss you terrier-bly, Harriet,” Hugo/Dad says, licking his nose/wiggling his eyebrows. Then the camera points at Annabel’s stomach. “Hello, Harriet,” a squeaky voice says. “I can’t wait to meet you.”
“That’s ridiculously creepy, Richard,” I hear Annabel say. “Our child is not going to sound like a chipmunk.”
“It’s not my fault if it does,” Dad replies. “That’ll be your half. It’s only fifty per cent Total Legend.” He leans towards her belly, pretends to listen and then adds, “What’s that? You want to be called Ralph?”
“After the world’s biggest rabbit, I presume,” Annabel says calmly. Then she looks back at me. “Are you actually OK, Harriet? Are you having fun?”
I swallow, hard. There’s no point telling them. They only want to talk about the baby. As per usual.
“I’m great,” I lie. My face is starting to hurt with all the pretend emotions. “The campaign’s going great, I’m getting on great with my flatmates and Yuka’s really, really … great about my incredible modelling skills.”
When people lie, they look to the left because that’s the part of the brain associated with the imagination. When they’re telling the truth, they look to the right because that’s the part of the brain linked to memory.
I look to the right as hard as I can.
Annabel frowns. “What’s happening to your face, Harriet? Where’s your grandmother? Let me speak to her.”
Sugar cookies. I keep forgetting that Annabel is possibly related to Gandalf, Merlin and Zeus, all at the same time. “Bunty is …” I have literally no idea. “Umm …”
There’s a small knock on the cupboard door next to my head.
“Harriet? Are you in here?”
“If not Harry-chan, we have big problem,” I hear Rin giggle. “We have talking cupboard.”
“I’m here,” I call out, and then turn back to Annabel and Dad. “Oh,” I say in my least wooden voice. “That’s my flatmates. I should go.”
“There’s a strange lady at the door, Harriet. She says she wants to see you.”
“Cute pink hair and sparkles,” Rin adds merrily. “Like Hello Kitty.”
I drop my phone.
“What?” I hear Annabel snap into the floor. “What did they just say?”
“Darling?” a familiar voice calls. “Can I stay here tonight? My friend has been hosting a party and it seems to be going on indefinitely. I
haven’t seen a mattress in days.”
“What’s going on?” Annabel shouts. “Why don’t your flatmates know your grandmother? Where has she been? MOTHER, YOU PROMISED!”
Oh my God. Do something, Harriet. Anything.
“Oh dear,” I say, picking my phone off the floor and shaking it furiously up and down. “Earthquake.” Then I hang up and switch off my phone as quickly as possible.
Slowly, I open the cupboard door.
Bunty’s standing there in a blue, floor-length floral dress, with white lace trailing all the way around the bottom and a blue mirrored blouse tied up in a knot at her waist. There are six or seven beaded necklaces of different colours around her neck, bells around her ankles and her pale pink hair has been piled on top of her head and appears to have been secured by a chopstick.
Not a pretty, decorative chopstick.
The kind of chopstick you get in white paper packs at convenience stores that give you mouth splinters.
“What a lovely place to hide!” Bunty says gaily, wrapping me in a hug and patting my head. One of her enormous rings bashes my forehead. “How’s your adventure going, darling?”
“A-are you back for good?”
“Absolutely. I thought we could do a bit of girly catch-up. Paint our fingers, pull our eyebrows out and put bits of papaya on our eyes …”
“Nails?” Rin says. “Cucumbers?”
“I think they might be quite dangerous next to the eyes, darling. Let’s go for something nice and soft.”
Bunty kicks her flip-flops into the corner of the hallway, wanders into the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. “Choccy biccies?” she adds. “For the tummy,” she says to Rin. “Not for the eyes. Don’t worry, I’m not insane. Now, I’ve got this strange hair that grows out of my cheek and if it gets too long I feel a bit like a cat. What shall we do with it?”
She leans towards Poppy. “Darling, I don’t want to be rude but I think you might have one coming too.”
“I am a top model,” Poppy says indignantly. “We don’t have whiskers.”
“How sad,” my grandmother says, nodding at Rin and wandering back into the hallway. “They’re awfully handy for working out whether you can fit through a small space.”
And, just like that, my grandmother is back.
ere are a few of the things Bunty makes us do over the rest of the day:
Mash up various foodstuffs from the fridge and put them on our faces (including soy sauce and rice, salsa and leftover tofu).
Turn on all the hot taps and have a fully clothed ‘DIY sauna’.
Rub kitchen salt on our legs.
Brush each other’s hair at the same time.
Moisturise with olive oil and a dash of sesame.
Clearly, my grandmother knows even less about being a girl than I do.
With great aplomb and not a little bit of scariness she powers through: dragging Rin and Poppy back into the bedroom every time they try to escape like the Year Two Class Hamster every time we left the cage door open.
As we crawl into bed, exhausted and marinated like expensive tuna steaks, I realise I haven’t had time to think about everything that’s gone wrong. And that maybe I’m kind of glad to have her here, after all.
For the first time since I arrived in Japan, the next morning goes totally smoothly. My grandmother wakes me up with a cup of tea and a bowl of ready-porridge and some kind of de-stressing feather to ‘stroke my cares away’ (we’ll forget that last bit) and I calmly get ready in my neatest, cleanest, most modelly clothes (black trousers, a white vest and some silver ballet flats).
Our taxi takes us into the centre of Tokyo. The buildings get bigger and bigger, the lights get brighter and the crowds get thicker until they look like shiny, dark-suited fish. It’s the noisiest part of Tokyo I’ve been in yet: beeps and chirrups and music are coming from every direction, every building is flashing in different neon colours like lit-up Lego.
The majority of the people on the streets appear to be men. Apart from a pink bunny in a dress, frilly apron and high heels.
That one’s probably not.
“Akihabara,” Bunty says as she climbs out of the car. “This is the technology centre of Tokyo, darling. If you want to see something crazy in Japan, you come here.”
It’s like being in a film set in the future, where there are barely any females and all of them look like they just fell out of an adults-only version of Alice in Wonderland.
“The game arcade is a popular Japanese stereotype,” a voice says behind me. “Today I shall subvert it.”
I spin round to face Yuka. Apparently we’re not even doing greetings any more. “Brilliant,” I say politely. “Umm … Yuka, this is Bunty, my step-grandmother.”
“Nice to see you,” Bunty says, taking Yuka’s hand and pumping it unceremoniously up and down.
Yuka watches her hand in silence and then manages to extract it. “Yes,” she says, and then turns back to me. “I would like to celebrate Japanese culture while also challenging Western perceptions. Every young person can relate to video games.”
I’m nodding like a plastic dog in the back of a car, but my stomach is already starting to sink. Contrary to popular belief, not all geeks love Star Trek and gaming and fixing other people’s printers. Some of us prefer dinosaur documentaries and reciting poetry at strangers while they’re waiting for a bus, even after they’ve been asked not to.
“Fantastic,” I lie enthusiastically. “I love arcade games.”
“Good,” Yuka says as she starts clicking towards a neon orange entrance. “Because you’re going to be in one.”
love a good metaphor.
What Yuka actually means is that I’m going to be immersed allegorically inside the culture of modern Japanese technology. Or I’m going to be given a gun so I can fight aliens and vampires. Or I’ll be scanned into a green screen so that in post-production I come out looking like a computer character. Or…
Or…
Nope. Yet again, I have literally no idea what Yuka’s talking about.
Yuka, my grandmother and I walk through the immense building. The arcade is huge and heaving with people, and every square metre of it is beeping and flashing. The first floor is filled with hundreds of computer games: boinging and clicking and peeping. The second floor has things you can shoot and smash and bash and smack. The third floor is lit up by tiles being manically danced on and more photo booths crammed with squealing girls. The fourth is buried in soft toys. And the fifth appears to be a bowling alley.
At one stage, I see a game featuring live lobsters and a large foam bottom being smacked by a pair of teenagers. A yellow mist hangs in the air, the walls are flashing bright red, and the pale, blank gazes of gamers are everywhere, like zombies.
It’s not unlike a sort of twenty-first-century high-tech version of Dante’s nine levels of Hell. Except with much better refreshments and clearly marked exit signs.
By the time we make it to the sixth floor, I’m so disturbed by some of the things I’ve seen that I’m genuinely relieved to be pushed back into a giant cupboard. Except that this one has no chocolate in it and smells quite strongly of cleaning materials.
Bunty follows me in, then sniffs the air, pulls a face and heads straight back out.
“Sweetie pies,” she says. “I’m far too old to get into a dark box voluntarily.” She turns round and spies a food counter. “Ooh!” she says. “Slush Puppies! I must go dye my insides into a rainbow.”
If Annabel isn’t a persuasive argument for nurture versus nature, I don’t know who is.
Apart from me, obviously.
“Umm, what should I do now?” I politely ask Yuka.
“Exactly what I tell you, Harriet,” Yuka says, as in troops her team of stylists and hairdressers. “Do you think you can manage that?”
Here are some interesting facts:
Manga is the Japanese word for ‘whimsical picture’.
The Manga industry in Japan is worth 420 billion yen ever
y year, which is two and a half billion British pounds.
It has been a style of Japanese art since the nineteenth century.
People in Japan consume more paper as Manga than they do as toilet roll.
Pink lace really itches.
I know this because I’ve just been turned into a Manga Girl. And also because I asked the stylists and the internet a lot of irritating questions.
My face has been bleached out with bright white foundation, and then given rosy cheeks and dark brown painted freckles. My eyes have been made cartoon-enormous with clever application of eyeliner and fake eyelashes and electric-green contact lenses significantly bigger than the pupil they’re stuck to. I’m wearing a pale pink waist-length shiny wig with a shiny fringe that skims my eyebrows, and my dress is pale pink lace covered with hundreds of pink ruffles and bows and diamanté and ribbons and beads and feathers.
There are diamonds and pearls wrapped round my neck and wrists, and on my feet are little lacy white socks with baby blue shoes covered in sparkly silver stars. I even have frilly knickerbockers on, which reach nearly down to my knees and make me look like a Victorian lady at the seaside.
There’s no doubt about it: I’m as kawaii as a human gets. Rin would be so proud.
Yuka makes a few last-minute tweaks, adjusts my wig and then stalks back out of the makeshift changing room to where Bunty is leaning against a wall with a laser gun in her hands. Bunty’s missing every single vampire target, and when I raise my eyebrows she says, “I’m a pacifist, darling. The fact that these poor creatures do not happen to be real is neither here nor there.” Then she grins. “Yuka, how lovely and talented you are. It looks like you’ve been having an immensely good time with a glue gun.”
In fairness, I do look like a massive Blue Peter project. My outfit is phenomenally heavy. All I’ve done is walk through the door and I’m exhausted.
I really need to start doing some proper exercise. It’s not a good sign when a dress wears your muscles out.
