I’m glad when the game is finally over and Dad turns to me, his little bald spot shiny with excitement, and says, “Wasn’t that great?” He starts singing, “Three–nil, three–nil, three–niiii-iiiiil,” oblivious to the death stares from everyone around us.
I tug on his sleeve. “Dad. We LOST three–nil.”
“What?”
I point at the dejected fans around us and, across the pitch, our mascot, the big-bottomed bee, dancing valiantly to lift the mood. Someone lobs some chips at him.
We hustle out of the stadium before anyone decides to take their feelings out on Dad’s face.
We head off home. My legs are frozen numb and I inform Dad that if Mum doesn’t let me turn the heating on, I’m putting myself in an orphanage. He agrees and cheers me up by showing me a series of angry texts from Mum about Grandma. We laugh, but…
“If one of us doesn’t get a job soon, we might be seeing a lot more of her,” Dad says, looking stricken. “We’ve got a big loan payment due in a month.”
“Still,” I say. “No need to do anything drastic. Or criminal.” But he’s not listening, he’s popping into the newsagent’s. I follow and give him a look when I find him loitering next to the Lottery tickets.
“What?” he protests. “I’ve never won it before – my odds are good.”
I saunter down the aisle towards the magazines.
“Young lady?” The man behind the till points at me with a pen. “I’m not a library, you got that?”
“I know,” I tell him.
I run my eyes over the shelf. There’s no way I’m buying a magazine, I can get all this online, but no harm in killing time. I reach my hand towards a shiny women’s mag. The newsagent’s eyes follow my every move.
“I need to look inside,” I protest. “So I know if the articles are relevant to my interests.”
“Read the contents then. Page one,” he says shrewdly.
“Uh-huh,” I say, turning my shoulder slightly so he can’t see what page I’m looking at.
He’s not letting it go. “The library is a national institution,” he informs the back of my head. “You can get a nice book from the shelf, sit and read, pay for nothing, and don’t have to feel like you’re annoying your local newsagent. It’s a good system.”
He’s really bringing out my stubborn side. Now I’m determined to read an article. I reckon I’ve got thirty seconds before he shames me into buying or putting it back. So I open the magazine at random and hope for a good piece. The other day, I read one about eyebrows – “They’re Sisters Not Twins” – which made me feel better about the dodgy tweezing job I did on mine. Sisters can be very different.
I turn a page and find myself looking at a photo of Lavender.
Dad and I have NO idea why Lavender’s photo is in the magazine. We spent about five minutes pulling it back and forth between us, arguing about it. The newsagent watched us creasing his magazine for as long as he could stand, then threatened to kick us out. So now we’re scraping together two pound fifty to buy it.
Finally, we shove a pile of change and a button across the counter and leg it.
I read the article as we hurry home, and Dad steers me by the collar of my coat whenever I’m about to walk into a bin. The magazine is running a modelling competition called Sidewalk to Catwalk. There are photos of twenty-five finalists and one of them is Lavender. It’s one of the photos I took of her standing on Mum and Dad’s bed, wearing the clothes we were selling on eBay. She looks gorgeous but I’m surprised she didn’t tell me she was entering the competition. I’m hurt. I took the photo!
Looking at Lav in the magazine, I feel like I don’t know this gorgeous woman who may or may not be laughing at me. When I took the photo, there was a hint of a smile playing on her lips (she’d just stood on Mum’s hot-water bottle) but now that half-smile looks haughty. I don’t think I’d like this magazine-Lavender, we wouldn’t be pals.
Dad’s worried. “Is it a bit sleazy, though?” he babbles as we hurry home. “Is it a competition for modelling modelling or glamour modelling? Isn’t she a bit young for that sort of attention? Did she mention it to you? It seems very unlike her – woah, wait!”
I stop and wait for him as he bends double and wheezes. His apology is muffled through his scarf. “If I talk and walk, I get breathless. I’m such a fat old man.”
I pat his back supportively as a couple of football fans walk past. Bent double, with the club scarf on, Dad looks like he’s taking the loss very badly.
“’S’all right, mate,” one of them says. “We’ve been unlucky with injuries but we’ll get back up there.”
Dad pops his head up and I can see him scrabbling through his brain for something appropriate to say. His eyes dart about, as if his brain cells are tipping over dusty chests marked “SPORTSING” that he hasn’t peeked in since school.
“Up the Bumbles?” he says finally and they give him a thumbs-up. He looks proud of himself.
We carry on walking home.
“So. Am I going to tell her off or what?” Dad asks.
“Are you asking me how to parent my older sister?” I exclaim. “Wow! I have so many ideas. Let’s brainstorm! I think her curfew should be the same as mine. And I think we should have a conversation about sharing make-up—”
“I’ll try your mother,” he says, getting out his phone.
We arrive home to find the house cold and deserted. Dad lets me blast the heating briefly until Mum gets back, but I’m only allowed it in two rooms. Decisions decisions. I go for living room and bathroom as a cold toilet seat puts a downer on your whole day. Dad and I lean on the radiator in the living room and discuss the Offside Rule without coming to any conclusions except that we prefer netball.
“I don’t miss the swimming. Am I allowed to say that now?” he confides. “It smelt mildewy, and I never recognized you once you had goggles and one of those snappy hats on so I was always cheering on the wrong girl. Boy, sometimes! At least with netball I could park my car near the court, eat a sandwich and rock out to Smooth FM. Oh, there’s your mother!”
Mum and Lav open the front door just as I leap into the kitchen and turn the boiler off.
“It’s very warm in here,” Mum says suspiciously.
“We’ve been running around,” Dad lies smoothly. “How’s the Thing of Evil?”
Mum leans into one hip and holds up her hands to start listing. “Lavender looks too old for her age and she doesn’t approve. My new haircut draws attention to my chin, which isn’t my best feature.”
“I love your chin,” Dad tells her, and I nod though I’ve never thought about it before.
“And apparently you’ve dragged me down into unemployment with you.”
“It’s not contagious!” he objects and she throws her hands up.
“We can’t live with her,” Mum says firmly. “I can’t believe I even thought about it. I’m not subjecting two teenage girls and their self-esteem to that … emotional sandblasting.”
See? What a lovely vocabulary. She’s so employable!
Mum goes on. “If it comes to it, I think we should look at moving somewhere cheaper.”
Dad is nodding, but Lav and I are instantly wary. “Wha—? Hello, moving? You mean to a cheaper house but in this area?”
“No, a cheaper area altogether,” Mum says.
“It’s an option.” Dad shrugs. They’re doing that thing where they’ve discussed something before but pretend they’re coming up with it in front of us. I’m wise to their tricks.
“But what about Gabe, Roman and all my friends?” ALL is a strong word – I know I don’t have loads of friends. But it took me ages to make a handful. “I can’t begin again from scratch – I’ll be lonely till I’m twenty!”
“Well, don’t panic until we have to,” says Mum, in a reasonable tone.
Fine. Let me know when it’s time to panic and I will Pee Ay En Eye See. There’ll be shrieking, people will stare, you’ll have to throw a bucket of water ov
er me.
“Anyway,” says Dad, following Mum into the kitchen with a significant look at me. He’s going to talk to her about Lavender being in the magazine. I’m left with the aspiring model herself as she stomps downstairs in a tiger onesie and flicks on the TV.
“So …” I say, sliding casually up and down the radiator, “anything new with you?”
“Not really,” she says. “That –” jerking her head at our parents in the kitchen – “is a bit worrying, but…”
We both shrug, like, Whatchu gonna do?
“Um.” I’m trying to bring up the subject in a subtle way but all I can think of is fake-sneezing a noise like shwodelling! and saying, “Hey, you know what rhymes with that?”
“I saw you in the magazine. Stylie magazine?”
“What?”
“The competition! Well done.”
She stares at me. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
Not a promising start.
“Laa-aav…”
Lav frowns at me as Mum and Dad bundle into the living room. Mum looks annoyed.
“Lavender, I’m not happy about this.” Mum holds up a finger.
Lav holds up one back. “Me neither. What are you talking about?”
To cut a long story short, Lav swears she has no idea about any modelling competition. She reckons we’ve all gone mad. So Dad pulls Stylie magazine out and holds it up. Her photo face gurns at her, bobbly from the rain. She looks genuinely shocked to see herself. She’s always been a good liar – she’s stained a LOT of towels with hair dye over the years and wriggled out of blame. (“The radiator must be leaking purple water!”) But on this, I believe her.
Dad says he’s going to call the magazine first thing on Monday and ask some questions.
“Is there prize money?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mum says firmly.
Fine. Cauliflower dinners for ever, then.
Bloop, Gabe texts.
Bloop, I reply.
It’s a friendly thing to say when you’ve got nothing much to say.
Prepping for debating team tomorrow.
DWEEB.
… and proud! This team is amazing – they got through to the finals of a worldwide debating competition in Harvard last year!
Wow! I say, buying time while I google Harvard. Oh yes, American university, not a type of bread. That’s Hovis. I don’t know what I’d do without the internet. Thank you, Mr … Internet?
Who invented the internet? I need to google that too. There’s always something I don’t know.
You’ll be amazing! You stay calm when you argue – it’s years of practice with Ro. And you have a brilliant memory for facts!
I add a string of emojis – the unicorn, a snowflake. Sometimes I surprise myself by how good I am at being a girlfriend, especially as I’ve never done it before. But then I was very good at ice skating the first time I tried that.
Plus, apart from the kissing, it’s exactly like having a best friend, so I’ve been practising on Hannah for years. Right down to pretending I’m not jealous sometimes when I am. Which happens a lot. That reminds me. I check in with Hannah, just a little text to see how she’s doing and if she’s around tomorrow. I wait a bit but no reply. FINE. Probably doing prom stuff. Examining VJs, sourcing chairs … whatever.
I can feel I’m being looked at. I raise my eyes from my phone to find my parents staring at Lav and me, both on our phones.
“Just saying I’m really enjoying spending quality time with the tops of your heads,” says Mum, sweetly.
“I don’t think I’ve seen your noses in days,” adds Dad.
Lav lifts her face, keeps her eyes down and carries on texting Ro. Presumably updating him on a surprising day.
“You’ve spent all day with my nose!” I protest to Dad. “You, me and my nose went to the football, remember? I’m going to be taller than you soon so I’d enjoy the top of my head while you can still see it.”
Mum and Lav laugh and I feel sassy. I may not know ALL the American universities off the top of my head or who invented the internet but I can be quite funny on a good day. I must remember that next time I’m getting down on my fluffy hair and distant-cousin eyebrows.
“Mum, can I go and see Ro tonight?” Lav asks. I bet she wants to talk to him about this Stylie thing. She could talk to me, but I can’t think of a way to say it that won’t sound sappy.
“If he comes and gets you,” Mum says. “What? I’m sorry, petrol is expensive! Lou is getting lifts to school with her friend Dermot…”
My friend Dermot. She’s making it sound like an absolute treat for me, not like I’m falling out of a van with my bum in the air.
I say nothing, though. A look at Mum’s tired face tells me this would be bratty.
We watch the news together. It seems to be a particularly bad day for the world. There’s floods, stabbings, fires. Every time a new tragedy crops up, Lav and I say, “See? That’s what you get in other places.” We’re relentless, and by the time we point out that we even have better weather than anywhere else, Mum and Dad are laughing at our persistence and I feel close to my sister again.
The next morning, I poke my nose out of my duvet. Argh, freezing! I quickly reach out a hand, delve into my school bag and grab my Worry Diary. I retreat with it under the covers.
Better that I whinge in this than do it out loud. My parents are stressed, Gabe’s always studying or debating and I bet Hannah’s too busy with prom to pass my problems on to Hari this week. I want to thank whichever gloomy, fortune-telling relative bought me this two years ago as it’s becoming very useful now.
WORRY DIARY
We might have to move away from the only place I’ve ever lived!
I’ll be separated from Gabe and Hannah! (And Roman and Dermot. I’d miss Pete a bit too.)
Model sister.
Gabe thinks I’m less interesting than schoolwork.
Cauliflower experiment may be repeated this week.
Stupid prom has now completely stolen my best friend.
I’ll have to buy a prom dress. Ugh. With money we don’t have.
So very, very cold.
I can hear my family waking up and groaning at the temperature.
“Daaaaad! Turn the heating on!” Lav calls.
“Tweeting?” He feigns deafness. “I can’t hear you. My ears are too cold.”
“Mark, get up and do it!” Mum’s awake now.
“Your mother’s offering to get up, Lavender.”
“No, I’m not. YOU get up!”
“ONE OF YOU GET UP! This is your parental responsibility!”
Dad’s phone starts ringing and I hear him answer it.
“Lavender! Don’t call me when we’re both in the house. It’s wasteful!”
“I’m on an all-inclusive—”
“I don’t know what that means!” Dad bellows.
“I was just about to tell you! You interrupted me when I was just about to tell you. Why don’t you stop shouting and listen?”
I can’t take any more of this. “Why don’t you all stop shouting and someone get up and make me a cup of tea and turn the heating on?”
Everyone makes rude noises back at me from their bedrooms.
“I’m the baby child of the family…” I whine.
“Good! So shift your young limbs and get the kettle on!” Mum is unsympathetic. “I gave birth to half of the people in this house and it really HURT.”
“We know. You tell us every birthday.” Lav is scathing.
“Well, some things shouldn’t be forgotten.”
“Daaaa-aaaad, you do it!”
“Oh yeah, sure, of course I should do it. I trap and release the spiders, I eat the crisp flavours no one likes, I buy the tampons, I take out the bins…”
“See, you’re used to this sort of thing!” Lav is triumphant.
“With Lav it was too late for an epidural,” Mum says, beginning a birth story we’ve all heard a hundred times. “A
nd the pain, oh my god, the PAIN…”
I can hear Dad grumbling and getting up. No one wants to hear Mum’s childbirth stories – they’re like Saving Private Ryan with extra drama.
I get dressed on top of my pyjamas. Which may be a bit gross but it keeps the bed-warmth next to my skin. I spray deodorant in my hair to give me the illusion of a clean person. I stumble downstairs and into the kitchen. Mum looks me up and down but lets it pass. It’s her idea to go without heating. I’m just adapting.
We’ve got new budget cereal now. Which is fine, but I do miss the friendly koala relaxing in a bath of chocolate milk. He always looked so happy about me eating his puffs of wheat. This cereal has an emu glaring at me from the front of the box as if I’m stealing off him.
I turn the box away from me. I don’t need that attitude first thing in the morning.
“Right, today we’re going to wrap and post all the things we’ve sold on eBay,” Mum says.
Lavender and I shrug. I don’t mind. Gabe’s debating, Hannah’s gone quiet again and that’s the end of my extensive social options. Unless Pete EVER replies to my texts.
Dad’s popping out to see Uncle Vinnie about this job. I want to ask him about it but Mum gives me a shush look so I go back to my breakfast. I have seconds to eat it before it becomes beige mush. I really don’t like this emu.
“Right,” says Mum. “Lavender’s on clothes, Lou is on homeware.”
Homeware?
“Mum!”
“What?”
“She gets easy squashy packages. I get lamps and egg cups?”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”
She and the emu are determined to ruin my morning. I go into the living room and kneel next to an anglepoise lamp. I try to encase it in bubble wrap, fighting its swivelling pointy bits. It’s like trying to get a onesie on a giraffe.
Soon I’m sweating and cross. It doesn’t get better.
Lou Out of Luck Page 6
