Lou Out of Luck

by Nat Luurtsema

  “But he’s not listening!”

  “He’s always been a bit … what’s a nice way of saying fame-hungry?” I ask, squirming on the floor, twisting to get the jeans past my knees.

  “There is no nice way,” she concludes, whipping them off my ankles and onto the radiator.

  I wrap myself in her dressing gown and sit on her floor and tell her about today. She agrees with me about everything and it is hugely satisfying. This is where Gabe lets me down. He isn’t so easy to complain to – he’s too thoughtful. He’ll say things like, “But what if…?” and, “Just throwing this theory out there…” Which is annoying when all you want to do is rant about the heinous injustice of your life.

  “What can I do?” I say pathetically at the end of my story.

  “Hope that he’s just a bit intimidated by her right now but soon he’ll remember how much he likes you. Give him some time.”

  “So, bite my tongue for a few weeks and don’t tell him I think his new friend is one of the worst people I’ve ever met in my life?”

  “Yes. No. Really don’t do that. You don’t want to have a fight with him where he’s defending her against you. Think how jealous that would make you feel.”

  I imagine it. My stomach clenches.

  “Excuse me,” I say demurely and disappear to the bathroom. I am gone some time.

  Everyone is in such a bad mood that Sunday evening that Dad sneaks out. We spend ten minutes wondering if he’s left us for good because we’re all so grouchy when he reappears with pizza and ice cream.

  “Mark!” Mum says, but he stops her before she can worry about the expense.

  “Supermarket pizza. I promise. But I think we all need a treat?”

  “We do!” I say, tugging the boxes out of Dad’s hands and shouting out instructions to Lavender, who is already crouched by the oven, hands poised over the dial. We are such an efficient team.

  WORRY DIARY

  Must bite my tongue every time I want to say something nasty about Hazel.

  Is tongue re-attachment surgery expensive?

  “You’re getting better!” Dermot is yelling at me one morning over the rattling of Aggy’s van.

  I turn a steady gaze on him. “How could I have got worse?”

  …

  “Tell me one way I could’ve been worse than my first time.”

  “Hang on! I’m trying to think. Well. You. You didn’t hurt anyone’s feelings?”

  “What?”

  “On her first week, Star made a girl cry.”

  “Which girl?”

  “You don’t know her. She doesn’t come any more.”

  “Not surprised. Bloody Star.”

  I have now been going to Perf Class for four weeks. Hannah’s always busy with prom stuff these days and Gabe is working hard with his debating team, so my weekends are empty, bare deserts without so much as a camel to chat to.

  It’s nice to have something to do every Saturday morning. And I am getting slightly less rubbish. The last three times I have worn stretchy trousers and not ruined the improv by trying to set scenes in a matchbox. Star has stopped sighing and massaging her temples every time I speak, Patrice is rolling her eyes at me less and I’ve stopped sweating uncontrollably. Although last Saturday Uliol twinkled at me and said he was going to push me out of my comfort zone next time, which sounds awful.

  Pete still avoids speaking to me, although two weeks ago, he showed off some dance he’d been working on, slow and acrobatic like the stuff we used to do underwater last year. He looked delighted by all the whooping and applause. When I texted him afterwards to say well done, I got a Pete-like Cheers, mate in return.

  “I couldn’t do it!” Aggy bellows. “GEAR CHANGE. Performing and getting up in front of people terrifies me. He doesn’t care at all.” She nods at Dermot.

  “That’s because he doesn’t feel shame!” I shout.

  “Do you think?” Dermot looks thoughtful.

  I gesture at his outfit. He’s in culottes and a little jacket. I’m pretty sure these clothes are meant to be worn by a lady playing tennis on a hot day. As it’s late February, he’s layered them up with multi-coloured jumpers and a pair of leggings.

  Aggy laughs, but stops when Dermot turns to look at her. “I don’t know what she means, the girl’s talking nonsense,” she promises him.

  Ugh. That reminds me. “It’s prom soon and I’ve got nothing to wear.

  I’ve decided to ask Hannah if I can borrow something. I bet Barbra’s bought her three different dresses “just in case”, so I’m hoping to swoop in and nab whichever one she doesn’t want. I don’t mind what I wear. I don’t think I’ll even have a date, as Gabe is still saying he can’t come. It doesn’t matter but it does feel like a tug of war between me and Hazel. Gabe is the rope and I’m losing him.

  Dermot and I hurry across the car park to school and I can see Lavender has got here before us. She’s sitting on the steps with her friends, swamped in a big duffel coat. All her friends are loud and boisterous. Any time I talk to them, they always talk over me or throw things at each other. Last term I got hit in the face with half an apple, so now I give them a wide berth.

  Dermot gets out his phone and turns it on silent – school rules. He holds it up, struggling slightly as his fingerless golf gloves don’t give him much grip.

  “Uh. Excuse me?” One of Lav’s friends stands and points at him. We both freeze. Jessica has short white-blonde hair, loads of piercings and is the only person I’ve ever met who can wear black lipstick and not look like a pen exploded in her mouth. She is intimidating and knows it. More so when she’s yelling and pointing, like now.

  “What are you doing?” she continues across the yard. Lavender pulls Jessica by the sleeve to make her sit down but Jessica’s having none of it.

  “Are you taking photos of her?” she continues, pointing at Lav. “Do you think you can just invade her privacy and take photos of her, you creep? What is WRONG with you?”

  Lavender snaps. “Jess. Shut UP! He is not taking my photo. He’s a family friend! Stop it, please.”

  Jess sits down again, grudgingly, giving Dermot a look, like, You’re lucky … THIS time.

  Dermot and I hurry into school.

  A couple of boys shoulder-barge Dermot as they overtake us in the corridor. But for once, it doesn’t send him sprawling. I think it might be a friendly shoulder-barge.

  “Ignore her, mate,” one boy, Jared, tells him. “Jess accused me of the same thing yesterday. I was taking a selfie of my coldsore.”

  Dermot looks relieved. “I’m not a creep,” he tells Jared, anxiously tightening the straps of his satchel and getting one of his gloves caught in the buckle in the process. Jared watches Dermot untangle his glove from his bag without laughing and goes way up in my estimation.

  We reach our form room to find Hannah sitting in her old seat next to me. I head for the two empty seats behind her so the three of us can sit together. If Hannah minds, she doesn’t say. Across the room, I can see Melia shooting her evil looks and the other two whispering to each other. Hannah pulls her towel out of her swimming bag and dries the ends of her hair, using her towel to hide her face from them.

  “You all right?” I ask. She mouths something at me but I can’t catch it. Dermot and I lean in.

  “We’ve found bands, we’ve seen venues, we’ve looked at decorations online. Nothing is good enough for Cammie. Everything must be perfect, and I don’t have enough hours in the day to make everything as perfect as she wants it to be. And she has to have the final decision on everything!” Hannah hisses furiously.

  I try to hide how pleased I feel. What’s the word, vinaigrette?

  No! Vindicated. I feel vindicated.

  “What about the other two?” I whisper.

  “Melia is obsessed with finding the perfect dress, Nicole is obsessed with finding the perfect date!” she hisses back.

  Dermot and I snigger.

  “I’m not even joking! They have a shortli
st – ten of each. They’re driving me up the wall.”

  “Are you going to ask Dan?” I say, without thinking.

  Hannah does huge, horrified eyes and shushes me like I’m shouting her crush’s name from the rooftops.

  “Which Dan?” Dermot asks.

  See? I mouth at her. “I can say it. There are like eleven Daniels, Dannys and Dans in school, it could be any one of them.”

  Hannah has a crush on a lifeguard at the swimming pool called Dan. She spends about four hours training every day, and he’s there most of the time. She’s been in his company about a hundred hours this term and still hasn’t worked up the courage to say so much as hello to him.

  In fairness, he is ridiculously good-looking and very aloof. It’s an intimidating combination.

  Before Mr Peters takes the register, he perches on the front of his desk and addresses the class.

  “Now I know everyone is very busy with schoolwork and extracurricular activities,” he begins. Hannah makes a little huffy noise as she stuffs her swimming towel back in her bag. “So I thought, as we’re all here now, we could have an update from the Prom Committee about how everything is coming along?” He raises his eyebrows at Cammie, Nicole and Melia. In one swift movement, they all look at Hannah.

  Mr Peters follows their gaze. “Hannah?”

  Those three are good. They work as a pack, like wolves.

  “We… The…. So…” I can hear how dry Hannah’s mouth has gone and I feel for her. She needs a bit of Uliol’s improv. There’s a long, heavy silence, broken by the most unlikely of people.

  “Hannah was just—”

  “Sorry, Dermot, can’t hear you?” Mr Peters says.

  Heads turn towards Dermot and the sniggering starts as everyone takes in his outfit: half 1920s lady tennis player, half gym-bunny. Dermot ploughs on.

  “Hannah was just saying that they’re considering venues and bands and decorations but they probably need to make a decision soon?”

  “Ideally,” Mr Peters says drily. “Prom is now two weeks away.”

  Cammie looks stony-faced. I’m pretty sure Melia gives a dry heave.

  “Um, so maybe,” says Dermot, donning the faraway Thinking On His Feet look I recognize from Perf Class, “maybe it would be helpful if you gave the committee a deadline for making the decision. Maybe they have to tell the rest of the year … or … something.” His bravery abandons him, melting away under Cammie’s steely glare.

  I squeeze his arm quickly. Well done!

  “OK?” Mr Peters seems surprised. “Whatever works. I want to make sure you haven’t blown the budget on clothes and gigs!” he laughs, but Nicole squirms guiltily and I am so glad none of this is my problem. “So, how about you tell us about it tomorrow?” he concludes.

  The bell for first lesson goes and immediately Hannah is summoned from the other side of the room with hisses of “HAN!” She shoulders her bag and trudges over to them, giving Dermot a quick mouthed THANK YOU.

  “Good thinking!” I turn to Dermot. He does a little curtsy and I ignore Karl making faces at him behind his back.

  We make our way to maths, leaving Hannah to her passive-aggressive argument in the form room. They’re all calling each other honey and asking about hurt feelings, but I know this is when they’re at their most dangerous. Poor Hannah. She’s a fish finger in a sea of sharks.

  At lunchtime I grab Dermot before he does his usual disappearing act.

  “Where do you go every lunch time?” I ask him and he looks shifty.

  “Just … the library.”

  “Because you don’t have anyone to sit with?” I guess, with more accuracy than tact. “Sorry!” I say. “I mean, want to have lunch with me?”

  “OK,” he says but he doesn’t look keen.

  “I don’t chew with my mouth open,” I tell him.

  “No, no, that’s cool,” he says and follows me to the lunch hall.

  Weird.

  Well, I think it’s weird until he pulls out the fanciest packed lunch I’ve ever seen. “Is that…? What IS that?” I squeak at him.

  “Tempura.”

  “I see.” (I don’t see. I’ll need to look that up later.)

  “My aunt has this food ordering service from Selfridges that she sends Mum and me.” He looks uncomfortable.

  “It’s OK that you’re rich,” I tell him graciously, through a mouthful of his tempura. “Couscous?”

  “Brilliant,” he lies.

  When I get home from school, I dump my bag in the hallway and head to the kitchen for a snack, although these days there is not much to actually snack on. Mum and Dad have stopped buying chocolate and biscuits, and even the fruit is getting sparse. I examine a brown banana on its last legs. I shall show it out in style, I decide, peeling it, dotting the last of the peanut butter along it and heading upstairs to eat it.

  As I pass the living room, I can see Mum napping on the sofa. She’s sleeping so much more than usual at the moment. I feel a prickle of impatience. How tiring can job-hunting be?

  It’s Monday, so in an hour Hannah will be heading off to therapy with Hari. I text her.

  How much are you going to slag off the Prom Committee to Hari?

  (Now YES, this is mean but I’m taking advantage of their new friendship falling apart. I can’t have her being best friends with that lot. Melia at a push but not the other two.)

  SO MUCH… she replies, with a string of planet emojis. Anything you want me to ask him? she offers, and I think.

  I’m worried about my mum.

  OK.

  She seems down and tired all the time.

  So, just to recap: I’m getting therapy from my therapist on YOUR behalf, about your mum.

  Too much?

  I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my stories straight.

  Fairy nuff.

  x

  x

  I bet I know what Hannah’s going to spend her hour talking about. Our English lesson, first thing tomorrow, when the Prom Committee have to make some decisions about the venue, the theme, the band, the food. I am so glad I’m not them, I think, stretching out in bed. My feet dangle off the end. I think I’ve grown AGAIN. I’ll add it to the Worry Diary, but right now I’m so happy to not be “Cams”, “Mell” or “Nic”. Or Hannah, I think, with a prickle of guilt.

  For once, I’m going to get a good night’s sleep.

  WORRY DIARY

  I’ve definitely grown again. I banged my head on the bathroom ceiling this morning. Never done that before.

  In English the next day, Dermot and I are sitting together and, across the room, Hannah is sitting with Cammie and Melia. I can’t see Nicole anywhere.

  “So!” Mr Peters bounds into the room, late as always. “Before we get back to Toni Morrison, let’s have a quick catch-up on the prom!” he says brightly. “I know a couple of the teachers are getting a bit anxious that we haven’t got details yet, but I have full faith in my team!”

  I don’t believe him for a second. He fiddles nervously with his cardigan buttons. Uliol tells us that ninety-three per cent of communication is non-verbal, so always watch people’s bodies. Not like that.

  “So, who wants to put an anxious teacher out of his misery and tell him that the prom is all organized? Anyone…? Aaaanyone.”

  I glance at Hannah, whose face looks frozen, like the one time we tried to play Poker. Behind her, Cammie and Melia don’t look much better.

  “Um, Mr Peters.” Cammie has her hand up but as always it seems less like a request to talk than a lazy formality. FYI, babez. Chattin’ here. “We can take you through it in a couple of days. We’re just finessing a few details.”

  “No.” Mr Peters is smiling but firm. “I haven’t been able to get any information out of you guys in weeks, so why don’t you share what you have with the class today and finesse those few details later.”

  “No, because…”

  Cammie is insistent but Mr Peters pulls rank.

  “Yes, because…!” he ech
oes her. “It’s two weeks away. It’s time you opened up the organization a bit. If you’re struggling, I’m sure the class would be happy to help.”

  “The Class” look a little sly and cross their arms, as if they’re smelling the possibility of a disastrous prom and a humiliated Cammie and the most help they’re willing to offer is watching the carnage while eating popcorn. I share this feeling one hundred per cent.

  Out of respect for my friend and cowardice in the face of Cammie, I hide my smirk in my jumper sleeve. Before I feel too guilty, I remind myself of a conversation with Hannah a few days ago.

  “How’s your mum and dad, are they back in work?”

  “No,” I said, baffled. It’s the biggest problem in my life right now, and if it had suddenly gone away, I would’ve mentioned it.

  “Argh,” she said with a brief sad look on her face that reminded me of her mum. Then we were onto something else. This was poor BFF work on Hannah’s part. So I let myself enjoy the next twenty minutes while she, Cammie and Melia have to field questions from the class.

  “Where’s Nicole?” asks Mr Peters.

  “She felt sick and went to the nurse,” says Melia with a sour look on her face. I bet she’s furious she didn’t think of that trick first.

  “So, firstly, WHERE is the prom going to be?” Mr Peters settles in with an easy question.

  “You know where Dreezy shot his last video?” Cammie says.

  “What do you think, Camilla?” says Mr Peters, gesturing at his cardigan and sensible trousers.

  “The nightclub scene. With the exposed brick walls and the tigers.”

  “Cammie.”

  “OK,” she says, eyes wide like she can’t believe someone so ignorant is allowed to teach. “The Rothermere Estate. The ballroom. My father hooked us up.”

  A couple of people say wow! and Cammie looks smug. Yeah guys, prit-ty cool. NBD.

  A hand goes up, an Indian girl I don’t know very well called Sasha. “How are we getting there?”

  Melia shrugs at her. “How do you get anywhere?”

  Some people laugh, but Sasha’s not letting it go. I mentally salute her. “I walk, Melia. Shall I walk the ten miles from here to the Rothermere Estate?”

  “I don’t know,” Cammie says, rudely. “You sort it out.”