Lou Out of Luck

by Nat Luurtsema

“No, Mark.”

  “I think it’s the best version of me,” he says. “When I’m wearing it, I feel liberated. There’s a spare su—”

  “You already said. But no, thank you,” I tell him.

  Dad stares at Mum’s feet. “Will you be wearing heels?”

  “Why?” Mum is confused by this sudden interest in her footwear.

  “You don’t want your trousers to drag on the floor. It’ll be a sea of alcopops, hair wax and hormones.”

  Mum, Lav and I stare at him. Lav says what we’re all thinking: “Dad, HOW disgusting were you as a teenager? Because you have a really warped view of ages thirteen to nineteen.”

  Thankfully, before he goes into detail about his grotty teenage behaviour, Lav’s phone buzzes on her desk.

  TOOT TOOT!

  Gabe and Roman are here! We squeeze past Mum and Dad and dash downstairs, as quickly as we dare. Lav’s dress makes a proper bustling noise like in a period drama. We enjoy this so much that we bustle in and out of the dining room a few times.

  The boys start knocking impatiently. “Let us in! The wind’s messing up our hair!”

  We take pity on them and open the door. Gabriel looks gorgeous in a navy blue suit that matches his eyes and a grey shirt. I can’t help but notice that Roman is dressed very similarly, but he waves it away. “It’s fine. We’re going to different places, so FOR ONCE he’s allowed to copy my style.”

  “I’m not copying his style,” Gabe says, kissing me hello and admiring my jumpsuit.

  “Look!” I show him. “Pockets!”

  I do a twirl and he says ooh because he knows the rules.

  “And…” Gabe presents me with a flower. Um…

  “Thanks?” I say, panicking. “I, uh, didn’t get you one. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s a prom thing. The boys give the girls a flower to wear. Not on your head, Lou,” he adds.

  “I think it’s too late now,” I say, struggling to untangle it from my plaits.

  “Maybe move it to the side?” Dad says, frowning at my head. “It looks like a tiny hat.”

  When did everyone become a prom expert?

  We’re all clustered in the hallway when Gabe catches sight of something outside and opens the door again. There is a looooong black car pulling up in front of our house. We all stare at the driver, who gets out and walks towards us with a bunch of flowers.

  “Courtesy of Stylie magazine,” he says, handing them to Lav, who looks flushed with excitement and, for the first time, like she’s actually enjoying this. Mum and Dad get out their phones and start taking photos.

  Roman puts his hand on Lav’s waist and gestures her towards her waiting car, like a real-life Prince Charming. If I was her, I would forgive him every pouting duck face selfie and every oblivious moment. He is the perfect boyfriend. He dips towards her cheek to kiss her and whisper something meant only for her. But we’re crammed tightly in the hallway so we all hear it too.

  “Aren’t you glad I entered you in the competition now?”

  Mum and Dad stop taking photos and we all stare at Roman. Our horrified faces say it all and the dashing smile slides off his face.

  “What?”

  “What…?”

  “WHAT?”

  The poor driver loiters on the driveway, sensing something is terribly wrong. I think the clue is the way Lav is walloping Roman around the head with her huge bunch of flowers. Dad finally wrestles them off her.

  “Lav, careful! Bet these weren’t cheap!”

  “I entered us both!” Roman is protesting. “I wanted us to do it together. I didn’t get in but that’s OK. I was still proud of you.”

  “Well, that’s bloody big of you!” Lav says, shoving him away from her. He steps backwards onto Mum, who yelps.

  “Sorry!”

  “Lav! Stop shoving, there’s no room. And YOU –” Mum turns Roman around to face her – “what were you thinking? Never do things like this, not behind her back, not without her permission. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, mate. Not on,” agrees Dad, who isn’t quite as articulate in an argument. “Seriously out of order!”

  “I know it’s been a bit rough,” says Roman. “But it’s worked out well, right? You’re going to win – I’ve been working on getting you votes for weeks.”

  “Stop doing things behind my back!” Lav is near tears now. “I thought I could trust you.”

  “It’s FOR you, though. For your own good.”

  “I am not six. And you are not my parents. You don’t know what’s for my own good,” says Lav, sticking a finger under each eye so she doesn’t smudge her mascara.

  “Well, look,” says Ro, losing his temper, “I’m sorry, obviously, but let’s not fight about it. Let’s just go to the ceremony and have a good time. You’ll win, come home twenty-five thousand pounds richer and you can thank me later.”

  Sometimes I could slap Roman.

  Lav sniffs, blinks hard to stop her tears and smooths down her dress. “Mum? Will you come to the awards ceremony with me, please?”

  Mum gives Ro a small guilty glance but I can tell she’s thrilled. “I’d love to, sweetheart. ’Scuse me, Ro.”

  Roman has to stand aside to let Mum pick her way past him. She and Lavender march down the driveway arm in arm.

  “Unlucky, mate.” The driver gives Roman a sympathetic look then nips around Mum and Lav to open the car doors for them. The car starts up again with a tiny, expensive-sounding purr and swings out of our road.

  “No!” Ro calls after them. “Laaaav! Please?”

  It’s chilly in the hallway, so Gabe shuts the door and we’re left standing slightly aimlessly.

  “Well,” Dad says, “I would tell you off but I think my wife and daughter covered it all.”

  “Yes, Mr Brown,” says Roman. He looks gutted. He’s never called my dad anything but Mark. This is the most meek I’ve ever seen him.

  Now, I am not the cleverest person in the world. I’m rarely the cleverest person in the room. But at that moment, I have two undeniably excellent ideas. They’re so good I feel a little dizzy.

  I nudge Ro with my shoulder. “Want to come to prom instead?”

  He shrugs. “Is there still space?”

  “I can sneak you in. On one condition,” I tell him.

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the toilet.

  “Lou! We gotta go soon!” Dad is calling up the stairs.

  I’m texting at furious speeds. To Hannah first.

  You ready for prom?

  Yes! Finally sorted all the boring organization stuff and you know what…?

  Something to ask you.

  … I don’t NEED a date to prom! I’m an independent woman. This is just stupid peer pressure.

  Oh.

  What?

  I was wondering if you wanted to go with Roman?

  GABE’S BROTHER?

  Yeah?

  She sends me a string of smiley faces with sunglasses. I take that as a yes. The evening may not have gone how Ro planned but, hey, it’s his own fault and it’s nice for Han. She’s at Dermot’s already, she says, to help out in the kitchen, but she’ll come find her “date” when prom begins.

  Then I text Pete, choosing my words carefully.

  YOU KNEW.

  That’s all I say. He rarely replies to my texts, but I know he will this time.

  What?

  About Ro entering Lav in the competition.

  He entered both of them!

  Doesn’t matter. It was still wrong, and you knew.

  How did you know I knew?

  I didn’t. I guessed and you just confirmed it.

  I crack my knuckles. I am an utter genius sometimes. Old eighty-six per cent strikes again.

  Pete starts typing. Stops. Starts again.

  I’m sorry.

  That’s OK. You know how you can make it right.

  ?

  We’re onstage at 9.30.

  “LOUISE!!” Dad yells again. “If I run late, all my t
imings will be out of sync and I will be furious!”

  “Coming!” I run downstairs and find the front door standing open and everyone already outside, clambering into the car with great care. The boys are anxious not to crease their suits. “Mine’s velvet!” Ro tells me as I try to squeeze in next to him. “Mine’s velvet too!” I retort. “And it’s vintage.”

  Who am I this evening?

  Dad drives so slowly I can feel Ro fidgeting impatiently next to me. He keeps checking his phone. I bet Lav’s ignoring him and I’m not surprised. As our car sweeps up Dermot’s big driveway, Gabe and Roman point out the misshapen gnomes and laugh at them.

  Now it’s darker, I can see lights dotted on the lawn, illuminating each gnome’s face. It’s brilliantly weird. In contrast, I can see Uncle Don loitering in a dark suit by the front door, looking like he could kill you with one hand and never take his eyes off the telly.

  “For once,” Dad says, “I’m pleased your mother’s family are a bunch of reprobates.”

  “Hey!” I say. “Uncle Vinnie got you your job—”

  “Ahem-hem-hem!” Dad coughs meaningfully and gives me a stare in the rear-view mirror. His secret identity. Sozzles, Bruce Wayne.

  We park around the back, and as we’re heading towards the house, we see Mr Peters getting out of a taxi. He eyes up some of my even beefier relatives patrolling the garden. “I feel silly offering myself as security now…” he says to us and Uncle Vinnie overhears.

  “No, no,” he reassures him. “You know their names. While we sit on their heads, you can yell at them.”

  Mr Peters laughs because he thinks Vinnie’s joking.

  “How’s, uh … business?” Uncle Vinnie asks Dad, quietly.

  “Ticking along nicely,” murmurs Dad, looking around, shiftily. Great, now they’re both at it. This sounds so dodgy, I bet my teacher thinks Dad’s a drug dealer.

  Dermot flings open the front door, resplendent in a three-piece tweed suit and a cape down to his ankles. “I made it myself!” he says, unnecessarily. He looks like a cross between a Scottish lord and lady and the effect is fabulous. He gives us all a twirl. We ooh.

  “Come into the kitchen!” he announces, looking mischievous. I leave Gabe, Dad and Ro and follow him. There’s steam billowing out of the kitchen door, making me a little nervous. Five grim-faced women are wrestling vast pots and pans off the kitchen worktops. Aggy rushes in with an armful of tea towels. “More here for you, ladies!” she says. “Can I get you anything else? Is the hot water still coming through?”

  “You’re grand,” one of the women tells her. “Sit, have a rest.”

  “No! This is totally unacceptable!”

  I’d know that voice anywhere. Dermot looks at me and presses his lips together to stop himself laughing. Camilla’s voice is coming from the pantry. Why is she in the little room where Aggy and Dermot keep the beans?

  All the women look up at the sound of this, and one of them points a ladle threateningly towards the noise.

  “I don’t want to hear ANOTHER WORD about this. Got me, Melia?”

  The pantry door bangs open and Melia, Nicole, Hannah and Cammie enter the kitchen. They’re wearing black shirts, black trousers and scowls. I guess the woman holding the ladle is Melia’s mum. I wouldn’t get on the wrong side of her.

  “You have barely enough money for this food,” she says, straining to lift another pot of sauce onto the hob. “Thanks, Aggy. And you definitely don’t have enough money for waitresses. So, you have to serve the food.”

  Cammie and Nicole look surly. Melia looks embarrassed and Hannah looks like she’ll do anything to make Melia’s mum less cross.

  “Can I help?” I say from the doorway. Melia’s mum swings towards me. “Are you on the Prom Committee?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am,” I say.

  “Then have a lovely prom.” She flashes me a charming smile. “And get out of my kitchen!”

  We scuttle out of the kitchen, which apparently doesn’t belong to Aggy or Dermot this evening. I feel bad for laughing but I do anyway.

  “She sprung it on them half an hour ago,” Dermot tells me. “Probably knowing that if Cammie got wind of it, she wouldn’t turn up.”

  “How long are they waitressing for?”

  “First two hours, then they’re allowed back into their party outfits,” Dermot says. “Nicole’s raging. She’s in Chanel apparently.”

  “Really?” I say, smoothing my jumpsuit selfconsciously.

  “It’s just a black dress,” sniffs Dermot. “Doesn’t even have pockets.”

  We have another half an hour to kill and everyone has that pre-party feeling. Even Mr Peters seems nervous. We distract ourselves by tidying up the fairy lights threaded through Aggy’s banisters.

  Roman pokes his head in the kitchen to say hi to his “date”, and I give him the flower that Dermot gave me. He gives Han the full charm offensive, tucking the flower into her hair, and I bet she doesn’t care at all that she’s handing round canapés.

  Gabriel and I are put to work too, hanging people’s coats up in the cloakroom. Some people get very demanding. Do I look like someone from Downton Abbey, chum? They’d better not try it on Cammie-the-waitress or they’ll get a canapé shoved up their nose.

  A girl called India is especially snooty, handing over her coat with precise instructions. “Don’t put it near any other coats,” she snaps at me. “It’s vintage, and the pile can’t be brushed the wrong way.”

  I obediently take it into the cloakroom and rub it all over in every direction I can. Gabriel comes and helps me. It looks like it’s been in a cat fight by the time we’re done. Most of the guests are lovely, though, and you get to see everyone arrive when you’re in the cloakroom. Loads of girls admire my jumpsuit and the flicky eyeliner Lavender did on my eyes. I’m getting flushed with compliments and hard work, I’m glowing bright red by the time everyone’s in.

  I can hear some people laughing at the gnomes as they crunch up the driveway, then they step into the hallway and – it’s like they’re watching a firework display. When they see the polished chandelier and the twinkling fairy lights winding up the stairs, they have to gasp. I feel very proud of Dad and all his project management. I take it back – it is cool.

  “Lou!” He clicks his fingers at me. “Look lively! Take these coats.”

  Less proud of him now, more irritable.

  Karl Ashton chucks his coat at me without a backward look.

  “Karl!” I wave a little numbered ticket at him. “You need your… Never mind.”

  I hope he doesn’t act up tonight and bully Dermot in his own home – that would be horrible. Just in case, I wipe my nose on his coat.

  After forty minutes there are no more people arriving. I guess No latecomers and Admittance not guaranteed, though rude, does make people punctual. So now we’re free of cloakroom duties, Gabe and I can run upstairs to join everyone.

  “What do you want to do first?” Gabe asks. “Food, drink, find people, cut some shapes?”

  “Honestly?” I say. “I would love to sit in a corner by myself and feel sick for the next forty-five minutes until stage time. Is that OK? I will join you afterwards. Unless it was so bad I have to run home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he says. “You’ll be amazing!”

  I stare deeply into his eyes. He’s lying. He’s never seen Perf Class, and everything I’ve told him about it does NOT sound amazing. But I appreciate the effort.

  He sits me in a quiet corner, as requested, and backs away, waving goodbye and giving me encouraging thumbs-ups.

  I check my phone: still nothing from Pete. I thought he’d be here by now … if he was going to come. I can see Dermot mingling and twirling his cape around for people to admire. Poor Dermot. Imagine if he gets to taste popularity then is humiliated onstage and falls right back to the bottom of the social heap, all in the space of an hour.

  For now, everyone seems to be behaving. My bulky uncles looming in various doorways prob
ably helps with that. Plus, Mr Peters has stationed himself next to a big bowl of fruit punch and he keeps tasting little sips of it, determined that it won’t be spiked on his watch.

  Cammie stalks past so fast that no one has a chance of grabbing any food off her tray. She’s basically taking mushroom canapés for a speedwalk. I see Sasha cornering her and demanding food and I admire her courage.

  I check my watch. Half an hour till we’re due onstage. Still no Pete.

  WORRY DIARY

  Five minutes to stage time. Still no Pete.

  I’m standing in Dermot’s smallest living room (the third one? Fourth, maybe. Anyway, it’s called Backstage tonight) in a circle with Uliol, Patrice, Eli and Dermot. No Pete.

  I’m disappointed but I don’t blame him, we’re about to humiliate ourselves in front of 200 school colleagues, and when Pete went to our school, he was Ro’s cool, older friend. Who wants to trash that reputation for fifteen minutes of pratting about onstage? Not him, clearly.

  Uliol is making some of the least helpful comments imaginable. “Stay loose,” he tells us, “be in the moment, feel your funny and don’t be afraid to experiment.” When I was in charge of a team last year, I used to say things like “Keep your arms tight, remember the routines we practised, for God’s sake, don’t drown” and then I’d blow my whistle at them. If you gave Uliol a whistle, he’d examine it and ask how it made you feel.

  I keep loosening the belt on my jumpsuit before I realize it isn’t too tight, my stomach is just tense with nerves. I peek out of the door at the prom. Cammie, Melia and Nicole are still circulating at top speed with trays of food and faces of thunder. They don’t seem to realize that if they stopped and offered people food, they’d get rid of it quicker and would be able to join the party.

  I look around for Hannah and spot her chatting with Gabe and Roman. I’m so happy they’re getting on. The boys are steadily eating their way through all the food on Hannah’s tray, which is clearly a good motivation for them to keep talking to her. And she’s delighted to have Prince Charming as her prom date, so it’s a win–win for everyone.

  I stare at Gabe, willing him to turn and give me an encouraging look. But he’s caught up in the noise and the fun of prom. I feel lonely backstage worrying, while everyone else is having fun. As I’m staring out, I see a gang of gangly guys in their forties, dressed in black, being led towards us by Mr Peters, who keeps staring at their faces with a weird fascination. Be cool, Mr P! I haven’t seen anyone with three septum piercings before either, but you don’t see me staring up a stranger’s nose.