Every book I read comes from the Young Adult section of the library.
I was chosen to be a buddy for a group of Year Sevens when they first started school and were lost and clueless.
I’ve tried to make things better for Stan when no one else seemed to remember to.
When will anyone notice that I’m completely responsible?
“Yes, Mrs Kosma! And thank you!” Mum pants, her head appearing in view.
“Mum, it’s OK!” I say, sensing the waves of panic emanating from her efficient navy suit as she hurtles towards us, her phone clutched in her hand and her knuckles as white as her nails are plum.
“Edie! Stan! What’s going on?!” Mum yelps, breathlessly dropping down on to her knees to hug Stan and his knobbly armadillo.
“It’s all right, Mum!” I tell her, trying to get a handle on the situation. “Me and Stan are just chilling out. And I’ve got tea on so everything’s—”
“Do you know how worried I’ve been?!” Mum babbles, thunking her big bag down on the doormat (she should be careful with that – her laptop is in there). “Why didn’t you answer your phone, Edie? Or the landline? I’ve been calling and calling!”
Oh. My mobile needed charging, so I pulled the plug out on the landline … then forgot to stick the adaptor on (think I heard something good on the radio and went to turn it up).
“Well, it’s just—” I try to begin, but Mum is too cross and stressed to listen to explanations.
“Do you know how I felt when the agency phoned me to apologize for their staff member being taken ill? I felt sick at the idea of Stan sitting alone with the teacher, the last to be collected. Then JUST as I’m about to call school, Miss Stewart phones to tell me that Stan sneaked out of the playground during a medical emergency with another child!”
“I was fine, Mum!” Stan says into her hair, since he is being cuddled very tightly indeed. “I’m a very big boy.”
“Stan – a very big boy doesn’t do something stupid like disappear! Do you know the police are on standby?”
“The police?” I gasp at Mum. “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”
“Dramatic?” says Mum, her blue eyes watery with tears of relief, but the muscles in her cheeks are also flexing with rage. “I’ll tell you what’s dramatic, Edie. When you think your youngest child has been abducted, and then you can’t get hold of your oldest child and think they might’ve somehow been abducted too!”
I gulp, which sounds extra loud in my head.
“I’ll have to phone your dad – he’s beside himself with worry,” Mum suddenly mutters, pressing numbers into her phone behind Stan’s back, so she’s still semi-hugging him. “He’s furious with me, of course. Blames me for not having someone dependable to look after you…”
“OK, I know I should have called you, Mum,” I agree, “but me and Stan, we really don’t need looking aft—”
PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
We all wince and cover our ears as the fire alarm in the flat screeches in distress.
“Oh my!” shouts Mrs Kosma, waving a plump hand towards something behind me.
I turn and see smoke billowing from a doorway further along the hallway. I think the pasta might be a little overcooked…
“Oh, God!” yells Mum, as Mrs Kosma sets off for the kitchen at a cracking pace for someone so old and wide.
Frozen to the spot with fear or uselessness, I find myself staring at Mum. With her hands slapped across her face like that, I can make out the time on her dainty gold watch: ten past five.
Noticing that, I do a quick calculation and estimate that it’ll be roughly two or three hours till she properly calms down and chills out, and about ten or twelve years till she trusts me to look after my brother by myself.
Where’s a happiness clock when you need one?
’Cause I’d love to fast forward the hands to a time when everyone’s forgotten about me setting fire to our flat.
A time when my mother can’t remember that she once wanted to sack me as a daughter, like she does right now…
Q: What self-respecting thirteen-year-old goes to bed at eight o’clock on a Friday night?
A: One who is bored, bored, bored by the company of a gum-chewing so-called nanny.
So while Cheryl frantically chomps and texts in the living room, I’m in the top bunk in our hamster-sized bedroom at Dad’s, reading by the light of my torch app.
Tippetty-tap! comes a light rapping at the door, and Dad is suddenly silhouetted in a chunk of light spilling in from the hall.
“Hi, Edie. Everything OK?” he whispers.
I see Dad look at his wrist, and spot a glow from his watch – he’s checking how ridiculously late home he is.
“Yep, we’re fine,” I don’t bother whispering back.
There’s no point – Stan isn’t asleep. He finds it hard to drift off in Dad’s flat, since the multicoloured curtains are thin and the street-light on the canal path strobes right into our second-floor window, giving the room a disco feel. This would be fantastic if we fancied sticking on some sounds, but as our bedroom here is only big enough to fit in a bunk bed and nothing else, there’s fat chance of a dance to go with it.
Plus Stan is a bit spooked by the flat, and likes it if I come to bed at the same time as him. (And I’m spooked by our bunk beds, but that’s a different story.)
He gets especially spooked if Dad isn’t home from work, like he wasn’t tonight, not till a minute ago. We both heard his cheery hello to Cheryl, and her cheery hello back, as if she’d had a splendid few hours with us, instead of texting who-knows-who for four hours solid.
If you want to know about Stan’s bad case of spooks, it goes back to the first night we came to sleep over. He held up Arthur, his pet crocodile, to look out of the window and they both got freaked by the sight of a dead swan floating in the canal.
I did try to explain to Stan (and Arthur) that it was actually a large white Argos carrier bag, and therefore not at all morbid, but Stan couldn’t get the thought of dead birds out of his head after that. In fact, he’s been a bit funny about birds ever since, living or dead. (Or plastic.)
He’s been doing a lot of backing away when we’re near pigeons, which is a bit of a problem since Mrs Kosma likes to feed them crumbs out of her ground-floor bedroom window, right by the entrance to our block of flats, when she’s not busy noseying at the neighbourhood or washing her collection of black pirate-sail dresses.
“So, Stan my man … not tired yet, buddy?” Dad says, dipping down out of my line of vision to talk to my brother.
Dad’s not even taken his jacket off yet, he’s been in such a rush to come and see us.
“Sort of but not really,” I hear Stan say.
I carry on reading with the help of my torch app, though the glare of the street lamp means I hardly need it.
“Do you want to get up for a little while, then? It is Friday night, so no school tomorrow,” Dad offers.
“Can we play Mousetrap?” I hear Stan ask hopefully.
“Er … well, we could put a DVD on,” I hear Dad say hesitantly. I know what’s coming next. “It’s just that I’ve got a bit of a deadline on, and I’ll have to do some stuff on the computer.”
It’s always the same. Since Dad and his friend Eric set up their own website business, they seem to be working about twenty-seven hours a day. Dad warned Mum and us that it would be like this for the first couple of months, till the business got established. That was about a year ago. (Dad might be good at designing but he’s obviously rotten at maths.)
Mum’s not any better, of course. Her eyes went all shiny and she and Dad popped open a champagne bottle when she got her promotion. “Think of all the extra money I’ll get!” she’d said, hugging me and Stan so tight we nearly spilled out celebratory Cokes.
And I guess the extra money has come in handy, to pay all the big fat phoney nannies who look after us while she works late. And the divorce lawyers, I guess.
“No, it’s all right…” says Stan, pretending he’s not disappointed. “Maybe I am a bit sleepy.”
“OK, buddy,” Dad replies, also sounding a bit disappointed. “What about you, Edie-beady-bear? Fancy hanging out with your dear old dad?”
What – and watch my dear old (useless) dad twiddling with font options for an accountant’s tastefully dull website? No, thanks … I might as well just lie here reading.
“Maybe in a while, once Stan’s asleep,” I lie. “But I’m a bit whacked.”
It’s been a tiring day, all right. All the most boring teachers seem to be saved up for Friday. (Tash had to nudge me awake in double French. She said I was snoring. I think it was ’cause I still had smoke from the burnt pasta swirling around in my head, blocking my sinuses.)
What I don’t add is that I hate getting up and down the stupid ladder of this stupid bunk bed. I know it’s hardly like climbing up the outside of the Eiffel Tower using only a grapple hook, but that’s me. My head goes swirly with any kind of heights. Which is why once I’m up here, I lie straight down and don’t get up again till morning.
(I have tried asking Stan to switch with me, but he’s worried about being too far from his under-the-bed bundle of toys, and you can’t argue with that sort of six-year-old logic, can you?)
“You two had a nice time with Cheryl?” Dad asks, determined to make small talk.
He’s nodding his head in the direction of the hallway, where I can hear Cheryl clattering about, gathering up her stuff to go home.
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble non-committally.
We had as nice a time as we could, the three of us. I put nit shampoo on my hair and Stan’s. Cheryl texted. I did my homework and helped Stan with his. Cheryl texted. I hit her with one of my (un)true actual facts, telling her that people who texted on a regular basis were ten times more likely to develop Attention Deficit Disorder. Cheryl went, “Huh?” and carried on texting. It was a riot.
“Look, tomorrow will be good,” Dad promises, as he tries to squeeze my hand (I don’t let go of my book). “I just need to get this work nailed tonight, then tomorrow, it’ll be fun, fun, fun all the way!”
“What’re we going to do, Dad?” Stan asks eagerly, dying to know what treats are in store.
“Uh…” Dad looks edgy, realizing he was supposed to have a plan for Stan, his little man, and his “Edie-beady-bear”. (Pur-lease…)
“Ayyyyyyyyyy-YIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!” comes a piercing scream, almost as loud as last night’s fire alarm.
“Cheryl?!” shouts Dad in alarm, rushing out to see what’s up.
“Yessss!” says a pleased small voice from the bunk directly below me.
I flop my book down and whisper, “What did you do?”
I’m grinning. Stan is used to watching me subtly winding up and torturing nannies, and he’s learned well. He is no longer just my accomplice. He is branching out on his own.
You want an example? Well, a couple of nannies ago, there was Susan, who had called his Lego “a terrible mess” a few too many times. After that, Stan had remembered her squirming at the sight of some bugs on a CBeebies nature programme. Next thing he’s arranging a fine selection of plastic spiders on the toilet seat and closing the lid. I think I may have lost some of the hearing in my left ear due to the sheer volume of the screaming that came when Susan “nipped” to the loo. (She “nipped” out of our lives pretty soon after…)
“I said I didn’t want any custard on my apple pie,” Stan says, though he hasn’t explained what he’s actually done.
Outside, I can hear Cheryl loudly hyperventilating, while Dad is demanding to know what’s wrong.
“You don’t like custard,” I reply, staring at the dangling bulb hanging from the ceiling, which Dad hasn’t got round to buying a shade for yet.
“But then she keeps giving me custard, even though I say no really nicely,” Stan carries on. “It’s ’cause she’s always texting and never listening.”
In the hall, Cheryl is hiccupping, sobbing and trying to talk all at once. “Swarm! Swarm!” she seems to be saying. Are there lots of bees out there?! What has Stan been up to?
“Stan, what exactly’s going on out there?” I ask my little brother.
“Well,” says Stan, suddenly appearing – just eyes and freckly nose – by the edge of my bed. He must be balancing on the metal frame of his bunk. “You know how I came with you when you took the rubbish bag downstairs after tea?”
“Yes.”
It just shows how insanely bored we got with Cheryl; taking the rubbish out seemed like a treat.
“Well, when you went into the bin area, I saw a little worm on the grass outside, and I thought it looked a little bit bored…”
Ah, now it’s becoming clear.
“S’worm! It’s a worm!” Cheryl is crying out. “Why is there a worm in my bag?”
“You put a worm in her handbag?” I say in surprise and awe.
“Uh-huh!”
“But why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?”
“Thought it would be a nice surprise!” grins Stan – then he quickly thunks down to the floor as the bedroom door is flung open.
“Do either of you know anything—” Dad begins, looking stressed and cross.
“Whaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Stan instantly wails. “Why is someone screaming? I was sleeping! I’m scared!!”
Wow, what an actor. If Stan deserves merits for putting out the rubbish and stashing the worm, he should get at least another two for his award-winning performance there.
“Hey, easy tiger! It’s OK – no need to panic,” Dad says hurriedly, completely thrown off the scent and hugging his “traumatized” little boy.
“What is going on with Cheryl?” I ask Dad, as I prop myself up on my elbows (as much as I can manage without my head going spinny). “She’s been acting really weird and jumpy since she picked us up.”
“I don’t know exactly,” says Dad, holding Stan to his chest and gazing up at me in confusion. “She just said—”
BANG goes the front door.
“Cheryl?” Dad calls out, trying to extricate Stan from his arms, but Stan is having none of it.
He clings tightly to Dad and keeps on with the supremely convincing snivelling.
“CHERYL – HOLD ON!”
By the time Dad loosens Stan’s iron grip and chases after her, the lift doors have clanged shut, and Cheryl is nowhere to be seen – unlike the worm, which is now wriggling on the hall table, alongside a hairbrush and a packet of half-finished chewing gum which got shaken out of Cheryl’s bag in a hand-trembling panic.
Me and Stan hover in the bedroom doorway, grinning at each other.
“Fingers crossed?” says Stan, hopefully.
“Fingers crossed!” I answer more definitely, knowing exactly what he means.
Some wishes can’t come true (like owning a genuine happiness clock).
But some miraculously can.
Oh yes; if me and Stan just believe in it, maybe this particular wish will come true.
Maybe this is the very, very last time we’ll set eyes on Cheryl…
Fantasy, real life, historical, futuristic, horror, angels, funny, heartbreaking.
I’ll read any kind of book.
(Except maybe ones about magic-eyed goats and vampire novels by a certain phoney writer.)
Out of all of those, I guess my least favourite is real life, if I had to choose. Maybe it’s because the life I’ve got is a bit too “real” for my liking…
“Don’t make a big deal out of it, Justine! It’s only a bit early,” Dad is hissing as he nods up at the huge library clock that hangs above the information desk. “You normal
ly pick them up at five and it’s only three o’clock now. It’s just that I have to get this website design finished by the end of the day.”
I pull out a book in the A-F section of the Young Adult bookshelves and peer at Mum and Dad through the gap. Behind them, people are serenely browsing the library shelves for books and DVDs. My well-practised parents are arguing in such a subtle way that no one – except me – has a clue that they are a small oasis of bitterness in an ocean of calm.
“Two hours can make a real difference, Neil! I’ve been working as well, you know – I’ve got to get ready for this conference next weekend, in case you’d forgotten.” Mum hisses back, as she pats her giant slouch bag that’s sure to be stuffed with designs and pads and lists of costings and calculations.
“Well, I hope you’ve remembered that I can’t have the kids! Which nanny have you got looking after them?” Dad demands at low volume, folding his arms across his T-shirt. His hair is sticking up at a stupid, scruffy angle ’cause he hasn’t had a shower yet today. I think he worked most of the night, and I know he worked most of this morning too. Yep, our fun, fun, fun day together consisted of me and Stan watching lots of Saturday-morning telly, then being taken to lunch in McDonald’s. That was all right, but the way Dad went on – saying stuff like, “This is great, isn’t it?” – you’d think he’d whisked us off to Disneyland Paris for the weekend.
“Don’t you ever listen to what I’m saying, Neil? Miranda quit,” Mum whispers with venom. “And the agency let me down. I’ve been through everyone on their list. I don’t know what I’m going to do next week after school, never mind next weekend. What about your Cheryl? Could she look after them?”
In response, Dad presses a button on the phone he’s holding and shows Mum something on the screen. What she reads makes her cover her face with her hands. (Yes, she does do that a lot.)
I know what Mum’s just read. Cheryl texted Dad this morning to say she was doing a Miranda and quitting for good.
For Dad’s sake – and to hide our guilt – me and Stan pretended to be shocked and surprised.
Life According To...Alice B. Lovely Page 3
