Live and Fabulous!

by Grace Dent

  “We certainly are, Claudette. Veronica here is in serious peril of becoming one of those drippy chicks who puts her life on hold for a boy, and we, the LBD, have a duty to stop it.”

  “Ronnie,” chuckles Claude, covering her mouth with her hand in surprise, “you’re turning into Sharon Spittle!”

  “Noooooo! I’m not turning into Sharon Spittle!” I moan, clutching my head.

  Sharon Spittle is a Year 11 girl who has been engaged, like, three times already. And every time, she asks Edith the android school secretary to change her surname in the class register. Then she prances around showing off a gaudy ring that usually comes out of an amusement arcade until her finger goes green. Cringe. Sharon once fell in love with Ataf Hussein in the sixth form and began appearing at Blackwell in a full Muslim burka. The girl is an absolute horse’s ass. A total prize numpty.

  She’s the sort of dweebish, bed-wetting mutant who ... rings emergency wards on Friday night to find her boyfriend.

  Oh my God, I’m turning into Sharon Spittle!

  “That’s it, then, new LBD legislation has been passed: Blank Jimi Steele. Blank him for a month!” chants Fleur.

  “A month’s about long enough, Ronnie,” shrugs Claude.

  “Okay. A month it is.” I smile, feeling extremely empowered. I switch off my mobile phone and put it in my bag.

  “Which brings me neatly to point two,” says Fleur, grabbing a Post-it-note-stuck copy of New Musical Express magazine. “Now wait for it...”

  “Go on, I’m on the edge of my beanbag,” I say dubiously.

  “Two words, a hundred and twenty thousand people, forty-eight hours of LBD fun, one fantastic way to annoy the bejesus out of Jimi Buttmunch Steele,” chirps Fleur with a highly mischievous grin, “blows Blackwell Disco and that little fête we held last year right out of the water. Ta-da! Astlebury Festival!”

  Fleur opens the mag at a double-page advert for Astlebury, happening the last weekend of July. Less than two weeks away.

  “Oh, God,” mutters Claude. “Fleur, we agreed ...”

  “Astlebury Festival?” I say. “You want the LBD to go to Astlebury Rock ’n’ Pop Weekender?”

  “Yes!” says Fleur.

  “Now Fleur,” I begin, almost as if I’m talking to my mad old nana. “Have you forgotten what happened last year when we asked our parents about Astlebury?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We didn’t go, did we?” I say very slowly.

  “Pah, a minor setback,” scoffs Fleur. “Look, girls, I know we agreed we’d not bother asking this year, blah, blah, blah ... but behold! Our friend, honorary LBD member, pop god and all-round kind of swoon Spike Saunders is headlining the second night! Oh, and Final Warning are playing too.”

  “That’s Jimi’s favorite band,” I say with a slight evil grin.

  “And there’s a twenty-four-hour dance tent this year too!” Fleur squeaks.

  “And an unsigned bands stage! Ooh, I bet loads of gorgeous musician lads hang around that one! And there are tickets left, I’ve checked!”

  “God, how annoyed would Jimi be if we all went, eh?” mutters Claude. “That would be soooo ace.” Then she checks herself and tries to be sensible.

  “Fleur, do you realize,” Claude asks, adjusting her specs with her finger, “that a psychiatric symptom of insanity is asking the same question again and again but expecting a different answer?”

  “Uggh, eh?” says Fleur.

  “Okay, more simply ... Fleur, the LBD won’t be allowed to go. Just like last year,” says Claude. “Ergo, you’re insane.”

  “Ergo, that’s a maybe,” argues Fleur, “but you’re forgetting something crucial, Claudiebuns. Last summer, when the LBD asked to go to Astlebury, something totally fantastic and unforgettable happened. We ended up having a huge fabulous adventure and meeting Spike Saunders! Ooh, can you not see, girls?! It’s our destiny to ask again.”

  “She’s got a point, Claude,” I say, warming to the idea. “But you do both know that my uncle Charlie doesn’t work for Spike anymore, or even work in the music business at all, so it’s a bit different this time.”

  Fleur and Claude nod their heads thoughtfully.

  “But hey, it wouldn’t hurt to ask our parents,” I say, feeling suddenly maverick. “And besides, I’m well up for another LBD jamboree. I think it might just show Jimi who’s wearing the trousers in this relationship too.”

  “You’re not kidding,” smiles Claude.

  “Well, that’s our second point of order then,” says Fleur. “We begin applying pester power to our parents about Astlebury forthwith! Oh, this is going to be so great, girls! Everyone say we’re agreed!”

  “Agreed!” Claude and I chorus, not quite believing our own ears.

  “Who needs Blackwell Disco, bambinos? We’re off to Astlebury!” giggles Fleur, suddenly clutching her neck. “Jeez, I better get this battle scar covered,” she says. “I’m gonna ask Paddy right away! Well ... the second he gets home after his anger management class.”

  The best thing about Fleur Swan is, she’ll never truly know just how funny she is.

  “Good a time as any!” concedes Claude, giving Fleur a big thumbs-up before lying back on the bed and covering her head with the NME magazine.

  BLACKWELL SCHOOL MEMORANDUM—FOR THE ATTENTION OF PARENTS/GUARDIANS

  DATE: Tuesday, 13 July

  SUBJECT: End of Term

  FROM: Mr. McGraw, Headmaster

  Parents and guardians of Blackwell pupils are reminded that summer term ends this THURSDAY, 15TH OF JULY.

  Much as I acknowledge that this is a joyous time of year for pupils, ever indicative of high spirits and youthful japes, please let me stress that any repetition of previous years’ shenanigans WILL NOT be tolerated.

  Any pupil straying the boundaries of acceptable innocent fun into the realms of wanton, evil tomfoolery SHALL BE PUNISHED ACCORDINGLY.

  Can parents/guardians please note that the following items ARE EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN FROM BLACKWELL SCHOOL:

  * EGGS * FLOUR * WATER PISTOLS * ALL PETS * INDELIBLE INK MAGIC MARKERS * SCARY CLOWN MASKS * STINK BOMBS* FIRECRACKERS * GHETTO BLASTERS OR ANY GENRE OF “SOUND SYSTEM” * ALCOHOL * CATAPULTS * PEASHOOTERS OR ANY OTHER BLOW WEAPON * BUTTERFLY KNIVES * SMOKE BOMBS * SHURIKAN THROWING STARS * NUNCHUCKS

  NB—Blackwell staff reserve the right to frisk pupils suspected of carrying contraband items.

  Finally, please let me take this opportunity to wish you all a jocund summer and also sincerely thank everybody for a pleasant term. I’m certain it was as rewarding and inspiring for the pupils as it was for myself.

  MR. MCGRAW

  Chapter 2

  the happiest days of my life

  Oh, thank you, God. Another term practically over.

  I absolutely, totally and utterly hate school with every fiber of my being. I hate the hideous uniform, with its hideous gray A-line skirt with kick pleats, and the fetching blue woolen sweater that makes me look like a big shapeless blue and gray splodge. Oh, and not forgetting the snazzy white ankle socks, the most unflattering hosiery choice possible for my chunky ankles and goalkeeper calves. Of course while I look like a barrel on feet, Fleur Swan carries off the whole idiot garb with stylish aplomb. The fact that she’s almost 85 percent long brown, toned leg doesn’t do her much harm. Claude, incidentally, doesn’t mind the Blackwell uniform, because “having her clothes chosen for her every day gives her more time to learn.”

  Yes, she did actually say this ... the big book-ogling freak.

  But uniformphobia is only the beginning. I hate pretty much everything else about Blackwell. I hate being yelled and harangued at 7:15 A.M. to “get out of my pit” by my drill sergeant mother. I hate arguing with her every single day over the fact that I don’t want to eat yucky poached eggs or vile bran cereal eleven minutes after opening my eyes. I hate then being absolutely ravenous by 9:30 A.M. (wishing I’d eaten the bran-poo flakes) and then having to sit through double French while Madam
e Bassett witters on about delicious-sounding croque-monsieurs and gateaux de chocolate. I hate being shoved out into the yard at break when it’s drizzling because school rules decry pupils sitting in the classrooms. So the LBD loiter glumly around the back of the gray bird-cack-splattered gym to find shelter from the elements, then get shoved away by teachers because it’s a hideout for smokers. So we trudge to the far end of the lower-school yard, where we’re shouted at again because pupils are now barred from “frequenting within twenty meters’ radius of the school pond.” (This new rule emerged after Royston Potter threw Sebastian Smythe, a sensitive Year 8 ballet enthusiast and amateur puppeteer, in among the algae every day for a whole week. Eventually Seb began wearing a lemon Speedo to school and pirouetting in himself, just to cut out the middle man.)

  Sometimes I feel as if the LBD spend our entire Blackwell break times being chased round and round the ranch confines like depressed ankle-sock-wearing big game.

  And I hate that if you’re not excellent at sports and you’re not promising at math or English, or on the other hand you’re not a total freako uniquo who disrupts lessons by setting fire to desks and punching staff, you start to feel sort of ... well ... invisible. Oh, and I hate, hate, hate those belligerent thickos who work in the P.E. department, like Mr. Patton, who has hairy shoulder tufts poking from under his yellowing T-shirt and thinks we all don’t know that he’s dating that cafeteria worker with the eczema who always picks her nose. Bleeeeee!

  I hate worrying which corner of the school my lessons will chuck me in, and dreading bumping into any of Blackwell’s many vile school bullies who are always armed with a nasty remark or sneering glance. And, yes, this does mean you in particular, Panama Goodyear and your snooty ghoulish gang. Jeez, why are newspapers filled with such tragic deaths, yet bogdwellers like Panama never chance upon a runaway combine harvester?

  I hate some of the teachers so much that I actually smirked, yes, smirked when one of them fell down the science block stairs and fractured his collarbone. In my defense this was Mr. Graves, who wears a beige car coat, always has white phleggy bits in the comers of his mouth and ... this is the grudge I hold ... once read out to everyone in my applied science class a note I passed Claudette asking to borrow some lunch money. All the boys called me Parasite Ripperton and threw pennies at me for a week.

  I hate being yelled at to “WALK, DON’T RUN” all the time.

  Even when I am flipping walking!

  And being told, “The bell is for me, not for you” at the end of every lesson. I hate assemblies where we get moaned at for half an hour about our “shoddy uniform standards.” And school trips that are always to somewhere rubbish like the local radioactive power plant, monastery ruins or forgotten seaside towns so we can study their now-obsolete fishing industry.

  Suffice to say, I hate school. If it wasn’t for Fleur and Claude ... well, I don’t know how I’d cope.

  “I’ve really, reeeeeally hated school this term, Mum,” I tell Mum matter-of-factly as we stare at each other over the breakfast dishes, picking sleep snot from our eyes. “I’m not going today.”

  “Of course you hate school,” says Mum dryly, pausing to make a face at baby Seth, who’s slavering all over himself in his chair. “Only weirdos like school. I’d be more worried if you loved it.”

  Mum does this reverse psychology thing a lot. It’s sort of unnerving.

  “This got anything to do with that Jimi?” says Mum.

  “Nah.” I sigh.

  Thank you, Mother. That’s a record twelve whole minutes awake before I’ve been reminded about the Jimi scenario.

  “You see, I don’t need to go today anyway, it’s the end of term. All the lessons have wound down now. It’s not like it’s compulsory,” I moan.

  “Really?” says Mum.

  “Yeah. It’s like, y‘know, flexitime. I’ve gone almost all year, y’see? Even when I’ve been ill and stuff ... so I get today in lieu.”

  “Ahhhh, right,” coos Mum. “Well, you just get yourself back to bed then. I’ll bring you a cup of tea after I’ve done all the housework, fed Seth and supervised the lunchtime shifts.”

  “What? Really!” I shrill, getting all excited.

  Mum looks full of glee now.

  “Nooooo! Of course you can’t! You’re going to school with the rest of the ankle biters!” she erupts, laughing like a demented horse. “Ha ha, flexitime! I’ve heard it all now. Get your bag packed, twinkie, you’re off to school. I’m spending some quality time with my son today. I estimate I’ve got about three months left before he starts back chatting to me too—I’m going to enjoy it!”

  Huh! It’s bad enough that my mother pranced around town for nine months with a massive stomach, meaning everyone at school knew beyond doubt that she and Dad are still, ugggghhh, y’know, “doing it” (bleeeeeeee!), but now that Seth’s born, she’s blatantly giving the little infiltrator preferential treatment ! I wish I had a child psychologist to tell all of this to. I am sooo totally being mentally abused. And as for Seth, well, I can’t wait until he’s twelve so I can give him an extra-big revenge wedgie. Obviously, for now, I’ll just let him be cute and stick pureed fruit in his scalp, as that seems to make him happy.

  “Pghhhhgh,” I huff, changing tack, clutching my stomach. “But I can’t go to school. I feel sick.”

  “So do I,” retorts Mum, laughing. “Come tonight, I’ve got your miserable face to look at for six entire weeks. You! Mooching about, telling me you’re bored on repetitive play and tapping me for money. I’m as sick as a bleeding parrot.”

  At this millisecond, it occurs to me that there is no more suitable conversational junction to ask Magda about the LBD’s jaunt to Astlebury Festival. I’ve been procrastinating over this for four days now, as every time I see Mum she’s either knee-deep in poo and diapers or downstairs pouring pints or cooking bar meals till almost 11 P.M. while I watch Seth. There’s no point in asking Dad, as all decisions have to be rubber-stamped by Her Highness.

  But hang on ... surely Magda has just specifically said that she wants to see less of my miserable face? It could be gone for almost four whole days!

  “So Muuu-huum,” I begin, using my singsong voice, the traditional opening bars to me wanting something.

  “Yep, what do you want from me now?” Mum predicts over her shoulder, clearing half-eaten eggs into the rubbish bin. “And before you begin, Veronica, go easy on my nerves. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Cassie and Kiki, those brain-dead bimbos I was foolishly calling waitresses, finally quit their jobs last night. I am officially a woman on the edge of something murderous. I mean... Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

  Mum throws her head back and sort of roars, by way of illustration.

  “Errrr, ooh ... ,” I mumble.

  “Ibiza! Flipping Ibiza! They’ve only gone and got jobs in a beach disco! And, well ... that’s it! Au revoir! No notice! Nothing. Vamoooosh! I’ve got no staff left! Well, except that useless Aussie idiot Travis, and to be frank, if he calls me Sheila one more time, I’m going to stick his didgeridoo intimately where the sun doesn’t set and ... ooh, well, I could almost explode.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes, oh, dear! This is not good for my post-natal blood pressure, Ronnie. Why is the world filled with annoying cretins? I’m soooo angry. God, y’know, Ronnie, I think if anyone gives me any hassle today, I’m simply going to whip off my varicose vein support tights and strangle them!”

  “Mmm ... right,” I say, biting my lip as Mum crashes cupboard doors, being that sort of angry where she laughs a lot with big, wide, scary, unblinking eyes.

  That’s the worst kind. She’s gone to the bad place.

  “But anyway, tootles, enough about me,” Mum says, crashing open the dishwasher and producing a large sharp bread knife. “What did you want to ask me?”

  The knife’s edge glints in the early morning sunlight.

  “Mmm ... y’know, it doesn’t really matter,” I say, being as flaky as the LBD always
accuse me of.

  “Oh ... well ... are you sure?” asks Mum, pausing a second from chucking plates into their rack with wild abandon.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Gotta go anyway, Fleur and Claude are here. See ya later, loonytoons,” I say and blow her a kiss.

  “Ta ta for now,” says Mum, catching it and smacking it to her cheek.

  “Hey, and face-ache ... enjoy your last day at school, eh?”

  “Gnnnnngn,” I groan.

  special escort

  Fleur Swan is propped against the black knight on the oversized chess set near the back gate of the Fantastic Voyage, madly texting, with digits o’ fury, whichever lad it is this week on her top-of-the-range mobile phone. Fleur is always texting. She prefers to deal with most people outside of the LBD employing sentences of approximately three words or less. And even then, those words will be abbreviated to an unintelligible mess of numbers and symbols that not even Claude can decipher.

  This conversational brevity gives Fleur more time to focus on her ambitions, namely1. To marry “Duke of Pop” Spike Saunders,

  2. To feature in the “Beyond the Velvet Rope” party section of Red Hot Celebs magazine and

  3. Her ongoing life quest to find unchippable gold nail varnish.

  You’ve gotta have dreams.

  Today Fleur (34-22-34) is wearing her Blackwell uniform with the skirt turned up at the waistband, shortening it elegantly at the knee. Her love bite is expertly hidden with industrial-strength concealer gloop while her legs are newly shaven then moisturized, sporting an all-over even tan. Fleur’s crisp white shirt is tailored neatly into her waspish waist, and her hair looks like she should be cavorting through fields of spun wheat in a shampoo ad. She really hacks me off sometimes. I, in contrast, have a creased blouse and odd socks. I very quickly hazarded using some eyeliner before I left the house and haven’t had a chance to comb my hair yet. Roughly speaking, I look like an aging goth rocker on the last leg of an eighty-date “No Sleep Till Moscow” world tour.