Gran is away at the moment on one of her mad painting trips, so that spares me her commentary on this whole mess. She’s not one for mincing her words. Last time I fell over in front of her, she pointed and said, ‘Lookit – up to her behind in legs, that one.’
Truly. Deeply. Madly. Embarrassing. I was blessed that only Mum was there, although that was bad enough, as we nearly had to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on her to stop her choking on laughter and a bit of Bakewell tart that had gone down the wrong way. I dread to think what my grandmother might have come out with about the incident involving my huge, pinky pants. I gaze at my hands and think, ‘At least my nail varnish matches my knickers’, though colour co-ordination doesn’t exactly remove the event from the annals of horrid human experience.
Gran follows the principle that if you tell everyone everything about yourself, and all about anyone you know, there is nothing else left to discover and therefore all curiosity and gossip is null and void. Which means it’s v v difficult to have a secret in our house and then to try and keep it from the world and its wife.
I notice Uggs looking in alarm at something Dixie is showing him on her phone. Oh no.
The greatest and most evil of Dixie’s superpowers is her ability to capture the most embarrassing moments on her phone camera. Even she can’t fathom how she does it. It’s like it’s deep-rooted in her DNA. She’s even got a photo of herself in a v compromising position with Jason Fielding that defies all logical explanation. We never speak of it.
I turn to her. ‘You’ve got a photo of what just happened, haven’t you?’
Without a word she nods and hands over her mobile and I see the full horror. I try to be brave but I can feel tears forming, prickly and hot. I manage, ‘My bum really does look big in this,’ and lapse into humming again. I may need to burst into song to cure the situation. Singing comes a close second after the Kit Kat as a salve for all ills. Despite Dixie’s best efforts, knitting doesn’t stand a chance.
‘I can’t go to the Youth Club this month,’ I finally say, stating the glaringly obvious. My shame is too great and further humiliation would be primed and ready for me at the hands of every single eejit there, me being the biggest eejit of all. I may never be able to have a social life ever again after this. I’ll probably have to start hanging around with Delia Thomas, the oddest girl in our class if not the whole school.
‘No one else has a photo except Dixie,’ Uggs says.
I know he’s trying to be kind and that makes me want to cry harder.
Dix understands why this is not altogether the best thing. ‘That only means the story will grow in the telling,’ she points out, and it sounds horribly like something my mad gran would say.
I gulp back my tears. I’m finding it difficult to breathe without giving little moans of horror and grief. Also, as mad as it is to say it, my arms and legs feel dizzy, or fuzzy somehow. It’s not a pleasant sensation. My life, poor and all as it was, is over – ComparetheMockery.com is all I can look forward to henceforth. I am reluctantly cast as a tragic heroine and it doesn’t feel half as good as I thought it would in any of my daydreams.б This is snotty and it hurts my chest and boils my heart and bungs up my eyes. It has nothing to recommend it.
Knit ’N’ Knatter
Dix calls the emergency meeting of the Gang to order. It’s a mixture of her helping me by keeping me busy (because MY LIFE IS OVER) and the fact that she finds it v v difficult to sit still for long without ‘achieving’ something. It’s not so much that Dixie fidgets but she’s BUSY, all the time. I SO want to cry, great bawling wails, but somehow I choke them back.
There are few rules to the Gang meetings except that you have to be creating while chatting. We call it Knit ’n’ Knatter. Uggs had trouble with it all initially because he’s a guy and it’s not very butch to knit or sew if you’re a bloke, especially if you live in Oakdale. But we convinced him that it’s a great thing to be able to sew a button on a shirt, for instance.* And, now, if he were to get stranded on a desert island, he’d be able to weave a pair of shoes from dried leaves … probably … or run up a fishing net from strands and fronds of, erm, trees and such. Ennyhoo, you get the idea. Thankfully he has no trouble with the chatting element of the club.
‘Choose your weapons,’ Dix tells us, and Uggs and I duly reach for needles and yarn.
There are always lots of projects on the go (gifts for birthdays, et cetera) so there’s never any shortage of work to be dealt with. My gran finds it particularly hilarious that we knit because she thinks that’s a tad old-fashioned but we have assured her that, in fact, it’s so retro it’s achingly HIP.
Uggs spends a lot of his meeting time rescuing balls of wool from his varmint dog, Gypsy. It is nasty to have to knit anything when she has gobbed all over it and it’s therefore damp and smelly. Also, she shed hair all over a beanie that Dixie made last February (as a Valentine’s gift to herself) and it was half dog, half hat in the end. Uggs said that meant it was ultra cosy and thermally insulated, but a pink hat with brown and white wiry hairs matted through, and sticking out in places, was not the effect Dix was going for.
Dixie loves knitting as much as she loves gossiping, so the meetings are heaven for her. And, because she’s so much better at knitting than Uggs and I, she’s ‘in charge’ of all of the crafty element of the meetings. It can be hilarious when she gets all philosophical, though it might be uncomfortable for me today if she tries to solve my new problems through the medium of wool.
Right now I must admit that it’s therapeutic to have something distracting to do. Only trouble is my hands are shaking and I’m probably going to stab myself a few times if I’m not careful. It took me a while to get in any way good with my knit and purl stitches because I was holding my needles very awkwardly and I was pulling the wool too tight, but I’ve got the hang of it now. The only thing is it can feel a bit too hot dealing with all that wool during the summer heat, so lately I’ve been concentrating on embroidery instead.
I got some linen napkins from a charity shop and I’m making them festive for Christmas. This might seem too far ahead in summer, but, let me tell you, making stuff takes time and you have to start well in advance. Also, I have to do a lot of it away from the prying eyes of my family because these gifts are for them and the Christmas Day surprise would be ruined if they knew what they were getting so far ahead.
I felt I was being thrifty when I got them and also recycling – it’s like I’m being a recessionista AND saving the planet all at once. Each of the napkins will have a festive logo of holly and then the name of the person it’s for, and a few words picked out in embroidery – kind of helpful advice. Dixie says the Gang could go into business selling embroidered or cross-stitched items with good advice on them like ‘Never lick a steak knife’ or ‘Always tuck the shower curtain into the bath’ or ‘Look after number one and be careful not to step on number two’.† Ennyhoo, my clan napkins are customized thusly:
Mum’s says STEP AWAY FROM THE KIT KAT.
Dad’s is CHEW AND SWALLOW.
Gran’s is DO NOT SPEAK WITH YOUR MOUTH FULL.
Dermot’s is NO SLURPING.
I’m sort of zoning out over my napkins when Dix says, ‘Rightyo, first rule of babies?’ so I’m right back into the major issue facing the Quinn family.
‘Poo?’ I say.
‘Nappies?’ Uggs chances.
‘BOOTIES!’ Dix announces.
I groan. I should have guessed that Knit ’n’ Knatter would have a big baby element to it from now on, whether I like it or not.
Noteworthy
I love singing. Mum was so taken with this that she arranged for me to have lessons with a mad lady called Miss Langford, who wore a lot of scarves around her neck and on her head and favoured a v v red lippy and hair to match. She was actually lots of fun but I think she was usually a bit squiffy by the time I arrived. And then one day she was gone: upped and left without any warning. Gran likes to say that Miss Langford had saved enough
‘running-away money’ by then and left with the Raggle Taggle Gypsies(o).*
Now I concentrate on the choir. It’s run by Mr Bell and he loves the sound of his own voice. He doesn’t always love the sound of everyone else’s. That was the problem with Dixie. She is v v enthusiastic when she takes on a project but she can’t hold a tune. It still took Big Ears Bell twenty minutes to find who was making that ‘horrible screech’.
‘Is some poor creature in pain?’ he asked, though none of us felt he was that concerned about whoever was suffering because he added, ‘I know I am.’
He made us all belt out a hymn and he sneaked about, wincing and passing comment on all the sounds he heard. He used the word ‘offensive’ a lot. Dix and I were hiding up the back so we were in the final examination when she was discovered and ‘cast out’ as she reported it to Uggs.†
I actually thought I might die laughing throughout it all and Dixie really enjoys telling the story of her short career as a chorister, complete with her trademark caterwauling.
The great thing about Mr Bell, though, is that he makes sure we all take things seriously, like warming up our voices before we sing. I find that relaxing too. We don’t lie around on the floor doing the breathing exercises any more though, because most of us were so relaxed one day we fell asleep and he said that was ‘counter-productive’. So we do our breathing and then our scales and then we sing. I think that’s why I hum a lot when I’m stressed: it calms me. Also, breathing is handy for staying alive, so it’s probably good to practise it too.
The best fun at choir was when a dance teacher, who uses one of the other rooms in the school for classes, came in to suggest she collaborate with Big Ears on an interpretive piece and he nearly fainted.
He clutched his chest and gasped, ‘Making it up as we go along? Anarchy!’‡
I think if he could have said, ‘Begone,’ and turned her into a frog he would have: instead he settled for, ‘Madam, please leave.’ Then he had to have a break to gather his ‘shattered nerves’.
Dixie was still in the group at the time and she does a brilliant re-enactment of the incident.
I’m sort of using choir practice now to prepare for singing in public solo because if I do anything at home there’s nowhere to hide. The Quinns are a nosey bunch.
Zits
A couple of weeks later Dixie and I are lying in the sun in my back garden and she’s still working on me to change my mind about not going to the Youth Club tonight, though she’s wasting her breath.
Besides anything else, I have sprouted a crop of zits on my face, most of them congregating on my greasy chin, although there is also one on my forehead that would be the envy of any unicorn. I also feel a bit odd today. I can’t quite pin it down but it’s kind of like being poorly except that I’m not actually sick, I don’t think. I ache. And I’m cranky, no doubt about that.
Sunshine will help clear the spots up, according to the Oracle beside me, but it has really got its work cut out with me today. I am Zitsville, U S of A (Unhappiest Sight of All).
I am resolved not to back down on my self-imposed exile. I am still burning with shame after my public spill at the hands of That Dog. The only comforting detail of the whole debacle is that none of the lads’ girlfriends was there to witness the awful occasion.
Dermot goes out with Samantha Cooper and she’s got legs that go on forever, blonde hair, blue eyes and a tan – it’s like she chose all of the right ingredients out of a catalogue and, hey presto, she’s gorgeous. Sam is slinky and scary. So are her friends, Danielle and Emma Louise. Together they’re SamDanandEmmyLou. We call them the Slinkies. They terrify me. In fact, anyone who’s not afraid of that lot is a fool.
EmmyLou definitely has the hots for Stevie Lee Bolton and makes a beeline for him anytime she can. EmmyLou and Stevie Lee … the sound of it makes me shake with anxiety, but, hey, it’s not a million miles away from Jenny Q and Stevie Lee, although it is really.* I haven’t a hope. I’m like plain Jane Eyre in love with Mr Rochester but keeping her feelings in check because they’re not appropriate for someone of her station. Stevie Lee Bolton is sixteen and I am only thirteen and it’s a well-known fact that older people are not interested in younger ones in their teenage years: an awful fact, but a fact none the less.
What do I have to offer him that she might not? Eh, nothing, barring some youthful enthusiasm (unwanted, see just above). Sure, I’m good with words, which is only great if you know what it is you want to say! I can sing too, but I don’t picture myself serenading Stevie Lee, as that would be the act of a totes crazy person.
EmmyLou is also a true slinky – a bona fide† one. She’s got long legs, perfect teeth and skin, and highlights in her hair. She also has an annoying, tinkly laugh and wears her cardigan sleeves down over her knuckles in winter and for some reason that makes everyone she meets want to do stuff for her. The Slinkies have feminine wiles. I wonder if this happens to all females as a matter of course. Perhaps Dixie and I will get wiles eventually, as we grow older.
The Slinkies say, ‘Oh. Mo. Dhia,’‡ all the time and clasp their French-manicured hands (no colour for them this season) to their chests. Incidentally, colour is allowed in the bra department and they always, BUT ALWAYS, show a bra strap from under their tops, which are usually cropped. Sam has a bellybutton piercing and it’s only a matter of time before the others go there too. And they wear matching pants,б I just know it.
‘The reason they have longer legs than us is that they’re older,’ Dixie says after I complain yet again about the unfairness of the Quinn family genes. ‘They’ve had more time to grow them.’
There’s a rumour doing the rounds that Samantha also has a tattoo of a heart with her name written in it on her butt. Dixie says this is in case anything happens to her and that it’s nothing more than having your dog or cat microchipped, which is funny, but there’s no denying that we’re both really jealous. We had dreamed of getting one each for our recent birthdays but that would have caused war and groundings at home. And the school has banned long earrings and even the eating of cheese ’n’ onion crisps, so there’s no way it would allow tattoos.
Boobs
The Slinkies will most definitely be at the Youth Club tonight, which is another good reason not to go. The Incident of the Falling Over on the Decking and this outbreak of spots are just too much to have to deal with in public, especially against stiff competition like SamDanandEmmyLou.
I’m quite relieved even though I spent all of last week getting in and out of every scrap of clothing I possess trying to choose just the right outfit. I settled on my pale-blue denim shorts and a red-and-white halter-neck top with a navy, lurex shrug and my navy wedge sandals, but I’m now thinking it’d all have been a bit too sailor-looking and I hate themed outfits because they’re only a step away from fancy dress.* It would have been asking for trouble and having to listen to ‘Ar, me hearties’ and ‘Shiver me timbers’ type comments all evening.
I practised my make-up too, including trying to tame some glitter eyeshadow – I think I went for too dark a colour and I looked like a shiny panda for most of the day. There’s sparkle on everything I own now. Then both Dix and I had accidents with fake tan, which went v v streaky, so the shorts had to be ruled out as an option. She’s wearing Capri trousers tonight as a result and hoping no one looks too closely at her ankles, where all of the surplus tan seems to have gathered in an orange riot.
‘You have to come,’ Dix is insisting, ‘for ME.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What if I have to make friends with someone else and then can’t get away from them ever again?’
I’ll admit I don’t like the sound of that. At all. ‘Stay close to Uggs and you’ll be fine,’ I advise.
‘What will you do?’ she wants to know.
Good question.
I shrug and look into the distance in a profound way. I’m hoping it’ll bamboozle her into leaving me alone on the subject. No such luck.
�
��Well?’ she presses.
I give in and tell the truth. ‘I’ll perform surgery on a few of these bubonic boils, get into my pyjamas and eat a lot of chocolate. Maybe not in that order. Then you’ll text me reports on what I’m missing.’
‘It all sounds a bit wintery.’
She’s right. PJs and choc need a fire to be curled up in front of. Dad might barbecue something this evening and that will have to do instead. She’s giving me a squinty eye over something.
‘What?’
‘Are your buzooms getting bigger?’
My boobs have been slow off the mark compared with most of the others in my year, but I had been thinking they might be on the move of late.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say, and we both have a look at them till I go, ‘Can we stop staring at my chesticles now or they might decide they don’t like the attention and stop growing?’
So Dix holds up her newly painted nails. ‘Verdict?’
Her nail varnish is a vile shade of yellow, a yellow that even Uggs’s mum would baulk at. ‘Epic fail.’
‘It’s the colour of the sun,’ she insists.
‘The colour of a sickly sun that has just vomited up some very runny, bad egg,’ I point out. And it is.
Dix is not pleased with my verdict on her nail varnish and decides to be mean to me. ‘Same yellow as –’
I hold my hand up and stop her before she says, ‘Some of your zits.’
We sit in a v v awkward silence, not looking one another in the eye because we both know I have just saved our friendship because what she was about to say was true but just too personal. It’s hard having a Bestest (and being one in return) because you just CANNOT be as mean to one of those as you can to your immediate family. There is a line. It must not be crossed.
Jenny Q, Stitched Up Page 3
