Are These My Basoomas I See Before Me

by Louise Rennison

  five minutes later

  We zoomed off and went to Ciao Bella’s. Which is a new and groovy pasta place. In the center of town. I’ve never actually been in it because when we had passed it, I was with Dad, Libby and Grandad, and Dad said there was too much glassware around. And the waiters looked a bit too namby-pamby to deal with Libby and Grandvati.

  one hour later

  I suppose this is what my new Lunnern life will be like. Stopping off at bijou restaurants for a quick supper before…well, before what? Extended snogging?

  The Luuurve God told me that the management people want them to move to London quite soon. Then he just looked at me and smiled. He touched my cheek.

  “What do you think, Miss Georgia?”

  Everyone is so bloody keen on me thinking all of a sudden. It’s not what I do.

  Masimo had tiny mollusks in spaghetti. Like little clammy things.

  I’m bloody glad I had a pizza because if I had had mollusks and spaghetti, I might have managed to choke and strangle myself at the same time. I feel like I am on the verge of an enormous visit to Strop Central, stopping only at nervy tizz headquarters.

  Masimo said, “If you don’t want me to go, I will not go. I can always do my music. Maybe I could write some songs for the band.”

  But it didn’t seem right somehow.

  He got hold of my hand.

  “You are young—this is big decision for you. But, if you like, I will find for us a place to live. I have friends there, and you could go for your college there.”

  Go for college to do what?

  9:30 p.m.

  When I came in, Mum was mumming around.

  She said, “Are you OK?”

  I said, “What do you think?”

  She said, “Would you like a hot choccy?”

  “As if that will help.”

  “You do want one, though, don’t you?”

  in the kitchen

  She went, “Sooo?”

  I didn’t mean to tell her, but I didn’t have enough room left in my brain to think about it anymore.

  I said, “He said if I didn’t want him to go, he wouldn’t go.”

  She said, “Hmmm.”

  I said, “Mum, if you are going to annoy me by hhhhhmmmming I may as well go and tell some bees about it.”

  She put her arm around me.

  “Look, I’m wanting to try and find out how you feel, that’s all.”

  Well, she is not on her own there.

  Mum says this is good practice for me, trying to figure out about love and how I feel.

  She says I shouldn’t be afraid to lose someone by saying the wrong thing.

  She also said that girls make the mistake of thinking they should do what they think boys want.

  After a while I said, “In a nutshell, Mum, are you saying that I should strop around doing what I want?”

  She said, “Yep, boys like that. And also you will find that if you try to be good and nice and girlie and make sacrifices, you will get madder and madder at the boy. And he won’t even know why.”

  in my bedroom

  What in the name of Beelzebub’s Y-fronts is that supposed to mean?

  in bed

  Why do I have to keep doing stuff?

  Making decisions and so on.

  It’s bad enough knowing what shoes to wear but now, suddenly, it’s all: “What do you want to do as a job?”

  “I don’t know!!” is the answer. I’ve only just really learned how to get up and go to school EVERY BLOODY DAY!!!

  And now it’s: “Do you want to go to London and be a popstar’s girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know!!!” is the answer. It’s only a minute and a half since I got a popstar. I don’t know what you bloody do with them day after day.

  I feel like stabbing something.

  midnight

  I can’t wait for the sword fighting thing.

  Maybe bludgeoning Ellen to death (metaphorically) will give me a bit of light relief.

  whey—heyyyy!!

  tuesday october 4th

  Bum-ty has made a desperate bid for freedom! He is up the big tree next door.

  Apparently Libby thought he needed a bit of a wash and blow-dry, and got him out of the Robin-mobile and into the washing-up bowl. When she went to get the hair dryer he must have staggered off.

  He is free, free, free!!!!

  Free from the cat staring.

  He can fly free and wild with his sparrow friends.

  As I walked to school, I could see lots of his sparrow friends all gathering on the branch near him.

  Staring at him.

  He is shuffling up the branches.

  They are just staring.

  stalag 14

  ace gang meeting

  The gang are taking a vote on what I should do vis-à-vis the Luuurve God situation.

  The options:

  a) Tell the Luuurve God not to go.

  b) Bravely tell him to go with a quivering lip (not him having the quivering lip, me having it…keep up).

  c) Bog off to London with him and Devil take the hindmost. Our Lord Sandra will take care of me.

  d) The mysterious option d

  It’s a secret ballot paper, where you put a cross next to the option you choose.

  However, I know which is Ellen’s because she has ticked everything and then crossed it out and then ticked everything again.

  OK, the result is: one vote for c. (That will be Rosie. In fact, I know it is because she put a cross with a little beard on it.) The rest are b’s.

  Sad, really.

  I sort of knew that would happen.

  I said, “How come no one voted for the mysterious option d?”

  Mabs said, “What is it?”

  And I said, “I don’t know. That is why it is so mysterious.”

  lunchtime

  Jas had a secret rendezvous with Tom in the alleyway by the science block. I had to be the guardey-dog-type person.

  That is the kind of top pal I am.

  Actually, since she has decided to let Tom boing off on his elastic band she is getting quite un-Jasish. Less Miss Hufty Knickers and more Ms. Loosey Goosey Knickers…with just a hint of Devil take the hindmost about the gusset area. She even applied a bit of lip gloss. In school hours!!! The little rebel. And she turned her skirt over. As she went off to meet Hunky, I said to her, “Jas, you’re not wearing a thong, are you?”

  And she didn’t say no.

  Or hit me.

  Or fiddle with her fringe.

  Hmmmmmm.

  As I was lolling about, minding my own business, Elvis Attwood came shambling and perving along. With a hosepipe. He’s probably pretending to clean the windows.

  I said, “Your hosepipe is very big, Mr. Attwood.”

  He, as usual, went sensationally ballistic for no reason.

  He said, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

  I said, “What am I up to?”

  He said, “No good, that’s what.”

  What kind of sense does that make? When he filled out his form to be a caretaker, they should have given him the lowdown about being a caretaker.

  Stuff like, “If you take this job as caretaker at a girls’ school, there will be quite a lot of girls there. At school. Do you see?”

  It would have saved an awful lot of trouble.

  I watched him turn the nozzle on the hose to start the water coming out. But nothing happened.

  He really has got vair colorful language for a man who fought in the Boer War.

  I watched him as he grumbled back along the hosepipe. He had got it wrapped round a bollard by mistake. He untangled it but then, with a huge whoosh, the trapped water came shooting out. The hosepipe snaked around like a bonkers python. A bonkers python that was chasing Mr. Attwood. He was soaking wet before he managed to get to the tap.

  Python hose even shot his hat off.

  Quite, quite top entertainment.

  The bell rang and Jas
came scampering back going, “Oh, Hunky is sooo, umm, I think I’ll love him forever no matter what happens….”

  Yes, anyway, as we went back into the Temple of Doom, we saw Wet Lindsay slamming into the sixth-form common room. Phew, she was red and scary looking.

  I said to Jas, “What’s the matter with her? Perhaps she tried to wear a hat today and it fell down over her eyes and she realized she has no forehead.”

  Jas looked a bit owly.

  And tapped her nose.

  What is that all about?

  afternoon break

  We’ve just heard on the Bush Telegraph, i.e. Jas, that Robbie has dumped Wet Lindsay. Tom told Jas that Robbie is deffo skipping off to London town with the band, but he is not taking the Wet Wipe with him. He has escaped from the slimy, slimy girl!!!!

  Yessssss!!!!! And thrice Yessssssss!!!

  fives court

  I said, “I think you will all agree that this is a victory in the fight against slimenosity. Robbie’s bid for freedom calls for a celebration Viking bison disco inferno dance. But with a little added je ne sais quoi. In honor of the occasion.”

  So we did the Viking inferno dance, but at the end, instead of falling to our knees and yelling “Hooorn,” we yelled, “Duuuuuummmmmped!!!!!”

  Which was slightly unfortunate timing, as Octopussy Girl herself and ADM came round the corner.

  We sat down quickly and passed around refreshing midget gems. I looked at Lindsay and let a little smile play around my lips.

  If looks could kill, I would have been deader than a dead person on dead tablets. In dead land.

  Wet Lindsay had tiny little mousy eyes from crying. I would feel a bit sorry for her, but she is such a mega-cow and a half, and horrible to the Titches. And, anyway, I’ve got used to hating her. It’s a bit of light relief.

  ADM was saying to her, “How do you feel?”

  Wet Lindsay said, really loudly so that she was sure we would hear, “Well, to be honest, I let it happen. You know, I’ve sort of encouraged him to think he left me, but it’s only to save his pride really. I mean when I went up to uni for my interview, there were loads of really fit boys there. Robbie is quite nice looking, but there are better, much hotter boys.”

  What an enormously ludicrous octopussy slime pot she was.

  As we got up to go in, I looked at her and opened my eyes in a really ironic way.

  She shouted at me, “And you can shut up, Georgia, you tart.”

  How can I shut up when I haven’t said anything?

  What is she going to do now—give me a reprimand for telepathic talking?

  6:00 p.m.

  Masimo called when I got home.

  “Cara, I am off for meeting with the band. We are having talking about our plans, you know. How are you feeling?”

  I said, “You know, a bit freaky-deaky.”

  “Che…”

  “I mean I…oh, I don’t know how to say it in Italian…but, well, I think it should be option b. On the whole.”

  In the end, the Luuurve God said he will pop round before his meeting to talk to me for a little while. Even if he can’t understand what I am saying, it’s still nice of him to come and see me.

  7:30 p.m.

  Sitting outside at the bottom of our garden in the dark. Masimo has put his coat around me and him, and we were looking up at the stars. Winking and a-blinking. But not giving any advice as such.

  I even rescued our Lord Sandra from Libby’s teapot tonight. I’ve been looking for him/her for ages. I thought if I made a shrine for him, like I used to, it might help me know what to do. He had a Blu-Tack foot before, but since I last saw him he seems to have lost a whole leg. I propped him up with Mr. Potato Head. Libby doesn’t lobe Mr. Potato Head since he started going green, but I know Lord Sandra loves him…. It doesn’t say that he loved vegetables as such in the Bible. It doesn’t say that he said, “Blessed are the leek,” but he had whatsit, unconditional love, for all kind.

  It was nice having him there. Still heavily rouged, it has to be said. But it doesn’t alter his innernosity of goodness.

  I suppose I didn’t exactly have a conversation with him, but I did get the feeling that option b would be the right thing to do.

  Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Masimo was being so sweet to me. When I look at him, I can’t believe that he really likes me; he could have anyone he wanted. And actually, if he goes to London, he probably will.

  Masimo said, “Georgia, Georgia.”

  And he kissed me softly on the mouth, and on the nose. (He’s brave, I thought! Shut up, brain.) He was looking down at me.

  “This for you is hard, but let me ’elp you.”

  I was glad to hear that because frankly I needed some ’elp.

  He said, “This is how it is, for me. I have more years than you. I think, yes, it is bene, molto bene, that we have good offer for the band…but, I am man, I am good singer, another band will come.”

  I started to say, “But I—”

  He put his finger on my mouth.

  “For you, it is big thing because you have not so many years. For you, you are afear that I will be sad not for to go to London. But no, for me is cool.”

  God, he was nice.

  I started again, “But I—”

  He said, “Let me finish, then you think more.”

  I nodded, but really I was thinking, “Oh, good grief, please no more with the thinking. Cut my head off, please.”

  Masimo said, “I think if I go to London without you and say we will still be going out, you will be unhappy. You will not know where I am. You like big attention. You are big attention girl. You are like ‘Me, me, me!!!’”

  I thought, er, no, I am not. I was only chatting with Lord Sandra earlier about the bestnosity of choosing option b.

  But he didn’t seem to think being a “me, me, me” girl was a bad thing. He was smiling at me.

  “Georgia, that is good. That is why I like you. But you would be not good if I am busy always away from you. For me, I can say, ‘I am your man, I will be thinking of you and no one else,’ but you will not like. You will say, ‘What about me, me, me!’”

  Blimey.

  When he said, “Me, me, me,” it really sounded like Libby. That’s a bit alarming. I might be a “me, me, me” girl, but I’m not like Libby. I’m grown up. I haven’t ever written BUM on a boy’s forehead in indelible ink. (Although, to be honest, I am quite tempted to do it to Junior Blunderboy.)

  Shut up, brain. Concentrate.

  Masimo had to go.

  He said, “I think maybe I will be saying that, for me this time, I will not be going with the band. And that is for me good also. I will have you, and we will know each other, and then something else will happen. Later maybe we go to London together. Ciao, bella.”

  I wanted to weep and weep. It was so sort of overwhelming.

  And sort of grown up.

  And sort of crap.

  in bed

  Looking through my window into the night sky.

  And at the tree next door.

  I can’t see Bum-ty anywhere.

  one minute later

  The sparrows look a bit fatter to me.

  Is this what happens when you do something wild?

  You pay the price.

  Is that what would happen to me if I went to London?

  I would be eaten by cockney sparrows?

  ten minutes later

  Is Masimo actually going to give up his chance with the Stiffs for me?

  Oooh, I need someone to talk to about it.

  If the Hornmeister could be bothered to keep in touch like a mate, I could ask him.

  I think.

  Actually, I’ll be seeing him the day after tomorrow deffo because the “lads” are coming in after Stalag 14 for a tech read-through. Or “an hour of mayhem” as some people might call it.

  I’ve learned my Merc-lurk-io part, which is a minor miracle given that he rambles on about the Queen of the Fairies for about a milli
on years.

  On the plus side, we are doing the sword fighting thing with Herr Kamyer tomorrow.

  I may be able to work out my inner turmoil by whacking a big sword around. Oo-er.

  wednesday october 5th

  in the gym

  sword workshop

  Herr Kamyer changed into his “sportswear” for the sword fighting. Although he kept his socks and sock suspenders on. We knew this because his trackie bums were ankle length.

  Miss Wilson practically bobbed her way to the loony bin she was so excited to have “Rudi” near her. She was saying, “Now, pay careful attention to Herr Kamyer. He is the expert, and this needs to be very precise because it could be dangerous. Over to you, Herr Kamyer.”

  Rosie said, “She is deffo wearing Mivvy today.”

  Herr Kamyer took off his glasses.

  We all went, “Ooohhh, sir…why, you’re beautiful,” and so on.

  “Now zen, girls, vat ve are doing ist choreographing ze fighting. Ve are not wildly waving our weapons around.”

  We all went, “Whey-heyyyyy!”

  fifteen minutes later

  Good Lord, this is a larf. Nauseating P. Green has been stabbed twice and she isn’t even in the fight scene. It’s her arse; it just seems to attract the sword like a magnet.

  Ellen (Tybalt…or something, er, what do you think) and me (Merc-lurk-io) have this fab fight backward and forward across the stage. Thrust, thrust, parry, thrust, thrust…“Oooh, sorry about that, Pamela”…thrust, thrust.

  The only pity is that we are not allowed fake blood capsules. Miss Wilson said that not only would it be slippery and dangerous, but that she thought it would be “more creative” for us to come up with our own artistic interpretation of blood being spilled.

  Oh no.

  Oh yes.

  fourteen minutes later

  Of course it involves balloons and scarves. I knew it would. And free-form dance.

  Dear God.

  The village people come on when I am stabbed, with red balloons and scarves. Miss Wilson said, “Now then, you village people, you have become blood, you are blood. Blood corpuscles. Spilling out of the wound. Pumping and pumping! Wave those scarves and balloons. Interweave in a dance of blood and death.”

  Good Lord.

  Nauseating P. Green said, “Should I still be the dog and blood at the same time?”

  Miss Wilson said, “No, no, Pamela, put your dog on the side of the stage. You can leave it with one of the technicians.”