by Lil Chase
It’s worse than a box full of pencils. It’s worse than a box full of killer bees.
‘Er, what’s this?’ I ask. But I know what it is.
‘It’s make-up, Gwynnie,’ says Kevin.
‘I know that. But when did you change your name to Max Factor?’
‘You’re fourteen now. I thought you might like it.’
‘I know how old I am, Kevin, but why would you think I want make-up? When have I ever been interested in make-up?’
Now Dad’s the one sending me looks.
Kevin goes all sulky. ‘I wanted to get you something special so I asked my girlfriend what she wanted when she was your age, and she said make-up and stuff. She even helped me pick it out.’ Then he gets defensive. ‘My girlfriend said that a girl of fourteen should be wearing a bit of make-up—’
‘I don’t need advice from your stupid girlfriend!’ I shout at him. (Hang on a minute, when did Kevin get a girlfriend?)
‘Don’t call my girlfriend stupid,’ he says.
‘I didn’t!’ Well, I did, but I didn’t mean it like that.
‘You haven’t met her. You don’t even know her. So why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself?’
‘Look at this stuff,’ I yell, getting a little defensive too. ‘It’s all bright reds and dark blues. So unless your girlfriend is training to be a clown—’
‘Do you know what, Gwynnie—’
‘Hey!’ Dad cuts him off before I can find out what. ‘Gwynnie, apologize to your brother. He was trying to be nice. There was no need to be rude about his friend.’
‘Why should I apologize? He said I was ugly!’
‘I didn’t!’
He did, didn’t he? Well, that’s what it sounded like to me.
‘Forget it, Dad,’ says Kevin, all up on his high horse. ‘If she wants to act like a big kid all her life, then let her.’ He storms out like a moody girl.
‘Kevin!’ Dad calls after him, but the only reply is a slamming door.
‘He’s the big kid,’ I mutter under my breath.
Dad turns to me and looks a bit cross. ‘Gwynnie, one day you will realize . . .’ But he never finishes telling me what I’ll realize one day. Instead he looks around the kitchen and says, ‘Leave all this. I’ll tidy it up later. You’d better get off to school.’ He turns around and picks up his shiny green mac. ‘I’m heading over to Angela’s for a cuppa.’
I decide that I am going to clean the whole kitchen from top to bottom and then he’ll be the one to feel guilty. Housework on your birthday equals child cruelty. I’ll make sure I do a really good job so he feels extra bad about it later.
Then I take another look around the kitchen and decide that even stubbornness doesn’t make me want to touch it. I do what’s morally right and leave the kitchen how it is.
Chapter 4
I am pretty good at football. Actually, to be honest, I am brilliant at football. I’ve been playing since before I could walk, with my dad, with Kevin, with Paul. If they’re not around then I play with a wall.
It’s break time on my birthday and I’m running down the wing, shouting at Justin Kark to pass me the ball. But Justin Kark is a glory-boy ball-hog and he never passes. ‘Justin, pass it! Over here, you muppet!’ Richard Williams, from the same team as Justin and me, tackles the ball off him and that shows Justin Kark.
‘Richard! Over here!’
He doesn’t pass it. Richard Williams is a glory-boy too.
When we play at school, the standard rules of football like you see on telly don’t really apply: it’s about twenty-a-side. One side’s goal is from the rubbish bin to the netball post, and the other goal is from this little painted line on the floor to a pile of coats and bags. The rule is that the Year 7s, 8s and 9s have to play on this pitch. The Year 10s and 11s play on the other pitch. That pitch is better and has actual goals on it. No one knows when these rules started, whether it was the teachers or the pupils that made them up, and no one knows who enforces them. It’s just the way it is.
I’ve just shoulder-barged a Year 8 out the way and got the ball. Another year older, and I’m even better at football than I was yesterday. I can see that Ranjit is open on the wing so I chip it over to him. I am not a glory-boy (glory-girl). I’m sort of standing for a bit to get my breath back when I see the new boy, Charlie Notts, at the left side of the pitch. He’s frowning as he pretends not to look at the two games, one on either side of him.
Behind Charlie Notts I can see Jenny Gregson and her friends following him and whispering to each other like very unsubtle stalkers.
My team’s got the ball back. Better pay attention.
Charlie Notts has taken his jacket off and is still looking at both pitches. I guess he’s trying to decide which one to join. Obviously, as a Year 10, he should be on the other pitch. But the Year 10s are knobs and they won’t let everyone play. He looks again at our pitch. The safer bet, but the rubbisher conditions.
Justin Kark has the ball again. ‘Justin, Justin, over here!’ I shout. But Justin is glory-boying as usual.
Charlie Notts catches someone’s eye on the Year 10/11 pitch but they give him a dirty look, so Charlie Notts turns away.
‘Justin! Pass me the ball!’
I can see the girls whispering really blatantly and then they all start walking towards Charlie Notts, pouting and flicking their hair, trying to get his attention.
‘Gwynnie!’ But it’s too late. It’s the first time Justin Kark has ever passed the ball ever, and I’ve missed it because I’m too busy staring at Charlie Notts. The ball hits me in the stomach, which makes snot come flying out of my nose. ‘Gwynnie, you knob!’ shouts Justin, and the other members of my team say similar things with ruder words.
The ball goes off the side of the pitch, right in front of Charlie Notts, and down the little slope into the rain gutter. That’s one way to get his attention. I wipe my face and try to salvage some dignity as I go to get the ball.
Ignoring the looks from the girls, I throw the ball in and say, ‘Hi,’ to Charlie Notts as if it’s nothing and no big deal. ‘I think I’m getting a cold.’
‘What?’ he says.
‘That’s why I just sneezed,’ I tell him. ‘It looked worse than it was. Not that much snot at all really.’
‘Oh.’ He looks a little disgusted.
‘No, really, it was hardly even half a sneeze. And I got most of it off with my sleeve.’ I’ll quit while I’m miles behind. I can see Melissa and Kimba laughing at me. I’ll try one more time. ‘Do you want to play?’
Charlie Notts breaks into a massive smile and for a millisecond my legs go all girlie. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’ It’s the best birthday present a girl could get.
‘Cool.’ Behind him, the other girls look really jealous. So I act more relaxed. Nonchalant, even. Like I chat to blokes every day. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ I say, sounding as calm as a dead person.
‘Yeah.’
But I’m not calm. I’m talking to a fit boy and just being next to him is making me want to do the kissing bits I’ve seen in films.
‘Oh, right, thought so.’ Cool as a cadaver. ‘What’s your name then?’ I can’t let him know that I already know his name and what his dad does for a living.
‘Charlie,’ he says.
‘Oh, right, cool, whatever. I’m Gwynnie.’ He nods. I don’t think he already knew my name. No one ever knows the names of people in the year below. ‘You can be on my team. We’re winning. I think it’s about 15–10 or something.’ I shout over to Paul. ‘Paul! What’s the score?’
‘I dunno!’ he shouts back. ‘Like 12–7 to them, I think.’
No one ever knows the score in these things. It’s not really the point.
‘Paul’s on our team.’ I start pointing the players out. ‘Um, there’s also Justin Kark, the one that’s hogging the ball, Richard Williams—’
‘OK. Cool.’ Charlie Notts is off and running into the action.
I kind of stand there for a bit a
nd watch him play. Charlie tackles someone from the year below me (I don’t know his name). He dribbles down the pitch for a bit. Thomas Ford calls out that he’s free. Charlie looks up, sees where Thomas is, and kicks it over to him. The ball bends and lands directly at Thomas’s feet with the precision of Gazza and David Beckham rolled into one. Charlie Notts is a footballing god.
‘Nice pass, mate,’ says Thomas as he jogs up to Charlie and slaps his hand.
Charlie smiles at him and then looks over and smiles at me.
Talk about a birthday treat!
Chapter 5
There is no one around when I get home after school. It’s a bit depressing to be alone on your birthday with no one there to give a flan. I head up to my room and dump my stuff on the floor.
Fourteen. The big one-four. I thought it would feel different.
Happy birthday to me
My bedroom is the little box room next to the toilet. There’s just space for a single bed and a small chest of drawers. If I want to hang anything I have to put it in the coat cupboard downstairs, so it’s lucky that I only have one thing that I need to hang. It’s a dress. I never wear it. Mum gave it to me before she died. But I don’t want to think about that now.
My room is papered white with multicoloured dots, and there are some places where I got bored and started pulling off the wallpaper to see what was underneath. There was nothing. In hindsight I probably should have left it.
I suppose I could cover the rips with posters, but I’m not a girlie girl who has a load of pictures of pop stars and sexy actors all over her walls. I only have one poster, and it’s of Gazza after he scored from that free kick in the 1991 FA Cup semifinal. Best goal ever.
I plonk myself down on the bed and stare at my reflection in my little mirror. OK, time for self-assessment: My hair is very long, which I think is a good thing. But it gets badly tangled if it’s loose so I keep it in plaits all the time. It’s somewhere between the colour of bathwater after I’ve been playing football and the brown of the night sky when it’s all light polluted. Even ginger hair like my dad’s would be better.
My face is just a face. I’ve got eyes, a nose and a mouth, so that’s a good start, but that’s all it is, a start. I haven’t got the other thing, that prettiness thing that makes a person good-looking. I will never look gorgeous.
I look down my top at my boobs. They’re more like M&Ms that have been glued on under my skin. Not even a half-eaten miniature doughnut hole to speak of. And one of them is definitely bigger than the other – more like a coat button than an M&M.
Happy birthday to me
Kevin’s present catches my eye. I open the shoe box again and tip it all out on to my bed.
There’s this blue stuff that I know is eyeshadow. I put some on my finger and rub it on my eyelid. It looks properly stupid, so I put on more.
It looks worse.
There’s a black pencil in there and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it. I’ve heard of lipliner, so I try to trace the outside of my lips with the pencil. It’s no good; I haven’t got a steady hand so it goes everywhere and makes me looks like one of the goths in Year 11. I don’t know exactly what I am, but I know for sure that I’m not a goth . . . I think.
I get out a circular brush thing that’s covered in black stuff and kind of poke myself in the eye for a bit. It hurts. I’d better stop.
I look in the mirror again. I’m still skinny. I’ve still got no boobs and bathwater hair. My face is still just a face. But now I look like I’ve been in a fight with a load of football hooligans. I’m black and blue, and crying from being poked in the eye.
Happy birthday to Gwynnie
There’s a knock at the front door.
Oh God! Who’s that?
‘Who is it?’ I shout, while frantically rubbing off the make-up.
‘It’s me!’
It’s Paul. If he sees me like this he will rip it out of me for weeks. I spit on my hands and rub even harder. My whole face goes pink and a bit painful. I think I’ve given myself friction burns.
‘I’m coming!’ I shout. I run to the bathroom and try to wash it off, but it’s no good. This stuff is permanent enough to stay on but removable enough to smear all over the bathroom towel.
‘Gwynnie! What are you doing, you muppet?’
‘I’M. COM. ING!’
There is now a blackish bluish pinkish blur where my face used to be, but it will have to do. I leg it downstairs and open the door to Paul. He stands there looking at me with a frown.
‘What took you so long?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘What’s going on with your face?’
‘I was upstairs.’ I realize that I’ve answered the wrong question with the wrong answer.
Paul stares at me while turning to the side and raising an eyebrow. ‘You know that you’re properly mental, don’t you, Gwynnie?’
He’s got me there.
‘Anyway, happy birthday, nutbag. Your dad is over talking to my mum so I brought round the Xbox and I thought we’d give your birthday present a go.’
The make-up is the only present I’ve had today and I don’t see how we can use that on the Xbox, unless we are going to try and make it look ten years younger . . . a Sega Mega Drive.
He pulls out a game box from his backpack. ‘Now I know you don’t have an Xbox, so we’ll have to keep it round mine, but this is a present for you.’ He hasn’t bothered to wrap it, but it’s still in its cellophane, so that’s sort of the same thing and that makes it a present. It’s the new Gears of War game that we’ve both been wanting to play for ages. ‘And I promise I won’t play it much if you’re not there because it’s your game. Until you get an Xbox, that is – then it’s properly yours.’
‘Cheers, mate.’ Paul’s the best sometimes.
‘No problem.’ He pushes past me and walks into the living room to set up the console in there. ‘Oh, and my mum said happy birthday and gave us this.’ He pulls out a frozen pizza.
‘Nice one. I’ll stick it in the oven.’ Angela’s the best too.
When I come back from the kitchen Paul’s already playing the game. He’s trying to get his head around the new flamethrower weapon and he’s failing badly. He’s not dead yet though and he pauses it and asks if I’d like a go.
‘But you’re not dead yet.’ This has never happened before. ‘What are you up to?’
‘It’s your birthday. I’m just being nice.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say, and grab the controller. I’m not missing an opportunity like this.
He stays silent for eleven minutes until the oven buzzer goes off. I pause the game, but he says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’
Now I’m really suspicious. He brings in the pizza and offers me a slice, but I’m still playing so I refuse.
His voice sounds all funny when he says, ‘Gwynnie, you know Jenny, don’t you?’
I’m hardly listening when I say, ‘I’m familiar with her work.’ I’ve just grenaded some locusts and I’m doing well.
‘Well, um, we’ve been going out for three weeks today.’
‘Wasn’t she in America for two weeks? Whoa!’ I was almost killed there.
‘Yeah, but we texted.’ He’s putting me off so I try to ignore him. ‘Thing is –’ his voice is sounding really weird – ‘she wanted me to get her an anniversary present.’
‘After three weeks!’
‘And I wanted the opinion of a girl to see if she’ll like it.’ Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box. ‘I don’t really speak to any girls so I thought I’d show you.’
I’m intrigued now, so I pause the game, using pizza as an excuse to stop. He opens the box and inside is a silver bracelet with a blue diamond thing in it. ‘It goes with her belly-button ring,’ he says. ‘What do you think?’
I’m thinking lots of things, like: how can Paul like a quarterwit like Jenny? I’ve heard that love is blind but it can’t be deaf as well. I just shrug. ‘It’s a
ll right.’
He looks really worried.
‘It’s nice,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘Cool! Thanks, Gwynnie.’ Then he puts it back in the box and back in his pocket. He stands up quickly and walks towards the door.
I unpause it and carry on playing, but shout out to him. ‘I think we’re out of toilet paper!’
‘No, that’s not . . . Oh, sorry, Gwynnie, but I’ve got to go to Jenny’s house.’
‘What? You’re ditching me on my birthday?’
Paul cringes like he’s in an impossible situation, like he is actually out of toilet paper. ‘It’s our anniversary today,’ he says with a shrug.
He opens the door but turns back to me before he goes. ‘Tell you what: you can borrow the Xbox for the week to make up for it.’
‘But . . .’
He’s already in the hallway as he shouts back, ‘See ya!’
And then a great big locust kills me and I’m out of lives.
Happy birthday to me
Chapter 6
Why are girls so completely stupid?
I’ve walked into the toilets at school and there’s a group of them, Jenny Gregson and her followers, and they all look the same. Their hair is long and loose and either as straight as French fries, or as curly as curly fries. Every single one of them is wearing gold hoop earrings except for Tanya Dawson, who everyone knows has a mum that is really strict and won’t let her do anything. But there is something else that makes them all the same – they are all wearing crop tops, except for Elizabeth Phillips, who is chubby and wouldn’t suit a crop top. I guess they think it’s OK to look like a fool if everyone else is doing it.
Their heads turn as I walk in. They see me and turn back, as if I am not important enough to worry about. The movement makes something catch in the light and I finally notice what is so weird about them. They have their belly-buttons pierced! When did this happen? ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
Kimba says, ‘Nothing to do with you, Gwynnie,’ and turns her back to me.
