Boys for Beginners

by Lil Chase

  ‘Well, we bonded over fizzy cola bottles,’ she says, giving me a quick smile.

  ‘Well, if there is a way to a man’s heart, it’s artificial flavourings and E-numbers,’ I say. But then I catch Jenny’s eye and she looks all sad and left out of the conversation. Since she’s broken up with Paul she doesn’t have a date. ‘I’m sorry, Jenny. All we’re talking about is boys and you don’t have one.’

  ‘Well, I am still going to go to prom.’

  ‘That’s very brave of you,’ I say, and everyone hmms in agreement.

  She nods a thanks and a sort of sniff, which I figure is holding back a sob. ‘You’re my true pals.’

  I am her true pal, but I wish more than anything that I was going to prom this weekend instead of her. When she doesn’t even have a date and I do . . . er . . . did. But instead I’ll be in a car, heading down to London, and miles away from Charlie Notts, the most perfect Year 10 boy that has ever walked the planet, and one that was even crazy enough to like me.

  Chapter 27

  It’s the big day. The day that was supposed to be prom night and is now FA Cup final day.

  We’re driving to London in the car Dad’s borrowed from Angela – well, I suppose he’s allowed to, seeing as they are secretly dating . . . OK that’s still just a hunch. Meanwhile, all the BB girls are decorating the hall for prom, doing their hair and nails and make-up and putting on their dresses ready to have the best night of their lives.

  ‘Let’s sing, shall we, Gwyndoe?’

  ‘Dad! We’re not even out of Northampton yet,’ I point out.

  The worst thing is that Dad is so unbelievably happy. He’s been humming and whistling since he told me he’d got the tickets. I have to pretend to be happy too, which makes the fact that I really don’t want to be here so much worse.

  ‘ Oh when the Spurs . . . Come on, Gwynnie . . . Go marching in Come on!’

  ‘I don’t know the words.’

  He laughs. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know the words? Oh when the Spurs go marching in . . . Now you.’

  ‘ I want to be in that number . . .’

  He is so excited that he cannot tell that I am only whispering.

  ‘ OH WHEN THE SPURS GO MARCHING IN !! Oi, oi!’ My dad is yelling at the top of his lungs; whacking the car roof with his hand as he sings. He’s like an eight-year-old. He sees another carload of Tottenham supporters and beeps at them. They beep back and wave. It’s like the whole world is happy except me.

  ‘So, Gwynnie, I’ve heard that Charlie fellow is a nice lad?’ He phrases it like a question so I have to answer.

  ‘He’s OK.’

  ‘He’s a little bit older than you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Only in the year above,’ I say all defensively, in case he won’t let me go out with him and we do end up like Romeo and Juliet.

  ‘When I was at school, all the girls wanted to go out with the boys in the year above. Is that still the case?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I could just leave it at that, but I feel I need to educate my dad about boys in the twenty-first century. ‘The guys in our year are so immature.’

  ‘But the guys in the year above are mature, are they?’

  ‘Some of them are. Charlie is. He’s just really nice and funny and not completely obsessed with football and computers and stuff.’ Oh God, how did I let that slip out?

  ‘Really? So he’s nice and funny, is he?’ Dad’s smirking now. ‘But he’s got to like football too though. I wouldn’t allow you to go out with a rugby fan.’

  I nod my head.

  ‘And what team does he support? If you say Arsenal, I will ban you from seeing him.’

  ‘No . . .’ I wait to drop the killer blow. ‘He’s a Spurs fan.’

  ‘Gwynnie, you have found a winner! Does he know you’re coming today? What am I talking about? I bet you’ve been bragging to your mates about this all week.’

  I don’t say anything.

  We pull into a car park and my dad pays more than a tenner to park here. This trip must be costing him a fortune. He should have taken someone else.

  He gets out of the car and just stands there gazing up at the weird archway things that hang over Wembley. He sighs. ‘This is it, luv. This is the real thing. I have never seen Spurs play in a final for anything and now I am. It’s a dream come true.’ I hold back the tears as he puts his arm around me. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? Wembley Stadium . . . Just imagine what all your friends are doing right now—’

  Suddenly I burst into tears. And not just trickling-elegantly-down-your-face tears, but loud humongous sobs so bad I can’t even breathe any more.

  ‘Gwynnie, what’s the matter, luv?’

  ‘I want . . . I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .’ I can’t even get a sentence out, and even if I could I wouldn’t know what to say or how to say it.

  Dad looks really worried. ‘All right, little one. Take a deep breath.’

  I breathe in. I breathe out. It doesn’t really help. I just can’t find a way to make this OK. ‘It’s Spurs . . . And you really want it . . . But Charlie . . . And the prom, I mean, prom . . . And everyone . . . But it’s the final . . . And you have spent all this money . . . But I really like him . . .’

  ‘Gwynnie, slow down, darling. What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’

  Dad just gives me a hug and lets me cry for a bit, which is really nice. ‘Gwyndoe, what do you have to be sorry for?’

  ‘I still love Spurs, Dad, I really do. But today is prom and everyone is going and Charlie Notts asked me to go with him and I had to say I couldn’t go because I was coming here.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Now Charlie will fancy someone else and I can’t believe he ever fancied me in the first place!’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And you’ve spent all this money on the tickets and coming down here and everything, and now I’m just being an unpleasant kid and I’ve ruined your big day.’ I can’t work out Dad’s face, but I’m pretty sure that he must hate me right now. ‘I’m so sorry, Dad. I’ll stop crying in a second and then we can go in. I’ll be fine in a second.’ But I know that I won’t.

  Dad looks into the distance somewhere for ages. When he looks back down at me he has tears in his eyes too. ‘I’m the one that should be sorry, luv. I wanted to do something nice for you, but I got it wrong. You want to go to this prom thing—’

  ‘No, it’s fine, Dad. I don’t want to go any more.’

  ‘I wanted to do something nice for your fourteenth birthday, and instead of getting you what you wanted I thought you were still a little girl—’

  ‘No, really, Dad, it’s OK. Even if I did go, I don’t have the right hair or make-up or outfit. Let’s just watch the match. Prom will be rubbish anyway.’

  ‘And with an attitude like that, how are we ever going to make Charlie Motts fall in love with you?’

  I giggle in a snotty way. ‘It’s Charlie Notts, Dad.’

  ‘Motts, Notts, who cares?! He’s possibly the only Spurs supporter of your generation left in the whole world. If we don’t nab him now we might lose him forever.’

  ‘But, Dad, how—’

  ‘Leave it to me.’ He squeezes my shoulders. ‘Gwynderella, you shall go to the ball!’ My dad is the best, but it still doesn’t mean he’s got any funnier. ‘Don’t move.’

  I see him walk off towards some really dodgy-looking men who are hanging around in the car park. He talks to one of them for a minute, then comes back with a fistful of cash.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘I sold the tickets.’

  ‘But, Dad, those tickets were your dream come true. How could you have sold them?’

  ‘Aw, Gwynnie –’ he hugs me again and sniffs – ‘I would do anyth . . .’ Then he stops and shakes himself like a dog coming out of the rain, like he’s shaking off his disappointment. ‘Have some faith in the boys, will you? Spurs will win again next year. But for now, we have some stuff to do.
’

  ‘Like go back home and get ready for prom?’

  ‘No. Like find a swanky hair-do-ist to do your hair, and nails and make-up and stuff, buy you a fancy dress to wear, then get back to that prom and get your Prince Charming!’

  Vidal Sassoon in Oxford Street in London is the best hairdressers in the world. They trimmed my hair, curled it, styled it and made me look like a model. And Dad paid to get my nails done too.

  We come out of the salon and Dad starts running towards the parking meter that costs like five pounds an hour to park at. ‘Right, let’s go get you a dress.’

  ‘Dad, it’s almost four o’clock. There’s no way we can buy a dress and get back in time.’

  ‘I had no idea that women’s hair took so long. I’ve never had a hair appointment that lasted more than twenty minutes.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Do you remember the dress that’s in the cupboard?’

  Dad looks confused. He’s never seen me in a dress.

  ‘Um. The one that belonged to Mum.’ I realize that I should have checked with him first. ‘Do you mind?’

  Dad’s face is not what I expected. He’s smiling and he doesn’t look sad at all. ‘You’ll look lovely in that, Gwynnie.’

  We get into the car and race back to Northampton. I can’t wait for everyone to see how brilliant I look, and I have already planned out how I will accessorize Mum’s dress so that it won’t look so old-fashioned. Luckily the eighties are back.

  ‘Dad . . .’ I say really slowly so that he knows I mean it, ‘if you want to marry Angela Shields I don’t mind. And I’m sure Mum wouldn’t either. Angela’s great.’

  Dad looks completely shocked. ‘Where’s this come from?’

  ‘I know you’re seeing each other. You’re always round there all the time. You say you’re going for tea and stuff, but I’m not a kid any more. If you want to, like, go out with her, that’s fine. And I’m sure Paul feels the same. He thinks you’re pretty cool.’ I can’t let that one go without saying anything. ‘Paul’s clearly mental.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to know that I have your permission.’

  ‘That’s OK, Dad. It’s about time you moved on.’

  ‘What I mean is: it’s good to know that I have your permission, but I am not seeing Angela, and I’m not interested in seeing Angela. We’re just friends.’

  ‘It’s OK, Dad, I don’t mind.’

  ‘I can tell you don’t. But what I’m telling you is that we’re just friends.’

  ‘Then why are you round there all the time recently?’

  Dad looks shifty and I think he’s about to finally come out with it. ‘Well . . .’ I bet he’s glad that he can look at the road and not at me right now. ‘The thing is, I needed some extra cash and Angela needed some stuff done in her garden and she’s been paying me a bit to do it for her.’

  ‘For the Spurs tickets . . .’ Now I feel really bad. ‘You worked extra hard for those tickets and you’ve wasted the day in a girlie beauty parlour.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’ve had great fun! I have found out what a French manicure is, when I always thought it was a medical remedy for continental males.’ I give him the very funny, Dad look. ‘And now I have uncovered the mystery as to what those strange utensils in your bedroom are. I thought they were heated chopsticks.’ He’s talking about my hair straighteners and there’s no way he thought they were heated chopsticks (although heated chopsticks are a brilliant idea!). ‘Besides, I got to spend the day with my favourite girl in the world.’

  Dad’s being cheesy so I put a stop to it. ‘I didn’t see Cameron Diaz out with us today.’

  Dad gives me the very funny look like I’ve just given him. ‘Ha ha.’

  I wait a second before I ask, ‘So you’re not with Paul’s mum then?’

  ‘No. I promise. Men and women can just be friends you know.’

  ‘I know.’ I say it like it’s obvious. But really I am relieved. And my dad might be the best dad in the world – buying me FA Cup final tickets. Selling those tickets. Sitting through a makeover when he could have been sitting through an important match. I should probably tell him how great he is.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re all right, you know.’

  He grins from ginger sideburn to ginger sideburn. ‘Thanks, Gwynnie. You’re not so bad yourself.’

  And I smile from tonged ringlet to tonged ringlet.

  We get to the house at 7 p.m., and I’ve got about a millisecond until we have to turn around and head back out to prom, which starts at half seven, but I know the BB girls said they were going to be fashionably late and get there at quarter to eight. Dad stops outside and I jump out before he even has time to put the handbrake on.

  I open the door and I can hear giggling. ‘Hello?’ I call. I’m always afraid that one day a burglar will answer. But today’s not that day.

  Kevin calls back, ‘Hello?’ He sounds as if he’s been taken by surprise, which is odd because usually he can hear people coming from fifty miles away. He sticks his head round the living-room door and he looks all messy and kind of sleepy. ‘What are you doing here?’ he says. ‘I thought you were at the match.’

  Dad’s made it in from outside. ‘Something more important came up. Hi, son, what’s going on?’

  Kev looks a bit sheepish and says, ‘I thought I’d show my girlfriend where I grew up.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘What could be more important than the FA Cup final?’ Kev’s trying to change the subject.

  ‘I’ve got to get ready for prom,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve only got twenty minutes to put on my make-up and my dress—’

  A girl’s voice comes from inside the living room. ‘Ooooh, prom! Can I help?’ Stephanie Gregson pops her head round the door. She also looks a bit messy and her top is buttoned up wrong. ‘I’m the queen of make-up!’

  ‘Dad, Gwynnie, this is Stephanie. Stephanie, this is my sister, Gwynnie, and my dad, Michael.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Stephanie . . . at last,’ Dad says. ‘Anyone would think that Kevin was embarrassed of us, the way that he’s been hiding you. He must have psychically known that we were going to miss the match today.’

  Dad’s taking the mick, but I have no time for that either. ‘Thanks, Stephanie, I’d love your help!’ This is fantastic – I have wicked hair, fab nails and I am about to get my make-up done by the girl with the best make-up in the whole of Northampton.

  Upstairs Stephanie sits me down in front of a mirror while Kevin is put to work making me a sandwich and Dad is in charge of ironing Mum’s dress. ‘You have such beautiful skin, Gwynnie,’ Stephanie says. ‘You shouldn’t pile on the makeup.’ She starts dabbing me with a brush. ‘Did you know that I was the one helped your brother pick this out?’

  ‘I didn’t know, but thank you. It’s great stuff.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She knows we’re running late so she hurries. ‘Now, unfortunately we don’t have time to apply any fake tan, but I do have some bronzer. I can’t live without it. Especially as we always spend Easter in rainy Bognor Regis with my nan and crazy Aunt Maxwell.’

  ‘Your aunt is called Maxwell?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  Suddenly the penny drops. ‘Hang on a minute – did you not go to America for Easter?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ Jenny is probably too embarrassed to say about not going to California, just like I’m too embarrassed to say about the football stuff. We’ll have to have a proper spill session. Then we’ll be close, like twin sisters. Or closer.

  Stephanie does my make-up. It’s not so much that I look like a tart, but just enough so you can tell I’ve made an effort.

  Dad comes in with the dress all ironed perfectly. ‘Gwynnie, you look gorgeous. I can’t believe—’

  ‘Dad,’ I cut in, ‘if you say the words grown up or woman I might properly vom all over myself. And then I’ll have to redo my make-up, and frankly we just don’t have the
time.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He hands the dress over and buttons his lip. ‘I’d better leave you grown-up women to it then.’

  I throw a pillow at him on his way out.

  ‘Stephanie, do you mind if I do this bit by myself, please?’

  She nods and leaves the room.

  I pick up Mum’s dress from where Dad has placed it on the bed. It’s a baby-blue colour that really brings out the grey in my eyes. Mum had the same eyes as me. I remember them. I put the dress on back to front and button up the back before sliding it round so it’s in the right place. It’s a sort of strapless boob tube on top and the skirt bit has a million layers of light blue chiffon so that it puffs out like a tutu. In the layers of chiffon are little diamonds that sparkle when I move. I know what word Jenny would use to describe this dress: timeless and classy. OK, that’s two words.

  Finally, I look in the mirror.

  I look gorgeous.

  Chapter 28

  It’s quarter past eight as Dad pulls up outside school, but I am no longer worried about time; it’ll start when I get there.

  ‘Now, remember, I’m picking you up at eleven thirty, Gwynnie.’

  ‘Eleven thirty?’ OK, maybe I do have to worry about time. ‘Dad, I’m not a child . . . and this is prom. Can’t I stay till midnight?’

  ‘Fine then, midnight. But not a second later.’

  ‘You’re still the best, Dad. Thanks.’

  ‘Have fun, Gwynnie. And make sure you get a snog from that Charlie boy.’

  ‘Dad!’ I look around to see if anyone heard, but luckily everyone is already inside.

  I walk away, before remembering something. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How did Spurs do?’

  ‘Do you know what, Gwynnie? I forgot to check.’

  My dad is the worst liar in the world. ‘You’d be more likely to forget Christmas day than Spurs in the final!’ I say. ‘Go on. How’d we do?’

  He breaks into the biggest smile. ‘We killed them! 3–2!’ He goes into full football chant mode, ‘ COME ON, YOU SPURS! ’

  This is the best news ever. I feel bad that we missed it but so glad that we won. I’m about to apologize again but he stops me.