Startled by His Furry Shorts

by Louise Rennison

  Masimo went on. He has got the most amazing voice. “Dom, he say tonight after our meeting that maybe we go to a party for later, but he doesn’t say you are there, and I think, maybe I am not in for the party. My mood is not for dancing.”

  What did that mean? My mood is not for dancing? Did it mean he didn’t feel like dancing, or did it mean, he wasn’t in the MOOD for dancing, i.e., he was in a sad mood? And if he was in a sad mood, what did that mean? Also he said he didn’t know I was there—would he have come if he had known? Or did he mean, he…oh shut up, brain, shut up. If only he would stop talking and just grab me, that would sort everything out.

  Occasionally as we walked along we bumped arms and it was like an electric shock. I really couldn’t think of one thing to say. Other than, “Snog me, snog me, you gorgeous Italian love stallion!”

  As we reached my street, Masimo stopped and looked at me. “Georgia, when I last see you, I didn’t…well, I want to tell to say, to explicado, to explain about…”

  I said quickly, “Oh there’s nothing to explain, you don’t have to. I understand.”

  Masimo touched my arm again. “I think I have hurt you and I didn’t, this is not what I wanted. I…”

  I smiled my incredibly false smile and said, “Really, honestly. I am fine as two fine things enjoying a fine day out in fine land.”

  He looked puzzled. “So…you are saying…you are fine? Everything is alright with you?”

  “Yes indeedy.”

  He smiled at me. “That is good, caro, I am happy for that. Now maybe we could be friends and…” (Oh no, he had said that word “friends.”) He got a pen and paper out of his pocket and started writing on it. “Here is my number. Will you ring me, and we can have good times, maybe eat and go for dancing? Sì?”

  I didn’t say anything. I thought I would burst into tears. I just kept the smile on my face. In fact I was smiling so much, I probably would always have to smile because my face was fixed. He put the piece of paper into my hand. I still smiled at him.

  Then he bent down and kissed my cheek. “You are so nice. I like you very much, Georgia. Phone me, we can be, how you say here, very good mates. Ciao.”

  And he walked off back up the road. He turned round and waved and blew me a kiss. I waved back, still smiling. Singing that old crap song “Smile though your heart is breaking…”

  in my room

  Just me and the night.

  (And Angus and Gordy and Libby and her toys.)

  I don’t want to be his mate.

  I’ve got enough so-called mates.

  Even bloody Dave the Laugh said, “See you, mate.”

  How come I have gone from Sex Kitty to mate in less than a day?

  I don’t want to “have fun” with Masimo.

  What does he expect me to do, go back to his place for a cup of coffee and then say, “Right, I’m off now, see you, mate.”

  five minutes later

  Or hang around being a goosegog mate whilst he gets off with other girls at Stiff Dylans gigs. Shouting after him as he goes off with someone, “You chancer! What are you like? See you later, mate, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! That leaves you a lot of scope! Rrrrrrr.”

  Mate?

  I’m not going to be his bloody mate.

  I can hardly be bothered to be mates with the mates I’ve got.

  I’m already having to be “just mates” with Dave the Laugh.

  That’s enough being mates in anybody’s language.

  thirteen minutes later

  Mate.

  sunday july 3rd

  10:30 a.m.

  Jas phoned. “Gee. Are you up?”

  “No.”

  “Well, can I come round?”

  “Why? Has Tom gone slug hunting by himself? I thought you were going to RAMBLE with him today, and that is why you couldn’t be bothered to say good-bye to your besty pal last night.”

  “Er…no, I just want to see you and chat and do makeup and stuff.”

  “He has gone slug hunting without you.”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “What, then?”

  “Well, they’ve started a Sunday League footie thing and well, you know, it’s good for him. And, anyway, he’s on a mission because I told him to find out all he can about the Masimo type scenario.”

  “Huh.”

  “What do you mean, huh?”

  “I mean huh as in huh.”

  “Shall I come round?”

  “If you like, we can practice being mates, seeing as that is going to be my lifetime achievement award. I’ll probably be on TV as ‘Mate of the Year.’”

  12:00 p.m.

  Me and Jas in my bed eating cornflakes. Jas thinks its “fun” at my house. She thinks it’s charming that we have mostly biscuits to eat and that my dad sets fire to his beard every other day. And that the cats have been next door and dug up the bones that the Prat Poodles had carefully buried in the compost heap.

  And are now chewing them at the bottom of the bed. I can hear the horrible crunching sounds, but I am too tired to care.

  It isn’t fun at my house.

  It is sad.

  12:15 p.m.

  Jas has just almost made me laugh by getting out of bed and adding a bit to the Viking disco inferno bison dance. It is sort of sniffing the air. So it goes step to the right, step to the left and then sniff sniff. Like a Viking bison might do. If it were trying to find its prey. And if there were such a thing as a Viking bison.

  Excellent.

  12:30 p.m.

  I am preparing myself to forgive Jas. She has been almost nice to me since she came round. She said that she thinks my nose is shrinking. She spoiled it a bit by adding, “Either that or your head is growing.”

  Still, it is the thought that counts. Ish.

  Is my head really growing? As we measured it I told her about what happened at Katie’s party. I told her about Dave the Laugh going off with Emma and she said, “But you don’t mind that because you love the Italian Stallion.”

  “Yeah, that is clearly a fact, but, well, I have known Dave a long time, and he did say that thing about maybe we should sort of be together.”

  “Yeah, he said that, but what do you think?”

  “What do you mean what do I think? How should I know?”

  “Well, I know that Tom is my only one and only.”

  “Yeah, but that is because you are so boring, er, I mean too, er, you are too blind with luuurve to hear the call of the cosmic Horn.”

  “I know.”

  She is sooooo annoying, but I suppose she is just being her.

  Because we were being so cozy and back to the old days of besties I bared my whatsits to her. I told her about walking home and bumping into Masimo as I was having my bum-oley licked by a dog.

  She said, “Oh blimey, mate.”

  She had said the mate word, but I let her off as I’m not a lezzie anyway.

  She went on: “So…are you going to give up on him now, then?”

  I said, “Yep, I tried the girding of the loins scenario, however my loins came ungirded. Which can be quite painful, especially if you are wearing tight jeans.”

  We had a bit of a laughing attack for a bit because it has to be said, even if no one except me will say it, that I am despite being sheer desperadoes and in the cakeshop of aggers, etc., quite a good laugh.

  When we had built up our energy with another packet of whatsits, I went on: “I’m going to have to think that he doesn’t exist and ignorez vous him.”

  “So when we go to the Stiff Dylans gig will you pretend he is a figment of a sham?”

  “No, I will not pretend he is a figment of a sham. I won’t have to and do you know why? Because I won’t be going to the next Stiff Dylans gig.”

  “Blimey.”

  I nodded whilst I crunched through my whatsits.

  “That is a fact that is written in stone. I will never be going to a Stiff Dylans gig again.”

  “Blimey.”

&
nbsp; “He told me to call so that we could go out and do mates type stuff.”

  “Blimey.”

  “Jas, will you think of something else to say besides blimey, please?”

  “OK.”

  “But I will tell you what I am going to do with his telephone number. I am going to go into the woods and ceremoniously burn it so that I will never be tempted to call him even in my darkest moments of jelloidnosity.”

  Jas started to say, “Blim…er…crikey.”

  in the woods

  3:00 p.m.

  I have burnt the paper with Masimo’s number on it and buried it under an oak tree. (Well, Jas scraped away a bit of soil with a twig she found. And it took her long enough to do that because she found a mushroom that she thought might be a “special” mushroom.)

  9:00 p.m.

  I don’t even feel tragicosity, I feel nothingosity.

  Which is not easy to say, believe me. Tragicosity in particular.

  However, I will never feel anything again.

  Good.

  I am done with love.

  It’s a mug’s game.

  I am just going to sit in my room for the rest of my life not doing stuff.

  10:00 p.m.

  How boring is this?

  It’s as boring as double maths followed by a lecture from Slim on how life was when she was a girl and used to go to “Sad Girls High” with Queen Elizabeth and Tom Thumb or whoever was lurking about boring the arse off people in those days.

  10:10 p.m.

  Got out my letters from the ex–Sex God. I don’t know why I keep them. Or the photos of him. Just to torture myself. I should throw them away with the rest of my life.

  I will put all the things I have of his all together and do that thing you are supposed to do when you are moving on in life. Burn them to ashes and smithereens and never look back. Out with the old and in with the new lesbian monastic life.

  10:15 p.m.

  Robbie wrote. “It would be really nice to hear from you, I often think about you.” Well, that’s nice, isn’t it? In a way. At least he hasn’t mentioned the word “mate.”

  10:30 p.m.

  Maybe I will drop him a line. Perhaps he would like to hear from a lesbian monk. Who wouldn’t?

  10:35 p.m.

  What harm can it do, anyway? He is miles away, he is over the TransSiberian Ocean or whatever it is. In the land of rogue bores and exploding whatsits.

  10:45 p.m.

  What shall I say? I must tread a fine line between glaciosity and friendlinosity. With just a hint of “you don’t know what you are missing, my fine-feathered friend.”

  midnight

  It was quite hard to write the letter. But in my new mood of baring all my…oo-er, I told him everything. I thought, Oh sod it! Devil take the hindmost! Take me as I am, the real Georgia. The real true person, no longer afraid to stand tall and proud. Burned in the oven of love and fattened in the cakeshop of agony and…Anyway. What was I saying? Before I wandered off into the cakeshop thing again?

  Ah yes, honestosity.

  12:03 a.m.

  Obviously I left out the bits about me making a complete and utter pratty baboon of myself. I told him all about the bison horns and the Viking wedding. I even mentioned that Herr Kamyer might be matron of honor.

  12:05 a.m.

  Actually it has quite cheered me up, writing it all down. It doesn’t seem like such a bad life when you thought of the hours of fun the ace gang had had despite the Hitler Youth, parents, the orangutan gene, lurking lurkers and so on.

  I couldn’t help myself adding a few details about Wet Lindsay and her astonishing sticklike existence. I thought it was a mistress stroke of seemingly nicenosity to say about her. “I expect you know that Lindsay is head girl and she is making a very good job of it; some of the first formers may never go out on their own again. Also she has once again put herself at the forefront of fashion vis-à-vis her interesting hair extensions. That kind of courage is rarely seen outside the circus these days.” I sort of skated around the boy issue. I mentioned the Stiff Dylans in passing because it would have seemed odd not to. But I just said, “I’ve been to a few gigs, which have been quite good. They have a new singer called, erm, I think it’s Masinmo or something. He seems quite nice but may be a froggy type person. I saw Dom’s vati and he seems to have forgotten about the time he thought I was getting off with him when I thought he was a famous music agent type person. Speaking of vatis, my own portly one set fire to his mustache, so no change there.”

  I had sort of lost all inhibitions by then. It was quite a relief to tell a boy everything (more or less), and what had I to lose? I didn’t have to impress him anymore.

  12:07 a.m.

  I didn’t know how to end it.

  Was “with love” alright?

  I am certainly not going to put “from your mate.”

  Finally I decided on:

  “Well, I’m away laughing on a fast camel now. It would be great to see you again. Take care. Love, Georgia.”

  And I put a kiss.

  But I thought that might be construed as a bit on the matey side, so I added two more.

  Three kisses.

  That’s OK.

  It doesn’t imply rampant red bottomosity. It implies je ne sais quoi with a hint of longing.

  1:10 a.m.

  But he probably has a girlfriend called Gayleen.

  Or Noelene or Joelene.

  Who is a wombat.

  monday morning july 4th

  on the way to stalag 14

  8:20 a.m.

  I am wearing a black armband because this is the day that the Hamburgese chucked all our teabags into the sea and said they didn’t want us to rule them anymore.

  That is when they started making up their own language, and see where that has got them.

  It has got them into the restroom of life.

  And had them wearing panties instead of proper knickers.

  But let them have it their way.

  Let them wrap themselves in aluuuuuminum as much as they want.

  We in Billy Shakespeare land do not hold grudges and will love them always.

  Until they get more sense and let us rule them again.

  Met Jas at her gate and she did immediate arm-linksies, which is nice. But I didn’t let on.

  I said to Jas, “Mum’s the word.”

  She looked at me. “Why are you talking about your mutti?”

  “NO, Jas, I mean that you mustn’t say anything about the party and the Dave the Laugh scenario or me being Masimo’s ‘mate.’”

  “I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Wrong.”

  8:25 a.m.

  When we got to the postbox at the bottom of the hill leading to “school,” I wondered if I should post my letter to the ex–Sex God. Hmmm. I asked Jas, which is a terrible mistake. She said, “I thought that you loved either Masimo or Dave the Laugh, and now you are writing to Robbie.”

  “I know that.”

  “You are sort of three-timing except that none of them are your boyfriend.”

  “Shut up, Jas, you are not Baby Jesus.”

  “I know, I am just saying that Baby Jesus will be very disappointed with you.”

  “No he won’t. He will luuurve me no matter what I do, and by the way, whatever I do is bound to be more interesting to him than what you do, O Voley One. Hey Jas, don’t be Volier than thou! Hahahahah, Jesus will like that one, it’s a religious/wildlife joke! I think I might be hysterical. What shall I do? Help me, little Jazzy, shall I post it or not???”

  She looked thoughtful which is always alarming, and then she said, “Well, let’s use logic. If we see a white van in a minute, you should post it. But if the white van has a bloke with a baseball cap on, you should wait until this afternoon to post it, and if…”

  8:30 a.m.

  Saved the trouble of whether I should post the letter or not by a fantastically insane and grumpy postman who came along to empty the postb
ox. He just tore the letter out of my hand and put it in his bag. I said, “Erm, I haven’t quite decided whether I wanted to post that or not.”

  He just said, “Bog off to school.”

  That’s nice, isn’t it? As I have said to anyone who will listen (i.e., no one), the point about public servants is that they should serve the public, i.e., me, but they just don’t get it.

  2:00 p.m.

  Forty-five years of being cooped up at Stalag 14 interrupted by only two Jammy Dodger breaks.

  Should I have posted the letter?

  2:30 p.m.

  What does it matter, anyway—with my luck it will either not get there, or he will not bother to reply, and then I will have been rejected by practically every man on the planet.

  3:00 p.m.

  Keeping mum as two short mums. Even though the ace gang have been asking me what is going on vis-à-vis romance. I said to Rosie, “Nothing has happened. There is zero to report.”

  She just looked at me like a looking at me thing. But I didn’t snap.

  I would have been extremely good at being in the French resistance if anyone had bothered to ask me.

  Which they didn’t.

  And even if I had been alive, I wouldn’t have said yes because of that business of the French saying the English were a bunch of cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

  Or did we say that about them?

  Oh I don’t know, stop asking me trick questions.

  on the way home

  4:00 p.m.

  For once in my whole school life I am walking home on my own. I told the ace gang that I had to dash for a doctor’s appointment, but I haven’t really. Even though if Mum had her way I would spend every waking hour in Dr. Clooney’s surgery so she could moon around him. It’s just that I couldn’t handle the risk that Dave the Laugh would come along and I would have to walk along with him and his mates as if everything were in Norman Normal land. I don’t know why I don’t want to see him, I just feel funny about him and Emma Jacobs. I’m not the only one, either; Ellen has practically had a nervy b. about it. At break at ace gang headquarters she started talking about him going home with Emma Jacobs and going, “How…and why…why???” She had a full-blown head-shaking ditherama. I had to practice extreme glaciosity and also extravagant bursts of manic Viking disco dancing just to stop the ace gang asking me if anything happened and how I am feeling, etc.