I look at Donald, waiting for him to point the finger and blame us for absolutely everything. But he can’t keep it together. He is laughing so hard, and that big dummy grin of his is just shining under the two heavy moons of black eyes above it. I can’t help it. I just get the proper giggles, hard. So do Poppy and Hector. Donald looks so ridiculous and finds the whole thing so hilarious. We are all trying to hold the laughter in like an overpacked suitcase filled to the brim and the zip is just gently unzipping, the seams are gently falling apart, thread by thread like . . .
Zzzzzzzz . . . zzzzzz . . . sssssssss . . . ssssss . . . eeeeee . . . ooooo . . . hhheeeeeee . . . sssssstttttt . . .
And the more we hear each other’s suitcase threads of laughter coming apart, we just have to give in to the uncontrollable stuffed-down enormous, bellyaching joy. The more we know we shouldn’t be laughing, the more we cannot stop. It’s uncontrollable. I might never stop laughing. EVER! Marnie’s ratty frowning eyebrows and folded arms are just making it worse, the closeness of us all side by side is just making it worser and worserer! Even with Mum’s straight face right there glaring at us. Focus. Focus. Breathe. Breathe. And again . . .
TEE-HEE-TEE-SHHHHH-HA-HEE-OO-SHH-HA-HAPSHSSSH-HA-HE-TEE-HA-HAHA-TEE-HEE!
Hands on thighs now, I just have to give in. My tummy muscles release as I cannot clench any longer. All seized up into a big ball.
Wooooo. HHHHHAAAAAAAA. EEEEEEEEEE. OK. OK. Breathe. I’m fine. I’m fine. Sorry. Sorry.
I try to get my breath back as Donald clambers up from the heap of clothes.
‘Wait . . . is that my vintage silk skirt?’ Mum suddenly asks.
‘There’s a giant rip in it!’ Marnie adds.
UH-OH.
‘GO TO YOUR ROOMS NOW! I DON’T EVEN WANT TO LOOK AT YOU!’ Mum screams.
See, THIS is what I mean? I don’t look for it. Drama just ALWAYS finds me.
Chapter Ten
‘I cannot believe you.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’
‘Sorry doesn’t cut it this time.’
‘Sorry again, Mum.’
‘Not only is my wardrobe broken. My skirt is ripped. I don’t know which one of you thought it would be funny to let Donald wear my skirt.’
‘Not me, Mum,’ Poppy says.
‘Or me, Mum,’ I say.
‘Or me either, Mum,’ Hector says, even though he probably doesn’t even know what he’s saying, he’s just copying us.
Poppy wraps her little hand into Mum’s. She does this trickly thing where she winds her fingers up Mum’s sleeve and strokes her veins when she knows she’s been naughty. ‘It was all Donald, Mum. Blame Donald,’ she says, stroking Mum’s hair as Mum sits at the table with a mug of tea. (That I made her.)
‘So Donald just went in and took my skirt and just got the urge to put it on, did he, then?’
‘Maybe, Mum, yeah?’ Poppy says all softly.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I add.
‘Yeah, maybe he just likes to be a girl?’ Poppy offers, shrugging. I want to laugh my head off.
‘Are you actually, seriously, considering laughing again?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘Then after ALL that, what else do I see?’
‘I don’t know, Mum.’
‘You don’t know what else I might’ve seen?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘Maybe was it that we really broke the plug?’ Hector asks innocently.
‘You broke the— WHAT?’
‘I mean, not really.’
‘What plug?’
‘It wasn’t a true thing what I said.’
‘Well, you’ve said it now. Which plug, Hector?’
‘HECTOR! YOU’RE SUCH A BIG MOUTH!’ Poppy roars.
‘Poppy, you’re already in trouble.’
‘Darcy pulled it!’
I stay calm. Don’t want to be in trouble. Trying not to be dramatic. For minimum punishment (or chances of breaking my promise of being not dramatic for the entire summer holidays) just keep your ears opened and your mouth closed and talk when spoked to. Like ZACTLY like you’re in the army.
‘Is this true, Darcy?’
‘Maybe, Mum, but it’s only because I wanted to make a swimming-pool bath in the shower,’ I justify myself.
‘A swimm— This is ridiculous. So that will obviously explain the three sets of soaking wet footprints running all up and down the hallway and all the water on the bathroom floor?’
Silence.
‘Wouldn’t it?’
Silence.
‘Wouldn’t it?’ Mum shakes her head. ‘I mean, how much chaos can the three of you cause in one day?’
‘Chill out, Mum.’
‘Darcy. Do NOT tell me to chill out.’
‘You said we could do something fun today but we never did so that’s why we had to make our own fun up.’
‘I had to work.’
‘You and Dad always have to work.’
‘Oh, sorry that every day is not circus fun and ice skating and disco balls.’ Mum clenches her head. Paces about. Pours a LARGE glass of wine for herself. It’s not even dinner time yet. ‘Clean this place up now.’
‘We’re hungry.’
‘Oh, I’ll just knock up dinner as well as getting Dad to make us a new wardrobe – which we all know will take him for ever to make, and then I’ll be sorting my clothes and picking them up off the floor and cleaning the carpet and fixing the plug and all the spilled water and everything else you leave around, then?’
‘You didn’t need to do a list.’
‘You didn’t need to tell Donald to jump off the wardrobe.’
‘I . . .’ I want to argue back and say STOP BLAMING US and moan about HOW BORED WE ARE even though it’s illegal to be bored and IF she had taken us out like she PROMISED then we wouldn’t be in this mess, but, ‘Nothing,’ I add. I bite my tongue. I trap my mouth shut. Pretend it’s full up with chocolate spread or tissue. DO NOT ARGUE BACK. DO NOT BE DRAMATIC. BE CALM AND A GOOD EXCELLENT GIRL.
Tidying away is so bore. I am not good at it. Every time I turn round there is more things to be cleaned. Lamb-Beth does nothing except stare at us from her plumped-up queen cushion like some writer from luxurious heaven and I am just a slave servant beast with a broom. Except I don’t have a broom.
‘How comes you just kept your temper down then, Darcy?’ Poppy asks as we begin to nicely fold up Mum’s clothes into some pile on her bed that we don’t actually know will even be useful to her or not. ‘Usually you’d be so mad right now. You’d be shouting at Mum and everything.’
‘I’m still doing my not-dramatic thing, aren’t I?’
‘You’re doing good at that actually,’ she says, ‘cos if I heard Mum scream YOUR name in panic and not mine when she was running up the stairs I’d be SO jealous.’
‘What do you mean, my name?’
‘Obviously, don’t you remember?’ Poppy smugly folds the clothes – she thinks she’s so good like she works in a shop or something amazing. ‘When she heard the wardrobe crash, she ran up the stairs and she was shouting POPPY! POPPY! POPPY!’
‘So what? What does that mean?’
‘Darcy! Oh, silly billy, you really don’t know? It’s obvious.’
Even Hector stops doing absolutely nothing and looks round now to listen to Poppy.
‘Mum was shouting my name because she was worried I’d hurt myself. She was ALL the way downstairs and she heard a bang and she ran up all panicky and she had a choice of three names she could shout, and it was mine. She was most worried that I’d hurted myself. And you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘No. What?’
‘It means Mum loves me the most.’
UP TO MY ROOM! GROWL! HOWL! GRRRRRRRR!
I feel like a locked-up beast in an attic dungeon. I kick a book. I can destroy ANYTHING and EVERYTHING any time I like! I throw a pen. RAH! RAH! I pick the pen up again . . . they cannot contain the ANGROSAURUS REX girl, NO CHANCE!
I jump on my bed and
roar and run about and throw a pillow and be the Angrosaurus rex girl child that I truly know I am. I feel big claws growing out of my fingertips, sharp and spiky and scary that could tear up any ice-cream van. My skin becomes all SO leathery, like a basketball and rippled and lizardy – like a dinosaur’s! My eyes are neon sunshine yellow and piercing, with flickering dancing flames swishing about inside the pupils. My nostrils are huge! You could fit a rolling pin in them! My mouth roars open, I have hundreds and gazillions of mighty sharp pointy teeth like little glinting mountain knives that would burst an anything! And my tongue is purple and jagged and split like a ribbon and could karate-chop any person in a swish! My tail is long and fierce and strong, I am the ANGROSAURUS REX, NOT TO BE MESSED WITH! I AM THE FURIOUS ANGER-CHILD OF THE ACTUAL DEEP! This is my prison, my cell, my four walls! But you cannot keep this Angrosaurus locked away for ever . . .
RUUUUUUUOOOOOOOORRRRRRRR!!!!!
ROOOOOOYYUUUUUUAAAAARRRRR!!!!
I stand with my legs apart, my feet planted into the ground, I squat down, close my eyes like I’m about to do a massive fart, ready to do the greatest roar of all time . . . RO—
‘Darcy!’ Mum shouts.
‘Yeah?’
‘SHUT UP!’
I peel open my writing book. It is possible to use this anger in a silent way . . .
Chapter Eleven
Then I just draw a bajillion scribbles. I lean my pen into the paper so hard that it leaves more traces of every word for more and more pages underneath each one. My jaw is clenched, my body tense, my knuckles white, my eyes slit, my brows frown as I . . .
I feel a bit better now that I’ve letted off some steam. A bit. I close my book. Lie on my bed. This non-drama business is proving to be a lot LOT harder than I had anticipated, to be frank.
This is why I’m so glad I have my writing. I might get my spellings all wrong. My grammar all badly. My ideas might be jumbled and make no sense to anybody, but at least I have a place I can always go, in my head, on a page where I can be myself. Free and brave to do exactly what I want to do. And for that, I feel very lucky.
Chapter Twelve
Now that the truth is out I’ve decided to not bother wasting my time making advances towards Mum for her affection when she quite clearly couldn’t care less or not if I got bulldozed down by a rhinoceros.
There’s always my main man. Dad.
‘You all right, Dad?’ I say, so sweetie kind, when he comes back home from work.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Darcy. How are you? I heard you guys got into a spot of trouble today?’
‘Dad, it really isn’t a biggie. Best not to make a thing out of a mountain.’
‘Yes, best to forget it, I’ve already begun making the new wardrobe. Your mum’s blaming me for that wardrobe, saying I built it wonky. I didn’t think it was that wonky, did you?’
‘No, Daddy.’ I rub his arms. ‘Not at ALL wonky. You are the most best carpenter in the world.’
‘Why are you being so creepy?’
‘I’m not. Do you want an ice-cold beer?’
‘I won’t say no.’
I know how to pour Dad’s beer so good. He taught me. I don’t mind teaching you. You have to just take a glass and hold it at an angle but not too much, and you just pour the beer in at the side and then start to tilt the glass up at the same time as pouring. It’s quite hard because you have to do a pour AND a tilt at the same time. It’s quite a lot like when you pat your head and rub your tummy. There should be a white frothy head on the beer at the end. That’s what gives grown-ups those moustaches when they drink them. Once my mum shouted at a man in the pub because he told her that beers were just for men. And so my mum purposely drank a LOT of beers that night.
I get Dad a packet of crisps too from the treat cupboard. And a pack for me too. Obvs. Smoky bacon. Or salt and vin—
‘What you do?’ Hector asks.
‘Taking care of my one parent,’ I say.
‘Can I have some crisps?’
‘No, not before dinner.’
‘You’re having some.’
‘I’ve said more words than you today, my tongue is tired.’
Hector begins to cry.
‘Oh, don’t cry.’
‘You’re having crisps and I not.’
‘Have them then, THERE!’ I throw a packet at him. ‘Eat them quietly, suck the flavour off first, don’t crunch or that mum of YOURS will tell you all off. Foot-rub, Dad?’
‘No thanks, Darcy.’
‘Massage, Dad?’
‘You’re all right. I’ve got a beer out here in the garden with my book. I’m just lovely.’
‘Want me to do a tap dance? Some stand-up comedy? A magic show?’
‘No! No!’ he refuses, almost a little too quickly for my liking. ‘But thank you.’
I watch Dad. His eyes are closed. The last of the sun on his face. I pick a lavender and I leave it by his hand as a gift. It seems a good time to ask the question I’ve been wanting to ask him.
‘Dad. Am I your favourite?’
‘Whatever you want,’ he mumbles.
‘Well, obviously, I’m your first born and that.’
‘Yep.’
‘So . . . what we saying, then? That a yes? I am your favourite, or . . .’
‘If you want.’
‘If I want or . . .’
‘Darcy, I’m trying to relax, can’t you see? I’ve been at work all day.’
‘I just want you to say, DARCY, YOU ARE MY FAVOURITE.’
‘Well, I’m not going to say that right now, no, because you are not my favourite, you’re doing my head in.’
‘FINE!’ I huff loud and trot into the house. Lamb-Beth looks at me like perhaps I’m MAD. BUT I AM MAD. I am terribly unloved and so deprived of joy and activities, in this maze where the days never end, all spiralling into one of everlasting boredom drowning in my brain. I am ready to BLOW my steaming angro head off with rage and I’ll start by slamming the door extra hard and giving this Burdock fam a TRUE BITTER PIECE OF MY ACTUAL MIND . . . open the door and SLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAA———
‘Darcy!’ Mum shouts. ‘Dinner.’
YESSSSSSSSSS! I sing a small ‘excited for dinner’ song.
And catch the door to stop it slamming. Just. In. Time.
Nice save, Darcy. Keep it cool. Don’t let yourself down now, Darcy, you’re halfway through the holidays, keep your enemies nice and close . . . don’t be dramatic. Don’t let that mum know you’re on to her!
‘What is it?’
‘Pasta and red sauce.’
‘Yum. And grated cheese?’
‘And grated cheese, yes. You can grate some, and this time let’s aim for grated cheese without your fingers in it.’
‘That was ONCE!’
DON’T FALL FOR IT. Zip your lips! Keep calm. Anger boiling again. I WANT to throw this cheese grater up to the absolute moon and grate off its stupid big peery down face. Why does she always have to bring up old past-been news like that? OK, so there was some of my BODY in the cheese, but technically, unfortunately, I camed from MUM’S BODY so we have THE SAME BODY. SO why should it matter?
GGGGGRRRRR!
‘Who wants a drink?’ I whisper quietly as I get myself a glass of pink squash so I don’t have to make anybody else one because it’s long and all the glasses are broked or misty or in the dishwasher.
‘Ask everybody please, Darcy, instead of just sorting yourself out.’
‘I did!’
‘You didn’t.’
‘I swear I did! But anyway . . . WHHHOOO WAAANNNTTS A DRIIIINNNKKK?’
‘Me!’
‘Ooh, me!’
‘Please!’
‘I’ll have another beer please, thanks, Darcy.’
Great. Or course they do. Total. Eye. Ball. Roll.
Watching Mum eat pasta at dinner is just making me so cross. For no actual particular reason, to be honest, except the fact that she loves my younger sibling more than me. I start noticing how whenever
Poppy makes a joke Mum just laughs that extra bit harderer. Or how Mum’s nose scrinchies up so enchanted when she sees Poppy slurp up a worm of spaghetti like she’s the cutest little button on the entire earth.
I try to be cute. Just for a second. Just as an experiment to see if she thinks I’m cute and enchanting too. I tangle up a big forkful of pasta and swivel it round into a pasta nest and then I slurp it up, making a huge kissing noise as I do it.
‘Darcy! Stop it. Eat your food properly!’ Mum immediately shouts.
‘BUT I—’
Hold it down. Hold it down. Hold it.
‘No buts, it’s disgusting.’
DISGUSTING? Disgusting?
‘But Poppy just did—’
No point even trying. It’s as evident as the day is . . . I don’t know what day it is as it’s the summer holidays and all the days are rolling to one. Whatever.
I shake my head at Mum. I’m thinking . . . I really tried with you, Mum. I really tried. I know exactly when I’m not wanted. It’s just me and Dad in this world. Me and my dad. In our wonderful drama-free lifestyle.
But then it occurs to me that that would be impossible. Here I am trying my absolute very best to not be dramatic when both my parents are the most dramatic parents ever even borned! They made me. And if the dominant ingredient in both their DNAs is drama . . . well, that’s something that’s surely gonna be passed down to me!
No wonder I’m so diseased with drama! I’ve got a double dose of it! The drama plague! I’m riddled!
I feel the urge to write about this. Explore this subject good and proper!
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Me and my best friend, Dad, have been getting on like a house on fire; we pretty much put the ‘bond’ in bonding.
I’ve basically decided the next three weeks of these summer holidays is really gonna drag unless I find something to do. Like perhaps get myself invited to work with him or something. Something’s got to give.
Darcy Burdock Page 7
