My Family and Other Freaks

by Carol Midgley

  Treasure’s got mascara on again, which is against the school rules, actually. Her eyelashes look like tarantulas’ legs, all curled upward (must get Mom to buy me some of that). Her skin is even more orange than usual, like one of the Mr. Men. Little Miss Vain. Hahaha. Her mom’s obviously taken her to the beauty salon for another St. Tropez spray job (must persuade Mom to take me for one of them). She is gorgeous. No point denying it. Even Amber admits she’s pretty, although she says, “Real beauty is not how you look but purity of thought and deed.” Honestly, I worry about that girl.

  Treasure is leaning over so her long hair (bleached, I might add) tumbles down on Damian’s desk like something from a bleeding shampoo advert and she’s showing him something on her phone. He’s smiling. He looks amazing when he smiles. Now I’ve got washing-machine stomach again. Actually, hello? We’re not even allowed to have our phones on in school; I’m telling Miss Judd when she arrives. Why doesn’t the woman hurry up?

  Treasure must notice me scowling at her because as she walks back to her desk she stage-whispers to me, “I hope you’ve washed your hands, Dench. Or don’t you bother with soap on Planet Clampett?”

  Pause while I contain my rage. Treasure always calls my family the Clampetts, which she seems to think is really clever because it’s what her mom (big snob) always calls scruffy people. Apparently it’s from some program called the Beverly Hillbillies, which people used to watch about 100 years ago. Just because there are very tall weeds in our garden and our car hood’s a different color to the rest of the car.

  A few people sitting nearby heard what she said and are laughing. I want to cry but I decide to return fire instead. “I’d have thought you’re more in need of soap than me, Treasure. You know, to wash off all that fake tan. What shade is it today—Tango or Irn-Bru?”

  Hooray—everyone’s laughing with me not at me now. Oh, apart from Damian, who’s glaring. Why did he have to be the only one who didn’t find that funny? He fancies Treasure. It’s so obvious. I can see weird Sean O’Connor putting his hand over his face so Damian can’t see he’s snickering at my rapier wit. Why can’t Damian realize how amusing/interesting/quite-good-looking-apart-from-my-nose I am?

  10:33 a.m.

  Great. Miss Judd was standing behind me and heard what I said. I have to stay behind after class. Treasure is smiling triumphantly. I can practically see my reflection in her whitened teeth.

  “Is there a problem between you and Treasure?” she asks at the end of the lesson. “No, miss,” I lie.

  “Because I will not tolerate bullying in my class,” she says. She has pen marks on her jumper. Very sloppy. I know from experience that ink doesn’t come out.

  “Bullying?” I say. “Don’t make me laugh. Lord Voldemort would have his work cut out bullying her.”

  “Don’t get lippy with me,” says Miss Judd. “You’re in detention on Thursday.”

  Oh no. I said I’d go and see Phoebe doing a little show in her ballet class at 4:30 p.m. on Thursday. She’ll hate me now too. Everything is against me. So no change there.

  5 p.m.

  Rick is in the kitchen teaching Simon to shake hands and roll over. He thumps his tail on the floor when he sees me (Simon not Rick) and wiggles his bum.

  “Did you see dream-boy?” says my darling brother, sarcastically but at least not greeting me with a sentence that begins with “go away.”

  “If you mean Damian, he’s been fine about it—really cool actually,” I lie. “Anyway—why do you care?”

  Turns out Rick knows Damian’s brother Liam in Year 11. Rick says that Liam says Damian’s mom washed the jeans and luckily thought it was hilarious. He also said Damian was a “little pain in the butt” who is always nicking his designer hair wax. I inform him that my Damian does NOT use designer hair wax, although the truth is I did once notice a big clump of it at the back of his head and spent all day wanting to brush it off for him.

  “Anyway,” I say, wanting to change the subject, “Simon’s MY dog. I should be the one to teach him tricks.”

  “Great,” says evil Dad, arriving home from work. “Can one of you teach him to go and play on the railway lines?”

  I tell evil Mom that because she made me go to school I am now a) a laughing stock, and b) in detention.

  She’s not even listening and just stares out the window saying, “Well, it’s not the end of the world, love. Just wait until you’ve got real problems to cope with.” Oh please. As if adults ever have real problems. They don’t even have to do homework or exams or face the boy of their dreams every day, who thinks they are Sewer Girl. All adults care about is turning the central heating off and eating broccoli. What I’d give to only have that to worry about. Anyway, she’s not the one doing detention with Mr. Biggins, or, to give him his full name, Biggins Bad Breath Causes Instant Death.

  Thursday

  12:30 p.m.

  Bump into Damian in the dining hall and drop my banana on his foot. He picks it up and hands it back. “Thanks!” I say.

  “No worries,” he says.

  “Really sorry about the other day,” I say, shaking a little.

  “Just forget it,” he says a bit snappily, walking away with Andrew Slater, one of his cool cronies, who’s staring over at me like I’m a freakish bearded lady or something. They go and sit at the table the very furthest away from mine. I think he’s overreacting a BIT. I mean, I did apologize and offer at the time to get the pants cleaned, but Damian just said, “Yeah, right. I’ll just strip off in the park then and walk home in my undies, shall I?”

  Still he did just say, “Forget it,” didn’t he? AND he gave me back my banana. This is progress. Andrew Slater can boil his head. Anyway, I’ve noticed from here that he’s got a fat neck.

  4 p.m.

  Oh God. I’m doing detention with Mick Taylforth, the school perv/psycho. “Ha, it’s Dench the Stench,” he says. So original, Mickey the Thicky.

  There’s lots of things I could say here about him being really dumb and his dad being in jail for selling stolen cell phones in the pub (my brother says), but he’s too scary. So I just say, “You’ve got tomato ketchup all down your jumper.”

  Bad-breath Biggins makes us check under all the desks and chairs for chewing gum, clean the brushes in the art room and then read a pamphlet on bullying.

  “Bullying ruins lives. Bullies are cowards,” it says. I tell Mr. Biggins that for the last time I WAS NOT BULLYING Treasure Cavendish. It was her being nasty to me and my family.

  “Well, you two don’t spoil a pair,” he says. How dare he? What does he mean? I’m the opposite to Treasure in every single possible way.

  5 p.m.

  Phoebe looks so sweet in her ballet dress. But she’s not speaking to me because I didn’t see her do her Teddy Bear’s Picnic bit on stage. “You can’t come to my birthday party now,” she says, folding her chubby arms. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her birthday’s nine months away. But then she notices that I’ve bought her a Flump and so I am forgiven.

  7 p.m.

  Mom comes into my bedroom to ask if I’m OK. Behind her back is a bag. She has bought me a new sparkly top from Tesco. When will my mother learn that I disagree with supermarket clothes? Amber says it’s all made by child workers getting paid 5 pennies a year or something. It is unethical. Mind you, it’s quite a nice top and will go with my white jeans. I decide that I will accept it since my mother needs encouraging to go to the supermarket more often.

  Simon’s being really cute, guarding Mom’s Ugg boots and snuggling up to them. He thinks they’re his girlfriend and pines for them, howling and lying by the door whenever Mom goes out in them, which isn’t very often because he growls whenever she tries to put them on. I do love him. Stupid mutt.

  Mom asks whether I saw Damian at school.

  I lie, saying that I ignored him to make her go away.

  She says, “Good—you must keep your mystery with men.” Yawn. I know what’s coming next. I count down in my head:
Five, four, three, two, one…

  “Do you know, in 18 years of marriage your father has never seen me on the toilet?” she says.

  Yes, because you’ve told me five million times, Mother.

  “Have I?” she prattles on. “Well, did I ever tell you that if he comes in to use the toilet when I’m in the bathroom I always look away?”

  “Yes,” I say, “but why bother? When Dad wees he sounds like a horse. You can hear him from the bus stop.”

  She tells me to stop being so filthy and that Phoebe might hear. I can’t believe my mother still fancies my father, especially now he’s got a receding hairline. But she must do, because that’s how Phoebe came along. She tells anyone who’ll listen, “Phoebe was a mistake [drum roll] … but she’s the best mistake I ever made!!!”

  Sigh. If I had a pound for every time she’s said that, I could—well—pay for a nose job.

  And what’s that they teach us at school about contraception? If a 12-year-old can grasp what a condom is, I don’t see why a couple of forty-somethings can’t. Still, I’m glad Phoebe’s here. She’s funny and she’s now riding around the room on Simon’s back. I can’t imagine life without her.

  Friday

  Fake illness so I don’t have to go to school. Put talc on my face and pretend I’ve been sick by flushing the toilet four times. Turns out Mom’s off work sick too. I tell her that she looks about 90 today and she turns away with a really weird look on her face.

  Honestly, she really does need to get a sense of humor.

  I tell her about Treasure and her gorgeousness and how I’m sure Damian fancies her.

  Mom says being beautiful can cause you no end of problems.

  “Oh well, you got lucky then, didn’t you, mother?” I say. Again—no laughter. Lighten UP, woman.

  Mom says I’m more fortunate than Treasure because she’s an only child and big families are happier families. She’s kidding—right? I’m blessed to sleep next to the Stink Pit?

  I tell my mother that she is seriously misinformed. For a start, Treasure’s dad is loaded and spends tons of money on her because he’s always away working, PLUS her mother’s given her a Topshop account card. She goes on three foreign holidays a year and doesn’t come home from school to find that her little sister has made a hammock for Deirdre out of her best bra. Find me the bad bits in that, I challenge you. And what did we get? Two weeks in Gran’s camper in Wales where it rained for ten days without stopping and the showers had other people’s front-bottom hairs in them.

  “You’ve got a lot to learn about life,” says Mom. Er, well, she’s got a lot to learn about what makes children happy.

  After school, Amber brings over the homework I missed. “You got B minus for your essay about the Romans,” she says, looking disappointed for me. B minus? This is a personal best!

  “Did anyone talk about me today?” I ask.

  “No, they were all gossiping about Natasha Marshall cos she had a love bite on her neck,” says Amber.

  Saturday

  10 a.m.

  Am looking at my nose sideways in the mirror to see if it has grown any bigger. I think it has. Great. How long until they start calling me “Beaky” and buying me Trill?

  I’ve had a thought. Maybe I’ve imagined that Damian fancies Treasure. Maybe he’s just being polite. Yes, yes, because he was nice to me too that day. Before, erm … the Poo Incident, which from here on will be known as the PI. My imagination has been getting carried away with itself again.

  I make a list of 12 Solemn Vows, ways that I promise to be better if only God will make Damian like me instead of her … (yes, I know it’s usually ten on these occasions, but I have a lot to atone for).

  My Pact with God

  1. I will go to church every Sunday (except when I’m on holiday, and when it’s raining and I might catch a cold and when I actually have a cold. Oh, and when I’m having a sleepover at a friend’s house, because I don’t want them to think I’m some weird Jesus freak if I get up on Sunday morning and say, “No, I don’t want to go on Facebook with you and eat chocolate muffins. I’m off to listen to Father Michael talk about fish and loaves and stuff.”).

  2. I will never again hide the TV remote from my dad when he wants to watch the news so I can carry on watching Hollyoaks.

  3. I will never again swap my packed lunch with Kieran Campbell for two tubes of Mega Dust sherbet and a packet of Monster Munch and then tell my mother I had a nutritious meal.

  4. I will definitely never eat meat again and I mean it this time. Amber says the world would be saved if we all stopped stuffing ourselves with cows and pigs. Not that it stops her.

  5. I will not do Deirdre Disco Ball ever again. Nor will I let Phoebe dress Simon up in her old bonnets and skirts or give him a makeover with Mom’s best eye shadow and lipstick.

  6. I will do my homework on time and only copy off Amber when it’s science or math. Or geography. And sometimes German, when it’s the grammar bit.

  7. I will not tell Rick’s friends again that he watches Sleeping Beauty with Phoebe and sometimes pretends to be the handsome prince riding by.

  8. I will not tell my mother I hate her because she failed to wash my Daisy Duck top in time for the youth-club disco (although I wish to clarify that there really was no excuse).

  9. I will help old ladies across the road and not get impatient when they don’t move fast enough.

  10. I will not complain that my nose is big because, hey, everyone’s special in God’s eyes.

  11. I will not laugh when Andrew Slater calls Miss Jeffer, our PE teacher, Jeffer the Heifer just because she’s what my gran would call “well built.”

  12. I, erm, will think of another one later …

  I roll the list into a scroll, tie it with a hair bobble and put it under my bed.

  6 p.m.

  Gran comes around, fussing about her bowels again. “I’ve been lovely and regular and then I stayed one night at Sissy’s—just one night!—and my body clock’s all gone to pot again,” she’s saying to my mom in the kitchen. Why are old people like this? If we went on about our poo all day at school we’d get told off for being “crude” and “vulgar,” but once you’re past 70, it seems you can say what you like.

  “How old are you, Gramma?” says Phoebe, who is for some reason painting her Barbie dolls’ eyes black and white, like Marilyn Manson’s.

  “I’m 79 years young, love,” says Gran, like always.

  “Oh,” says Pheebs sweetly, “does that mean you’ll die soon?”

  6:30 p.m.

  I know what will happen when I go down and say hello. “Hello, Danielle—have you done your packet?” she will ask. “Phoebe, Rick—have you done your packets?” She means have we done a poo today. She always asks this, even when people are here from school and I have to pretend she’s talking about sending a parcel to an African charity or something. She really does need her head examining.

  Remember I need to put Clearasil on my blackheads.

  7 p.m.

  That’s funny—Mom and Gran are still murmuring in low voices in the kitchen and Mom hasn’t even shouted up telling us not to be so rude and come down and say hello to our grandmother. I go into the kitchen. They stop talking immediately. “Oh, hello, Danielle,” says Gran absentmindedly. Not so much as a “how are you?” She didn’t even inquire after my packet! I am offended. Old people are so self-obsessed.

  7:10 p.m.

  It’s meat-and-potato pie for tea, my absolute favorite, but I inform my mother that I am now vegetarian and that it’s about time she started considering the welfare of animals too.

  “Are you going to last more than two days this time?” she says.

  I explain that this is a life decision.

  “Well, you’ll have to make yourself a cheese sandwich then.”

  I hate cheese. I also hate vegetables. This is a problem. Maybe I will starve to death. Not that anyone will notice. But imagine how good that would look to Damian as my epitaph: “S
he loved animals so much, she perished.”

  Sunday

  Mom decides we should all go to the park with Simon “as a family.” Rick lies that he’s got mocks to revise for so it’s just the four of us. There’s a bit of a kerfuffle when Simon ruins someone’s picnic by running through the middle of it and stealing the sausage rolls, but after we’ve calmed Mr. Angry Middle-Aged Man down it’s quite a nice day all in all. Mom is still being a bit weird and emotional, saying to me and Phoebe stuff like, “You’re both still my babies, you know. Don’t forget that!”

  Dad rubs her like she’s a distressed pony. Phoebe is outraged. “I’m not a baby!” she says. “I wipe myself.”

  Monday

  Drag Amber to the drugstore with me after school. Have decided that in order to make Damian see sense and prefer me to Treasure I am going to have to change my look. I spend £3.99 on a mascara that promises “telescopic lashes to get you noticed!”

  “You can’t wear it for school,” says Amber, always the goody two-shoes. “Mr. Cook [the principal] will just make you scrub it off.”

  “Look, if Treasure can get away with it, so can I,” I say. “Now I need some tanning lotion.” Amber says it might be toxic and that I have no idea what I’ll be putting on my skin and why don’t we go home and research it on the internet first?