“Has WHO hit WHOM?” bellows the voice of Mr. Ince, our math teacher. This just gets better! He orders Amber to go with me to see the nurse, and I can hear him taking Treasure aside for a grilling. As soon as me and Amber turn into the next corridor I stop her and start giggling. “Did she hit you?” she asks, all shock-faced.
“No, I walked into the wall, trying to look nonobvious!” I say, and we both just fall apart laughing, me with little droplets of blood spraying from my nose.
The school nurse cleans me up and says I can go home if I want, but I choose to go back to class so that Damian can see how brave and ungirlie I am. Everyone gives me a round of applause when I go back in—apart from Treasure, that is—and I bow like I’m on stage, but not too low because it makes all the blood rush to my nostrils.
This has been an extremely successful day.
Friday
Last day of term before the summer holidays!!!
“All right, class,” says Mrs. Shutterton in English, “I have a question for you. Who can spell ‘discombobulated’?”
Oooh, and I have a question for YOU, Mrs. Shutterton—who on the whole planet is ever going to need to write or say or type the word “discombobulated”? You may as well ask us to spell “blutitriollisticalenchortrasirpfgjhkkfarlt.” Remind me never to become a teacher … What a waste of time.
No wonder she gets called Mrs. Sh … well, you can probably guess.
She’s given us a book to read over the summer. I thought she was meant to be good at English. She should look up the meaning of the word “holidays.” The book she has given us is My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. Amber is thrilled about this because it’s about nature and geckos and bugs and things. I, on the other hand, am not thrilled. My family ARE animals. I live this book every single day.
Mom meets me and Rick from school, saying she will “buy us a milkshake” to celebrate the end of the school year. A milkshake. How will we stand the excitement? If this is Mother’s way of trying to show she is a good parent she gets zero out of ten. “I just wanted to spend time with my big boy and girl,” she says, with moist eyes. It must be her hormones again. Give me strength. Rick’s face is all twisted in a way that looks like acute pain but which I know to be mortification.
We tell our mother that if she does not call us her BIG BOY AND GIRL ever again we will allow her to take us for a Frankie and Benny’s pizza.
Sunday
Ugh. Today’s the day I promised to meet Shy Sean and Nerdy Neil in the park. How can I get out of it? I could say Simon has dog swine flu and cannot leave the house because he is infectious to other four-legged beasts. But I’ve got to take him for a walk anyway, and knowing my luck I’ll bump into them and be exposed as a big, fat liar. I call Amber and tell her that she’s got to talk to Nerdy Neil and keep him away from me. “OK!” she says, surprisingly brightly. Text Shy Sean and we arrange to meet by the memorial stone in the park.
2 p.m.
Amber is here with a camera because she wants to take some photos of “nature.” Seriously. Do you see what I’m up against? I can barely believe we’re friends sometimes. We have nothing in common.
3 p.m.
We walk to the park. Simon pulls me all the way on his lead like a Scud missile. This is very undignified for me because it looks as if I am waterskiing but on a pavement. Sean is wearing combat pants and looks slightly less weird than usual. I cannot say the same for his cousin, who is dressed like my dad when he’s going to Homebase, in a checked shirt and cords. He also has hair like our milkman, who might be as old as 50. But at least he’s got different glasses on today and doesn’t look like that man who reads the news. Plus, he has at least got a kind, smiley face despite being an ocean-going nerd.
3:30 p.m.
Neil says he thinks Simon is “boss” and should be in a TV advert because he’s so cute. Well, I did say this boy has his good points. But he is a very poor substitute for Damian, who should really be here today. I can’t see why Sean couldn’t do me a favor and bring him along. I’m doing him a favor by allowing my dog to bond with his, aren’t I? Aaah, bless, they do seem to be in doggy love though—sniffing each other’s bottom, rolling around with their mouths around each other’s throat and making growly noises. Sean looks a bit worried about this.
“Don’t worry!” I say, all masterful and Dog Whisperer-like. “It’s called mouthing and it’s perfectly natural. It’s how they play.” Sean looks at me with big, impressed eyes. Mitzy, his collie, is very sweet and pretty, though obviously nowhere near as pretty as Simon.
Amber is earning some brownie points by chatting to Neil the Nerdmeister. He’s examining her camera and coming out with words like “shutter speed” and “pixels.” Amber is actually doing a good job of pretending to be interested. Who knew she was such a good actress?
4 p.m.
Just to make conversation, and in the hope that he will mention it to Damian, I tell Sean that I am now a vegetarian. He looks impressed again. Or rather he just looks at me. Have I got a bogey on my nose?
5 p.m.
Oh God. Wish I hadn’t mentioned the vegetarian thing. Neil, who has not eaten meat since the age of five “because I don’t eat anything with a face” offers to bring some leaflets over to my house. He wants me to sign up to the Vegetarian Society, Compassion in World Farming and all sorts of other things that I just don’t have time for in my busy life. I don’t mind having principles—I just don’t want them intruding on my leisure time. Amber says that she’d like to see the leaflets though. Good. That’s got him off my back.
“Where’s Damian today?” I ask Sean as casually as I can manage.
“Gone on holiday with his family in France,” says Sean. Oh no—he’ll come back with a tan and look even more gorgeous.
“But when’s he back, when’s he back?” I shriek, not at all casually. “How should I know?” says Sean. Honestly, he’s a very touchy person.
Monday
11 a.m.
Aaah, a nice lie-in. And I deserve nothing less after my traumas.
Yesterday wasn’t too bad, considering. The dogs loved it. Not that I’ll ever do it again.
Just had a text from Sean suggesting that we do it again.
“Deffo!” I text back. Why can’t I just say no?
Phoebe comes and starts tying Play-Doh ribbons into my hair. “I got a boyfriend at nurthery!” she says. “He kith me!”
What is wrong with me? Even my baby sister has a boyfriend, and she can’t wipe her own back bottom.
Still, this is nice. Simon is in bed with me too, with his Ugg-boots girlfriend, which he has, rather disgustingly, buried under my duvet. He seems to have full-time custody of the boots these days. When winter comes and Mom remembers she quite likes wearing them I predict some shouting chez nous.
No school for six weeks. I could live like this forever.
Tuesday
Bored, bored, bored. I can’t LIVE like this. No one can be expected to live like this. I could almost clean out Deirdre’s cage, but I’m not quite that bored. This is what it must be like being Simon, sitting around the house all day but without even being able to text his doggy friends.
August
Thursday
It’s my 13th birthday tomorrow, not that you’d notice, thanks very much. Here’s a tip: never be born in August because there’s no school so everyone’s away on holiday and forgets about your birthday, even though you’ve attended their boring parties all year round AND given them presents. If you’re unlucky enough to be born in August AND be a beta child—well, your life’s basically a nonevent. I’d better get the iPod I asked for, that’s all I can say.
Friday
9 a.m.
I’m officially a teenager! Perhaps my parents will finally start taking me seriously and treating me like the intelligent young woman I am.
Go downstairs to the kitchen. Mom throws her arms around me.
“Happy birthday, my lovely little Danni-bear!” she says
, thrusting a package into my hand. It is a pair of slippers in the shape of giant Dalmatian dog heads. This better be a joke.
“Pongo! Perdita!” says Phoebe, rubbing the footwear tenderly against her cheek.
“Awww, don’t you like them, love?” says Dad, ruffling my hair. Thank God. Behind his back I can see a smaller parcel. I tear off the gold wrapping paper. Oh. It’s an MP4 player. Not quite the Apple one I was hoping for, which costs considerably more. Oh, well. At least it’s pink and quite a good one. I’ll just have to hope Treasure doesn’t mock it. I smile and say, “Thank you! It’s almost exactly what I wanted.”
“I can’t believe it was only 13 years ago today that I was pushing you out!” says Mom. “I’ve never known agony like it.” Oh, for God’s sake, Mother.
Phoebe climbs on my knee. She has made me a card which features a picture of me (looking very fat, actually), Phoebe (like a beautiful princess, obviously) and Simon, all inside a big love heart. Bless her. She hands me a badly wrapped parcel. It contains a plastic Toy Story side plate (used) and a Jaffa cake.
Mom says she’ll make me whatever I want for breakfast. “Crunchy Nut Cornflakes,” I say.
“Ah, sorry—we’ve run out,” replies Mother dear.
Gran arrives. I open her present, which is the same thing I get every year—£10 in a card and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange. “Oh, I don’t envy you lot being young today,” she says. “You couldn’t pay me to go through all that again, with all life’s pain and heartache ahead.” Oh, happy birthday to you, Danielle.
Rick, naturally, hasn’t got up yet, but Mom says I can open his card. It’s got “To a great sister” on the front and, more importantly, a £15 Topshop voucher inside.
“Isn’t that thoughtful of him?” says Mom.
“Mother—you bought the card and the voucher for him, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Well, yes,” she says, “but, look—he signed it!”
Oh, yes—I’m welling up here. But the good news is I get £20 from my Aunty Karen and another £20 from my godmother who lives in Wales. Result.
My parents are still being mysterious though—and today of all days. I heard Mom whispering to Gran before, saying something about appointments and how she and Dad will have to go off in the car later while Gran babysits Phoebe.
Maybe we ARE moving to Scotland. Well, I’m not going. Rick has said he won’t go either because Fast Track needs him, and anyway he’s 16 next birthday. We’ll both have to live with Gran and spend 24 hours a day discussing our bowels.
2.p.m.
Because I’m not having a party—not enough people around—Dad has also given me £30 to take Amber and Megan for a pizza in town. Meet them under the big clock in the precinct. Amber has bought me two goats for some African village (sigh), but also some lovely bubble bath and soaps. Megan has bought me HMV vouchers and a lip gloss like the one I’m always borrowing from her. Hooray.
Even though it’s MY birthday, Megan says she wants to get a new skirt. I don’t mind shopping: I do need a “sizzling summer look” as it says in Mom’s magazine, in case I bump into Damian at any point.
We decide to play our occasional game of trying on the most frumpy clothes we can find in Debenhams.
I pick a hideous flowery dress with an A-line skirt and Megan goes for some green old-lady cords. Then we see Amber looking a bit weird and we both suddenly remember that she wears green cords almost exactly like that, so Megan shoves them back quickly and picks some brown slacks instead. Amber has selected a grotesque long tulle dress like a demented Disney princess might wear.
We stand squashed together in the changing rooms. Megan looks like a fat farmer’s wife in her slacks and Amber looks—well, quite nice actually. Bizarre.
I look brilliantly like an old biddy in my dress—in fact just like Miss Pye, our sourpuss deputy head who’s about 90. So I do an impression, stooping a bit: “Girls must NOT hitch their school skirts up to their thighs! It is vulgar and UNLADYLIKE. Anyone whose skirt is more than ONE INCH above the knee will be sent home. IS THAT CLEAR??” Amber and Meg are crying with laughter.
Suddenly the curtain is pulled back. “How are we getting on in here?” says the changing-room assistant, a bit suspiciously.
“Great!” we say.
“Are you going to BUY any of these clothes, because if not can I remind you that there is a line for these changing rooms?”
“Heil, Hitler,” I whisper. Amber and Megan snort again and so we’re asked to leave. Where is the joy in life, eh?
Buy a new bag from Topshop but can’t find anything “hot” or “sizzling” to wear, so go to Pizza Hut instead. Afterward we’re still hungry so buy some fries which we eat in the precinct. It’s been quite a nice day all in all.
6 p.m.
Amber and Megan are coming back for a birthday sleepover. Gran is making our tea: sausage and fries for everyone else, but veggie sausage (ugh) and fries for me and Amber. Is it illegal to have fries twice in one day?
Mom and Dad are still out. Phoebe has stolen one of Dad’s work ties and is using it as reins as she rides around on Simon’s back saying, “Giddy up, Samson.” (Samson is the prince’s horse in Sleeping Beauty). Rick is hogging the computer, probably uploading yet more pictures of himself on Facebook.
I say, “Thanks for the Topshop voucher.”
He looks at me with not a clue what I’m talking about.
Amber and Megan go to my room and I slip into the kitchen for a quiet word with Gran.
“Gran, what’s going on with Mom and Dad? They keep whispering and Mom’s looking, well, quite ugly.”
Gran’s face goes pinched. “That’s a terrible thing to say about your own mother! But, yes, I know what you mean. Anyway, it’s nothing for you to worry about,” she says.
“Aha! So you do know then,” I say, pointing my finger in her face.
“You know me,” she says. “See all, hear all, say nowt.”
You couldn’t say “nowt” if your life depended on it, I want to say, but instead bleat, with a tremble in my voice, “Well, if we’re moving to Scotland, I’m not going. I’m going to move in with you.”
She looks surprised. “Scotland? Where did you get that idea?”
“Oh, OK, well, is Dad having an affair, then? Are they getting divorced?”
Gran puts her arms around me. “Where do you get these ideas at your age?” she says. Then she looks all worried again. “You’ll find out soon enough—there’s nothing you can do about it, put it that way.”
Oh yes, very reassuring, Grandmama dear.
8 p.m.
We are playing my new not-an-iPod. The phone rings downstairs. Gran answers. When she replaces the receiver she informs us that Mom and Dad have gone to the cinema for some “quality time” together. That’s lovely on your daughter’s birthday!
Rick lifts his head up from the computer and shouts: “It’s a make-or-break date to save their marriage.” He’s been reading Mom’s Closer magazine again.
9 p.m.
We are watching TV in the living room when Gran gears up for her main inquiry. She asks after our packets. About time too. Amber and Megan are trying to stop themselves laughing but they’re making snorty noises instead. Rick and I grunt that our packets are just fine. She also asks Rick whether he has a girlfriend yet. He tells her to shut up. That’ll be a no then.
Saturday
Oh, deck the halls with boughs of holly. It seems that we are going en famille to Gran’s camper in Wales tomorrow for a couple of days. So just to recap: Treasure is in Italy, Damian is in Bordeaux and I am going to a campsite where they still use Izal bog roll.
Amber says it’ll be better for our carbon footprint than a holiday to Spain. She’ll get my footprint up her bum if she doesn’t shut it.
Sunday
Two hours trapped in a crap car listening to Charlie and Lola’s Favorite and Best Music Record while Simon makes record-breakingly pungent fart-smells in the hatchback. Ah, this is the life. Rick zon
es out with his headphones on.
“That dog stinks,” says Dad, opening a window. He can talk. Anyway, Simon’s only rolled in one dead bird and some fox poo since his last bath.
6 p.m.
Drinking a rubbish cup of tea in the camper’s “living room” area while Phoebe unpacks her miniature Dalmatians suitcase into the kitchen cupboards. Gran has the smallest camper ever. It’s ridiculous, designed for Oompa-Loompas. Rick nudges me. Mom and Dad are having a hushed row in the “bedroom” area. They are doing that “whisper shout” thing, but there’s really no point since the walls are as thin as the Izal paper I’ll no doubt be wiping my bum on later.
I’m sure I just heard Mom hiss, “I just think they should know, Dave.”
“What did she say?” says Rick. “Shhh,” I say. “Listen.”
“Not yet,” says Dad. “We don’t know if it’s going to work out yet, do we?”
“We can HEAR you,” shouts Rick.
Dad pokes his head around the door and smiles. “Hear what? We’re just discussing where to go tonight. Now—who’s up for Bobby Beachball’s?”
I’m getting bored with this guessing game now.
Bobby Beachball’s is the dismal campsite “family-entertainment nightspot.” In other words, it’s a pub where grown-ups can take their children to watch rubbish acts while they get drunk. Me and Rick groan. Dad promises Rick a “strong lager shandy” and this actually seems to cheer him up. God, his life must be even emptier than mine.
My Family and Other Freaks Page 5
