by Grace Dent
“Hmmm,” says Dad, staring into the middle distance. “Actually, that’s quite a good point, Ronno. I’m not sure what that means either.”
“Wonderful,” I say sarcastically.
“She’ll be back, though,” announces Dad meekly, picking a bit of dried chicken tikka masala sauce off his shirt. He hasn’t shaved for days either. “If she knows what’s good for her.”
He doesn’t look too much like a “Welcome Home” treat to me.
“You’re really angry at me, aren’t you?” he asks, perceptively noticing my eyes drilling into him and my nostrils flaring.
“Well, yeah. I am! I mean, it just makes me mad that no one tells me anything around here—”
“You hear about most things—”
“And I mean, there’s only THREE of us in this house, so it’s not too much to ask that I be informed of the latest departures and arrivals—”
“Actually, I wouldn’t speak too soon on that one,” Dad mutters.
“But somehow,” I say, ignoring Dad’s mutterings, “SOMEHOW I still get treated like a BABY!! And I’m not a BABY. I won’t be treated like one anymore!!” I announce, pointing my finger at him.
“That’s a good job, really, because . . . ,” Dad begins, but then he stops whatever it was he was going to say as tears begin to drizzle down my cheeks.
“Ronnie, you’ve got loads on your plate at the moment. It’s your school festival in like seven days, isn’t it?”
“Sheven daysh from tomorrowsh,” I say, snorting tears and snot back up my nose.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about that. You know what you were saying on Wednesday? About more people buying tickets than you ever imagined? And about Claude having hassles with hiring equipment and all that sort of thing?”
“Yeah. We’re all right now, though. Fleur’s dad lent us a grand. I told you that too, didn’t I?”
Dad went slightly white when I said that.
“Oh. No, no, I didn’t know that. You can pay it back, can’t you?” he asks, to which I just roll my eyes at him and thin my lips.
An adequate answer in my opinion.
“Well, anyhow, it was just that I was thinking. Well, you know that I used to dabble in the music industry before you were born and that I still know a load of the old faces who work touring with rock bands on the road?”
“Uh-huh,” I say. Of course I do. He’s always going on about it.
“Well, seeing as this whole Blackwell Live thing is getting so big . . . well, how’s about me calling some of my old mates up and seeing if they can lend a hand?” he says, grinning at me like this is the best idea in the world.
I stare at my father incredulously, without blinking, for about half a minute.
“Well, what do you reckon?” he says, clearly glad to be thinking about something other than my missing mum for five minutes. “Good idea?”
I stand up and walk toward the door, carefully preparing my exit speech. Dad has really done it this time.
“That is just typical! Really typical!!” I begin in a rather raised voice.
“What is?!” shouts Dad.
“YOU! You think I’m some sort of stupid kid with stupid mates and we can’t do anything by ourselves. Like I need you and some other crinkly old duffers to sort out our mess? I don’t believe it!” I shriek.
“Ronnie. Don’t be daft. I didn’t mean it like that, I just thought that—”
“Yeah, that’s right, call me daft! I am daft. I’m really stupid, aren’t I? I’m so stupid that you and Mum are splitting up and no one even tells me why.”
“Ronnie, calm down. Where are you going?!”
“I’m going out. Nobody cares where I’m going, anyway!” I yell. And by this point I’m pretty much just saying the first things that come into my head without really knowing why, just because shouting is making me feel better. Which does, by no means, excuse the following gems that drip from my lips.
“And because I hate you. I hate both of you. I hate being alive. I wish you’d never had me . . . in fact, I know that you two wish you’d never had me either!! Good-bye!!”
SLLLLLLAAAM!
I’ve said so many shocking things in that last sentence that as I crunched shut the den door, my final view of my father’s face was pure “rabbit caught in the headlights.”
So I throw back the gate of the Fantastic Voyage, I kick a nearby pile of refuse bags, I hiss at the neighbor’s cat, who seems to be mocking me from atop an adjacent garage, then I begin stomping up the high street toward Fleur’s gaff.
I feel amazingly angry, and by default I actually feel quite amazing.
Huh, I really told him, didn’t I?! I think, recalling every second of my outburst. He knows where he stands now, doesn’t he! Huh?
And on I plod . . . except that now with every shop I pass, and every few meters I travel, I’m becoming a little more creep ingly aware of what a total idiot I’ve been.
As the seconds tick past and I’m almost halfway to Fleur’s, I’m beginning to realize just how hurt Dad looked and how nasty I was to him when he was probably just trying to be kind. And how much I just want to run back home, if my pride would let me, and tell him that I’m not mad at him. It’s just that the thought of Mum leaving us makes me want to hurl with fear, and I’m stressed about the festival, and I don’t really know why I said all that stuff.
And I’m dead sorry.
But I don’t. As that seems a difficult thing to do, as opposed to just going to Fleur’s house, bitching about him for a while, then watching a video. So I keep on walking.
And that’s when I see them.
Jimi Steele and Panama Goodyear.
In the window of Paramount Pizza. Jimi’s arm draped around Panama’s shoulder, while Panama feeds him a tempting spoon of tiramisu. Within a millisecond Panama spots me and is waving, nudging Jimi, who looks up, attempting a smile that just looks extremely sheepish. Panama is distracted by this point, gently kissing the apple of Jimi’s cheek.
And I want to scream out. But by this point all my adrenaline had trickled away, leaving me standing in the street all alone, with a knotted stomach and a heart shriveled to the size of a piece of old chewing gum.
Chapter 10
a special visit
I didn’t get out of bed yesterday.
Instead, I hid beneath my duvet with the curtains drawn for the entire Saturday, reading a novel I stole from Mum entitled A Certain Taboo. It’s rubbish. No wonder my mother always drinks too many margaritas, then falls asleep on the beach with a book on her face, if this is the sort of drivel she reads.
I didn’t get dressed yesterday either.
I wore my underwear all day, simply pulling on a sweater for bathroom trips. There didn’t seem to be any point.
In getting up and getting dressed, that is.
Or living.
I’d texted Claude and Fleur first thing and lied that I was at Nan’s, then I bolted my bedroom door with my Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the handle. Every time Dad knocked, I faked snoring until I heard him padding away down the landing, sighing. I was feeling highly antisocial. There was, and still is, nothing that any individual can possibly say to make me feel any better. Especially as my mum has still not come home. Or even called me back on my cell phone like she said she would. Okay, I could have called her, but that’s not the point, is it? I mean, I’m her daughter. It should be her motherly instinct to call and check if I’ve had my breakfast or have got enough spends for the day, instead of just lazing about at my nan’s house “having time to think.” My social worker, when I get one, will be hearing about this, mark my words. About the day my mum abandoned me as she “needed time to think,” and I spent a day alone, in my underwear, starving.
And “think” about what, exactly? You don’t have to think about whether you want to live with your husband and your daughter, do you? Huh? No, you “need time” to think about stuff like whether you want to buy that top you’ve tried on in blue or in bla
ck. Or “time” to think about what you fancy off a restaurant menu. You don’t have to stop and think about living with your family, do you?
Mum should come back straightaway, Dad should make her.
I feel like I’m going mad.
I really just want everything to be back to normal. It’s not nice thinking we can’t all live here together anymore. And, er, I realize now that I really love them both too.
There, I’ve said it.
I love them both.
But I’m not saying that to them, as I’m not speaking to either of the miserable, irritating gits.
I cried my eyes out on Friday night after I saw Jimi and Panama. I sat in the little swing park behind the shops all by myself and cried till my eyes swelled up and my sleeves were covered in snot. In the end a tramp sidled over to me to ask me if I was okay, offering me some of his White Wizard cider. (I refused, but it was still a kind thing to do, now I come to think. I mean, he needed the cider more than me.)
But now that I’ve had time to think about it, I can see exactly why Jimi’s going out with her. She’s really pretty. Like, drop-dead gorgeous. And she’s got gigantic boobs she’s not scared to put on show. Not like me, I’ve got bigger boobs on my back, well, so some kind lad pointed out in physical ed last year. And she’s always doing really cool stuff, like popping to London for the weekend to see her cousins. Or having parties. Or going on holiday to dead exotic places where she has jet lag when she gets home.
And yes, I know she’s a horrible, soulless, vicious school bully. But boys can never see that, can they? They just don’t see it. I can think of tons of times in class when the LBD have been gossiping away about some really heinous, gutter-level, wicked thing Panama has said or done. The lads in our class will earwig intently, devouring every gruesome detail of Panama’s wrongdoing, then at the end, one of them will always pipe up: “Who? Are you talking about Panama Goodyear? That bird in Year Eleven with the long brown hair and the big scones?! She’s fit as anything, she is!” Then they’ll dissolve into a loud and heartfelt “Phwoaaaaarrrrr!”
I was a total dweeb for thinking Jimi was any different. Or thinking that someone as amazing and X-factor as he is could have maybe had the hots for me. Me, with my combination skin, my pear-shaped bottom and my loonytoons family.
But anyway, as I said, I cried for ages the other night. But now I just don’t want to think about them. I hope they’re really happy together. In fact, I hope he plummets between the gap in her monstrous cleavage and has to be retrieved by a passing mountain rescue crew.
I’m just really happy here, all alone, in my underwear, with my book.
Even if it is poo.
So it’s now 10:00 A.M. Sunday morning and I’m still in bed, reading a totally riveting part of A Certain Taboo, when I’m disturbed from bad-book land by a noise from downstairs: the unmistakable sound of several guitars being tuned up.
Oh, no.
Oh, please, no.
It’s Sunday, isn’t it? It’s Lost Messiah’s day for practicing at the Fantastic Voyage. They’re downstairs now. Jimi Steele is on the premises and I’m in underwear and I haven’t washed my hair or cleaned my teeth for two days! I smell like a WWE wrestler’s jockstrap. Damn. I better get up really quickly and choose an outfit and get a shower and . . .
Hang on a minute! He goes out with Panama now, doesn’t he? What I look like is now superfluous to the plot. Game over. Right, I’m not moving a muscle. I’m just going to languish here in my pit, reading my book, looking like a swamp donkey. Which I manage, just about, for the next half hour despite drumming, singing, guitar riffs and amp feedback reverberating through my bedroom. Occasionally, as I overhear yet another voice join the merry throng downstairs, I emit a little “Hmmmph” of disapproval. But I certainly don’t leap out of bed and start attempting to beautify myself.
How strong am I!
But then I hear Dad’s voice, shouting up the stairs, “Ronnie! Ronnie, I know you’re up there. Come here.”
I freeze and pull the duvet over my head.
Not on your life, chum.
“Ronnie, your pals are here to see you,” he finally shouts.
In the background I can hear some girlish giggles. Aha, it’s Fleur and Claude! I knew they’d come and find me before long.
“I’ll just send them up,” he shouts. “Go on up, ladies, she’s just hibernating.”
I leap out of bed and fling open the door, wearing only my big pair of outsized lilac knickers accompanied by an old gray vest with tomato sauce stains down the front.
“Welcome to my world,” I mutter mournfully, by way of explaining why I look so skanky.
But instead of Fleur or Claude, all I hear is two high-pitched screeches and someone muttering: “Ugggh, how revolting.”
When I look up, to my utter horror, it’s Panama Goodyear, Leeza and Abigail standing on my landing outside my bedroom door, sneering at me, my knickers and my house.
Joy.
“Mmm, gorgeous decor,” quips Leeza, grimacing at our flock wallpaper, which to be fair is the sort that only mums think is smart. “It’s very lived-in, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I must look out for this hovel in Beautiful Homes Magazine,” simpers Abigail.
“Wah?” I grunt, trying to hide my entire body behind the door.
“We were just passing by,” begins Panama. “Well, y’know, I was just popping in to see my boyfriend, who’s practicing downstairs. Jimi Steele. I go out with him now. Oh, but you know that, though, don’t you?” Panama smiles smugly. “We saw you on Friday when we were having pizza. Your face was a real picture!”
“Mmmm,” I say, lost for words.
“Jimi mentioned that you and him are quite good friends,” continues Panama. “And I was saying, hee hee, I bet Ronnie fancies you and she’ll be gutted that we’re an item now, but Jimi seems to think not. Hee hee, isn’t that funny?”
“Hilarious,” I say through very thin lips. “Look, what can I do for you exactly? Shouldn’t you be practicing or something? Blackwell Live is this week, you know—”
“Ooh, we know!” Leeza giggles.
“We’re very excited!” says Abigail.
“Zane and Derren and us girls have been practicing our five-part harmonies all week,” says Panama. “We sound incredible.”
“I’ve no doubt,” I say sarcastically.
“But, you see, that was what we were stopping by to talk about. Blackwell Live,” says Panama. “I just wanted to talk to you about this whole ‘who’s the headline act’ saga. It’s getting a little tiresome, isn’t it?”
“You don’t say,” I sigh.
“We need to iron it out once and for all,” shrills Abigail.
“Exactly,” says Panama. “I mean, to be honest, it’s not the fact that we want to perform top of the bill that’s the biggest problem. Not as much as the fact that a trio of insolent, common, ugly little mutants such as you are actually disobeying us. It really is unbelievable and quite, quite unacceptable.” Panama’s voice is a snarl now. “And I won’t tolerate it.”
Panama draws her face up to mine, but then smells my rather fuggy breath and quickly withdraws.
“So, what are you going to do, Panama, beat me up?” I say bravely. Not even Panama would have the nerve to pulverize me with my dad downstairs. Would she?
“Of course we’re not going to beat you up. What kind of amateur operation do you think I’m running here?” Panama sneers, adjusting her scarlet velour headband. “No, we’ve got better ideas than that.”
“Much better!” confirms Leeza.
“Firstly, we’ve been contemplating canceling our Blackwell Live slot altogether,” says Abigail. “Obviously we’d tell Mr. McGraw, Mrs. Guinevere and Mr. Foxton that it was down to your unprofessional and childish way of handling things. That won’t be very nice, will it? Ticket refunds? Teachers shouting at you? Feelings of failure and hopelessness? That sort of thing?”
I just stare at them blankly. Yes, that
would be hideous.
“But better still, we’ll tell people at school all about the little problems you’ve been having with your mummy and daddy. Poor Ronnie, huh? Awww, such a sad tale, eh? Jimi told me all about it . . .”
What? I cannot believe that Jimi has told Panama Goodyear how sad I am about my mum and dad. I cannot believe it. I feel like someone just kicked me in the stomach.
“But of course, that will be a really boring story, so I’m going to spice it up and say your mum’s an alcoholic and your dad used to hit her.”
“You can’t do that!” I begin to shout, realizing instantly that I’m playing straight into their hands, as their faces all light up at once.
“No one will believe you, Panama,” I say more quietly. “Anyhow, no one cares what you say,” I mumble, knowing that at least some people will and that’ll be enough.
“Ahem, I think you’ll find they will. It’ll be the best rumor ever!” snaps Panama. “Especially when they hear about you and the boys from EZ Life Syndicate. What’s all this about you snogging three of them already?! How perfectly . . . grubby?!” She sneers.
“Panama, I have NEVER even touched a single member of EZ Life. Who told you that?!!” I yell, eventually losing my temper.
“No one!” screeches Leeza. “We just made it up. Brilliant, aren’t we?!”
“And the best bit is, we just made those rumors up on the way here. Imagine what we’ll conjure up about your other two freaky friends once we’ve had time to think?” Abigail laughs.
“Exactly,” says Panama. “So, sort it out, Ronnie. It’ll be a lot easier for you all, believe me,” she says, disappearing down the stairs.
“Ciao, ciao!” Abigail and Leeza giggle, waving and blowing me kisses.
And then they were gone, leaving me all alone, totally gobsmacked, trying to work out why adults bring up kids to believe total hogwash like “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” Because when it comes to Panama Goodyear, I’d rather take a physical pummeling with a big stick anytime.
