It's a Girl Thing

by Grace Dent

  “Our outfits are so tight, we have to use talc to slide them on easier!” shrills Abigail, showing off her black rubber catsuit. It appears the whole of Catwalk will be coordinated today in identical ultra-close-fitting Lycra and rubber items. Derren and Zane (who are both extra orange-skinned today) are pouring their taut limbs into rubber trousers and ripped black Lycra vests. If you ask me, they look like some sort of lame intergalactic fighting force.

  “Remember, Leeza, I’m wearing the most expensive suit!” pipes up the irritating tones of Panama Goodyear, who is drawing a perfect plum lip line around her pouting mouth. “So don’t even think about putting it on,” she snaps.

  Leeza looks embarrassed, then mutters: “Okay, Panama,” opting for a less impressive catsuit.

  And I should have guessed what was coming next. I mean, you can’t have one without the other, can you?

  “Yoo-hoo, Jimi!” squeals Panama as Lost Messiah’s lead singer eventually makes his appearance, winking at Claudette and nodding a nervous hello to me while Panama crawls all over him like the Ebola virus.

  “I was worried about you, darling!” she simpers, trying to kiss his face.

  “Oh, give it a rest, Panama,” says Jimi, gently trying to push her off with more than a flicker of discomfort.

  “Oh, don’t be silly.” Panama giggles. “I just want to kiss my boyfriend, is that so wrong?” she asks, groping his chest and slobbering on his face.

  “Gerroffff,” Jimi says, pushing her makeup-laden face away from his pristine white T-shirt.

  Sigh.

  I wish with all my soul that Jimi wasn’t so unbelievably hot: It wouldn’t feel like someone was kicking me up the bum with a pointy shoe every time I see him with that evil witch.

  “Ooh, things don’t look too rosy over in Camp Panama and Jimi, do they?” whispers Fleur, arching an eyebrow. “What was that Ainsley said about giving them a week?”

  But I know she’s just being kind.

  “Don’t,” I groan.

  “So, hello, everyone!” shouts Claudette, climbing up onto a chair to be seen. “Can I have a bit of order now?! Yes, that means you too, Lost Messiah, shut up!”

  “Sorry, Claude,” shouts Naz, his hair now jutting skyward like a bass-playing cockatiel.

  “Okay now, I’ve gathered you all here to tell you today’s running order and . . . er, hang on a second. Liam, are you okay?”

  Claude breaks off, spying Liam Gelding copiously vomiting into a nearby bin.

  “Stage fright.” Benny Stark winks, patting Liam’s back.

  “Well, can he hurl quietly, please? I’m trying to speak here,” continues Claude. “Now, our gates open in under thirty minutes’ time, at noon. As you all have probably seen, we’ve got the bellringers positioned at the front gate, so that’s one act safely accounted for. Now, I want the first stage act, which we all know is Christy Sullivan, ready to go on at one o’clock. Christy, are you with us?”

  “Sort of,” says Christy regretfully.

  “Good. Then, at quarter to two, I need Guttersnipe ready to rock. Tara, Benny, Liam, are you fine with that?”

  “No bother, man.” Benny nods.

  Splagghhhhhh goes the sound of Liam’s breakfast splattering on the side of the bin.

  “Has he got hollow legs?” asks Claude. “That’s a lot of vomit.”

  “He’ll be okay,” assures Tara. “Once he gets it all up.”

  Panama wrinkles her nose in Guttersnipe’s direction. “Uggh, how vile,” she mutters.

  “So that takes us up to two-thirty, when I want Death Knell on stage. Then, after that, at three-fifteen, I need EZ Life Syndicate ready to rumble. Now, EZ Life, there’s only room for twelve of you on the stage, so decide now who’s performing and who’s gonna be left at the side holding the coats. If all thirty of you—or however many of you there are now—jump up and down on stage together, I have it on good authority from Pip and Vinny, our roadies, that the stage could collapse like a souf flé. We do not, repeat, do NOT want that, do we?”

  “No, Claude,” mutters EZ Life as a huge debate explodes about who is and isn’t performing today.

  “But I wrote that first song!” moans one lad with a red bandana wrapped around his head. “I should go on for verse two at least.”

  “You only joined EZ Life two days ago!” one girl is yelling across to a tall black lad, apparently called Dane, with intricate mini-dreadlocks all over his head.

  “Yeah, but I drove the van here!” Dane argues back. “And if I don’t get to rap, I’m driving it home again without you lot in it!”

  “He’s got a point there,” announces Killa, clearly imagining the entire EZ Life Syndicate on the Number Thirty-nine bus back home to the Carlyle Estate.

  “Okay, that’s decided, then: Dane is rapping on all the songs,” announces Killa, causing much uproar.

  “Oh, and EZ Life, remember, I need you off stage, no ifs, no buts, by four P.M.,” says Claude. “Because next up is Lost Messiah. If there’s any problems at all with either band, just shout up now. Oh, and good luck!”

  Of course, sadly, we all know what that means.

  I know. Fleur knows. Claude obviously knows.

  And Panama Goodyear and her goblins certainly know too, if their expressions of boundless glee are any indication.

  I hate to even say it, but it’s the irrefutable truth: Catwalk is Blackwell Live’s starring act.

  Panama didn’t meet our gaze or even murmur a word; however, we all know Catwalk are certain victory is theirs. Bullying and nastiness has won the day. It’s simply less hassle to just give Catwalk their own way. And what is more, it’s what the crowd really really wants.

  That sucks.

  “And after this,” Claude continues, unfazed, “the refreshments tent will keep serving drinks until nine-thirty P.M., where Johnny Martlew from Year Thirteen will be spinning, er . . .” Claude reads from a piece of paper, “An eclectic mix of rare grooves and party anthems.”

  “So, anything he feels like, then?” shouts Tara.

  “Er, yeah.” Claude laughs. “And I’ll be there too, so buy me a drink!”

  As Claude leaps down from her chair, Fleur and I whisk her aside for a private chat.

  “Claude, are you sure we’ve done the right thing here?” I say, feeling more than a little sad.

  “Yeah, Claude. It just doesn’t feel right,” whispers Fleur. “I always thought that we’d have the last laugh with Catwalk, but we’ve made them the stars of our show! Okay, I know we had no choice, but still . . .”

  “I know,” says Claude. “But let’s face it, the whole of Blackwell School have bought tickets to see an unforgettable show, haven’t they?”

  “S’pose,” we both mumble.

  “And they all want to see Catwalk, don’t they?” Claude asks.

  “Yeah, s’pose,” Fleur admits begrudgingly.

  “Well, let’s be gracious about it, then. We have to give the ticket buyers what they want, haven’t we?” Claude says calmly. “And to be frank, we’ve got bigger priorities to deal with now anyhow. It’s time to open the gates!”

  liftoff

  “Mayday! Mayday! Operation Eagle Has Landed is GO!!!!” shouts Masher into his walkie-talkie as Blackwell’s gates fling open and the first ticket holders pour in. I sneak onto the stage to watch the first arrivals.

  “Chrrrrrrrrrrrisssssssttttyyy Sullivan, I love you!” squeals one girl, accompanied by two dozen or so assorted Year 8 lovelies, clutching roses and teddies, running as fast as their legs will carry them toward the main stage. Predictably, the first hundred bodies all seem to be Christy’s loyal fans. WE LUV U CHRISTY XXX reads one banner, already being waved aloft proudly by a blond girl. SHOW US YOUR BUM, CHRISTY! YOU MAJOR HOT-TIE!!! XXX invites another.

  “Told ya,” says Uncle Charlie, who has appeared beside me. “That’s where the trouble lies. Teenage girls . . . mark my words, I’d rather supervise football hooligans, far less scary,” he remarks, observing Gonzo, one o
f our security men, splitting up a squabble involving a gaggle of girls who are trying to climb over the front barrier, closest to the stage.

  “But I’ve been in line since eight o’clock this morning! I should get the best view!” squeals one girl, elbowing another young lassie who for some mysterious reason has felt-tipped CHR and ISTY on her right and left cheeks. (Yeah, like that’s going to improve her chances of snogging him.)

  Meanwhile, up at the front gates, I watch as a steady flow of girls and boys hand their tickets to Masher and flood into the field: kids with facial piercings, shaved heads and gothic jewelry, kids with chic designer labels on show and patterns shaved into their eyebrows, kids with jeans worn so baggy, the bum section droops by the back of their knees. I can barely recognize some familiar faces without their school uniforms; in their “civilian clothes,” people take on whole new guises. It’s especially fantastic to see audition rejects like Chester Walton, Shop and Constance Harvey have swallowed their pride and bought tickets; I can even see Matthew Brown, happily without Mr. Jingles, his talking bear, standing in the ever-growing queue for hot dogs and burgers. And in the middle of the thousand or so festival goers already present, meandering gingerly through the crowd, observing the field like a social experiment, is Mr. McGraw, our headmaster, and his laugh-a-minute wife, Myrtle.

  “Having a good time, Mr. McGraw?” shouts one lad.

  “Hmm, we’ll see, shall we?” replies McGraw glumly, spotting a group of Year 9 girls who are already stripped down to bikini tops in the glorious lunchtime sunshine. “This place is like a nudist colony,” he mutters to his wife. Nearby, enterprising Year 13 girls are doing hot business selling aromatherapy massages and henna tattoos, while at a little stall adjacent to them, Blackwell’s resident psychic, Candice from Year 9, is selling “Spiritual Readings from the Other Side” for £5 a time.

  “This is tantamount to witchcraft!” mutters Myrtle McGraw. “I’m not sure the Reverend Peacock would approve.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” assures McGraw. “Here are the Blackwell bellringers ready to give their recital, now this is more like it.”

  And he’s sort of correct, I suppose. Indeed it is George, Jemima, et al, from the bellringing team; Claude has placed them nearest the main gate, figuring the atrocious noise will hurry people through the gates toward the main stage more efficiently; however, I feel McGraw is going to be less than pleased with the selection of pop music we’ve convinced George’s team to learn and play.

  “Saints preserve us! What’s wrong with ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’?!” moans Myrtle as the bellringers clang and ding-dong through a selection of R-and-B and nu-metal classics.

  “What about ‘Land of Hope and Glory’?” shouts McGraw, as if his entire world is collapsing.

  I could people-watch all day, just taking in the developing scene proudly as seas of faces, kids from both Blackwell and Chasterton, plus a generous sprinkling of mums and dads, fill the festival site.

  Not my mum, though.

  I left a few messages with her and even asked Dad to call her, but she never gave a proper yes or no whether she’d come.

  “It might be a bit difficult,” Mum said, whatever that means. But I’ve not got time to think about that now, Claude and Fleur have appeared by my side, and Vinny is giving us the thumbs-up. The equipment is sound-checked and ready to go.

  “Come on, Dad!” Fleur yells to Paddy, who seems to be giving Christy Sullivan a stern pep talk by the side of the stage. “It’s time for you to kick things off!”

  “Pull yourself together, boy,” Paddy is saying to Christy. “They love you out there . . . and you haven’t even sung a note yet!” Paddy assures. Then he marches onto the stage to a rapturous applause from the first ten rows of near-hysterical girls.

  “Hello, Blackwell Live!” begins Paddy. “Welcome! And I’d like to start today by thanking you all for—”

  “CHRRRRIIISSSTTTTTY!!!!! AAAAAGGGGH!” erupts the front row.

  “Er, for coming along and supporting today. We’ve got a lot of great—”

  SCREEEEEEEEEEAM! goes the crowd.

  “Ahem, great music in store for you today, so I hope that—”

  “I LOVE YOU, CHRISTY! MARRY ME!!” pleads one girl, drowning Paddy out completely. “GET YOUR PECS OUT FOR

  THE GIRLS!!”

  All the front row begin cackling like drains.

  “Oh, forget it,” grunts Paddy, admitting defeat. “Here, without any further ado, is Christy Sullivan!”

  “HURRRAY! WOOOO-HOOOO!!!”

  Well, from where I’m standing it doesn’t look like Christy is going anywhere. He’s rooted to the ground, opening and closing his mouth, shaking like a trifle on top of a tumble dryer. Eventually, as Christy’s brother Seamus, playing the synthesizer, is forced to play the opening bars of the track for a second time, Claude and I grab Christy by the collar of his navy silk shirt and literally hurl him onto the stage!

  YYYYYYYEEEEESSS!! leaps the hearts of a hundred Christy Sullivan fanatics. One tiny girl who has had a picture of Christy made into a T-shirt promptly begins to sob gently. Bizarre.

  “Er, hello,” begins Christy meekly, picking up his microphone. “It’s great to see you all today, and this is my first song that I wrote myself, called ‘Back to Square One.’ ”

  Initially Christy’s voice is shaky, but within a few verses, he loosens up and begins to enjoy himself, especially when he realizes that nobody can hear a note he’s singing anyhow. The screaming is drowning him out. In fact, as long as our man Sullivan wiggles his bum in the right places and occasionally pops open another button on his shirt, revealing a further inch of his sumptuous chest, Christy’s fans are happy as happy can be. At one point during Christy’s second track, Vinny and Pip run on stage and hand Christy another microphone.

  “That mike’s broken!” Vinny shouts. “It’s been dead for the last three verses! Did you not realize?!”

  “No!” Christy blushes. “I can’t hear anything for those girls!”

  “Pah. And he’s not even that good-looking,” tuts Uncle Charlie, watching the drama, which is quite ironic, as Charlie himself has a face like a dropped pie. In fact, when Dad used to say Charlie “lived on the road,” I always took it to mean he literally lived in the gutter, as he almost looks like a tramp. “I can’t understand it me’self,” Charlie says, shaking his head.

  I retreat backstage, where there’s now well over two hundred people crowded together, all with much-coveted AAA passes tied around their necks. Frankie and Warren from Wicked FM are interviewing Claude while Fleur is doing her best to appear in all the Look Live TV footage of the gig by dancing suggestively near the cameraman in hot pants the size of a tea bag.

  Suddenly Mrs. Guinevere appears from nowhere with a huge smile on her face. “Excellent! This is just excellent. I’m so pleased with you girls,” she says. “It’s just like I imagined it would be!” Then she gives me a big warm hug, which feels surprisingly un-weird, considering she’s a teacher.

  “Oi, Ronnie!” shout Naz and Aaron, who are standing close by. “Nice one!”

  “Cheers.” I blush.

  “Better go and meet your fans.” Mrs. Guinevere giggles.

  “You did it. It’s unbelievable!” Aaron smiles, wrapping his arms around my waist, planting a big kiss on my forehead. Then Naz grabs me and does the same, sort of swinging me around by my hips as he smooches the top of my hair. I could get quite used to this.

  “Hello, Ron,” says Jimi, appearing beside them. “It’s going really well, isn’t it?” he begins.

  “Yeah, it is. Thank you,” I say, trying to sound normal. In fact, “normal” at this moment would be a great look to pull off. Because if I’ve only imagined that Jimi had fancied me, then I can’t really have a problem with him having another girlfriend, can I? In fact, I must be imagining now that Jimi is acting a bit weird and awkward around me again. Because there was never anything between us in the first place, was there? So why would he
be? I mean, why?

  God, I wish I could turn my head off sometimes. I wish the back of my neck had a Jimi Steele ON/OFF switch I could flick off when he’s around so I wouldn’t act like a crazed loon. I’d be using it right now.

  “Looking forward to your turn?” I ask.

  “Bit scared,” says Jimi. “Don’t tell the boys, though.” He nods toward Aaron and Naz, who are chatting up two of the EZ Life girls. “If one of us starts freaking out, we all will.”

  We both giggle, then we just look at each other.

  There’s a little silence.

  “Well, good luck,” I say.

  “Cheers, Ronnie,” Jimi says a little sadly, looking at the floor, his long eyelashes batting against sun-burnished cheeks. “I’ll come and have a chat with you later at the disco, eh?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “sure thing!” And then I wander off to find Fleur.

  Of course Panama will never allow that, and he didn’t mean it anyway; but it was a kind thing to say.

  As Christy crashes off stage, sweaty and exhausted, and is immediately wrapped in a blanket and given a cup of hot sweet tea by his mum and granny, Claudette is rounding up Guttersnipe to replace him on stage.

  “We’re already running late,” shouts Claude. “It’s two o’clock! Christy played fifteen minutes more than he was meant to!”

  Christy tries to apologize, but Mrs. Sullivan butts in: “Well, it’s not my son’s fault if he had to do four encores, is it?” she announces proudly. “The crowd wouldn’t stop screaming!”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll shut them up,” remarks Tara, pulling her black bass guitar’s strap over her neck and strutting toward the stage as confidently as her tight black pencil skirt will allow, Benny Stark tagging behind her.

  “Come on, Liam,” Claudette is whispering. “You can do this. You know you can. You’re a really good guitarist. Just do it.”