I can’t sleep even more now, so I do what I do best, which is to make a list. I title it ‘PLANS FOR FANS’. I’ll put a dedicated mailbox at reception in our school, Oakdale High, so local people can get in touch that way. I’ll set up a Ten Guitars Facebook page tomorrow – well, Uggs or Dixie will because they’re better than me at all that malarkey. I wonder if I should do all of the replies using a particular coloured ink? A colour dedicated to Ten Guitars?
I hear Gran’s poker pals leaving and I’ll bet they’re a bit bendy from wine, and some of them a lot poorer too. Gran loves these nights, she says, because of people ‘trying out their poker faces and lying through their false teeth’, according to her anyhow. The Beast mobility scooter is purring away, though only to cross the road to where Francie lives. I try not to listen to the goodbyes because I’m always left with the feeling that those oldsters flirt with one another, and that is something I cannot comprehend, nor do I want to = makes me all yucky-squirmy.
Gypsy is barking and I hear Mr Nightingale call her in and the oldies wishing her a goodnight, even though she’s a dog and doesn’t understand. Then again, I was half-expecting her to text me earlier, so I guess I’m as mad as the rest of them.
I tuck myself up in bed and try and try to sleep, but it just won’t come. I turn on the light and do a bit of reading until my eyes are tired and itchy. Then I switch the light off and try to settle down again.
I remember Uggs telling me that Francie auditioned all of the mobility scooters till he found his one true Beast. There’s a bumpy-backed bridge over a disused bit of railway line on the way into the villagey bit of Oakdale (i.e. the shops)* and Francie ordered his test drive to happen one Friday, with each candidate getting a fifteen-minute slot. The main criterion was getting over the bridge and back again, then whether the scooter had enough ‘poke’ to speed up and get him out of trouble if he was on the run. I shizz you not. It makes me laugh a little out loud and that’s embarrassing, even though I am alone.
Baby Harry gives a cry in my parents’ room, then he shushes, so I know he’s having one of his night feeds. If only next door’s dog could be quieted so effectively, I think. I try to imagine a remote control to switch Gypsy off and it makes me smile. I wouldn’t let it have an ‘on’ button, I decide. My smile widens although I am in the dark and there is no one to see it, and I wonder if it’s like that thing, ‘If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?’†
Or, is the light actually on in the fridge when the door is closed?‡
The wind is picking up and howling around the house. I snuggle under my duvet and feel safe and warm.
All is well in the world.
Begin Again
The following day we’re taking the decorations down and the house is looking ordinary again.
Mum seems overly devastated, which is v worrying to see.* Eventually she says, ‘It’s like we’ve stopped celebrating Harry’s birth.’
Quick as a flash, Gran says, ‘I’m sure the baby Jesus and his family felt just the same once upon a time.’
At least that makes Mum smile, even if it’s in a grim way.
Worst of all, it’s time for Dad to go back to work and for us to go back to school. Getting back to normal feels like a kind of downer all right.
Don’t get me wrong, I like school well enough, I just HATE our uniform (maroon,† says it all really) and some of my classmates are a pain. Oh, and the teachers are quite a sarky bunch, for the most part, although I’m guessing that’s the way in schools all over the country.
But I’m Super Secretary to the hottest boy band in Dublin, so that’s thrilltastic.
Even if it is sad to see some of the old fade away, or be removed, I tell myself there is much to be getting on with. We have new beginnings and a lot to do this year. I’m a tad exhausted even to think of how much. But it’s exhausted in a good, tingly, excited way.
It’s LASHING rain, though, like nature is downright angry about something and showing it, taking it out on the youth of Oakdale as we trudge back to school. We slosh through the sheets of water falling from the sky and gather in the main school hall, and I swear you can see the steam rising off us. We all smell a bit like wet wool too. I say this to the Gang and Uggs goes, ‘Sheep, that’s what we are,’ and Dixie gives her best ‘Baaa!’.
The headmaster addresses Assembly with New Year greetings that I can’t quite believe he means because he forgets to smile. Then he congratulates Ten Guitars and Delia Thomas for making the cut on Teen Factor X, though he can’t resist saying he hopes it won’t distract anyone from their studies.
Delia is in our class and she does stand-up comedy and she’s actually funny. This was a huge surprise to us because we didn’t know she had routines and, more importantly, we all thought she was a bit of an oddball, v quiet and a nerdette. She’s still all of those things but funny with it – who knew!
We go back to our familiar classroom and settle into learning stuff that may or may not be handy later in life. I never dis it since Dermot said I had supersaturated my cereal once at breakfast.
‘You’re just wasting the sugar,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s too much in there and the excess is sinking to the bottom of the bowl. Supersaturation. Simples.’
He was right!
Dad was particularly impressed and went, ‘Who said education is a waste?’ I think he even gave Dermot extra pocket money for it. And that rankled. Blinkin’ hell, it wasn’t like he’d won the Nobel Prize for science or anything. OK, I’ll admit it, I couldn’t think of anything as great to say to point up how much attention I was paying at school (and thereby craftily score some extra dosh), so I was a tad sore about the whole incident,‡ if a little wiser after my bruv’s info.
I also started using less sugar on my cereal, which is a healthier option all round.
Making Do
We’re sitting in my room putting yarns together for our love-hearts project. If nothing else, it’ll be a splendid way to use up any stray remnants left from other items – the ghost of gifts past,* if you will. It’s recycling, at any rate, and therefore we’re doing our v v small bit to save the planet.
‘I may have to date a Guitar,’ Dixie says.
The Gang is assembled ready to Knit ’n’ Knatter, but this is not the opening gambit I was expecting from either of my chums.†
‘In what way date a guitar?’ Uggs asks. ‘Are we talking guitar object or Guitar a person?’
‘A person, smartypants. Ordinary dating, Uggs, as in he takes me places and treats me like a princess.’
‘But not the Guitar who is also my brother,’ I check. I love Dixie, but that would be too complicated a relationship to add to our friendship.
‘Dermot?’ She squeals. ‘That would be like going out with my own brother and so SO wrong.’
Phew – at least she still has SOME sense of right and wrong.
‘I need someone high profile and they’re all that and très cool. To be exact, they are national right now, what with Teen Factor X and all, and therefore just what I need.’
If she has her eye on Stevie Lee B, I may have to kill my bestest galpal.
‘Gary O’Brien,’ Dixie says. ‘Discuss.’
Again, as if we need reminding, we should expect the unexpected with the Dixie, but Uggs can’t help himself and he gives a honking snort.
‘That would be Gary the Dork O’Brien?’ he checks.
‘Yes. That one. What other Gary O’Brien would I mean?’
‘You can NOT be serious,’ I say.
The Dork’s initials are GOB and we usually use all forms of word associated with that to describe him, so
we get into that now, hoping to end the temporary insanity that has consumed our friend.
‘GOBdaw O’Brien,’ Uggs says.
‘GOBdork, even,’ I add.
‘Very funny, NOT,’ Dixie says.
‘There’s Make ’n’ Do and Making Do, Dix,’ Uggs points out. ‘I cannot stand by and allow the Dork Prince to enter your life like this.’
‘It’s verboten,’ I agree.
Dixie sighs. ‘I was going to allow my diet to wait until we got back into the swing of school proper, if it had to happen at all. Now it seems I’ll have to bring the date forward, as I am not allowed the easy option of choosing the Guitar O’Brien, thereby avoiding the diet and any extra fluffing up because I could so score him right here and now. I am forced to go down the hard road of effort to regain my utter fabulosity.’
We know what that means: let the hunger begin. For all of us. My tummy actually rumbles at the notion.
‘Surely he’s a leetle funny?’ Dix is not going to let up here.
‘Funny in the wrong way, most of the time,’ I say, as gently as I can.
‘But a good guitar player?’
‘Yes,’ Uggs says.
And here’s the thing: the Dork IS a good guitarist, and he’s popular with the other guys too. He’s just a bit, well, dorky. Or maybe he’s just different; maybe I’m being mean? I hate it when things get all muzzy and grey in life. When things are a straightforward black or white, life is a lot easier, even if that’s lazy too.‡
Dix lays a major one on: ‘If I can’t pursue the Dork, then I’ll have to find an escort closer to home.’ She fixes UGGS with a look. He gags as soon as I squeal.
‘NOOOOO!’ we go, in unison.
‘That would be so wrong as to be even more wrong than a v wrong thing,’ I say.
Dixie shrugs.
‘This is a gentle gang, not a desperate dating agency,’ Uggs points out – states as a fact, just so we can all be sure we know what we are here!
‘Well, it was worth a try,’ Dixie says. ‘And if things don’t go well for me datewise, you will both have to step up to help me save face.’
She shrugs as if her logic here is unassailable.
And I’m not sure how me stepping up to save her blushes is going to help. Does she mean I might have to go on a date with her? Surely that would confuse people, not least ourselves.
‘I love you, Dix,’ I say. ‘But you’re just not my type.’
I get a hard blow of a pillow for that.
I’m beginning to wonder if the Tongue did SUCH a bad thing. Can we not have him back?
Dark Arts
Dixie holds up some strands of wool. ‘Bangles,’ she says.
‘Not from where I’m sitting,’* Uggs says.
‘Not yet, you mean. I was thinking we should do some merchandising for the Guitars.’
‘Like support bangles?’ I venture.
‘Yup. Though, as they might be expensive if we had to source rubber or plastic ones, I was wondering about making some with yarn.’
‘Like a plaited friendship bracelet,’ I say.
‘Precisely. Though I think we should crochet the strands together in a chain stitch, to make them stand out from the crowd.’
‘Crochet?’ I whisper, partly in awe, partly in fear. ‘I’ve only just come to basic terms with knitting, basic knitting. I am basic squared here.’
‘We cannot sit still, Jen, we’ll be left behind. We must embrace progress and the New. Do you have a crochet hook?’
I don’t know why, but it’s like the crochet hook is an instrument for the Dark Side in my mind and I try to put that nutty notion into words.
Dixie is quite kindly, which is a surprise: she’s more of a tough-love gal. ‘It’s just that you don’t know it yet and that’s why you’re fearful.’
‘There is nothing to fear but fear itself,’ Uggs says and we both go,
‘Shut up, Uggs!’
‘Noted,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘No, what, Jen?’
‘No, I don’t have a crochet hook! I’m a knitter, and a knatterer, not a crocheteer!’
I think I may sound a scintilla hysterical. And I may have made up a word there too. None of it takes away from the sincerity of my outburst.
‘Uggs, go get chocolate-based snackerels and I’ll nip home and get a hook. Then we’ll get this new show on the road. You’ll love it.’
Uggs gets to his feet and says, ‘A change is as good as a rest,’ and again gets another loud ‘Shut up, Uggs!’.
For a quiet guy, he goes all soothsayer sometimes and it has to be stamped out toot sweet or he’ll think he should spout wisdoms all day and get really boring.
I’m hoping Dixie returns with an actual crochet hook, as I think if it’s a fishing one we are truly in trubbs.
As usual …
When she does come back she has Gypsy at her heels and she comes at us brandishing a newspaper like it’s a weapon. Dixie, that is – Gypsy is a weapon.
‘The pen is mightier than the sword,’ she announces.
‘And a lot easier to write with,’ quips Uggs.
That’s Eugene for you: he may not say a lot, but when he speaks it’s sometimes worth listening to.
Dixie swipes the rolled-up newspaper at him and lands a nice swat upon his head. ‘My lonely hearts is in,’ she tells us.
This is not going the way anyone but Dixie has planned. She’s now advertising herself in a newspaper† (which can only end in tears) and we’re going to have to learn a new craft. I am, frankly, trepidatious.‡
‘Check it out, if you dare,’ she says.
‘Might keep that treat until later,’ I mutter. I so don’t want to be implicated.
‘Ditto,’ says Uggs.
‘Your loss,’ Dixie assures us. ‘Now, friendship bracelets. I’m thinking we should go with the colours of the hat you knit for Dermot, Jen.’
I rustle up what I have left of the two yarns, one black and one lime green, both cotton. They’re a lovely combo, I think. I also did a little beanie for Harry and he looks just gorge in it.
Dixie chooses two strands of black and one of lime green, makes a starter stitch then chain stitches with the crochet hook till she has the required length, casts off and knots the two ends together. It looks really cool. And it has taken her hardly any time at all.
‘We’re in business,’ she says. ‘I’m thinking fifty cents per bracelet.’
‘Fitty,’ Uggs says.
‘What?’
‘Fitty Cent, that’s what the rapper and his friends call him.’
‘You are such a nerd,’ Dixie tells him.
Uggs smiles, delighted with the accolade.
‘I think they look a bit slim for the price.’
Dix considers this. ‘OK.’ She reaches for more yarn, crochets two more strands, then plaits them and, voilà, we have a decent product that’s value for money.
‘As long as the Guitars don’t mind us making money off their success,’ I point out.
‘They’ll be flattered,’ Dixie insists. ‘Besides, you’re in charge of the fan club now, so you can tell them what’s good for them.’
Uggs grins. ‘And Dixie will tell you what’s good for you, Jen,’ he says.
Now she beams, all positivity. ‘But of course, mes amis. And that will be good for all of us.’
Life is complicated and that’s not ‘maybe’.
I give a theatrical sigh and try to regain some space on my bed, but the terrier critter has taken up a goodly portion of the most comfy bit by the pillows. I try to shush her off, but she’s lying like a big,
heavy stone and refuses to budge. I give up, I really do.
Confession Time
Well, this is just a mini confession, really, brought on by the introduction of the crochet hook and therefore an unease within me. I worry that I am set in my ways if I am resisting a new crafty option. And yet in other ways I am not myself. For example, I have begun to go a little nuts for Marmite. The reason I think this may be a bad thing (as in strange and worrisome) is that I have always been a devoted Kit Kat gal and therefore a lover of sweet things. In fact, it is true to say that the Kit Kat is the Quinn-tessential snack pour moi. Now, though, there are occasions when I’ll opt for a rice cake smothered in the aforementioned savoury spread. It’s not like me.
Are my taste buds changing in these teen years?
Is it a sign of creeping maturity?
If so, is there more of such activity that I must expect?
Should I be at all worried or is this the natural way of ‘things’?
Maybe I’ll write to a girly magazine and ask …
Telly Tubby
The weather is doing its best to wreck the New Year. Rain is still lashing down from the heavens and the temperature is freezing. Gran loves weather, i.e. talking about it in a doomy way, and she keeps muttering, ‘We’ll have snow.’ Which would be pretty at least. The rain is plain grey and yuck.
Still, even floods cannot dampen the excitement of Ten Guitars and Delia Thomas appearing on television. The school is buzzing and I doubt many pupils are paying much attention in class, particularly the contestants themselves. I wonder what the buzz will be like if they make it to the final!
Mind you, some work is getting done – e.g. the fifth-year science boffins, also known as the science tragics, have installed an actually brilliant project in one of the hallways. They put sensors under some special pads on the floor and every time someone steps on them they use that energy to make some electricity. They are measuring how much energy we could harvest if we put the technology into public places or even our homes. The floor pads also light up = SO pretty (as well as practical) and I could spend hours standing in the corridor as people pass, watching the lovely lights in their random sequences. It’s like a v useful disco. And, yes, of course, sometimes we kind of dance on the pads when there are no teachers around and that’s good sport.
Jenny Q, Unravelled! Page 4
