Jenny Q, Unravelled!

by Pauline McLynn

  ‘That guy is so busting a move on you,’ Mel says. ‘Has been all day.’

  ‘WHAT?!’ I squeak in the tiny voice I have left.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. He can’t stop grinning when you’re around and he’s been staring at you, like, lots, and then trying to chat any time he got a chance. It’s kinda cute.’

  NO, IT IS NOT CUTE! This is bad news, v bad news indeed.

  Number a) he is Gary the DORK O’Brien, and

  Number b) I only have eyes for Stevie Lee Bolton, and, most pertinent of all,

  Number c) my Bestie Galpal Dix has her sights set on him, so he is a no-go area (thank goodness).

  It’ll pass, I tell myself, this is all just heat-of-the-moment stuff because we have had the oddest day in the history of our lives so far and everything is a bit wonky as a result. It will pass. It has to pass. Even though I feel feverish, I now get the shakes at how much I need this situation to pass, dissolve, disappear. It will be gone by tomorrow, I reason, once we are all home and back to the normal we are used to. There, problemo solved, shelved, forgotten.

  Or maybe not. The Gazmeister is back and puts an arm around my shoulder saying, ‘You are our lucky charm, Jen.’

  I let rip a mega-sneeze that sprays a bit out into the air in front of us and he backs off again for fear of infection. A cold might be a handy thing for warding off an unwanted Guitar.

  Outside the venue the band gets MOBBED by fans wanting photos, autographs, hugs. It’s NUTS. I have a sneaking suspicion that the Slinkies would not like to see our Oakdale boys being adored and grabbed like this. I’m not sure I love it myself. And it’s not just girls – there are lots of lads too, cheering for their new heroes. Jess and Delia get huge cheers when they emerge, but it’s easier to get them past the madness into their cars to be sent home. We’re trying to load ten teenage boys on to a bus. As Gran would say, ‘It’s like herding cats.’

  Finally, the rain starts up again and that concentrates everyone on keeping dry, so we board the bus once again and head for Oakdale. It was dark when we set out this morning and it’s dark as we go home. We never saw daylight, so maybe today didn’t really happen? And maybe we are a tad vampire, after all, active only in the dark hours? I’m probably hallucinating now with tiredness, excitement and the head cold that is trying to stuff up my nose. Showbiz, anyone? I honk into my hankie. Oh, the glamour of it.

  Runny Sunday

  Every bit of my body aches when I wake up the next morning. My nose* is bunged up and I seem to have breathed through my mouth all night and therefore it is dry as the Sahara and my throat has a thorny thorn bush in it. I may also have been snoring. Lovely, NOT!

  I lurch downstairs and into the kitchen. Mum takes in the shell of her only daughter and says, ‘Poor Jen!’ so I must look as awful as I feel.

  ‘What if I give this to Harry?’ I wail. I’m going to have to forgo my hugs for a while till I am less, well, catching, and already that is unbearable.

  Gran arrives and makes an X with her arms to ward off my germs.

  ‘Not funny,’ I squawk, in a voice that’s much lower and quieter than usual.

  ‘But it means you have an X factor yourself now,’ she tells me, delighted with her own wit.

  ‘Hex factor, more like,’ I say.

  A hot, lemony drink is put in front of me and I sit trying to inhale it, while it’s cooling to drinking temperature, to clear ‘by doze’. It works well enough to get me streaming again. As Delia Thomas might say of my nose, ‘This one will run and run.’ There’s probably a late Christmas gag about me being Rudolph in there too, but my head is mush and not thinking straight.

  When we’re all gathered, Dermot and I report on the recording, how it was to experience it live. It’s all taped for us to watch later.

  ‘Harry loved it,’ Mum says. ‘He sat staring at the screen while you were on.’

  Dermot nods. ‘The kid’s got taste.’

  ‘We were so proud of you,’ Mum tells him. ‘Of you both. You looked so well and the performance was great.’ Her eyes are filling up but she shakes the tears away. Thanks be to flip for that. There’s enough liquid coming out of my face to do this whole family. And if Mum starts crying again, I will be crushed.

  It’s like she can read my mind. ‘I laughed out loud at Delia’s routine,’ she says. ‘So I haven’t forgotten how to do that.’

  It doesn’t ease my worry that she has changed for ever and maybe not for the better. I want my old mum back: the chatty, smiley one. Suddenly, everything feels a bit much and I decide this will be a pyjama day because I feel so YUCK. I will hold court in my room, with the Gang, and start on my bath rug. I may even get brought treats because everyone feels sorry for me.†

  Dixie texts: r u infectious?

  Me: maybe?

  Dixie: well enuf to work?

  Me: EH?

  Dixie: crochet plaits! No root, no fruit

  Jeepers, can a gal not take to her bed in peace with a rotten cold any more?

  Me: hands stil workin

  Dixie: phew/gud

  Ripping up my duvet cover is sad. It has covered me for years, kept me warm in winter and cool in summer. I feel an emotional tie to it and I hope it doesn’t mind the change. I convince myself it’s almost karmic that it is to live on in another form and therefore a v good thing for the world.

  Ennyhoo, I lay it on my desk and cut the beginnings of the strands, two centimetres apart. Then I rip the cover using my hands. It’s a tip I found on the internet and it makes for a much straighter line than using scissors to cut the whole way. The ripping sound is v impressive and vigorous. I like doing things like this that don’t require too much brain work because they allow me to daydream if I want, or just to zone out, like now, because my head is mankified with this lurgy.

  Uggs and Dix are well impressed when they see my work. I had told them about my foxmost plan for the bath mat, but seeing it begin to happen before their eyes gets it a further thumbs up. Thumbs down is that Gypsy has decided to help me by lying on the pile of shreds that I am trying to knot together into a ball of cotton yarn. At least I can’t smell her doggy breath because I am bunged up again.

  Dixie claps her hands. ‘Knitting in hand, please, it’s time to (k)natter.’ You can’t have one without the other, you see. She is going to tackle the friendship bracelets. Uggs is making a start on compiling yarns for the Valentine gifts.

  ‘I’m a romantic at heart,’ he tells us. ‘If that sniplet of info goes further than this room, you die.’

  ‘I’m glad you brought up l’amour,’ says Dixie. ‘Because I have been getting some attention. Last night I had a lovely online “chat” on Facebook with a new friend.’

  We sort of stop and stare, which Dixie takes as positive encouragement.

  ‘His name is Kev and we really hit it off.’

  ‘What do we know about this Kev?’ Uggs asks.

  ‘Not much, really, except that he’s v v nice.’

  ‘How did you meet him on there?’

  ‘He messaged me, saying he couldn’t help but notice me because he’s single too, after a bit of a shocker with a girlfriend, so maybe we should hook up.’

  ‘What do you mean, “hook up”?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, we’ll keep in touch online and if there’s a chance for us to meet, we will.’

  ‘Have you even seen a picture of this guy?’ Uggs wants to know.

  ‘Not yet. He’s going to send me some.’

  ‘Might be dodge, Dix.’

  ‘Nah. I have a good feeling about him.’

  Hmmm, I don’t have any such good
feeling and I can see from Uggs that he doesn’t either. Sometimes Dixie is so gung-ho in her ‘can do’ attitude that she doesn’t follow sensible rules. This guy is a stranger and until we know more about him there is NO WAY we’ll let her meet him.

  Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot!

  I give up on trying to do my bath mat because Gypsy is in love with my newly invented yarn. I wonder if she knows it was a duvet cover and therefore it lived on my bed and therefore it is something she used to lie on at every opportunity.*

  We make lots of ‘product’ (as Dixie insists we call the Ten Guitar bracelets) while she makes up what she’s calling a ‘prototype’ of the love hearts for Vally’s Day.

  I have to run through all the details of my day on Teen Factor X, which is a little bit of a minefield in places because I can’t mention Mel’s theory that Gary O’Brien was paying me special attention. In fact, I don’t want to believe it anyhow, so perhaps it’s a blessing (in disguise) that Dixie’s interest in him means the whole thing is off limits.

  ‘By doze’ is blocked again and I cannot taste my Kit Kat. I can tell it’s sweet and lovely, though, don’t know how. Actually, that’s one good thing about Gypsy:† she’s not allowed chocolate for humans as it is v bad for dogs. This cheers me, always, and not even in a v mean way. It’s probably a relief that there is one legitimate area where I can say ‘no’ to her and know it’s for her own good!‡

  When the Gang has finished our Knit ’n’ Knatter, I wave them off and become a knotter again to finish preparing my bath-mat material. I’m still achy and I really don’t feel v good, so I bag an armchair in front of the fire downstairs and start to cast on my stitches. It doesn’t last long because I feel waves of tiredness and my eyes drooping and the next thing I know Dad is shaking me awake.

  ‘Hey there, sleepy head. Wakey-wakey. You’ve been out for an hour and a half.’

  My head is sore now and I am really thirsty and feeling far too hot. In normal circs when I feel seedy and horrid I like a cuddle from Mum, but I am way too boiled for that. Anyhow, she’s sitting gazing at the TV in a way that tells me she’s not paying any attention to what’s on.

  ‘Earth to Mum,’ I say, and she doesn’t notice that either.

  ‘Stop teasing your mother,’ Gran says to me in a quiet voice.

  I feel so rotten with my cold I nearly ask, ‘Why are you not in your own gaff?’ but it doesn’t seem worth the effort because it will SO end in grief and it is also a bit nasty.б

  For an awful moment I suspect Gran is here because she’s cooking for the family tonight, then I realize that even if she is I am safe because I can’t taste anything. I also don’t feel like eating, but Gran has declared that it is best to ‘feed a cold and starve a fever’, so I’ll be forced to dine whether I like it or not (though, hopefully, none of it will matter because my taste buds are wonkified). Janey Mac, how can a routine Sunday evening be so complicated?

  In the end, we have beans on toast and even Gran can’t muck that up. Dermot has surfaced to be fed. Most of the day he’s been holed up in his room, but that’s not unusual for him. His phone beeps constantly with texts about the show and every so often I hear him talking on it too.

  Some of the calls are about what number to do for the semi-final. It’s head-wrecking to know it all has to be repeated so soon. I hear him talking to Sam Slinkie too and it doesn’t sound like they’re having a big love-in, which is v intriguing to say the least! I hear him say, ‘I think that’s a bit unreasonable,’ and, ‘Well, whatever, your choice.’ Oooh!

  Then I am piled high with cough and cold medicine and sent to bed. It’s lovely to crawl under my duvet and surrender to sleep. The last thing I remember is Stevie Lee telling me I smelled lovely on the early-morning bus and I am sure I fall asleep with a smile on my red-nosed face.

  S’cruel

  I like school, in general, but it rhymes with ‘cruel’ and sometimes that ain’t no co-inki-dink. This Monday morning is not beginning itself well for me. I have a pounding headache and v little voice. My throat is raw and my limbs feel leaden. BUT I am determined to go to school because it is totes unthinkable to miss the first day back after the show and all the action and chat that will bring along with it. Besides, I have a postbox to attend to and money to make. I may feel cruddy, but as the song says, L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.

  The Assembly hall is BUZZING with talk of the show. The Guitars are getting slapped on the back and Delia is congratulated by anyone who can get near her through her crowd of admirers. She looks a bit bemused by it all. She is one person when she’s performing or on TV and another in ‘real life’. I wonder if it’ll get to her eventually that everyone expects her to be funny all the time, and that they think they must tell her all their bad jokes too!

  The principal just can’t help himself as he addresses Assembly. He tells us, ‘I know you were all very proud of your schoolmates, but remember you are here to be educated. And to our wonderful contestants, do remember that too. You boys are back in town and I wouldn’t like you or Delia making spectacles of yourselves.’ He gives a little laugh as if at his own devilish cleverness, but mostly to show that he has made a joke in case we missed it. OUCH!

  He’s clearly proud as punch to reveal that he:

  a) is watching the show and

  b) has a sense of humour and

  c) is ‘hip’ with us kids.

  We all stand with our mouths hanging open.

  ‘Oh. My. GROAN,’ Dixie groans. ‘He really did that, didn’t he? He really just said that, he went there.’

  ‘Adults should stay away from making jokes,’ I say. ‘They have a weird sense of humour.’

  ‘Agreed. Embarrassing,’ is Uggs’s verdict.

  When will it happen to us, I wonder, as we grow up? It’s like, when does a lamb stop bouncing and jumping around and suddenly become a sheep that just eats grass and not much more?

  My dad loves words and can’t resist puns as a result. He often makes a groanworthy quip and says, ‘Do you see? Do you see what I did there?’ just to rub it in.*

  We always go, ‘Yes, Dad, we see,’ sighing sadly at his effort.

  ‘Blinded by it,’ Dermot once told him.

  Delia sidles over and says, ‘I feel I should apologize for causing that groanworthy display from the Head.’

  ‘You’re only partly responsible,’ I tell her. ‘There are ten other people in the mix with you.’

  ‘Musicians,’ Uggs says, nodding at the splendid villainy of that. ‘Rebels and troublemakers always, since the dawn of time.’

  Delia brightens. ‘Great, so. Rabble-rousing is a fine way to start the week.’

  We all laugh at that because we all feel a bit involved and naughty. It feels good. Unlike my general head area, which is fuzzy and throbbing.

  Dixie has made a poster, which she pins to the main school noticeboard.

  OFFICIAL TEN GUITARS WRISTBANDS

  NOW AVAILABLE

  SHOW YOUR SUPPORT!

  Handcrafted and only 50c each

  Contact Dixie Purvis, Eugene Nightingale or Jenny Q

  And, we’re off!

  ‘First eight gone already,’ she tells us as the bell for class rings and we make our way to double Maths. My face hurts to think of the brainwork I may have to do over the next hour with a head full of, well, snot. Still, we’re ‘quids up’ and that’s a warm and happy place, a case of figures adding up, I think, and I groan. Here I am tying everything up, making it relevant to my Maths class, for fruitsake – I must have caught that from the principal and his cringe-making TFX speech. My head hurts a little more now that I have ‘gone there’. Eek!

&nb
sp; So Damn Unpretty

  It’s lunchtime before I investigate the fan mail in the postbox. And I suppose I should have expected that not everyone would be pleased with the band’s success. There is hate mail. The ‘you think you’re great but you are NOT’ stuff and worse. Not much, but enough for me to look around and wonder who in the school is so jealous or so full of bile that they have to write this hateful stuff.* I decide never to show it to the lads.

  What I don’t understand is why anyone would want to put this sort of stuff into words. Then again, maybe their life is so awful they want to lash out at someone who seems to be doing well? It’s a bit of a waste of time (or at least it will be if I hide this stuff), but maybe it makes them feel better to have vented their frustration or whatever. Ennyhoo, it is not nice reading. And of course it’s anonymous, so that’s a bit cowardly too, as if they can’t let themselves be named (and shamed?) and can’t even take responsibility for their words.

  Delia’s box has a lot of ‘You’re great’ and so on† and then one that just states, ‘You’re not funny, you’re adopted.’ Well, OK, this is getting on my (quite wheezy) chest at this stage. I am fed up of negativity. And the idea that someone might not be funny simply because they’re adopted is laughable and impossible, and Delia IS funny, v v funny! I am going to watch the boxes and find out who these teens with v v bad attitudes are and give them a piece of my mind.‡

  Dixie appears at my side. ‘Business is booming and we’re going to have to buy more yarn and make more bracelets toot sweet.’

  Uggs confirms that we are running out of stock. ‘Product is low,’ he tells me, and winks as he uses Dixie’s terms. She doesn’t see him, which is lucky for Uggs, because Dixie can be fierce if she thinks she’s being teased unfairly.б

  ‘Supply and demand,’ she says. ‘We should tell Poor Mr Mulhall we understand that now.’

  Poor Mr Mulhall teaches Economics and everyone has spent so long calling him Poor Mr Mulhall that it has stuck and that’s his full name now. For the record, I think he’s fairly well off, it’s just his unfortunately miserable look and tinny voice that got him his title. When you get a nickname in Oakdale High you keep it.§