We get some lunch in the canteen and review the day so far.
‘How is this stew?’ I ask Uggs, because I can’t taste it.
‘Quite edible,’ he tells me.
‘Good enough. I’ll tell myself I’m enjoying it, so.’
‘My Facebook romance is moving on,’ Dixie says.
‘Oh?’ I try to sound v casual.
‘Kev wants me to send more photos.’
‘There are already lots of photos of you up there,’ Uggs points out.
‘Yes, but they’re for everyone to see. These would be just between us, special.’
‘Has he sent you a pic of him?’ I ask.
‘He says he will today, after school.’
I so don’t like the sound of this Kev and I think this photo business is all a bit sneaky … and suspect …
‘We’ll have a look at him then,’ Uggs says, quite firmly. ‘And you shouldn’t send him anything until he does.’
‘Motion carried,’ I say, even though strictly speaking we weren’t having a Gang powwow.
Gary O’Brien rocks up and sits at the table with us – well, beside me, to be more exact. Dixie quickly scans the canteen to see if Jason the Tongue Fielding is around and available to notice. He is nowhere to be seen so we are spared my Bestie flinging herself across the table at one of the newest Rock Gods in town. She doesn’t even need to talk loudly to gain an audience for this event, because it is a non-event. All of which is a relief.
‘How goes it?’ GOB wants to know.
We murmur that things are fine.
‘Poor old Jen caught the show sneeze, didn’t you?’ he says.
‘Yup.’ Sounds like I’ve said ‘YUB’, though.
‘She was great looking after us on Saturday,’ he continues and then (ARGH) he only goes and puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. I am boiled with embarrassment as well as my high temperature from the TFX fever = not good.
Dixie’s right eyebrow is raised and I know her mind is doing all sorts of somersaults as she works out what she’s seeing here. Uggs is trying not to laugh.
‘Right, best keep on keepin’ on,’ he says and lets go of me.** ‘Laters.’ He strolls over to another table.
‘Interesting,’ Dixie says, and waits for me to explain myself.
I shrug. ‘He’s one of the group, they’re all glad I’m doing the fan mail.’
The eyebrow is still arched.
‘Oh, come ON, Dixie! The Dork? Me? I think not.’
‘True enough,’ she says and I can breathe again.††
As we make our way back to class Uggs sidles up and whispers, ‘That guy likes you.’ I thump him on the arm and threaten (no, promise) to kill him if he ever says, or even thinks, such a thing again.
I may have become a hypersensitard about this situation, but it’s good to be on my guard lest‡‡ it escalate.
Shadowy
The pic of Kev on Facebook is mostly the back of a guy’s head moving and maybe laughing. In other words, you can’t tell what he looks like, really. His biog info says he goes to school in Wicklow, so it’s not like it’s going to be easy to hook up with him, because that’s miles away, in another county, and southside. Oakdale is northside and within the Dublin city limits. His DOB makes him fifteen and it pleases Dix that he’s ‘an older man’.
‘Was that not what I was looking for?’ she says, as if this is the best thing ever and proof that this is the guy for her.
Personally I am beginning to suspect she’s secretly reading romantic books or watching smushy movies and living her own life accordingly. I know I do, and it kind of scrambles my head and makes me all gooey.
‘Is he online now?’ Uggs asks.
‘Should be. He usually is.’
‘Let’s chat with him, so,’ I say.
Dixie types in some chat and sure enough this Kev is available.
HIM: Was just thinking about you!
DIX: Ditto
HIM: Great minds and all that. Was also thinking that if you give me your mobile number I can send you pics and vice versa. Much better than doin’ it on here where everyone can nosey through them.
‘See?’ she says. ‘He’s really into me.’
‘I think it’s creepy,’ I say. ‘And he should start by sending proper pics to you here online before any of this exchanging-phone-numbers business.’
‘Jen is right,’ Uggs says. ‘We don’t know who this guy is. And this is all the stuff we’ve been warned about.’
Dixie scrunches up her face in a NOT happy expression and sighs.
‘OK,’ she eventually says. ‘You two are getting so SENSIBLE.’
She does not mean this as a compliment.
‘Not everyone out there is a villain,’ she says, defensively. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to concentrate on my lonely-hearts replies.’
‘WHAT?!’ Both Uggs and I are v loud in our shock. She still has lots of wriggle room for getting into a scrape, whole wide corridors of opportunity for disazzo.
‘Did you not think I’d get some?’ she asks, in an uppity, attitudey way.
This whole scenario really is going from bad to badder.*
‘Thought you’d be thrilled!’ There’s deffo a hint of mockery creeping into her tone now. ‘At least it’s going to be someone from one of the local schools, so you can keep an eye on proceedings, if that’s what you’re both so worried about.’
Looks like we’re involved up to our armpits and beyond.
‘There’s a chap who wants to meet for coffee in the Barnacle Café. We’ll start with him.’
As I predicted, though I neglected to say it aloud to my Gang, we are all going on a date with whoever answers Dixie’s ads. Eek McEek of Eeksville!
As Uggs and I walk home I ask, ‘Should we just shop her to her family and let them deal with it?’
‘It might be too drastic a solution,’ he says. ‘She would also never, and I mean NEVER, forgive us.’
He’s right, of course.
‘If she is v impossible, and nothing else works, can we agree that we will beat sense into her?’
‘Although I am against physical violence, unless it’s on a rugby pitch, yes, yes, we will do that.’
‘For her own good.’
‘Totes.’
Of course, we would never raise a finger to anyone or any creature,† so this is all macho talk to keep ourselves calm. We are both worried sick about Dixie – who seems to be going more bonkers than she has ever been before.‡ And I am actually sick too! Double trouble for Jenneefuh …
And the irony is, of course, that we are trying to knit love hearts for Vally’s Day. SHEESH!
Yet again, I am happy to imagine a romance that can never be with Stevie Lee Bolton – it’s by far the safest sort of relationship to have with anyone.
A Helping Hand
I am barely in the door when Dad appears and goes, ‘Jen, excellent. I need your brains.’
This usually means he’ll run the spec for an advertisement by me, I will come up with some fabtastico idea for the ad, and he’ll steal it and pass it off as his. I don’t mean this to sound sour – it’s just a fact in the Quinn household. I guess it’s because we both love words and painting pictures with them. If Dad ever concedes, even slightly, to my ‘theft theory’, he says he is merely ‘appropriating’* an idea that I will never use and employing it for the good of all. Now that he’s part-time, though, I imagine it could be any old hoo-ha that he wants to involve me in.
‘Teenage make-up,’ he says.
‘Yeessss,’ I say carefully. ‘I can try to explain us teenagers t
o you, but for generations grown-ups and teens have been at odds. It’s a natural law.’
‘No,’ he says.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ I say.
‘No,’ he reiterates. ‘Teen make-up, as in cosmetics.’
‘Oh, right. Er, do you want to borrow some?’
‘In a way.’
OK, official weirdoid territory now.
‘Dad, I’m not sure anything I have will suit you.’
‘Funny, Jen.’
Actually, I wasn’t trying to be smart, just factual!
‘I want to invent a line of make-up aimed at teens. Or invent names for the products. It’s a pitch for a new line that’s going into production.’
‘So you’re not going dressed as a schoolgirl to some saddo party?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s for a new agency and, if they like my ideas, it might mean I’ll get extra work or maybe even a new full-time job.’
This is big news.
Just then, Stevie Lee emerges from our front room. I am not sure if it is one of life’s nice surprises. I suspect I look wretched and I know my nose is now both dripping and red from having walked home in a cold wind. I won’t even begin to consider what state my hair is in, but I’d say it is a big and unruly hedge after being buffeted by nature all the way from school via Dixie’s.
I give a bit of a wave and flee upstairs to my room. A glance in the mirror shows a scarecrow creature with a red nose AND red eyes = unwelcome development = EEP! I change out of the maroon Oakdale uniform, as it does no one any favours and presently seems to be making me look even paler in general while picking up and accentuating my new red face-highlights. Then I tidy up that face, as much as possible,† spray on some dewberry‡ and I am ready to be seen and smelled again, though it is a just in case measure, as I’d prefer to know SLB is in the house and vice versa and just leave it at that. I’m all out of human interaction right now and could do with being left alone.
I race through my homework because Dad has booked me to brainstorm ideas after dinner. By ‘brainstorm’ we know he means the picking of Jen’s brain for her ideas, as previously mentioned and discussed. I don’t mind, really, because I think this will be fun, and if it might help Dad’s job situ, then I deffo want to help out. We all have to row in for the common Quinn good. Then I spray on some more scent, because I can’t smell anything and it may have worn off, and I waft down to the kitchen, ready to see and be seen.
For all my deviousness, I am undoneб because the mini Guitars’ meeting in the TV room has disbanded and the lads are gone home. *Le sigh.* Sometimes a gal can be too clever and aloof for her own good. Still, one less chance to snot ’n’ snuffle in front of the god that is Stevie Lee, so mayhap§ ’tis for the best.
Sausages and mash for dins (NOM!) and then to work.
‘What have we got here?’ I’ve been watching a lot of TV and I know how to be tough and direct when opening a business convo.
‘A fun range aimed at young teens.’
‘Welcome to my world,’ I say.
‘And mine,’ Dad says. ‘For a while, anyhow, if they like the ideas.’
‘Do you want to go the Young and Sassy route?’
‘Sass! That’s what we could call the whole thing!’
‘OK.’ Jeeps, I didn’t realize I’d be on a roll quite so soon. Internal high-five to me, from me!
The next hour is real fun and we LOL. ‘SASS: for Teens with Tude’ is born. Dad fires a product at me and I think of sassy ways to describe it. For example, we have a lip gloss (that no one yet knows may be inspired by the Dork) called:
GOB! Lippy with attitude.
Then for the blusher:**
CHEEKY! It’s made to make you blush.
An eye shadow called: PEEPERS! See the world through new eyes.
EYE EYE! (mascara) Lash it on for a positive look at life.
TALONTED! (nail varnish) Nail what you want.
We’re still stuck on a name for the concealer, an essential item for a teen, though we know the tag line for it is ‘Spot the disguise’.
We have fun with the pun so Dad is happy with that, and I love an excuse to play with words, and we’ve come up with some cracking ideas = all in all, a win/win sitch.
But I ain’t done yet. Hell, no. I am on a ROLL.
‘What you really need is to back up these ideas with some hard data that proves how popular SASS would be with teens,’†† I say. ‘Maybe you could canvass‡‡ the Teen Factor X audience? You know, hand out a survey to the queue waiting to get in?’
‘Jen, that is a great idea. But I doubt the company would allow it,’ Dad says. ‘They might want money, or an involvement of some sort, for using their show?’
‘Leave it with me, Dad – I have friends in high places.’бб
Working my brain has taken my mind off the pain of having a cold. My head is aching again now and I am learning to hate the rhythm of it. It’s good to be laughing, though, and I only wish Mum was here to join in. She drifted through once to make tea but, barring a wan smile, she hardly acknowledged us. It is making me as sad as she looks. I give Dad a quizzy look, and I think now is the moment I will raise my worries about her. But he says, ‘Leave it, Jen, she’s not herself.’ Hmm, it is not a comfort to hear this.
Gran makes me a hot lemon drink and gives me some aspirin for my pounding head.
‘Did ye do good?’ she asks about our brainstorm.
‘Knocked it out of the park, Gran,’ I assure her.
Then Uggs arrives, with you-know-who at his heels barking up a storm. Gran is delighted.
‘Did you come to see your granny?’ she asks … the DOG.
Gypsy yips and jumps and pirouettes.
‘You did, you did come to see your granny!’
‘She did indeed, Mrs Q.’
Oh, here’s a Quinn Quirk I haven’t mentioned. My gran is Mrs Q, but she’s not a Quinn in that sense. The Quinn name in our family comes from my dad’s side, BUT Mum didn’t need to change her initials because her maiden name was Quentin. Hence my gran, her mum, is Connie Quentin, or Connie Q, or Mrs Q.
‘Gran, you’re acting like a crazy person. You are not her granny!’
‘True, Mrs Q, she’s not actually a Quinn,’ Uggs says.
‘NO!’ I exclaim, exasperated. ‘She’s a dog.’
‘True, Jenny Q,’ Uggs agrees. ‘She’s a dog, Mrs Q. She’s problee the gran of you. Woohoo!§§ Dog years and all that.’
‘Eh, none of the above,’ I say. ‘Different species, anyone?’
I am ignored.
‘Brought you a gift, Jen,’ Uggs says, and produces a bath bomb. ‘Thought this might help unplugging your sinuses.’
He has made me a special medicinal bomb!
‘It’s got eucalyptus and stuff in there to help with, like, breathing.’
‘Breathing is good,’ Dad says with a grin. ‘Makes all the difference, really.’
‘Well, aren’t you the sweetest boy,’ Gran remarks. ‘And aren’t you the lucky girl, Miss Jennifer.’
Gran is stirring it up and both Uggs and I are squirming. I have known Uggs for ever and he’s like a bro to me! OK, once upon a long-time-ago, according to legend, he said he wanted to marry me, but he was a weeny toddler then, so I don’t know why the adults can’t let it go, no matter how sweet it was: ancient history = build a bridge and get over it.
There is no doubt, though, that this is a lovely and thoughtful gift. And when people do such lovely things for one another, it is a tiny teeny proof that they love them, BUT this is between friends, Besties, nothing
more.
‘Ignore them, Uggs,’ I say. ‘They’re strange people.’
When the strange adults are preoccupied elsewhere, Uggs delivers a bomb of another sort – a bombshell.
‘In other news, there is no Kev going to the school he says he’s going to.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. I got my older bruv, Mal, to check. Made him pretend to be a teacher from Oakdale, told him it’d be good practice for when he actually is a teacher.’
I snort. ‘Which one did you make him be?’
‘I was tempted by Miss Harding, but Mal’s voice is slightly lower than hers, so I went for Mr Hannigan, Careers Guidance Counsellor extraordinaire.’***
‘Nice. J’approve.’
‘It was irresistible, really, and he’s an easy one to copy with the twangy voice. I was just terrified that Mal might get someone who actually knows Hannigan – the teaching world is a small one, after all.’
‘This leaves us with an almighty problem,’ I say.
‘Yeah. Who is this Kev guy and what is he up to?’
And Breathe!
The bomb is Da Bomb! After it has fizzed up a storm, and the bathroom is all lovely and steamy, I lie back in the warm water and breathe it all in. It does clear my pipes, so Uggs is a genius, as well as a sweetie. The warmth of the water is so soothing and breathing in the aroma and vapours is a delight.
It’s a good time to take stock of what needs to be done, now that my brain is being freed up from the gack that has been clogging it. I decide to add some knitting to my project list. I will make a patchwork quilt for Harry. It will be simple, really, a collection of various kinds of knitted squares sewn together and looking v v pretty. That’s about as far as I get when Mum comes through the door.
EEK! I thought I had locked it, though maybe I just put up the sign that says STAY OUT that we use as a further precautionary measure here at Quinn Central. Dermot even has a plastic yellow cone with a skull and cross-bones on it that declares this a toxic area. That can be deployed as a warning to all others that they should leave ten minutes or so before entering.*
Jenny Q, Unravelled! Page 10
