by Hayley Long
Spots are like that. Like toothache and timed essays, they spring up on you from out of nowhere and you just have to keep calm and deal with them. Taking a few quick deep breaths to dispel any possible panic attack, I patted all my pockets until I found my own concealer stick and then I dealt with it. And if that sounds like I’ve got some weird issue about using Goose’s make-up, I should just point out that I was, in fact, thoughtfully avoiding any awkwardness which might arise in the event of my facial deformity exploding on concealer contact.
When we reached the main building, Goose said, ‘See you soon, big baboon,’ and I said, ‘I doubt it, dimwit,’ and then we hugged and parted to go our separate ways. I’m in hardly any classes with Goose. Only English and science. I’m not even in the same registration group. Personally, I think my school has a deliberate and sneaky policy of keeping close personal friends isolated at opposite ends of the building. I have no idea why. It’s a commonly accepted truth that all teenagers produce superior work when they’re in a relaxed and friendly environment and can sit next to whoever they like and chat. It also helps if we can chew gum. Anyone with half a head knows this.
Giving Goose a final wave, I made my way to the tuck shop where I guessed I’d find my future husband and life partner, Gareth Stingecombe, somewhere near the front of the queue. Sure enough, he was being served just as I arrived. When he saw me, he said, ‘Biggsy babes!’ and winked in a way that made my knees go wonky. After paying his money to Mr Doughnut,3 he hurried towards me with two steaming paper bags in his hands.
‘Biggsy babes,’ he said again and pushed one of the paper bags into my hands. ‘I’ve bought you a December Special. You can tell Chrimbo’s just around the corner cos Doughnut’s started selling turkey baguettes.’
I peered into the bag and inspected the sandwich inside. The bread was already turning soggy from the hot filling and gloopy cranberry sauce. Turkey-smelling steam rose up through the cold air and hit my nostrils. It made me feel a bit sick to be honest. Politely, I took a small nibble and then I carefully re-wrapped the sandwich and put it into the pocket of my coat. Usually, I don’t bother wearing a coat because coats have a tendency to make me look utterly unhip like a straighty one-eighty. Which is not symmetrically square but definitely slightly squircle, if you know what I mean. Even so, there are some occasions when refusing to wear a coat just for the sake of fashion would be utterly stupid. A freezing December day in Cardiff is precisely one of them. Also, I need a coat which has reasonably deep pockets because I’ve recently stopped using a school bag. In my opinion, school bags make you look like you’re a Type B person who is desperately trying to be a Type A.
‘Don’t you want it?’ asked Gareth anxiously.
‘Of course I do, Gazzy,’ I said, ‘But I’ll eat it later when it’s not burning my fingerprints off.’
Gareth is a very hunky and chunky individual who requires a lot of fuel to get him through the day. Even though we’ve officially been an item for practically five months, he often forgets that I only eat about one-twelfth of the amount of food that he does and that I can’t cope with turkey and cranberry sauce baguettes at five past eight in the morning. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by appearing ungrateful though because it was, after all, sweet of him to be thinking about my dietary requirements.
‘Ta, Gaz,’ I said and turned to give him a turkey-flavoured kiss. But then, before I even had a chance to shut up my big mouth, I stopped and said, ‘Oh my God! Did you know that you’re having a totally intense Traumatic Face Incident?’
He was as well. The most humongous zombie I’ve ever seen was growing on his chin. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. For half a second, I thought it was quite sweet that we’d both been blighted by spots at the same time but then I thought about it a bit more and decided that it was actually quite disgusting.
Gareth said, ‘Huh?’
‘You’ve got a whopping great zit, Gaz,’ I said. And, helpfully, I tapped my own chin as if I were his mirror and said, ‘Right here.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Gareth, his face turning the same colour as his cranberry sauce – and then he touched his chin and frowned.
‘I told you so!’ I said triumphantly.
Gareth’s frown deepened and in a slightly snappy voice, he said, ‘All right, Biggs, there’s no need to sound so flipping chuffed!’ And then he shook his head at me and bit sulkily on his sandwich.
I felt bad then. I can be a heartless wench sometimes, I honestly can. Sometimes, stuff just comes out of my mouth without having passed through a Stupid Filter first. In an effort to put things right, I said, ‘Do you want to borrow my concealer stick?’ And then, to be extra nice, I added, ‘I’ll do it for you if you like. I could get that bad boy sorted out for you in a matter of seconds.’
Instead of answering me, Gareth spluttered on his turkey baguette. I thumped him on the back and said, ‘Do you want me to go and get Mr Doughnut?’ This isn’t as random as it sounds. As well as being in charge of the tuck shop, Mr Doughnut is also a First Aider and he’s highly trained in dealing with minor medical emergencies. He even knew what to do when Goose twisted her neck during a music lesson once. To be honest, it had been completely her own fault because Mr Howells had already told her off twice for playing the guitar behind the back of her head.
Gareth stopped spluttering and muttered, ‘Nah, I’m all right.’
I breathed a big sigh of relief and then I said, ‘So do you want to borrow my concealer stick or what?’
Instantly, Gareth turned purple and started spluttering again.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, Gareth leaned back against the wall of the schoolyard, and then, after a shifty glance around to check that he couldn’t be overheard, he said, ‘Stop going on about that blinking . . .’ He paused and dropped his voice even further, before adding uncomfortably, ‘. . . concealer thingy.’
‘What’s wrong with wearing a bit of cover-up?’ I said. ‘I’ve got some on now. It’s heaps better than walking around with a snooker ball stuck to your chin.’
Gareth shot another edgy look around the schoolyard and said, ‘Nothing’s wrong with it if you’re a girl. But you’re not putting any of that stuff near my face because I’m blatantly a bloke. And blokes DON’T wear make-up.’
At this point I started laughing. Gareth is undeniably sweet and hunky and gorgeous but he’s also ridiculously old-fashioned. During last year’s unit on sexual reproduction, Mr Thomas, my double-science teacher, told us that all male mammals are made up of equal numbers of X and Y chromosomes. The X chromosome is the girly pleasant part and the Y chromosome is the magic ingredient which makes them grow extra dangly bits and causes their bedrooms to smell of woodland fust. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult to believe that Gareth has got any of the X factor in him. He’s definitely not in tune with his feminine side. If he was, he’d be begging to borrow my concealer stick.
‘Why not?’ I said, hurrying after Gareth who was stropping off in the direction of our form room with his hands in his pockets.
‘Because . . .’ said Gareth, with increasing annoyance, ‘. . . girls only wear it to impress boys anyway and—’
‘NO WE DON’T,’ I said, outraged. ‘We wear it to please ourselves.’ And then I added, ‘Well, I do, because I’m a Type A person. All the women in my family are Type A people actually!’ To be honest, I’m not sure if this is strictly true. My older sister Ruthie is away at university studying archaeology and I hardly ever see her wearing anything other than jeans and a muddy old parka. And my mum is a frumpy police woman.
Gareth stopped walking and looked confused. ‘What the heck are you on about?’ Before I could explain, he threw yet another shifty glance around the schoolyard, lowered his voice and added, ‘Well, anyway, I don’t wanna catch the Frillies!’
‘The Frillies?’ I said. ‘What on earth is that?’
Just then, Gareth’s friend, Spud,
spun out from nowhere, jumped on top of Gareth’s back and said, ‘Someone giving you an attack of the Frillies, Stingey?’
‘YUCK NO!’ said Gareth and threw Spud to the ground before punching him playfully in the head.
Spud returned the punch with a low biff to Gareth’s stomach. He then swiped the remainder of Gareth’s turkey sandwich from right out of Gareth’s hand and ran off laughing. Until very recently, Spud and my friend Goose were in a relationship together. They are currently on a break because Goose has concerns that Spud might be too immature for her. She may have a point.
‘Muppet!’ grinned Gareth happily.
‘What’s the Frillies?’ I demanded.
Gareth sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s this weird girl disease we get if we hang around with girls too much. It’s disgusting. It makes us become part girl.’ Gareth shuddered. ‘And it was a lot worse when we were little. We could get it then just from sitting next to a girl.’ He shuddered again. ‘And kissing one was a definite no-no.’
My mouth fell open in utter astonishment. ‘Are you having a laugh?’
Gareth turned redder than the reddest red thing which has ever existed on the whole of the surface of Mars. For a second, I couldn’t even see where his spot was any more because it had completely blended in with its red surroundings. With another embarrassed sigh, he said, ‘I suppose we were being a bit childish back then. I can assure you that I’m completely OK about sitting next to girls now.’
‘Well, hooray for that!’ I said.
‘But I still draw the line at make-up,’ said Gareth firmly. And then he winked at me and said, ‘I don’t want to start an epidemic of the Frillies, do I?’
Before I could answer such a stupid question, he leaned in and gave me a great big Frilly-defying kiss, right there in the middle of the schoolyard. And, on instinct, I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms around him and instantly stopped worrying about anything as pointless and pathetic as a few random spots. To be honest, you don’t even notice them when you’ve got your eyes closed.
When we’d finished kissing, Gareth’s eyes lingered on mine and for a moment I was helplessly captivated in a highly romantic eye-lock. Without really knowing why, I held my breath – and when Gareth opened his mouth to speak, I just knew he’d say something that would perfectly capture the moment. In a weirdly wobbly voice, Gareth said, ‘I love U2.’ And then he coughed and started frowning down at his K-Swiss trainers and the romantic spell was broken.
‘What?’ I said.
‘U2,’ said Gareth, coughing again and clearing his throat. ‘The rock band. I love their musical energy on stage and their commitment to serious world issues.’
‘Oh,’ I said, slightly confused. ‘Thanks for sharing that fact with me.’
‘No worries,’ said Gareth, and then he took hold of my hand and we walked off to registration together.
Gareth is slightly odd sometimes. Gorgeous with it though.
NerD rash
If it seems totally tragic that I’m spending massive long chunks of my Friday night sitting alone in my bedroom and writing stuff on my computer, I should just explain that most of the time I have a very hectic social life. Last week, I went with Gareth to three sixteenth birthday parties in one evening and I also hung out at Goose’s house for two whole days so that we could watch the entire first series of Glee on her new flat-screen 10-inch television. My school was closed for staff training so it’s not as if we had anything else to do – apart from our science, maths and geography coursework, I suppose. We got as far as episode twenty but then my vision started going fuzzy and I had to go home. And even though I’m sitting typing all this stuff right now, I haven’t been for long. I only got home an hour ago. To be honest, I’d expected some grief for being late without having cleared things with my mum first4 but when I got back the house was all in darkness. I checked my phone and saw that my mum had actually sent me a text. It said:
I was a bit shocked when I saw this. Texts of this nature are totally out of character for my mum because her life mostly revolves around catching criminals and watching television. In fact, she’s a workaholic couch potato. My dad walked out when I was nine and I don’t think she’s ever fully recovered. To be fair though, it’s not easy juggling a decent social life with a career in the police force. A lot of normal people find it hard to relax in the company of the long arm of the law. I’m one of them. Even so, I’m glad she’s found some friends to go out with and I wish she wouldn’t wait until it’s practically Christmas Day before she lets herself lighten up.
On the subject of Christmas, one of my favourite things about it – apart from presents, school holidays and those skinny chocolate mints in their own individual envelopes – is that, all through December, the shops in the city stay open until late almost every night of the week. Even though I am seriously strapped for cash, I love riding in on the bus with Goose to look at the Christmas lights and to check out the latest clothes in the high street. And, luckily, Goose loves riding into town on the bus with me. Just recently, she’s had enough money to buy bus tickets for both of us because she’s got a new weekend job as an usherette in the Ponty-Carlo Picture House close to where I live. So we’ve been going into the city quite often and I massively prefer it to going home to an empty house and my mum’s manky shepherd’s pie.
And that’s what we did after school today. We weren’t the only ones. It seemed like half of my school was wedged on to the number 24 bus to the city centre. For a moment, I thought we’d have to stand up the whole way, but then Beca Bowen – who’s in the same registration group as me – called us over and let us squeeze in next to her on the big long back seat. I was quite relieved because I’m not very good at balancing on buses. I think it’s because I’m seriously short for my age and I can’t actually reach the handrails, which are supposed to prevent you from pitching headfirst into someone’s lap. So I gratefully sat down, wedged tightly between Goose and a skinny bloke I’ve seen in the sixth-form whose glasses had steamed over, and I felt all warm and happy and excited. There were so many people to look at and conversations to listen to that I almost didn’t know what to focus on first.
And then I heard Goose ask, ‘You going into town?’
I turned and looked at her confused. I think I’d been daydreaming for a second. ‘Of course I am,’ I said. ‘You just bought me a ticket, remember!’
In a slightly irritated voice, Goose said, ‘Sorry, Lotts, but I wasn’t actually talking to you. I was talking to Tim.’
My confusion deepened. Next to me, the skinny sixth-former with the steamed-up glasses sat forward, cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes, yes. It’s time to confront that age-old dilemma of December – the conundrum that is the Christmas shopping.’ He coughed nervously and looked down at his shoes. I did too. I was quite surprised by what I saw. Unlike everybody else on the bus whose feet were planted in trainers or soggy UGG boots, he was wearing actual proper shoes. And paisley-patterned socks pulled up very high over the ends of his beige cord trouser legs. He gave Goose a shy smile and added, ‘My timing is regrettable though. I’m . . . er . . . feeling conspicuously old on here.’ And then he made a funny little harrumphing noise which I think was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like the noise a giraffe might make if it had a fly buzzing in its face.
To be honest, it’s a wonder I can even remember anything that he said. My eyes were so amazed by some of his Type C styling decisions that my ears had stopped paying proper attention to what was coming out of his mouth.
Goose harrumphed back at him and said, ‘I know. Helluva many kids on this bus. Most of this lot are only in Year 10.’ And then she shook her head in utter disgust – as if being in Year 10 was the worst thing in the entire world. Even though we’ve only been in Year 11 since September.
Carefully, so that the square sixth-former couldn’t see, I elbowed Goose in the ribs and pulled a face at her but she deliberately refused to look anywhere in my general direction. It’s a pity
because I think my face was doing something like this.
The bus rumbled on. Goose said, ‘Are you working this weekend, Tim?’
Geeky Guy fiddled with a button on his duffel coat and said, ‘Yes, yes. I’ll be in the projection room in . . . um . . . precisely three hours from now. So . . . er . . . I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with me.’ And then he made that giraffe noise again.
Goose, who had gone so red in the face that I thought she might be turning into a strawberry Starburst, said, ‘Maybe we can talk about film noir again. It helps to pass the time, doesn’t it?’
The way that Goose’s voice got a bit louder at a certain point during that last sentence made me think that, just possibly, she had started to show off.
Square Boy frowned and then he said, ‘Yes, yes.’ And then, with another harrumph, he stood up and pressed the bell for the bus to stop.
Goose said, ‘Oh! Are you going? I thought you were on your way to town?’
Freaky Bloke said, ‘Yes, yes, but . . . er . . . um . . . first, there’s a wonderful second-hand bookshop that I want to have a rummage around in.’ And with one last final harrumph, he picked up his bag (a battered old leather briefcase), flashed Goose a twitchy smile and then lurched awkwardly down the aisle of the bus towards the stairwell.
As soon as he was out of sight, I grabbed Goose’s arm and was just on the brink of demanding WHO ON EARTH he was when Beca Bowen – who has always had a bigger mouth than me – butted in first and said, ‘HOLY COW CAKES! WHO IN DAME SHIRLEY BASSEY’S NAME WAS THAT???’ And then Beca Bowen and I both started laughing our bras off.
Goose looked a bit fed up. ‘He’s just someone I work with.’
Beca Bowen said, ‘No way! Does he bring you out in a nerd rash?’ And she and I both cracked up laughing again. Thinking back on it now, I admit that there’s a high probability that we were both acting like a couple of brainless bra-less numpties.
