Lottie Biggs is Not Tragic

by Hayley Long

  By the time I finally managed to calm down and climb out of my wardrobe, Stevie Wonder was already downstairs with his feet firmly under the table.

  My mum was fussing around him and wearing too much make-up. When she saw me, she rushed over and put her arm around me and said, ‘Lottie, I’d like you to meet my friend Steve. Steve, this is Lottie.’ And then she frowned and said, ‘What on earth have you done to your hair, darling? It’s grey!’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve already met,’ I said. ‘And it’s not grey, darling. It’s more of a tarnished silver.’ And then I nodded at Detective Sergeant Stevie Wonder and said, ‘All right?’

  Stevie Wonder stood up and stepped forward to shake my hand. ‘Really pleased to meet you, Lottie,’ he said. And then with a big cheesy grin, he added, ‘Your mum never stops talking about you.’

  I gave my mum a deliberately dirty look and shook his hand. It felt a bit weird. I don’t think I’ve ever actually shaken anyone’s hand before. I don’t really like it.

  The timer on the oven tinged. My mum walked over to it, opened the oven door and pulled out a massive homemade pizza. We never ever have home-made pizza. We only eat frozen ones. I think my mum guessed I was about to tell Stevie Wonder this because, before I could even open my mouth, she blurted out, ‘So tarnished silver is the latest look, is it?’

  I sighed. ‘I dunno. I don’t actually care what the latest look is. I’m not following the crowd – I’m just doing my own thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said my mum. And then she said, ‘It’s certainly a look that you can grow into. In another forty years, it will look just right.’

  Stevie Wonder said, ‘Leave her alone, Carolyn.’ Then he grinned and winked at me and said, ‘Ignore her. I understand the look you’re going for, Lottie. My daughter, Lois, is a goth as well.’ And then he put his head on one side and said, ‘Or is she an emo? I can’t remember now. But it’s definitely one or the other.’

  For a second, I stared at him in horror. The idea of . . .

  a) being classified as a goth

  b) being classified as an emo

  or

  c) being mentioned in the same sentence as Lanky Lois

  . . . was so completely appalling that I was actually speechless. This doesn’t happen to me very often. But then, almost before my brain could even register what my mouth was doing, I smirked. I didn’t mean to – I just couldn’t help it. For some reason, there is just something utterly hilarious about people over the age of thirty using words like goth and emo. It sounds totally desperate. I’d even go as far as to say it sounds bloody stupid.

  I started laughing.

  Stevie Wonder laughed too. My mum smiled a bit but in that dangerous way which is secretly saying, ‘Don’t you dare show me up!’

  Remembering my manners, I put my hand over my mouth to help keep the rest of my hysterics inside. ‘Sorry, Sergeant Giles,’ I said, ‘I was just—’

  ‘Call me Steve,’ said Stevie Wonder.

  ‘Sorry Steven,’ I said, ‘I was just laughing because I’m not actually either of those things. I’m not anything. I’m just Lottie Biggs.’ And then, because the conversation was so weird and the situation was so intense, I started laughing again. I honestly didn’t mean anything rude by it, I just couldn’t help it.

  Stevie Wonder grinned back at me and nodded approvingly. Then he said, ‘That sounds like the best way to me. Just be yourself. Good for you!’

  And then my mum banged three plates of home-made pizza on to the kitchen table and we all sat down and ate some, and the rest of the afternoon went pretty smoothly, I thought. My mum flirted with Stevie. Stevie flirted with my mum. And I showed them both how to play Kick-boxing Queen on my games console and happily kicked Stevie Wonder repeatedly in the head for over an hour and we all had a really good laugh about it. I even achieved a personal high score.

  To be fair to him, Stevie isn’t actually as bog awful as I thought. On a scale of one to five with one being only very mildly minging and five being UTTERLY PUTRID, I’d say he’s probably only just past number two.

  He’s certainly not worth breaking any eggs over.

  Part 2

  a temPOrarY INterruPtlON tO the GeNeraL ONwarD fLOw Of mY stream Of CONsCIOusNess Narrative

  Dear Reader,

  It has become necessary for me to press the Pause button on my life and to take a moment to consider the overall bigger picture. This is for two reasons. The first of those reasons is that if I don’t step away from my problematic personal circumstances and put things back into some kind of sensible perspective, there’s a very real danger that my brain will blow up. Blake, my counsellor, once said to me that whenever I feel the murky mists of mayhem muddying my mind, I should try to remove myself as quickly as possible to a place where I feel safe and comfortable, and engage my head with a calming, focused activity. So I’ve come up to my bedroom and switched on my computer so I can do some writing. But I can’t write about the usual stuff. Not now. Because the usual stuff is Gareth and Goose and school and home. The usual stuff is my mum. And more than anything in the world, right now, I especially can’t write about her.

  So I’ve switched my computer on and I’m just letting my fingers move freely across the keyboard. And it’s really very interesting and liberating because I don’t actually know what I’m going to write about next. And the truth is that so long as it keeps my mind off HER and HIM – not to mention the sheMO17 – I don’t exactly care.

  And while I’m writing this random stuff, I can pretend that none of the crap that’s happening to me actually matters. And, anyway, when you think about what René Descartes said, none of it does matter. Because, in the great big scheme of things, I am the only thing that definitely, undoubtedly exists.

  But then again, if I am the only thing that definitely, undoubtedly exists, why am I even bothering to write all this stuff? I don’t need to explain myself to anyone because nobody is ever going to read what I’ve written! The reader I’m addressing doesn’t exist.

  OMG, I’ve just had a totally terrifying thought.

  What if Descartes is actually right? I’ve never really considered the full implications of this before but now I am and I’m finding it completely scary. I mean seriously seriously scary. In fact, it’s freaking me out even more than the witch on the swing did in that weird film at the Ponty-Carlo.

  Because if the only thing that definitely and undoubtedly exists is me, this means that Goose and Gareth and my mum and Ruthie and Winnie the chinchilla and Blake the counsellor quite possibly don’t exist. Quite possibly, I’ve made the whole lot up. They are nothing more than freaky figments of my weird imagination.

  OH MY GIDDY GOLDFISH!

  I am completely on my own.

  But hang on a minute! At the very least, I know that Goose exists. She must do. I have the evidence! On several occasions, Goose has told me that she is an Existentialist Absurdist. Goose thinks that this means her life is essentially absurd. In actual fact, being an Existentialist Absurdist is a lot more complicated than that. I’ve looked it up on the internet and it made my brain cells boggle just trying to get my head around it all. But basically it’s got something to do with the universe being a load of old hogwash. Beyond our own existence, there is nothing else out there. We are the only ones responsible for what we do and how we feel, and it’s totally pointless trying to find meaning in a meaningless world.

  This is not making me feel any better. But . . . BUT . . . it does prove that Goose exists because it proves that she thinks!

  I think, therefore I am.

  Goose thinks she is an Existentialist Absurdist, therefore she is!

  Unless, of course, I just think that she thinks this. But what if Goose exists only in my head and I’m the one who has decided that Goose has Existential Absurdist tendencies?

  SNAKES ON A PLANE!

  That leaves me on my own again.

  And . . .

  oh my giddy grief!

  . . . If Goose is noth
ing more than a creation of my mind – how can I be sure that I’m not simply a weird creation of someone else’s mind?

  Huh???

  Perhaps I’m actually nothing more than a drippy character in some random novel and there are loads of people, right at this very second, laughing at me because I think I’m an actual living human person!

  This subject is wigging me out so much that I’m going to stop thinking about it immediately and move on to the second reason why I’ve pressed the pause button.

  And that’s because I want to explain my decision to divide my Random Reflections and Philosophical Thoughts document into two separate parts. When I began writing this thing, I had no intention of organizing my words in this manner. To be honest, I’m surprised I’ve stuck with it for so long and got this far. But I have stuck with it and now I need to mark a significant milestone in my experience as a writer.

  And everything written from here onward will feature the disturbed and desperate outpourings of someone who has just discovered that they could well be spending Christmas Day trapped in a house with Stevie flipping Wonder and Lanky Lois.

  eGG CarNaGe

  And now I’ve got a third reason for slashing my work into two parts. And it’s surely got to be the most crucial reason of all.

  I’ve left home.

  A lot has happened since I last did any writing.

  A LOT.

  So much that it actually makes my brain boggle when I try to get my head round it all.

  But I’ll start by saying that I am no longer an official resident of 62 Springfield Place, Whitchurch, Cardiff, Wales, United Kingdom, Europe, Planet Earth, The Universe.

  Because I’ve walked out.

  Everything I wrote before was written in a vibrant young city awash with opportunities to immerse oneself in fun, food and Welsh culture18 and everything from here onward is being typed in the hum-drum industrial border town of Wrexham – where I’m now living with my dad. It’s a long and traumatic story and it all starts with a conversation I had with my mum over breakfast on Sunday morning. That was only two days ago and yet it feels like an entire millennium has passed me by since then.

  We’d got on OK after Stevie’s lunch visit the day before. He’d left our house some time in the middle of the afternoon, and me and my mum had gone out for a drive to the Shopping Village to have a mosey around and to check out the special offers.

  By the time we got there, it was snowing a bit and freezing cold. Even so, it was quite nice because the Fron Male Voice Choir had swung down all the way from North Wales and were giving a free carol concert in the main arcade. Although I don’t normally like listening to that kind of thing, I have to admit that it was definitely helluva festive. At one point, I had a nasty shock though. In the window of one of the shops was a massive poster, and on that massive poster were massive letters which said, ONLY FOURTEEN SHOPPING DAYS LEFT UNTIL CHRISTMAS! For a moment, this completely freaked me out. For one thing, I hadn’t actually bought any presents19 and for another thing, I still had no clue where I was going to be on Christmas Day. I’d spoken to my dad on the phone once or twice but, even though I’d tried to steer the subject in a Christmassy direction, he still hadn’t mentioned it.

  And then afterwards we drove over to Goose’s house and picked her up and took her back to our house where we ordered a Chinese takeaway and watched Free Willy 4 on DVD. Me and Goose had both seen it five times already and could speak all the lines before the actors did but my mum hadn’t seen it. She’s not a very good person to watch a film with, to be honest. She constantly looks confused and says stuff like ‘Shhhhh, we’re missing what they’re saying’ every three seconds.

  And then Goose went home and I went to bed and then it was Sunday so I got up again and my mum made me fried eggs and bacon for my breakfast – which is one of my all-time favourite things to eat in the whole wide world – and I kissed my mum on her cheek and got myself some orange juice and everything was going all hunky-dory and hokey-cokey and A-OK until she said . . .

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what we might do on Christmas Day this year.’

  I froze, my fists clenching tightly around my knife and fork. And then I put my cutlery down, nervously sipped a little orange juice to buy myself a few seconds, and then, eventually, said, ‘But I’m not sure yet what I’m doing this Christmas.’

  My mum looked surprised. And then her face clouded over and she looked very obviously rather hurt. I felt terrible.

  My mum said, ‘Have you got some other plans?’

  I started fiddling with the end of my fork. ‘Well . . . yes,’ I said. And then, ‘No . . . not yet. But it’s dad’s turn to see me this year, isn’t it?’

  My mum’s face darkened a little more. ‘So he’s asked you up there and nobody’s bothered to inform me. Thank you very much.’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘You know I’d always tell you what’s going on. I’m just not sure myself yet.’

  ‘So he hasn’t asked you?’ said my mum.

  ‘No,’ I replied uncomfortably. ‘I think he’s definitely going to though because it’s his turn.’

  My mum frowned and looked me right in the eye. I don’t like it when people look me right in the eye. Except for Gareth. It makes me feel all agitated and harassed. Thumping my elbows on to the table, I rested my jaw in my hand and scowled down at my untouched bacon and eggs.

  My mum said, ‘Go and ring him now and find out what’s going on.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Well, why not? You want to know what you’re doing, don’t you?’

  My bacon was still steaming but less than it had been at the start of this conversation. It needed eating up. My two egg yolks were yellow and round and perfect.

  ‘I don’t want to ring him,’ I said. I was starting to feel a bit panicky. It was a very bizarre situation to be in. I did want to know what was going on, but I totally did not want to ring him and ask. I’m not really sure why.

  My mum sighed and then, after a very long pause, she said, ‘Do you want me to ring him?’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. I hate it when my mum and dad speak to each other. It usually results in a total communication breakdown followed by urgent peace talks.

  There was another long silence. Then, very gently, my mum said, ‘If he hasn’t said anything to you about going up there and you won’t phone and ask him and you won’t let me phone and ask him, then I suppose you’ll just have to stay here with me. But that’s not really so bad, is it?’

  Still staring at my eggs and bacon, I shook my head. I wasn’t lying. It wasn’t that bad at all. Me and my mum and Ruthie always have an excellent time at Christmas. But I just thought I’d be seeing my dad.

  My mum said, ‘And you could always see if Gareth wants to join us for tea.’

  I started to smile a bit.

  My mum said, ‘Anyway, I was hoping there’d be quite a crowd of us this year. Ruthie is going to be bringing Michel. And maybe if you’re staying, Gareth will come over. And you know I just couldn’t do without you, Lottie. It’s never the same when you’re not here.’

  I smiled a lot then.

  And then my mum said, ‘And I’m also thinking of asking Steve and Lois over.’

  I stopped smiling. ‘WHAT?’

  My mum looked worried. ‘Don’t be like that, Lottie. I thought you and Steve got on really well yesterday. And you loved playing that Kick-boxing Queen game with him. Don’t say you didn’t because I could see it on your face.’

  My fist had clenched around my fork again. I was applying so much pressure to it that I’m surprised the thing didn’t snap.

  Trying really hard to keep my voice at a normal volume level, but failing, I said, ‘Yeah, but I didn’t think he’d be gatecrashing Christmas, did I?’

  My mum said, ‘He won’t be gatecrashing anything. I’m inviting him. Just like I’m inviting Gareth and Michel.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but why have you got to go and invite her?’

>   ‘Do you mean Lois?’ asked my mum. Pointlessly.

  ‘Yeah. Why does she have to come with him?’

  My mum gave me a long, hard look. I’d say it was pretty much a Grade One Stare of Death, to be honest. And then she said, ‘Because she’s got nowhere else to go. If I invite Steve over – and I plan to – then of course I’ll invite Lois to come with him. Because her mum’s dead, Lottie.’

  I hadn’t expected her to say this.

  I opened my mouth to say something and then – because I couldn’t think of anything to say, I started to cry. But it wasn’t a good let-it-all-out, head-clearing cry – it was an absolutely pig-awful, rotten-as-rotting-rhubarb cry. Tears were streaming down my face and I knew that they were selfish and stupid and terrible tears. But also, they were angry and trapped tears too because if my dad had invited me up to Wrexham like he should have done in the first place, then none of this would have mattered anyway. A big fat tear ran straight down my cheek and plopped on to one of my untouched egg yolks. My head felt a bit funny. As I stared at the egg yolk, it sneered at me through a pair of yellow-tinted cyber-goggles and said, ‘Deal with it!’

  I said, ‘Yeah, but it’s not my fault her mum’s dead, is it?’ And then I slammed my fork down on to both my egg yolks and made them explode all over the tablecloth.

  I only caught a tiny glimpse of my mum’s face as I stormed out of the kitchen. She looked shocked by my behaviour and – what was worse – she looked disgusted.

  I don’t blame her. Somewhere, underneath this massive rage which had completely hijacked my head, I was feeling totally and utterly shocked and disgusted by my behaviour too.

  twO’s COmPaNY . . .

  I’m not sure what happened next. I remember going up to my room and typing away furiously on the computer but then I lost track of time. Most people lose hats and homework and occasionally – if they’re really careless – their iPods and phones, but on Sunday I completely lost track of an entire couple of hours. Or rather, there was so much stuff buzzing about between my ears that everything stopped making proper sense and I’ve got no clear idea of the specific order of events. One second I was writing about the pointlessness of trying to find meaning in a meaningless world and the next thing I knew I was sitting on a bench on the traffic island in the middle of Whitchurch village. And I honestly for the life of me can’t remember exactly how I got there.