Over the Moon

by Jean Ure

  For Amy Kampta Maher

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Over the Moon

  Also by Jean Ure

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Over the Moon

  Life is so weird: nothing but ups and downs. I can’t keep track of it! One minute it’s like whoosh, whiz, sizzle! You’re over the moon. And the next, back down to earth with a huge great thump.

  Down into a pit, full of gloom and despondency and deep dark despair. Which is where I was last night. I just didn’t see (I still don’t) how Mum could be so mean. So utterly without any sympathy or understanding for my plight. Life almost didn’t seem worth living. Whereas today – wheeee! All of a sudden, I’m back over the moon. Halfway to Venus! Practically out of sight. I can go to the party after all!!!

  No thanks to Mum. But hooray for Dad! He is THE BEST. I can always rely on Dad to stick up for me.

  I wrote that in my diary almost a year ago. I cannot believe that I was so young! Well, I mean, yes, I was twelve. Now I am thirteen, which is admittedly a kind of landmark age when you stop being a mere child and become a proper person. I do think there is quite a big difference between being twelve and being thirteen. All the same … to get so worked up about such utter trivia. Such “small potatoes” as one of my granddads would say. It is truly pathetic.

  I was all in a froth, I remember, because I’d been invited to Tanya Hoskins’ party, and rumour had it, from people that had been at Juniors with her, that Tanya’s parties were something else. I mean, like, really posh. So I’d got this special new gear I was going to wear, a dinky little white outfit, short swirly skirt with matching top, which I’d begged and nagged at Mum to let me buy. It was practically a matter of life and death. I had to look my best! What with Tanya being my number one rival and all. Plus there were going to be boys. Even Mum was prepared to admit that boys made a difference, though she muttered her usual mumsy type stuff about twelve being far too young “for that sort of thing”. To which Dad, with a wink and a nudge, said, “Oh, yeah? Look who’s talking!” It was a bit of a joke between me and Dad that Mum sometimes seemed to forget how she had behaved when she was my age. “A right little tease,” according to Dad!

  Anyway, there I was, the evening before the party, over the moon and all dressed up in my white skirt and top, with Mum going, “Scarlett, I should take that off, if I were you, before you have an accident,” and me yelling, “I’m just trying it on!” and Mum retorting, “You’ve already tried it on a dozen times,” and me irritably protesting that, “I have to make sure I feel comfortable in it,” when bing, bam, boom! DISASTER. Swishing past the kitchen table, I caught the handle of the coffee pot and that was that. Coffee all over. All over me, all over the floor, all over my lovely new outfit.

  I screeched so loud I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t call the police. I couldn’t have screeched louder if I’d hacked off my finger with the bread knife. Even Dad heard, and he was outside in the garage. He came bursting in, through the back door.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I told her,” said Mum. “I told her to take it off.”

  Dad said, “Take what off?” And then he caught sight of me covered in coffee and his eyes boggled. “Good grief! What happened?”

  “She caught the coffee pot,” said Mum.

  By this time I was practically hysterical. I am not usually a screechy weepy sort of person, I didn’t shed one single tear when I fell over in the playground and broke my wrist, and that was when I was in Year 3. But this was a calamity of cosmic proportions.

  “It’ll come out,” Dad said. “Won’t it?”

  “Doubt it,” said Mum.

  “Not even if you put it straight into the machine?”

  “Not washable,” said Mum. “Has to be dry cleaned.”

  “Oh, lor’!” said Dad. “Isn’t that the get-up she’s supposed to be wearing for the party?”

  I sobbed, “Yes, but how can I? Now? Look at it! It’s ruined! I’ll have to go and buy something else! Mum, can I go straight away and buy something else?”

  “No, I’m afraid you can’t,” said Mum, at the same time as Dad said, “Well, I suppose— ”

  “No.” Mum’s lips went all tight and trumpet-shaped. She sounded like she really meant it. “I’m sorry, Scarlett, we’ll try taking it to the cleaner’s and see what they can do, but— ”

  “That’s no good!” I shrieked at her, like a demented creature. “I need it for tomorrow! Mum, please! Please let me go and get something else!”

  But she wouldn’t. She can just be so obstinate! Dad was on my side, cos Dad always is, but Mum stood firm. She said I had plenty of other things I could wear, and that I was indulged “quite enough”. Dad said, “Isn’t that why we have kids? To indulge them?”

  “Not to the extent of spoiling them rotten!” snarled Mum.

  Poor Dad. What with me weeping and Mum snarling, he looked quite crestfallen. He hates to see me unhappy and he also hates it when Mum gets mad – which just lately she had been doing more and more often. He could obviously tell she wasn’t going to give way cos rather lamely he said, “Are you sure it won’t come out?” Like he was implying that any proper housewife would know automatically how to remove coffee stains. Which, needless to say, got Mum even madder. She somewhat sniffily informed Dad that she had better ways of occupying her mind than “tedious domestic trivia” and swept out of the room, leaving me still bleating and Dad looking sheepish, as he always did when Mum turned on him.

  He told me gruffly to “Cheer up! You know what your mum’s like … she’ll simmer down.” But he didn’t say that he was going to overrule her. He didn’t tell me to jump in the car and we’d go into town straight away and buy me something else. So that was when I went down into my pit and furiously recorded in my diary that

  Mum is hateful she exults in my misfortune and makes my life a misery. There are times when it is just not worth living.

  Like I said, pathetic!

  The next day was Saturday, the day of the party. I had already made up my mind to punish Mum by not going. I wanted her to suffer! I’m not quite sure how I thought it was likely to make Mum suffer, me not going to a party that I’d been looking forward to for weeks; I expect I had this vision of her being racked with remorse for ruining my life. I also wanted Dad to see how desperately miserable I was, cos I knew that me being miserable upset him more than almost anything. But then, while I was still wrapped up in the duvet feeling sorry for myself, Dad put his head round the door and cried, “Wakey, wakey, all systems go! Your mum’s had a re-think … I’ve talked her round.”

  Three huge cheers for Dad! He was on my side! It was me and Dad versus Mum. Me and Dad were like a team and Mum was like the referee, always blowing her whistle and yelling, “Foul!” We didn’t usually take much notice of her. We just did our own thing!

  Immediately after breakfast, me and Dad went into town and I went back to the same store. They’d still got the outfit, the same skirt and top, only this time, to be on the safe side in case of more coffee incidents, I got it in a deep emerald green. Dad always said that was my special colour, on account of me having red hair and green eyes, and I knew Tanya wouldn’t be wearing it as it doesn’t suit her sort of pale faded looks. She always sticks to boring pastel shades like pink (yuck!) and powder blue. When I got home I said a big thank you to Mum, but Mum just grunted and said, “I don’t want to know.” I didn’t care! I’d got my party clothes and I was back over the moon. Yippee!

  Yeah, and guess what? This is my diary entry for the next day:

  Tanya’s stupid party wasn’t worth going to. NO boys to speak of, except for just a few geeks, and loads
of dim and boring cousins, and people from her old school, I might just as well not have bothered. It was a total waste of a good outfit, cos now everyone’s seen me in it, in my beeeeeautiful emerald green skirt and top, I obviously can’t wear them again! Not in front of Tanya.

  I wonder if I could take them back and change them? I mean, I’ve only worn them once. They wouldn’t know. I could always say they were the wrong size, then I could get one of those tiny little denim jobs that I’d have got last time if Mum hadn’t been with me and said they looked tarty. Like she knows anything! What does she know? If she doesn’t want me to look tarty she should give me my own clothes allowance and let me get designer gear. But oh, no! that’s a RIDICULOUS PRICE, for a girl of your age.

  I’ve just had a look and discovered I can’t take the stuff back cos some idiot’s gone and dropped a disgusting great splodge of food down the front. I don’t know who it was, but it certainly wasn’t me! UGH. That is just so gross! And I don’t think even Dad will let me go and buy something else.

  Damn, damn, damn! Life is one constant battle.

  I shall say it again: pathetic. OK, I’m not trying to pretend that I don’t still think it’s important to make the most of yourself. I’m not even trying to pretend that I don’t still look forward to parties, and to meeting boys. Course I do! It’s only natural. But lots of things have happened to me since I made that entry in my diary. I have been over the moon and down in the dumps and back over the moon and back down in the dumps, up and down, up and down, like a yo-yo, more times than I can remember. I expect that is only natural, too. But I wouldn’t ever claim now that my life had been ruined simply on account of clothes.

  I guess what it is: I have just got older. Older and wiser, as the saying goes. Or, as my best friend Hattie once informed me, in her stern schoolmistressy way, “You have to grow up some time.” That is it: I have grown up!

  Started back at school. Year 8! We’ve got Mrs Wymark. She’s really strict, but I think she’ll be OK. Me and Hattie are still together, thank goodness. Mum says thank goodness, too. She says I need Hattie to “quell my worst impulses”. She says if it weren’t for Hattie I would be like a walking Barbie doll.

  What cheek! Like all I think about are clothes, and hair, and make-up. I think about loads of other things! I said this to Mum, and she said, “Like what, for instance?” and I said

  “Well, boys, for a start. Didn’t you used to think about boys?” Dad fell about laughing. He said, “She’s got you there!” Mum just said, “Hm”.

  She pretended to be amused, but I could tell she was wishing that Dad wouldn’t get all jokey when she wanted to be serious. I don’t know what the matter is with Mum just lately, she’s no fun at all. She is becoming really crotchety. Me and Dad, we laugh and fool around the whole time. Everything with Mum is like some big deal. She doesn’t seem to have any sense of humour any more. Dad only has to make some totally harmless little joke, like he did the other day, about how women ought to stay home and look after their men instead of having ideas “above their station”, and she flies at him like a wildcat. It was only a JOKE, for heaven’s sake! I just don’t know what’s got into her.

  That was what I wrote way back last September. Only ten months ago, but it seems like for ever. Reading through my diary is like delving into ancient history. Not that I keep a real proper diary; I don’t fill in all the pages. Just now and then, when I feel inspired, I’ll pick up a pen and jot things down. I personally consider that I do quite enough writing as it is, what with school all day and homework half the night. I wouldn’t have the patience to do more than just scribble the odd few sentences.

  Unlike Hattie, who has an actual blog. She spends hours on the computer, setting down her thoughts. She writes these whole long screeds, all about the current political situation and the state of the world. I guess I am more interested in the state of my emotions. I certainly wouldn’t want to go putting them on the computer for everyone to read. No way! I would shrivel up and die.

  Not even Hattie is allowed to see what I write in my diary. When we were younger we never used to have secrets from each other; we took a vow that we would tell each other everything. But the older you get, the more private you get, or at least that is how it seems to me. I surely can’t be the only one to keep my innermost thoughts and feelings locked away inside myself? Mostly it’s because I’d be embarrassed if I were to tell anyone, but also, maybe, sometimes, it’s because I’d be a bit ashamed. I mean, some of the things I think … I know they are not worthy. Like this that I wrote about Tanya Hoskins:

  That girl is so PASTRY-faced. How can anyone say she’s pretty??? She looks like she’s made out of dough!

  Raging jealousy, that’s all it was. I’ve always been jealous of Tanya, right from when we started in Year 7.

  I knew immediately that she was going to be my rival. Cos she is pretty, in spite of being pale. I was used to being the prettiest one! I always was, in Juniors. I am not saying this to boast; it just happens to be true. Like Hattie was always the cleverest, and Janice McNiece was the best at games. There is no point in denying these things, you have to accept them. What I couldn’t accept was that some people might think Tanya Hoskins was as pretty as I was. Not prettier; no one could have said she was prettier. But as pretty. Oh, this is so hateful! This is what I mean about being ashamed. But I am trying very hard to face up to myself and be truthful. I’m just telling it like it was.

  Like it was: I couldn’t bear the thought of Tanya being selected for the Founder’s Day Dinner and Dance and not me!

  There: I said it. That is how petty I was. Of course, I didn’t tell Hattie. What I told Hattie was that I really really really really wanted to be selected, “Just to show Mum.”

  Hattie said, “Really?” I said, “Really, really!”

  “Dunno how you’re going to swing that,” said Hattie. Neither did I; that was the problem. The Dinner and Dance is a big thing at our school, Dame Elizabeth’s. It only happens once every five years, and only a handful of people are selected from each year group, usually five boys and five girls. The way they’re chosen is strictly on merit marks – which I didn’t happen to have any of. Well, I think I’d picked up about four in the whole of my first year. Hattie, needless to say, got them by the bucket load. Mainly academic ones, since Hattie just happens to have this mega-size brain. Tanya Hoskins has a brain of more ordinary proportions, but she is one of those irritating people who applies herself. (A term much favoured by teachers, at our school at any rate. I always got end-of-term reports saying that I did not apply myself.)

  “So how do you think you’re going to do it?” said Hattie. She is always very down to earth. Not to mention blunt.

  I said hopefully, “I could try mending my ways.”

  “Well, you could,” said Hattie. “But there’s an awful lot of them to mend!”

  I begged her not to be so negative. “You’re supposed to be helping me!”

  “Why?” said Hattie.

  “Because you’re my friend! And we do things together. How could you possibly go without me?”

  “What makes you think I will be going?” said Hattie.

  I told her that she was bound to be selected. “You and Tanya; you’ll both be selected. You know you will!”

  “I don’t know anything,” said Hattie. “And if you want to go as badly as all that, why not wait for one of the boys to invite you? Cos you know that they will!”

  She meant one of the boys who got selected. I said, “I want to be the one to do the inviting! Plus there isn’t a single solitary boy that I’d want to go with. Not in our year, at any rate.”

  “So who would you invite?”

  I said, “I don’t know! I’ll think about that later. What’s important is being selected. And that’s what I need your help for!”

  “Don’t see what I’m s’pposed to do,” said Hattie; but she agreed, in the end, to give me the benefit of her advice. “Provided you listen.”

&nb
sp; “I will, I will!” I said. “Look at me … I’m listening!”

  “Right, then,” said Hattie. “Let’s get started. Let’s make a list!”

  I said, “List of what?”

  “All those areas where you need to improve! Get a pen. Write it down!”

  Meekly, I did so. “Improvements”, I wrote.

  No.1 Work

  No.2 Behaviour

  No.3 Attitude

  No.4 Punctuality

  No.5 Team spirit.

  Somewhat daunting, I think you will agree!

  “Let’s take them one by one,” said Hattie. She has this very orderly sort of mind. “Work. If you just started to do some, it would help.”

  “I will,” I said, earnestly.

  “You’ve got a brain,” said Hattie, “why not use it?”

  I told her that she sounded like my mum.

  “I’m going to act like your mum,” said Hattie. “I’m going to tell you what to do and you’re going to do it … cos if you don’t, then that is it. I shall wash my hands of you.”

  “Oh, no, please,” I said. “Please, Hattie, don’t!”

  “It’s entirely up to you,” said Hattie. “What’s next? Behaviour. Well, that’s easy enough! Just stop getting told off all the time. Attitude— ”

  “Yes,” I said, anxiously, “what does that mean?”

  “It means co-operating,” said Hattie. “Like, you know … shutting up when you’re told to shut up? Walking down the corridor when you’re told to walk down the corridor? Not barging and yelling and— ”

  “I don’t do that!” I said.

  Hattie looked at me, rather hard.

  “Well, yes, all right,” I said. “I get the message. What about punctuality? I can manage punctuality! At least I can if Dad leaves on time. He doesn’t always leave on time.”