Must get things sorted with her, I thought, as I looked for Dad’s shaving foam. Time for my fortnightly shave! It’s a weird thing, shaving, I thought as I frothed up my face. I looked forward to having enough facial hair to shave for ages, thinking that when it finally happened I’d turn into a grown up overnight. But now I’ve started having to shave regularly, I can tell already it’s going to be a nuisance. It takes ages and you have to be really careful that you don’t nick yourself, as even though there are self-protector blades, they don’t allow for the occasional teenage zit. Whack the top off one of those and it’s ER central.
Girls think they have it bad with periods and stuff, but that’s just once a month. A bloke has to shave every day. Well, in the end you do; it’s only once every two weeks for me at the moment, but even that is boring. Why can’t you just shave once and that’s it? I mean, where does all the hair keep coming from? Cat used to have this doll when she was little that had all its hair coiled up inside its head, and you could pull it out or push it back so the doll had either a long or a short hairstyle. When I was a kid, I used to think that it was the same for humans. We all had an allotted amount of hair stuffed in our bodies, all coiled around and around like in the doll, and it grew out until there was none left and that’s when people went bald. Hair – where does it come from? I wondered, as I carefully shaved the fuzz off my chin. Not much there, really, but enough to look a bit naff if it’s left.
I was hoping I’d get a hairy chest, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. So far, I have four hairs: three on one side of my left nipple and one on the right. Elsewhere is all as per normal though, armpits, legs, pubes. Mac knows this interesting thing to do with pubes. A mate of his from London had shown him. (He lived there, before his parents got divorced.) You pull out a few of your pubic hairs and put them in an ashtray or something. Then you light them with a match. It’s amazing: they dance. Seriously – dance. It’s a real laugh. Course, after Mac had shown me, we wanted to show Cat, Becca and Lia and see if girl’s pubes did the same. But they came over all coy and prissy and said it wasn’t ladylike. Girls aren’t really impressed by stuff like that.
They didn’t want to see Mac light his farts, either. He’s a total master at it and it could have been his party piece except only the boys wanted to watch, while the girls went all girlie and pulled disgusted faces. They don’t kid me; I know girls fart too, only I guess they call it breaking wind in the same way that where boys sweat, girls are only meant to glow. What rubbish. We all have bodies and bodily functions, and sometimes you have to let one go. Mac takes it a bit far sometimes, though. He wafts his towards you, then comments on it as though it was a really fine wine. ‘Ummm, get this one,’ he’ll say proudly. ‘Rich and hearty, with just a hint of broccoli.’ He can empty a room if he wants to with some of his S.B.Ds. (Silent but deadlies.) Sometimes the girls don’t like it when we act too laddish in front of them, like it turns them off, so now I’m careful to keep stuff like that to when Mac and I are on our own.
My mental meandering on the subject of pubes and farting was interrupted, as my eye fell upon the toothpaste and I remembered something that Mac had told me to try with it, when I dropped him off at his house last night. I glanced at my watch. I had a few minutes to spare. I could try it. It was something that he’d read in a mag. One of those mags he’s not to supposed to have, I may add. One of those mags you find on the top shelf in newsagents, and under the mattress at Mac’s.
‘The mag said that if you put toothpaste on your willie, it makes it bigger,’ he said.
‘Never,’ I said.
‘For real,’ he said. ‘Something to do with the menthol having a stimulating effect, so blood rushes to cool your willie and it grows. Something like that. Sounded very scientific.’
Course I stored that bit of info away immediately, as willie size is one of my private concerns. I mean, how are you supposed to know what’s big, small or average? I guess it’s a bit like girls worrying about the size of their bum or the size of their boobs. A boy’s hang up is how does he score in the trouser-snake department.
Well, let’s see if it works, I thought, as I took the top off the tube, and applied the toothpaste liberally.
About twenty seconds later, the menthol kicked in.
‘ARGhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Oo, oo, ahoo, aah, aah, arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
My eyes began to stream, my breath shortened and my willie stang like someone had put it in a mincer. Talk about stimulant effect! I was going to go through the roof. What to do? What to do? Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I remembered something from a first-aid course I did years ago, something about milk being a good neutraliser, with soothing properties. If nothing else, it would certainly be cold. Got to get downstairs, I told myself. Why did I try it? I must be stupid. Big mistake, big mistake, I thought, as I hopped downstairs. Remind me to kill Mac when I see him, that’s if I don’t die first. I can see the headlines now: ‘Teenage todger totalled in toothpaste terror!’ On my grave, they’ll write, ‘He died young but his nether regions were minty fresh.’ Oh, argghhhhhhhhh. Maybe I picked the wrong brand, or something. Oo, ar, the pain! I thought I was going to pass out with it.
I reached the kitchen. Luckily there was no one around. I flung the fridge door open. Milk. Where was it? Murphy’s Law: only a thimbleful left and the milkman wasn’t due for another half hour. What else? Need something cold, something to cool it down. I scanned the contents of the fridge. Carton of minestrone soup? I don’t think so. Vegetables? No. Ham? Cheese? The stinging sensation was getting worse. ‘Quick, Squidge, do something,’ cried my poor willie. Yoghurt! There was a pot of it at the back on the top shelf. Strawberry flavoured. That will do, I thought, as I quickly grabbed the pot, pulled off the lid and plunged my willie into the cool, soft liquid. ‘Ahhhh,’ I sighed, as the stinging sensation began to ease.
Unfortunately, just at that moment, Dad came through the back door. Try explaining your way out of this one! I thought, as he stopped mid-whistle and looked at me quizzically. I had to make something up, but what? How do you explain? Like, oh yeah, just trying the toothpaste on the old fella trick. You know how it is, Dad?
Instead I grinned sheepishly and said, ‘Strawberry yoghurt – just can’t get enough of it.’
Dad gave me a strange look. ‘Your willie isn’t a straw, son,’ he said. He shook his head as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing, then sighed and muttered something about adolescence, before going upstairs.
Thank goodness the yoghurt had done the trick. Had I done something wrong? I wondered, as I followed Dad up a few minutes later. Maybe you have to use the toothpaste brands with flouride. I passed Dad on the stairs, this time he was coming down.
‘You all right?’ he asked looking at me with concern.
‘I’m fine,’ I mumbled.
I don’t know why he’s worried. I’m not the only one in this family obsessed by my willie. I remember when Will was about three years old, Mum found him in the garden rubbing the end of his with a toothbrush. When she asked what he was doing, he said, I’m cleaning its teeth.’ We all thought it was so cute. But even at that age, he saw his willie as having a separate identity. Girls are so lucky they don’t have them.
Once I was shaved and showered, I nicked a bit of Dad’s Armani aftershave then went to dress: white T-shirt, Levi jeans, Converse All Stars sneakers. My James Dean, Rebel-without-a-Cause look, completed with the all important leather jacket and dark shades. Bit of gel to get my hair spiked up, and I was ready to roll.
Next on the agenda was to pick up Mac. Like me, he smelt of expensive aftershave. I guess he was looking forward to meeting Savannah as well. ‘Chanel for Men?’ I asked.
‘Mum got it me for Christmas,’ he said, then sniffed my neck. ‘Armani?’
‘Only the best,’ I said, as we set off on our bikes. ‘Um, tried the toothpaste thing. Don’t recommend it.’
Mac laughed. ‘Me, too. I mean
me neither. Only I couldn’t find the toothpaste, so I thought I’d try something else with a menthol ingredient – Deep Heat. I almost passed out.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I said, then told him about my conversation with Lia.
‘And now she’s giving you the silent treatment?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘I’m going to ask Cat to talk to her for me,’ I called over my shoulder.
As soon as we reached the set, I went to the catering tent to find Cat and asked if she would try and get through to Lia for me.
‘You don’t know a lot about girls do you,’ she said, after I’d filled her in on Lia’s reaction.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lia probably thought you meant that you wouldn’t cast her because she’d be no good.’
‘But she should know me better than that,’ I said. ‘Of course that’s not what I meant.’
‘So why wouldn’t you have cast her as an extra?’ she asked, pouring tea out of a huge tea pot.
‘Extras are supposed to be in the background, to blend into a crowd,’ I explained. ‘No one should draw the audience’s attention away from the main performers, from what’s happening centre stage. Put a girl as stunning as Lia in the background and what do you have? Major distraction. So they’re making a big mistake in my book.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Cat. ‘Hey, that’s really sweet. Why didn’t you tell her that?’
‘Because, being stupid, it came out all wrong. Or at least, it didn’t come out at all. Sometimes I forget that people can’t read my thoughts. So, will you tell her for me?’
‘Sure.’
Most of the day was taken up with dressing the set for the ballroom scene, and I didn’t see much of anybody. Everywhere there was a blur of activity with people racing to get everything done on time. Course, Roland had to have his say about not bugging Savannah when she arrived. Midafternoon, he gathered the team of runners around him.
‘Savannah doesn’t like to mix with the rest of the crew, so we have to respect her need for privacy as an artist. Get that, Squidge?’ he said, looking pointedly at me. ‘You in particular. I know how starstruck you can be and I don’t want you acting like a country bumpkin who has never seen a celebrity.’
As if, I thought. I’m way cooler than that. Why did he have to come out with stuff like that in front of other people? It made me look a right prat. But then, I guess that’s exactly what he intended.
‘Shan’t even look at her, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep my eyes down, might doff my cap, that’s all, sir.’
Roland gave me a filthy look then started handing out the next lot of assignments. Mine was to take the costume that Savannah would be wearing up to the main house, so that she could change up there later on that evening. It was a stunning dress, all lace and tiny pearl buttons. The genuine article, borrowed from a museum up in London.
I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, and when I got back to unit base after delivering the dress, I was totally starving. I looked in quickly at the catering tent and, as lunch was long over, one of the girls there piled my plate up with what was left – doughnuts. They had some fab looking ones, fresh, sugary and oozing jam. I ate one and stuffed a couple into my pockets to eat later.
I decided to take one over to Mac, as I know he loves doughnuts. Just as I was crossing the centre of the camp, I saw Lia chatting to Cat and Becca outside the loos. Cat gave me the thumbs up, indicating that she had explained to Lia what I really meant by not casting her as an extra. Lia looked up and smiled, and I felt my heart start to thump in my chest, like it always did when I saw her. Back on track, I thought. It felt great and I wanted her to know how happy I felt. Only one thing a boy can do in a situation like that to show how he feels, and that is to demonstrate his range of Silly Walks à la John Cleese in Monty Python. I pushed my chest out, made myself go knock-kneed and started jerking my head backwards and forwards like a pigeon, as I took a few steps. The girls cracked up. Sufficiently encouraged, I went into my impersonation of an Egyptian dancer doing the sand dance.
Suddenly I saw Becca’s face register surprise. She pointed towards Savannah’s trailer and started waving her arms at me to stop. ‘Ohmigod, I didn’t know she’d arrived,’ I heard her say.
I turned to where she was looking. There was a pretty redhead at the window of the Winnebago. Not just any old pretty redhead. It was the one and only Savannah. She’d been watching me loon about, and was laughing. My knees turned to jelly then my legs turned to rubber. I didn’t know whether to go backwards, forwards or sideways. I was so embarrassed that she’d been watching me, was still watching me. I gave her a half wave and moved forward. While I was looking at Savannah, I didn’t notice a roll of cable in front of me and I tripped and fell flat on my face. Hmm, that’s one way to make a good first impression, I thought, as jam from the doughnuts in my pockets went squirting everywhere.
I rolled over onto my back and started to sit up. Next thing I knew, Savannah had opened her trailer door, run over to me, knelt beside me and was peering anxiously at me.
‘Are you all right?’ she cried. ‘You’re bleeding.’ She looked around but the girls made themselves scarce and there was only Roland who had just appeared from the production trailer.
‘Is there a medical trailer?’ asked Savannah. ‘Someone who can help? Please, someone, do something!’
Roland stood over us, looking bemused.
She leaned over me again and looked into my eyes. ‘Just lie still. We’ll get help.’
Although it was very tempting to lie there and act dumb, I thought I’d better come clean. But then Roland would be mad. Maybe I should stay quiet. Oh God, I thought, as I remembered Roland’s earlier lecture about not even looking at Savannah. Now here I was with my head in her lap, my nose almost in her very famous chestie bits. Not quite the dignified first meeting I’d imagined.
‘Er, jam,’ I admitted. ‘It’s jam, not blood. Sorry, sorry. Raspberry to be precise. Doughnuts.’ And I sat up and showed her the squashed cakes.
Her eyes widened. ‘Doughnuts?’
I nodded, wondering if she was going to get mad and get me the sack. Roland had said that she didn’t like to mix with the crew at all. But no, she was leaning towards me and whispering in my ear in her cute Texan drawl.
‘Can you get me some? I love doughnuts, but my stupid minders only ever let me have health food.’
I smiled up at her. ‘Consider it done.’
She got up. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Squidge.’
She laughed. ‘Kind of what you did to the doughnuts, eh? Anyway, my trailer in five minutes.’ Then she looked at Roland. ‘And you are?’
‘Um, third production assistant,’ he said, with what I think was supposed to be a winning smile. ‘Call me Roland.’
She turned her back on him. ‘Whatever.’ And with a conspiratorial wink at me, she sashayed off.
‘YEEESSSSS,’ said a triumphant voice in my head.
IN THE DAYS after her arrival, Savannah seemed to adopt me as her personal runner, calling me into her trailer first thing and sending for me throughout the day. She was the only one of the cast to have asked for my private mobile number, and once she had it, boy, did she use it. ‘Squidge, honey . . . do y’all know anywhere I could get . . .’ The requests were endless. Roland wasn’t very happy about it, but there wasn’t a lot he could do; she was the star, not him. And she was amazing. A real celeb. It was an honour to run her errands.
‘She ought to have a T-shirt done, saying, “Have entourage, will travel”,’ joked Mac, when he realised how many people she had with her. There was Hank and Mitch, the security men; Marie Anne, the private masseur who doubled as a yoga teacher; Jons, the stylist; the hairdresser, Chantelle, and the chef called Tone.
Some of the things she asked me to do were bonkers. Like I had to go and buy her Smarties then take out all the red ones because she didn’t like red. Mac said to suck the red off and put them back, but I saved the
m up and gave them to Lia instead; she likes Smarties too. All the gorgeous yellow roses that had been put in her trailer had to be removed and I had to zoom about trying to find white ones, as she only ever had white flowers, preferably white lilies. Then I had to go over to Plymouth to find a particular brand of toothpaste, one that had no mint or menthol in it, because she was taking homeopathic remedies and the mint interfered with them (amongst other things, I thought, as I remembered my own tingly fresh experience). Then I had to go back to Plymouth again to find a particular brand of loo paper. On every trip, my mobile would ring and she’d whisper down the phone a request for some kind of treat to be sneaked in – like a Hershey bar. Then she’d feel guilty that she’d strayed from her organic diet and I’d have to go and get a special brand of spring water, which luckily Cat’s dad had in his store. He’d got it in after the local paper printed an article about all the chemicals that are in our water system, and everyone went mad buying bottled water.
‘So now you’re her private slave?’ asked Lia when I returned to unit base with yet another bag of shopping for Savannah.
‘Looks like it.’ I grinned. ‘Why? Are you jealous?’
Lia’s face clouded for a moment. ‘Do I need to be?’
‘No way,’ I said and put my arm round her. ‘Hey, you know I only have eyes for you.’ At this, I pulled out a pair of glass eyes that I’d bought in a joke shop next to the health shop in Plymouth the day before. A boy can never have enough practical jokes ready to play on people, I reckon. My family collects them. So far we have the plastic boobs, a false hand (good for shaking hands with people and letting it come off), a false arm (good for putting next to a tyre so it looks like someone is squashed underneath) and a collection of assorted wigs.
Lia couldn’t help laughing. ‘You’re mad you are,’ she said. ‘But be serious for a moment. Remember the promise we made to each other on your birthday – to tell each other the truth. That includes telling each other if we fancy anyone else.’
Starstruck Page 5
