Was He The Queen?!

by Dillie Dorian

  Back in my bedroom was more disappointment. I had to make up for my decidedly non-cute, non-girly PJ “set” by choosing some seriously adorable daytime clothes. The only items I owned that I considered overly nice were my flower-studded pale denim jeans (tenth birthday gift from Sharon that had been too big until I hit eleven), and orange stretchy sunflower top. Despite stretching a long way if you pulled on it, untucked it didn’t really cover my belly. After that bath, I wanted it covered.

  Patently none of my friends thought either of those items were close to trendy. I was otherwise stuck, unless I wore my ugly black jersey jogging bottoms (something I wouldn’t be seen outside the house wearing if it wasn’t a day for PE or grim bloating) and Aimee’s hideous hand-me-down “PRINCESS” hoodie.

  I fingered it with distaste. It really was bright pink, which was not a colour I’d really ever liked. You’d always been the pink little petal, which left me to get away with the sort of unisex reds and greens and blues that Mum carelessly posted me and Charlie into without thinking about who they belonged to. I’d never liked that, because he was a yucky child who was always getting nosebleeds and wetting himself. One school trip he’d chucked up down my front after I’d spent all day on the coach doing neat little sicks into the provided bags in the hopes that no one would notice.

  Wearing Aimee’s hoodie made me feel as ill as borrowing Charlie’s top. The twitchy bitch in me wanted to run both of those items through the washing machine before so much as touching them, but as usual laziness won out. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much before puberty when everyone started sweating heavily on things.

  Just as I was milling the pros and cons through my mind, I heard the awkward shuffle of kitten heels on the thick carpet, which could only be one person. Our bedroom door burst open, and there was Aimee, the eternal grouch (now carrying a little grouch).

  “Harry said I could have it,” I defended myself, before she started. I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t be bothered to argue that to her.

  “I don’t care,” she snapped. “What’re you doing?”

  “Picking clothes for my mate’s party…”

  “You can’t wear that – it’s not a party jumper. Are those PE trousers?”

  “Trackie bottoms, yeah. And it’s only a sleepover.”

  “Where are the stripes? You can’t be seen in trackies without stripes – it’s not cool. Unless they’re velveteen. That’s still cool.”

  Um… was she… giving me fashion advice? It was almost like actually having a big sister. A short, snappy, pregnant big sister.

  I said nothing.

  “Didn’t you go to a party last month? What the hell were you wearing then?” she shrieked.

  “Um… Devon lent me a top, and her brown boots. I wore my denim flares, but they’re in the wash…”

  In the wash I should have done…

  Aimee was off on one. “I’ve got a nice dress, but it’s more summer. Capris? I’ve got grey and pink trackie ones, and pink soft denim ones…”

  “Can I have a look?” I asked, timidly. I was waiting for the part where she made clear that she was only bragging about her trouser collection, and not offering at all. Also, what on earth were capris?

  She rootled through her drawers and threw three pairs at me. Oh, they were basically three-quarter-lengths. Everyone went nuts over those for Year 5 school uniform, and I’d once had jeans like that.

  One pair was a mid pink with white stripes (of course), another was grey with pink stripes, like they’d been sold as a set, and the pastel jeans were amazing. I’d stopped paying attention to Aimee’s clothes months ago, when it became clear that she basically dossed around in tracksuits with things written on and occasionally dolled up for a party. These jeans were actually nice. So soft, like she’d said, as if they were barely even denim.

  “Can I borrow the jeans?” I mumbled. I was basically in love, even though pink never had been and never would be my colour.

  “As long as you don’t tell my dad about the baby I’ll lend you anything!”

  She’d obviously underestimated my honesty, and she’d definitely spent more time thinking about whether I’d tell than I had. I’d be crazy to let on that there wasn’t a chance of it, though! This was my one and only opportunity to wear fashionable clothes to a sleepover and not get ribbed by Keisha and Chan, as she’d started wanting to be called full-time.

  “Of course I won’t tell!” I gabbled. “Have you got a top to match?”

  “How about a white tank?” suggested Aimee. “That’s what I usually wear with them.”

  Time was wearing on. We’d all agreed to meet in the town centre so Rindi could spend the birthday money she was getting early specially for the party. Like me, she still wasn’t allowed to go anywhere outside town without her parents or big sis.

  “Thank you so much!” I gasped, losing my fear and getting into the jeans right away. I’d been stood there in my dressing gown the whole time.

  “Don’t mention it,” she smiled. It was a smug smile. “Seriously, don’t.”

  I knew what she meant. “Don’t worry.”

  “Trainer socks!” she reminded me, as I was doing up the jeans, which were annoyingly a perfect fit. I would probably grow a lot more, but at her age she was still barely bigger than me.

  “I only have trainer socks,” I pointed out, fortunately able to locate the Saturdays which I could nearly never find on a Saturday. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry. I spent way too long on this before you got home.”

  “And not those trainers!” she said, suddenly. “The ugly red ones you always wear – don’t. They’re too bright and clashy, you need mine.”

  Wow. Aimee also owned a pair of Chucks, but they were nothing like my imitation ones. Hers had pale pink sequin scales all over the canvas area, and were laced with white ribbons. They’d been a birthday present from Harry that physically resembled a birthday present, all year round.

  Designer. Proper designer. To me, everything was a designer label – I mean, technically. Primark had designers. But to people like Keisha and Chan and Aimee, it meant something with actual value.

  “Aimee, thank you SO much!” I squealed. I seriously squealed and hugged her. This was just as my phone jangled into life (Rindi) and Devon dove into the room via the wardrobe.

  We both screamed because it was all so sudden, and then shrieked with laughter. It was like suddenly, through the power of blackmail that never existed, I had a friend in Aimee.

  Devon looked at me like I’d gone mad.

  “Can you, like, not do that?” Aimee asked; her serious face on. “You’re supposed to knock. If you can shout ‘knock knock’ at midnight and wake everyone up, do it in the day as well!”

  “Sorry,” tittered Dev. “Are you nearly ready, Harls?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, flustered. I felt bad for muting Rindi’s call, but what was the point in answering if I was leaving the house in a literal minute?

  Aimee fetched her spangly trainers from under the bed and dropped them down in front of me. They landed on my toes, but didn’t weigh enough to hurt properly. Today was going surprisingly well, give or take a little secret or two…

  #11 Scathing Remarks & Lard-Arsery

  “I mean, it’s SO stupid. Anyone could do that, and they have the cheek to call it designer!”

  Devon was full of angst over my (stepsister’s) sequinned shoes. As far as she was concerned, anything that was both pretty and kitsch was her area, and big conglomerates getting paid £60 a pop to mass produce them got on her wick.

  I got that – I really did. It must’ve annoyed her as much as Andy for an art teacher annoyed me. Unfair and stuffed with double standards. It was just that I’d managed to keep the Andy annoyance to myself, and it was getting wearing the way that Devon didn’t seem to know how to do that.

  I tried to focus on my good clothes day, but it was specifically that that Devon was spoiling for me.

  “Dev,” I said, finally, as we approach
ed Morrisons. “Is this really what you want to spend all day talking about?”

  “Yes,” she replied, defiantly.

  “Well, I don’t,” I pointed out. “We can see Rindi from here, by the statue. I bet she doesn’t care either; she just wants to spend her birthday money and have a nice time with us.”

  Devon huffed and slapped her feet hard against the pavement as she walked. She had to; her ruby slipper-style shoes would never have stayed on otherwise.

  “Hi!” said Rindi, excitedly, when we’d passed the supermarket and grown nearer. “I got the early bus. I know; I shouldn’t’ve done because that made me have to wait here instead, but it’s great that you’re here now!”

  “And now it’s just a year-long loiter ’til Chantalle and Keisha and all arrive,” I said, cynically.

  It was just. I learned that Keisha hadn’t come on the bus with Rindi because she was still sorting out her makeup to see Rindi. Chantalle and Danielle delayed each other to the death every time they were both going anywhere, what with lifts and Chantalle still bobbing between two houses and her cousin’s. Rachel was Rachel, and probably going to walk all the way from the posh neighbourhood near Aimee’s school just because she had “sporty legs”, as she’d recently put it. I thought it was a bit silly that she did all these activities after school and still considered a jaunt into town and back part of her workout.

  “Where’s Fern?” I asked.

  Seeing as how she lived mere metres from the statue and supermarket, I couldn’t see why Rindi hadn’t thought to knock for her.

  “In bed, sick. I rang,” provided Rindi.

  Fern was ill all the time. If it wasn’t for how I’d popped in last time she had a cold and seen for myself (and caught it), I would’ve thought her dad was just overprotective keeping her home. I privately wondered if maybe she somehow concocted all these malaises herself within her body and managed to inflict them on everyone else, too, but I didn’t say that because it would only sound mean to Rindi.

  We popped into Burger King and had a burger each. I thought Devon would go for the veggie beanburger, but she surprised us again with scathing remarks about consumer culture and lard-arsery. So she would rather be bored and hungry? It made no sense to me, because I could barely afford a burger. With a drink, it cost about my week’s pocket money, so there’d be no till-temptation earrings or brooch for me this time.

  Eventually, Rachel arrived. Of all people, Rachel the speedwalker was first. Never mind how Chan and Dani always had a ride, or how Keisha’s buses came every half hour.

  “Where’s Fern?” asked Rach, who’d taken a shine to her recently.

  “Sick in bed,” said Rindi, robotically. I could tell she was trying not to let it get to her that her best friend out of all of us couldn’t come because she was too poorly.

  “Huh,” said Rachel, in that way that isn’t a question.

  Keisha’s bus pulled up. She took her merry time walking from the stop to the statue, though it was only a few metres, trussed up to the nines as usual.

  She didn’t ask after Fern. Neither did Chantalle, when she arrived. Dani was in with it instantly. “Where’s Fern?”

  “Ill,” said Rindi. She sounded tired. Thank God this was the last person who would think to ask.

  Off we went to find our first shop. Half the clothing places in town were closed down, having abused the January sales for a chance to jump ship before the new tax year. That was my understanding after Harry’s explanation, anyway.

  Rindi had wanted to go to ASDA and look at their clothes range, but even though it was her birthday thing, Chantalle and Keisha overruled. ASDA wasn’t cool enough, apparently. Neither was Debenhams, or QS.

  “It stands for Quality Seconds,” said Keisha, snidely. “That’s what my mum says. Do you know what seconds are?”

  “What about the ‘quality’ part?” I asked, bravely. “And I don’t think they really sell seconds. My mum says that was back in the old days.”

  “Shut up, Harley,” said Chantalle. “We’re going to New Look.”

  So we went to New Look. It was right down the other end of the high street, a new store next to Woolies where Littlewoods used to stand. It was jam packed with things I could never afford, but I managed to stay cool about it all because judging by that morning I could foresee some less gaudy hand-me-downs in the near and pregnant future.

  Rindi picked out black skinny jeans on buy-one-get-one-half-price, and a T-shirt with SpongeBob on. Lots of items with SpongeBob on had suddenly popped up, which was weird to me because I was pretty sure Zak used to watch it in Year 4.

  Chantalle and Keisha loaded up on several tops each, jeans and skirts. It felt like they got new stuff every week, though realistically I knew they only had seasonly clothing allowances. Only? What am I saying? One season’s worth of Keisha clothes would see me through the year. I’d be able to throw away everything I already owned.

  Danielle wanted a SpongeBob shirt as well. “You don’t mind, do you, Rind?” she asked, carefully, holding up the giant yellow tee against herself.

  “It’s fine,” Rindi reassured her. “We can wear them together and match like twins.”

  Like twins. I knew it was something everyone said at one point or another, but it always sounded painfully stupid to me. I don’t even mean because Danielle and Narinder look about as different as it’s possible to look – I mean because me and Charlie haven’t matched in any way, shape or form since we stopped letting Mum dress us and Sharon choose our hair. Especially since I’d got my braces. That was why I couldn’t help laughing.

  They both looked at me like I was a big meanie.

  “Hey, I know I’m fat!” protested Danielle. “You don’t have to remind me.”

  “You’re not fat,” said Rindi, before I had the opportunity to say the exact same thing. Of course I didn’t mind her being the perfect saint on her own special day, but preferably without me being made out the demon.

  “I wasn’t laughing because you don’t look like twins,” I disputed. “I was laughing because I thought of me and Charlie not matching even though we are twins.”

  “Yeah, well that’s because you’re not identical,” said Chantalle, the proud and only owner of the right to call Dani fat and get away with it.

  “Imagine if you were!” said Keisha, brainlessly.

  That, too, got on my nerves. It was physically impossible. A boy and a girl can’t be identical, because they can’t have come from the same egg. I’d had to nerd up on the details over the recent moons, because we suffered so much aggro over it. We’re what you call fraternal twins, which means that we have absolutely nothing more to do with each other than our other siblings do – except, being the same age has managed to make Charlie my problem for the entire last fourteen years.

  I didn’t say any of that. I was pretty sure I’d explained it all before, and I also had my suspicions that Keisha was secretly not stupid at Science. Getting angry would just make me look like a bitch.

  “I think we’re done here,” said Rindi, kindly. She and the others paid, while Rachel seized the opportunity to get in a late, “Well done, Clunky!”

  After that, Rindi wanted to stop at McDonald’s. I couldn’t afford another burger even though I was hungry, but Rachel let me pick at her chips even though she’d just sniped at me and wasn’t even being particularly friendly to anyone. That’s just Rachel – more money than sense, on that smalltown scale where you can nick half her lunch and she’ll only buy herself some more.

  Shopping turned out to only include one shop – the one trendy shop in the whole high street which Keisha and Chantalle dictated was appropriate for a girl Rindi’s age (fourteen in two days’ time) to visit. It made me feel glad to have Devon, as world-hatingly hemp as she could be. A whizz round town with Dev included every single charity shop in an almost deliberate manner, plus food deals at both supermarkets so we’d have junk to eat if either of us stayed over. It was alright if you didn’t mind walking, which Chan
talle, Keisha and Dani all did because they claimed it made them sweat.

  I thought I was unfit. Chantalle was still on the local swim team, but skipped PE at least once a week – usually both lessons. Keisha was also ace at sports in her small and nimble way, but never bothered for the same reason she hated to walk unnecessarily – it was OK for her, because she’d hardly get fat from immobility. Dani had made a concrete effort to lose weight, got nowhere, and idled into inertia save for the admittedly frequent occasions when she had to walk to school or got invited out to do things.

  We’d been supposed to walk back to Rindi’s, which was only a little bit further from town than school was from my house. That was the plan, because neither of us ever had money for a bus, and it was us who planned it all.

  “I’m shagged!” announced Chantalle, conveniently the moment we reached the statue again.

  “Me too,” said Keisha. “Not, like, literally.”

  “My arms hurt,” agreed Dani. “And my legs. Can you carry you own bags please Chan?”

  Except for Keisha and Rindi, we’d all lugged our sleepover stuff into town, which wasn’t too bad because Rindi’s parents were supplying all the duvets and sleeping bags, but I could see how it would be a pain for Dani, having to carry her own clothes and New Look bag along with everything Chantalle had brought or bought.

  “No way!” said Chan, spitefully. All she had in her hand was her brand new mobile which had appeared conspicuously since Crimby.

  “Let’s get the bus,” decided Keisha.

  No one wanted to argue with her. It was OK for them because they all had special bus cards. You weren’t supposed to use them if it wasn’t a school day, but no one ever took any notice. Only me and Rindi hadn’t filed for one. Neither of us bothered with buses enough of the time, because they were unreliable and full of unfriendly people around school time in the morning. She was only minutes down the road from school, and I was just plain used to the walk.

  “I don’t have enough for that,” I pointed out, before realising how it sounded. “I’m not asking – I’m saying.”