Lou Out of Luck Read online

  I start the podcast again while I’m getting dressed. As I’m putting the T-shirt on, something incredibly complicated happens in the 1980s and I don’t hear it all, so I’m confused. I sit, frowning at my phone. Sad to think Dad finds things on his phone this baffling EVERY day.

  At least my clothes look good. Lavender’s a genius – somehow I look ten times cooler than in my usual efforts. I look at myself in the mirror and stand a little straighter.

  Should I put some eyeliner on? Best not risk it, quit while I’m ahead. I carefully pick up my bottle of hair oil. There’s only a tiny amount left. I was going to save it for prom but my hair is huge and frizzy today so I need a bit to help me feel confident. I apply it, enjoying the unusual feeling of my fingers going through my hair, rather than getting snagged so hard I have to call for help.

  Great, now my appearance is sorted, I’ll walk into town to meet Gabe and the boffins, listen to my podcast, get educated on the way.

  I knock softly on Lavender’s door as I pass.

  “Lav?”

  Silence.

  “Thanks for the clothes, Lav. Do you want to see how I look?”

  Silence. So I take a photo and WhatsApp it to her. I can hear her phone chirp in her room and I wait a minute in case that woke her up.

  Nothing.

  WORRY DIARY

  Lav is sad.

  When she’s sad, she’s more lenient about lending clothes. Am I a bad person to enjoy this side-effect of the sadness?

  Stupid boffins, making me feel thick.

  But seriously, a lot of places end in -stan and I can’t remember them all!

  It’s a half-hour walk into town, so I set off at my usual striding pace. The one that everyone except Hannah complains about. I keep zoning in and out of the podcast but I REFUSE to let it get me down. It’s a very complicated issue; no one could get on top of it in thirty minutes. All I’m aiming for is not to say “Blazakhstan”.

  My phone buzzes. Text from Dad.

  Good lunge!

  Luge.

  LUCK.

  Ha ha. Autocorrect really hates him.

  Then again. This one is from Gabe:

  Aargh. Change of plan. Not meeting in town after all, Hazel’s at the coffee shop in the park. xx

  Great. Gabe knows my feelings on coffee – I can’t stand it when people sit around in cafes sucking on latte frappé half-fats all day as if we’re not teenagers, we’re just small lawyers with bad skin.

  Make mine a venti skinny-soy half-froth sugar-free caramel flat white! xx

  (I’m joking! Obviously I’m joking. But he’ll know that, we’re a very LOL laid-back pair.)

  Sorry. Everyone wants to go there now. Shall we just do this another time?

  I’m joking! I text, feeling wrong-footed. I’ll come have a tea. Which cafe, the one near the bandstand? xx

  He doesn’t reply immediately. Perhaps Hazel wants to do something else now. Everyone to the skate park, Hazel’s had a whim! I’m not getting a good feeling about this girl. But she’s Gabe’s new friend and I am going to be nice.

  They’ll be in the cafe by the bandstand. Everyone goes there, they give out free cake and there’s always seats. The one near the pond is dingy and dark. I feel shy and annoyed. Why do I have to run around, chasing Gabe’s friends, listening to podcasts and hoping I’m good enough for them?

  Also, Lav’s skinny jeans are so tight it’s quite painful to walk and not helping my mood. I daren’t put my phone in my pocket or else it’ll crack into dust. I reach the bandstand cafe and look around for Gabe, nervously smoothing my hair and T-shirt. I look down, realizing I’ve smeared hair oil down Lav’s top. Oops. You can only see it if you squint at it in bright light … which she will when I bring it back.

  I order the smallest, cheapest thing I can see – an espresso. I take the teensy weensy cup to a table and stare at it. That’s like two thimblefuls of coffee. Who’s it for, pixies?

  The first sip hits me like a smack around the face. I put the cup back on the saucer and push it firmly away from me. So I’m done with that for ever, thank you, bye.

  But once I swallow it, weird noises start coming from my stomach. Fine, not my stomach, my BOWELS. Because I am made of sexy and cool. I text Gabe.

  Heyo, I’m at the cafe? Xx

  I opt for breezy, though what I really want to say is, I feel left-out! And I might poo myself. (He does NOT need to know that.)

  Thought you weren’t coming. Only just seen your text. We’re in the cafe. Where are you? X

  I look around the almost-deserted cafe.

  Unless you’re all hiding in the toilet, I think we’re in two different cafes.

  No kiss. I don’t know if he noticed, but I’ve been double x-ing here like a chump and he’s been going single x or no x at all! Plus, with all this toilet chat, I would’ve ordinarily made a pun like “Is that the one urine?”, but I’m not feeling particularly LOL. Absent-mindedly, I take another sip of coffee and wince as my guts do noisy roly-polys.

  My phone buzzes again.

  We’re at the cafe by the pond, it’s where everyone goes.

  Coming.

  Sorry. X

  I cross the park again. It’s now raining, my trousers are tight, my guts are loud and I’m feeling sorry for myself. There’s another noisy rumble from my stomach just as I reach the cafe, and I have to wait for it to stop before I can go in. Oh, PLEASE, I hope this cafe has loud background music … drum’n’bass, a marching band weaving between tables. Anything.

  The door makes an exuberant dinging noise as I enter the quietest cafe I have ever visited in my life. I’ve been to more raucous funerals. (Mum’s family, obvs.)

  I can see Gabe and three girls sitting on sofas in the corner. The girls all have their legs curled up on the seats in a way that looks cute and arty but, come on, it’s rude to put your feet on someone else’s furniture.

  “Hey!” Gabe gets to his feet and does look, I am pleased to note, happy to see me. I hug him hard. He is brilliant, and I’m so happy he’s my boyfriend. So he might have a dodgy taste in friends; no one’s perfect. One of the girls stands up when Gabe does. She has long blonde hair and thick black-rimmed glasses. She smiles and gives me a hug.

  “Hi, I’m Lara! I’ve heard so much about you!” she says, friendly but not all fake gushy, and I’m grateful that she’s here. Plus she has really bad skin but seems confident in herself, so I feel better about my hair. Even though I can feel it reaching for the ceiling in dramatic wisps.

  The other two girls don’t get up, so I give them a little wave. They stare at me coolly.

  “Hey, you,” one of them says, a girl with short black curly hair and a lot of ear piercings.

  “Lou,” I say.

  “Lisa.” She holds her hand out, frowning, mock formal. I shake it, feeling like I’m being made fun of but I can’t work out why.

  “And you must be Hazel,” I say to the third girl, who has started chatting to Gabe again, and if I don’t say something, I’ll just be stuck waiting for her to stop.

  Hazel is wearing a black tutu, red boots and a green jumper. She looks like a stuck-up gnome. Her body is angled towards where Gabriel was sitting and her arm is on the back of the sofa so that when he sits down, she’ll basically have her arm around him.

  She is exactly as annoying as I thought she’d be.

  I’m not sure what comes over me, but as Hazel looks me slowly up and down (a classic bully move – Nicole can reduce someone to tears with a well-timed up-and-down), I mentally blow my coach whistle at myself.

  Come on, Lou! Don’t let yourself feel small. I channel my inner coach, a splash of Lav, Dermot’s unselfconsciousness, Hannah’s bluntness and a bit of Patrice’s YES and I sit down right next to Hazel – under her arm.

  “Ooh,” I say. “Cosy!” The look on her face is priceless. “What have I missed?” I say, and they start telling me about this debating club that they’re in and the debates they’re having about social media and the im
pact on print journalism. And I don’t know ANYTHING about these topics. So I say, “That sounds really interesting,” (polite lie) and ask loads of questions.

  People love being asked about themselves, so I do that for half an hour and by the end we are all chatting quite happily. Hazel keeps her body twisted towards Gabe the whole time, and she talks over me a lot, and never gives me eye contact. There are so many subtle ways you can shut a person out of a conversation. But Lara is nice; she and Gabe laugh at my jokes.

  At one point, I get hot and take off Lav’s jacket. Hazel looks at my T-shirt as if she’s struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Oh God. Remember last year when everyone wore that top?” she remarks and Lisa cracks up laughing. Lara smiles awkwardly.

  “Anyway.” Gabe steers the conversation back on track so smoothly that I don’t register how rude that was. But five minutes later, I’m steaming angry at her. Of course, it’s too late now – we’re all talking about some article online that everyone except me has read – and I can’t yell “IT’S MY SISTER’S T-SHIRT. IT’S NICE! SHE’S NICE! AND YOU’RE A COW, YOU COW.”

  AND everyone in your year wore that top because my sister wore it first and she’s so cool EVERYONE copied her. So that’s how that happened.

  While I’m stewing on that, Hazel throws me another curveball. “Are you up to speed on the Leveson Report?” she says. And obviously I’m not. I have no idea what she’s on about. But thanks to Dermot and two hours of improv practice with Perf Class, I keep my cool and pull a face as if I’m mentally sorting through the vast library of things I do know to see if Leveson is in there.

  And would you know, he’s not. Or she. Or it. Whatever.

  Forty minutes in, I head to the toilet feeling pleased with myself but exhausted. I don’t know why I have to work so hard to make these three like me when they’re just having a relaxing Sunday coffee (I rub my sore stomach). Also, they are très dull. Give me Dermot any day.

  I exhale deeply as I sit on the toilet and have a little rest. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much and my neck is stiff from nodding keenly to show everyone how interested in them I am. No one’s asked me anything about myself.

  That’s good, I guess? I haven’t got anything very interesting to tell them. Except Perf Class, but I can only imagine how Hazel would react to that. She’d sneer herself inside out.

  When I get back, Gabe has bought coffees for everyone. They all just take their drinks off him, casually, without offering any money. Like of course it’s fine for him to buy five coffees, cos we all have huge allowances, right?

  Gabe offers me a mug.

  “Oh no, I’m fine, thanks!” I say.

  “Well, I got it for you.”

  Right. So I guess I’m going to have to drink another mug of muck. I take it from him. “How much do I owe?” I say, trying to buy time.

  “Two pounds ten.” He takes my money but no one else offers. You shouldn’t get free things for being rude. Also… The girls are all sipping theirs like sophisticated women of the world. I stare at my coffee and I don’t know what to do. If I drink that, my guts will go crazy.

  Maybe it’ll be OK. I smile at them and take a gulp. Instantly, I feel my stomach clench and I know it’s going to make a terrible noise. I panic. I fumble my phone out of my pocket, hold it up to everyone and press play. The podcast about the Middle East blares out and my stomach grumbles underneath, unheard.

  Everyone in the cafe stares at me in surprise.

  “Have you heard this?” I shout over it. “It’s about the Middle East!”

  Hazel’s mouth twitches, and she looks at Gabe as if for an explanation. Lara looks surprised and Lisa, well, she is definitely laughing at me. But I don’t care. I’d rather sound pretentious than like I’m about to soil myself, so the joke’s on her.

  “And the … ah … Middle East?” says Hazel delicately. “What do you think of that whole sitch?” she pursues, with a “secretive” sideways look at Gabe. It’s cleverly done – it makes it look like she and Gabe have a private joke about how thick I am.

  “I don’t know,” I say miserably. “I missed the ending.”

  I’m still holding my phone up like a wally so I stuff it back in my bag. Everyone starts talking about this big competition. They’ve just got through to the semi-finals.

  “Are you coming to watch us?” Lara asks.

  But the semi-finals are the same date as the prom, I suddenly notice.

  “Oh. My. God,” Hazel drawls at Gabriel, jokingnotjoking. “You’re not going to prom, are you? What kind of basic b are you?”

  Not even a question, just a flat statement: of course he’s not going to prom. And I know what that b stands for.

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be able to come,” Gabe says, wincing as if he’s worried I’ll be upset. Hazel smirks. So of course, I say, “That’s cool.” I shrug, with a nonchalance I don’t feel. “Hannah’s organizing it, so I have to go – but you don’t.”

  “Cool, thanks,” says Gabe, looking relieved. “But I will try to come! Afterwards if not for the whole thing.”

  I shrug and smile like I could NOT care less. Breezy breezy meezy. That’s who I am.

  No you’re not, my stomach says with a tight clench. You’re annoyed.

  “That’s so nice of you to support your friend,” says Lara sweetly and I feel like hugging her. Right now, I like her more than my arse of a boyfriend. Gabe always stood up for me last year when Roman and Pete were making fun of me. Where did that brave guy go?

  “Oh, wow!” Hazel checks her watch. “Guys, we need to study for tomorrow’s debate. Sorry, Lou.”

  I feel dismissed.

  Hazel says firmly, “I’ve decided Gabe should give the opening speech instead of Lara …”

  Lara looks disappointed about this but clearly Hazel makes the rules.

  “… so he has to study with us about … ah … half an hour ago!” Hazel taps her watch.

  Gabe walks me outside to say goodbye. Lara hugs me, Lisa gives me a languid, faux tragic farewell wave that makes me feel silly and Hazel barely registers that I’m leaving.

  “So, how was that?” he asks.

  I stare at him, trying to work out if he’s being deliberately dense. “Yeah, they all seem lovely,” I say sarcastically. BUT HE TAKES IT SERIOUSLY!

  “Right? I knew you’d like them, once you stopped worrying about not being clever enough,” he teases and dips in to kiss me.

  I have never kissed Gabe while sarcastically rolling my eyes, but there’s a first time for everything.

  “I know Hazel can be a bit…”

  I nod. Yeah. Does he want me to put the adjective in here? Because I have lots.

  “But it’s just what she’s like.” He shrugs, like it’s funny, really.

  Is it funny, really? Is it? Oh, well, if that’s just what she’s like… I seethe to myself as I stomp home. Don’t mind Hazel, she’s just slapped your gran, kicked your cat and set fire to your curtains. That’s just what she’s like, LOL!

  I need to go home, spend about half an hour on the toilet and then air my views on Hazel loudly to my sympathetic family. Except … as I finally turn into our road, I realize this Sunday is turning into an unparalleled cowpat of a day. I’ve forgotten my house keys. No one is answering the door or their phones, but I can see lights on – my dozy family have clearly got headphones on or the TV up loud. All the things they tell me off for. The hypocrisy rankles.

  When I sneaked out a few months ago, I just climbed out onto the roof and down via the water butt. But sneaking in is harder, especially as I was fitter then and my stomach wasn’t cramping with caffeine. But, with no other options, I clamber onto the water butt and wobble there for a bit. Once I’m steady, I reach up to the garage roof and haul myself up there. It’s not an elegant climb and I find myself face down in a puddle full of rotten leaves. They cling to my cheek like long-lost friends.

  Ah, Hazel, it’s just what she’s like, I gripe to myself, anger gi
ving me a useful burst of strength. I scoop the leaves off my face and slowly stand. She’s horrible and she dresses like she lost a bet! If she was a bit shorter, she could join the other gnomes on Aggy’s drive.

  I edge along the roof towards my bedroom window. My locked bedroom window. It starts to rain again.

  I scrabble at the edges, but this window cannot be opened by a burglar having a tentative pick with cold fingers. Dad will be pleased the house is secure. Even if he finds my frozen dead body on the roof like a nasty Christmas decoration.

  I walk onwards to Lavender’s window, which I can see is open a crack. I peer in and find myself face-to-face with her. She looks furious. I recoil before I realize she’s not mad at me, she’s on the phone and mid-argument. She jumps when she sees me and holds her heart. I give her a sad, wet little wave. She shakes her head at me. What are you doing? she mouths.

  “Climbing into your bedroom?” I say, hopefully.

  She opens her window and lets me in, wrapping up her conversation on the phone. “You’re not listening to me, Ro. If you’re not listening, there’s no point in me— NO, that’s how you feel about it. Not how I feel! You know, I’m going to go, it’s like talking to a brick wall and Lou is wet on my floor.” She hangs up.

  Lou is wet on my floor. Thanks, Lav.

  Still, she’s very helpful pulling me out of her skin-tight wet skinny jeans; it’s like trying to peel a grape. “Are you and Ro arguing?” I wheeze.

  “Yeah,” she struggles. “He thinks this modelling thing is great: I should get a portfolio together, start an online campaign to get people voting for me…”

  “Do you want to be a model?” I ask, doubtfully.

  She stops pulling at my jeans and points at me. “Exactly! Thank you!”

  I’m not sure what I’ve said that’s so brilliant but I’m definitely doing better than Roman.

  “I don’t want to. I have never wanted to. I want to get some money for Mum and Dad and go back to my normal life where girls don’t shoulder-barge me in the corridor and boys don’t draw penises on my face.”

  I’m horrified.

  “On PHOTOS of my face.”

  “Oh, right. Yes, of course. Phew.”