Lou Out of Luck Page 18

  “Yeah. It’s cool, I just have to remember that … many artists and great thinkers were bullied at school.”

  “Brilliant. I should be Picasso soon.”

  “You’d imagine everyone would want to suck up to you if they thought you were going to be a famous model.”

  “Maybe in an old film. These days, it’s basic.”

  “You’re not basic,” I comfort her. “You’re actually very tricky.”

  Lav’s trying to push me off the bed when we hear Mum laughing loudly from the living room. We go down to see what’s up and she swivels the computer round to show us that Monty the Bee is trending on Twitter. Apparently, there was a fight between a couple of rival fans, and as they started swinging punches, Monty (aka Dad) got between them and danced as the punches rained down helplessly on his padded costume. We click on #montyforworldpeace and scroll down. There’s so much love for Dad! Not sure I’ve ever been on Twitter for so long without seeing a single snarky comment. But hey, who can hate a pacifist bee?

  I can answer that. We can hate a pacifist bee when he goes out for drinks after his triumphant game, gets home late and manages to crash into everything in the house before finally finding his way to bed. Where he proceeds to snore loudly for seven hours.

  WORRY DIARY

  Did you know that every generation is bigger than the last one? Me neither! Till I tried on dresses from the 1950s… WEEP!

  Hatty Wimplekickers? Maybe that’s what I’ll change my name to when Perf Class gets shamed at prom.

  “I can’t wear a strapless dress, I’ll basically be naked!” I say, panicking and trapped in another dress that’s too small on the shoulders. “Calm down, Lou,” says Mum. “Or you’ll get hot and swell and we’ll have to cut you out.” I feel like a monster.

  “Breathe out. All the way out,” Aggy commands me.

  “Eeeeerrrrrrrrrrr,” I breathe, trying to deflate as much as possible. I get my arms out and the top of the dress hangs around my waist. The bottom half clings so tightly I feel like a mermaid.

  Lavender stands next to me, looking like a queen in a long, flowing yellow dress with a delicately beaded corset. Even Mum got involved and she looks like a dainty flower in a purple A-line dress. I think she’s got tired of saying, “No, Lou. You’re perfect as you are,” because she’s starting to say it in a sort of distracted, robotic way. All these dresses are tiny on me. Did nobody eat back in the nineteen-fifties? Maybe they were all ill with olden-days diseases.

  Perhaps I need to be withered with smallpox to fit into these. The trouble is, I don’t have a waist. I have a middle where I bend, but it doesn’t go in. I never have to think about this until I’m trying on clothes.

  “How’s it going?” Dermot calls from the other side of the door.

  “Lav looks nice!” I shout back, full of self-pity. “And I hate my shoulders.”

  “What about—”

  “Don’t say strapless! It’s basically naked.”

  “A jumpsuit?” he says, his arm appearing around the door draped in a navy-blue velvety thing. I waddle over hastily in my super-tight dress and examine it. It has long legs and long sleeves and is covered in lots of tiny embroidered copper-coloured stars. It’s beautiful.

  “Go on, Lou,” says Mum and I decide to give it one last shot. It’s a bit of a hassle to get on – it zips up at the side and has a tie around the waist that I lose up my sleeve for a while – but the moment I straighten up, Mum, Aggy and Lav’s eyes brighten.

  “Yes! That one!” Lav says, clapping.

  “Really?”

  “Look.” Aggy pushes me in front of a large mirror. And for the first time all morning, I look like me – not me stuffed into a fussy dress or fidgeting in a corset and skirt. I look like me, with my hands in my pockets (it has pockets!), lounging elegantly in a gorgeous soft waterfall of a jumpsuit.

  “And these?” Dermot’s hand appears around the door again, this time holding a pair of coppery cowboy boots.

  “Shoes never fit me,” I say, my good mood deflating a little.

  “These are men’s.”

  “Oh, maybe.” I hurry to pull them on and they fit perfectly! And they’ve even got high heels. Well, about three inches, which is high for me but apparently normal for cowboys. You’d think if you spent all day on horseback chasing cows, you’d do it in sensible flats, but the Past is a funny old place.

  I stand in front of the mirror in my new outfit and feel fantastic. I feel even better when Aggy says, “You’ve managed to pick the least expensive items I own.”

  “So I don’t need to worry about spilling food down me?”

  “Or giving them back. They’re yours.”

  I have never squealed over an item of clothing before, but there’s a first time for everything. Lavender tries on more dresses while I dance in front of the mirror in my jumpsuit. Now I can’t wait to wear this to the prom; I’m actually really excited about it. This must be how people like Cammie feel all the time. I could see myself getting into clothes now. When Mum and Dad both have jobs, I remind myself.

  Lavender has taken off her yellow dress and is now trying on a long slinky green one, with a feathery jacket over the top. “Yes,” Mum, Aggy and I agree. This is THE dress. Lav looks at herself in the mirror, pleased.

  “OK,” she says. “I think I can do this awards ceremony. It’ll be fun, right?”

  “Right!” I say, glad to see her looking happier.

  “And Roman will love all the glamour!” says Mum, brightly. I do a Shush! face at her.

  “You know what I’m looking forward to?” Lav says.

  “Little food on trays?” says Dermot from the other side of the door.

  “Yes, but also,” Lav says, “once the ceremony is done, I won’t have to think about this competition ever again.”

  “Unless you win,” I point out and her face falls. “Then you get that one-year modelling contract. Sorry!”

  We spend all day at Dermot’s house – it’s lovely now it’s been repaired and cleaned up for prom, although Dad did nail shut a couple of rooms that Aggy actually needs, like the bathroom and the cupboard where she keeps the vacuum cleaner. “But his heart’s in the right place!” she assures us.

  “Hmmm,” I say, thinking of the hungover man we left at home, drinking green tea and accusing me of walking too loudly.

  I still think the prom is a load of old fuss over nothing, and I still think the Prom Committee couldn’t organize a fruit salad in a fruit bowl, but it’s actually been pretty good for Dermot.

  Until … everyone watches the Perf Class improvise “comedic scenarios” to utter silence. Followed by Eli’s terrible poem. Oh well. Dermot will have had a good week anyway. Nothing lasts for ever.

  I dance in my new jumpsuit, feeling the slinky fabric against my legs. Some good things last a while though.

  I finally take it off and Lav, Mum and I head home to show Dad our new outfits. Dad is lying on the sofa, acting as if he’s ill and not hungover. Mum, Lav and I swank around in our fancy new clothes, treating the living room like a catwalk while Dad tries to squint around us at the TV. “You look lovely.” He finally gives up and pays us some attention. “But why are you all dolled up?” he asks Mum.

  “I’ve offered to help chaperone the prom,” Mum reminds him, “with some of Lou’s teachers. I thought I might as well look nice.”

  “Oh yeah,” Dad grouches. “Mr Peters and his lovely eyes.”

  This was a chance remark Mum made last year and Dad will not let it go. Mum gives him a hard stare. “At least his eyes aren’t bloodshot, Monty.”

  Just then, Hannah calls, asking for a favour. She’s timed that well.

  “Lou, will you come help me ask Dan to prom? You know, the lifeguard at the pool.”

  Of course I remember who Dan is. “Well, he wouldn’t be a lifeguard at the library,” I chuckle.

  Dead silence from Hannah. Oh God, I’m not funny. I’m going to be SO unfunny at the prom.

  “Any
way,” Hannah presses on. “Help me?”

  “OK, but how? We can’t do it together.”

  “I don’t want to do it by myself! Could you just help me out?” she snaps, clearly forgetting how much me AND my dad have already helped her out.

  “Have you just had your brace tightened?”

  Her tone goes ice-cold. “Yes, why?”

  “No reason. All right, just tell me when.”

  “Tomorrow after school. I have a training session.”

  Oh, great. I have to go and face my horrible former coach, Debs. Hannah got into the swimming training camp, so Debs loves Hannah. I didn’t, so she treats me like a bad smell.

  WORRY DIARY

  All my funny has gone. Chased away by fear.

  Will being in the swimming pool make me sad? Will I end up sobbing over verruca socks?

  I have no faith in Hannah’s plan. But she’s not asking for opinions.

  Debs. Eurgh.

  The swimming pool is right next to school. I used to practically live here when I was a swimmer, but I’ve avoided it this term. It feels odd to be going back. I just hope I don’t bump into Debs. I hurry to the pool after school, looking around as if I’m on a military manoeuvre.

  I can’t see Debs anywhere, thank goodness. Not that I’m scared of her. Just … happier if she’s not there. I feel the same about wasps.

  Dan is sitting on the tall lifeguard chair. He’s very handsome and a terrible lifeguard – he’s on his phone.

  Hannah is in the fast lane, ploughing her way up and down at speeds that seem crazy to me. I was this fast only last year, but it’s hard to imagine. The girl’s a MACHINE.

  You can always tell when someone’s looking at you, can’t you? Hannah gives me a little wave and swims over. I squat to talk to her.

  “You look nice!” I say. “Have you done something to your hair?” Google suggests complimenting your friend and hopefully their crush will join in, if you make it look fun enough.

  “Yeah,” Hannah says sarcastically. “Dragged it up and down a swimming pool. Please try and focus.”

  Dunno why I bother.

  “Is he looking at me?” she whispers.

  “Dan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “He never does.”

  “Right.”

  “Think he’s playing hard to get?”

  “Uh…” I say, trying and failing to sound encouraging.

  “Uh, what? You think asking him to prom is a bad idea? He’s too good for me?”

  “No! I’m not saying that. And you know best if you should ask him. You know him better than I do.”

  “I don’t know him at all. We’ve never spoken. I’ve just stared at him from a distance.”

  “Hannah!”

  This is such a bad idea.

  “I’m going to do it anyway,” she tells me. Typical stubborn Hannah. “I keep swimming here hoping he’ll talk to me. My parents are going nuts. They built a swimming pool so I didn’t have to leave the house to train.”

  She catches the look on my face. “Sorry. Rich people problems. Just … stick around, OK? I’m going to talk to him any minute now. Please don’t embarrass me.”

  “I’m not the person you need to talk to about that,” I say, looking past her. Hannah glances over her shoulder.

  “You brought Dermot?”

  I shrug. “He fancied a swim.”

  Dermot’s emerged from the changing room and is now walking towards us. Finally, something to make Dan look up from his phone.

  “So…” Hannah hauls herself out of the water for a closer look.

  “Talk us through this?” I ask Dermot, studying his choice of swimming attire.

  “Love to.” Dermot is enthusiastic about his creation. “I took an old wetsuit that my mum found in a house clearance, and I cut it off at the knees and hips to create a pair of tight knee-length shorts. Because when I wore the whole thing it felt like being buried alive. Then I took the bit that covers the head to make myself a little hat.”

  “And sewed cat ears onto the hat?” I ask.

  “No!” He laughs at the ludicrousness of that idea. “Raccoon ears.”

  “Silly me.”

  “And…” Hannah points at his hands.

  “I used the leftover fabric to make myself webbed gloves for go-faster-ness.”

  “Sensible. And the tail?”

  “Bit of fun.”

  Dermot twists his body to make his long tail swing. There’s a clicking sound from behind us. I look around to see who’s taking photos of Batman’s burlesque cousin. Across the pool, Dan pockets his phone and tries to look innocent.

  Hannah whispers urgently to us, “Is Dan looking at me?”

  Dermot and I peek around her at Dan.

  “Subtly!” she hisses.

  “Well,” I say, “he’s looking in this direction, but…”

  “Oh my God!” She looks thrilled. “Will you fall in so I can rescue you?”

  “No way!” I’m indignant. “I was an Olympic … a near-Olympic swimmer six months ago. And now, what, I suddenly can’t stay afloat?”

  “This isn’t about you, Lou,” Hannah sulks.

  “And,” I say, “it’s such a contrived romantic meeting thing. If it was in a film, you’d scoff at it.”

  “FINE! Forget it.”

  “Shall I pretend I can’t swim?” Dermot asks.

  Hannah brightens up. “That is more believable!” she says.

  “Totally believable,” says Dermot. “Cos I can’t.”

  He jumps in the pool and sinks like a stone.

  Hannah looks worried. “He’s being funny,” I reassure her. But he doesn’t come back up. We stand by the side of the pool, staring at the raccoon lying on the bottom. He looks so small.

  “I’m sure he’s absolutely fine…” A cluster of bubbles break the surface.

  “Dermot!” I shout, and Hannah and I jump in, feet first, no grace or style, just pure panic.

  I hit the water with a roaring in my ears, and I can’t see anything because I haven’t got my goggles on and it’s nothing but bubbles around mine and Hannah’s flailing arms. Her fingernail catches my face and scratches me, a jagged stinging smile on my forehead.

  No sooner do I get my bearings and start swimming towards Dermot than there’s another explosion of noise and bubbles above me and I can feel strong hands grabbing me painfully hard under the armpits and hauling me upwards. I try to fight back – I’ve got to get to Dermot – but this person is far too strong and my arms feel useless and rubbery, as if I’m flapping through custard.

  I break the surface of the water with a gasp and find I’m being dragged towards the ladder steps. I look up, Dan is trying to pull me bodily out of the pool, scraping my back against every step on the way out. Ow, Dan! There must be less painful ways to get Hannah a date.

  (OK, I’m not thinking that at the time. I’m thinking, Ow! What? Ow! Nose fizzy! Armpit sore! Dermot?)

  I’m struggling to breathe because I haven’t had a chance to tie my hair back and it’s formed a wet heavy helmet over my head.

  “You’re OK. Relax, relax,” Dan soothes me, unnecessarily. He lies me down. I try to sit back up, because I’m fine, but Hannah appears and kneels beside me. She puts her hand on my forehead. Right on my cut. OW! Plus, this hand-on-forehead business may look caring, but she’s pushing down to make me shut up and stay still.

  “You were so brave!” she quivers at Dan. Steady on. He just jumped in a pool. That’s only brave if he’s dissolvable in water. Plus, he’s a lifeguard – that’s what he’s for.

  “Where’s Dermot?” I gasp.

  “Sh-sh-sh,” she says.

  “Don’t shush me! Is he OK?”

  “I’m fine!” Dermot waves at me from the pool, bobbing happily in the deep end. “Only joking.”

  “A pool is no place to joke around,” says Dan, self-importantly.

  Such a square. “Thank you, Mr Safety.”

  �
��Hannah?” A horribly familiar voice appears from … somewhere. I can’t see because Hannah is still holding me down by my flipping head. I don’t need to, though. A mile of muscular leg appears beside me, ending in a tiny pair of shorts.

  “Hello, Debs,” I say, without enthusiasm.

  “Louise, can’t you swim at all now?” my old coach asks, genuinely baffled.

  Ugh. Hannah had better ask Dan out quick. They’d better have the greatest prom ever and get married and live happily ever after or NONE of this embarrassment is worth it.

  Debs wanders off into her office. I hear the door shut. Nice to know she cares.

  “She’s my best friend!” says Hannah irrelevantly to Dan. Is her voice wobbling? Is she making her voice wobble? This is excruciating, watching two idiots flirt while I lie on the floor beneath them. I can see right up their noses.

  “Hey, are you OK?” Dan says, putting a manly protective hand on Hannah’s shoulder.

  I cross my arms and sigh loudly.

  Hannah nods bravely, eyes fixed on Dan. “Wouldyouliketogotopromwithme?” she blurts out.

  It’s not elegant but it is quick.

  “What?” he says. Come on, Dan, keep the pace up, this floor is cold.

  “Oh.” He’s finally deciphered what she said. “I’m already going with someone, sorry.”

  “Who?” Hannah says. It sounds like she’s going to try and argue Dan out of his prom date. I don’t think this is how romance works.

  “Brendon?”

  “Oh.”

  I can’t take the awkward silence any longer so I join in from the floor. “He’s an excellent hockey player.”

  “Yeah! Isn’t he great? So quick on the wing!” Dan says.

  Ten minutes later, Hannah, Dermot and I are huddled by the exit waiting for our lifts. Hannah wanted to get out of there as soon as possible so we barely got to dry ourselves before hastily scrambling into our clothes. I run my hand over my damp neck.

  “That’s what you need, though,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “Someone who glows like that when they hear you praised.”

  Hannah just sighs.

  My back is throbbing and I have a cut on my face, so my sympathy is limited.