Lou Out of Luck Page 7

“Lou?”

  “Mother,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Did you not think to write the buyer’s address on the paper before you wrapped it?”

  “Obviously not.”

  Mum hands me her notepad and points to the world’s longest address, which ends in Cambridgeshire and the Isle of Ely. If I ever go there, I’m going to have a firm word with them. Why don’t they call it CATIOE? I grip the lamp between my knees and start writing, super-delicately so my pen doesn’t stab through the paper.

  Lavender sticks her headphones in and starts listening to a podcast. Mum and I exchange a look. Lavender has started doing this lately, like it’s normal and not RUDE. She may just as well be saying, “Bored of you now kthanxbye.”

  At least one of us is spending time with Mum, listening to her problems. I’m so the best daughter.

  “So … how’s things?” I offer.

  “Aggy got offered a day’s teaching at the uni yesterday,” Mum says.

  “I thought she quit and threatened to rip her clothes off?”

  “She says no way is she going back, but she suggested me instead.”

  “Why didn’t they ask you first? They know she hates it. You don’t.”

  “Right?” Mum agrees. “I feel a bit hurt.”

  Stupid people making my mum feel bad, I think irritably, still spelling out Isle of Ely. Ugh, people are the worst.

  We wrap for a couple of hours in a comfortable silence. Mum pops the TV on and plays films with good soundtracks so we can listen as we work.

  Oooh! Gaaaabriel’s calling! I don’t want to be a massive hypocrite, but Mum waves at me wearily and plugs her own headphones in her ears. Sometimes I do understand Hannah’s irritation at sharing me with a boyfriend.

  “Hey hey!” I chirp happily down the phone at him.

  “Lou P. Brown,” he says gravely. He finds my full name very funny. Every bit of it is toilety.

  “How was Fight Club?”

  “Debating was brilliant, thank you. That is a seriously smart bunch of people. I felt quite outclassed.”

  “Shut up, you’re the smartest person I know!”

  There’s a silence.

  “Oi! I know smart people!” I tell him. “My mum teaches – taught – at a university. Creative writing, but still…” I add, lowering my voice so she can’t hear me.

  “I didn’t mean that. I mean, I wasn’t thinking anything, I was just eating a biscuit,” he says but I don’t believe him. I don’t hear crunching.

  “Anyway…”

  Moving on, because I don’t want to argue and it really annoys me that he thinks my friends are thick. OK, Hannah’s grades aren’t great but she is still in the running to be an Olympic swimmer, so he can stick that in his PowerPoint presentation. And I don’t know about Dermot’s grades but I think he’s pretty smart.

  “Tell me about the team, the guys, the clever duuudes. What are their names?” I ask, trying to hide the fact I feel a bit nettled.

  “Lisa, Lara and Hazel.”

  All girls. All girl names there, I say. Luckily just in my head not out loud. Because there’s no way that wouldn’t sound petty.

  “They’re so smart.”

  “Good for them!” I say brightly. Remembering that I thought Harvard was a type of bread.

  “Hazel’s dad has a plaque dedicated to him at Cambridge.”

  “Wow-wee!” I say. I consider a joke about how MY dad has plaque on his teeth. But it sounds snarky, so I keep it to myself.

  “Funnily enough,” he bores on. “D’you know, Hazel was one of the first people to see our YouTube video and she sent it to all her friends. She was instrumental to our success.”

  “Yes! Arguably!” I say.

  And arguably not! Cos, you know, I did a few things.

  Like:

  Choreographed it

  Trained you all, despite a lot of bad attitude

  Filmed it WITH CONCUSSION FROM ACCIDENTALLY HEADBUTTING A FISH TANK

  Put it on YouTube

  Hazel:

  Viewed it

  Mentioned it to a couple of people

  Think that’s it…

  Nope, nothing else

  I look up and Mum is watching me. She can’t hear what I’m saying but I can feel my cheeks have gone a bit hot and red. I scratch my chin, which itches in a lurking-spot sort of way. I feel irritable at Gabe and want to end the call but I don’t want to hang up angry at him, I want to go back to when he said “Lou P. Brown” and my stomach went funny with fondness.

  I take a breath and steer him onto less annoying ground. “What are you up to today?”

  “I’ve got loads of schoolwork,” he says, sounding like Hannah. Everyone’s in a competition to be busy these days. “I have to do a big presentation tomorrow on A Tale of Two Cities.”

  “Pick small cities and it’s less work,” I suggest helpfully.

  “A Tale of Two Cities is a novel by Charles Dickens,” he says.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” I say airily. “Great novel. Very … um … geographical.”

  I give a weary chuckle, like, Charlie D, what is he like?

  “But that’s OK. You’re clever!” I realize he’s not feeling too sure about his cleverness right now. “I mean, not as smart as Lisa, Lara and Whatsit,” I tease.

  “Hazel.”

  “Right, right…”

  “No. They were studying last term while I was floating in a fish tank.”

  I feel stung. It sounds like he’s calling Lou Brown and the Aquarium Boys a waste of time. When it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

  “OK,” I say, in a small voice. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thanks!” He sounds genuinely grateful that I’m getting off the phone. Charming.

  We hang up. I google A Tale of Two Cities.

  Argh. “Geographical.” Whoops!

  I go back to wrapping. Now it’s ten ugly egg cups. I wrap them so tightly I form a long, dense package you could use as a weapon. Which is what I feel like doing.

  Dad clatters through the front door, full of gossip.

  “Guess what!” he shouts from the hallway. “Vinnie had already seen your photo in Stylie, a girl at work recognized Lavender and showed him. And Nicky gets Stylie anyway so she’d seen it too! I told them you were pulling out of the competition. Still – bit exciting!”

  I glance at Lavender, who’s pulled out her headphones and looks uncomfortable. Dad hurries through the kitchen and out the back door, carrying a big bag. Seconds later he returns without the bag, still chattering away excitedly. “They’ve pinned your photo on the fridge!”

  Dad’s smile fades when he comes into the living room and sees Lav’s face. She’s not shy, Lavender, but all her friends are louder and more boisterous than she is. She doesn’t like to be the centre of attention, especially not on our uncle’s fridge.

  “But … you’re still going to pull out!” Dad adds, hastily.

  “Of course,” Mum says.

  “I just thought it was exciting. That’s all. You might have won!” he says. “I bet Ro would LOVE it. He likes a bit of fame, doesn’t he? Bit of ritz and glitz. Is that a saying?” Dad’s very talkative today.

  “Did you have a good day?” I ask. “How’s Uncle Vinnie? What’s in the bag?” But he’s not talkative on that subject. He just carries on chattering to Lav.

  Fine, ignore me cos I’m not the interesting model daughter.

  “Ignore me, love, it’s not very you, is it, that sort of thing?” he says to Lav, who looks relieved. “Although Nicky was disappointed—” he adds, but shuts up at a look from Mum. “Fine.” He gives in. “The article does say one of your Pet Peeves is being put under pressure to conform. That and jealous girls.”

  “My Pet what?”

  “Peeves. In your About Me section.”

  “I DIDN’T WRITE IT!” she yelps.

  “Oh yeah yeah. I forgot.”

  “Probably just someone snooping on her Facebook page,” I say spi
tefully, to bring him back down to earth.

  “Who would do that?” Finally he gives me his attention. I make full use of it.

  “Perverts and criminals.”

  The smile falls off his face. “Right, that’s it. I’m calling Stylie on Monday and getting you out of this thing so fast it’ll make your head spin!”

  I text Hannah later to see if she fancies meeting up. I even offer to go to her house. (Which I usually try to avoid cos her parents are SO patronizing now I’ve flunked out of swimming. Whenever I tell them what else I’m up to, they say, “Good for you!” with their heads sympathetically on one side.) But Hannah says she’s got behind on schoolwork and has to spend all weekend catching up.

  So I stay home with my family, watching TV. Or trying to. Everything I want to watch, Mum and Dad say they’ve seen recently. I think I know how they’re spending their days while we’re at school.

  WORRY DIARY

  Hazel and that lot.

  Charles Dickens. Charlie D. Must read more.

  Does Lav have a horrible creepy stalker?

  Hannah missing, believed dead. Well, not dead, but friends with “Cams, Mell and Nic”. Which is worse.

  Mum and Dad. Constant worry.

  I hesitate, pen hovering over the page. Maybe I’m being mean to Hannah. I’m allowed Gabe, so of course she’s allowed to make new friends and have a hobby without me. HORRIBLE friends and a POINTLESS STUPID hobby but I don’t want to be bitchy. I doodle a little flower over Hannah’s name to soften my complaint.

  “Lou!!” Mum marches out of the kitchen and shouts my name in my face.

  I blink. “Hello.”

  “Oh, what are you doing?”

  I shrug. I’m fully dressed and sitting on the stairs waiting for Dermot and Aggy because I’ve been up since 5 a.m. I find I can’t sleep at the moment. I lie awake and imagine moving away, starting again in a new school, making new friends… And Mum and Dad still not being themselves.

  I texted Hannah last night that we might have to move away.

  Oh no! That sounds really sad.

  That’s actually what she said. She wrote that, looked at it and thought, Yep, happy with that. Good Best Friend work. Na-night!! Probably slept like a baby. Or a log. A baby log. A twig.

  I am so tired.

  I wanted something like, Nooooo!! That’s awful! I would DIE without you! Let’s run away! If she can’t do that, I might as well swap her for a dog or a plant – something that will give me its undivided attention.

  THEN – oh, this is the kicker – then I got a text about some band she saw (at a gig, I PRESUME) on Saturday night. (She’s going to gigs without me? We’ve never even gone to a gig together!) Just as I was puzzling over it, she texted again.

  Sorry, that was meant for someone else.

  No prizes for guessing who.

  Before I went to bed, I composed a couple of texts to Gabe but I knew he’d be working late into the night on his presentation – and I was too proud to pop up as his mopey girlfy, so I left it. I thought about texting Dermot, but we’re not that close, and whingeing at him after ten at night felt strange. Maybe I’ll shout it at him one day over the sound of crunching gears.

  “Are you OK?” Mum says, looking concerned. She isn’t wearing any make-up and her usually bouncy hair looks a bit limp, scraped back in a ponytail.

  “You have a lovely chin, Mother,” I tell her and gently pull her ponytail out. She smiles and fluffs up her hair and looks a bit more like herself again.

  “Do you mind going to school with Aggy?” she asks, and like an idiot I shake my head.

  “She’s been good to me,” Mum says. “I think she forced uni to give me that day’s work.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with her,” I say, honestly.

  “Oh, by the way, she said Dermot’s going to ask you to a thing.”

  “What thing?”

  Mum shrugs.

  Great. It could be anything! With Dermot it could literally be anything. Line dancing, pottery, goat-shaving…

  There’s a frantic hooting from outside, the sort of rusty-sounding noise that can only come from one vehicle. We open the door to see Aggy’s van crawling slowly past our house, door open with Dermot trotting alongside.

  A fifteen-year-old boy in jodhpurs and a sparkly jumper is always going to look odd, but the trotting really makes it special.

  “If I stop, it’ll stall!” Aggy yells out of the window. “Got to jump in while it’s moving. HI, FLORA!”

  Mum waves back, looking a bit anxious.

  “Be careful!” she says, giving me a hard kiss. “Don’t go under the wheels.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  I run out, narrowly avoiding Roman’s car as he pulls into the driveway. He folds his arms over his steering wheel and openly stares at my misfortune. It’s so annoying to get a lift with Aggy with Ro still picking Lav up most mornings.

  I ignore Ro’s smirking and run alongside Dermot, who grabs me by the hand and tugs on it. I look at him.

  “Are you trying to …?”

  “… fling you up there? Yes.”

  “I’ll just jump.”

  I hop into the van, reach back and haul Dermot onto the seat next to me. He’s so light it’s like tossing a sequinned pancake.

  “WOO!” Aggy seems to be enjoying this. “Go go go! Second gear.”

  Dermot’s not in his usual position next to the gear stick so I yank the lever out of first gear and into second.

  “HARDER!” Aggy and Dermot both shout at me. All right, guys, I think the term you’re looking for is THANK YOU. I don’t need this much drama on a couple of hours’ sleep. I brace my foot on the floor and throw my full weight on the gear stick, relieved to feel it slot into place.

  “I’ve got a new co-pilot!” Aggy grins around me at Dermot.

  I roll my sleeves up.

  An upside to the engine trouble is a quick dismount at the school gates. Aggy slows the van to a walking pace and Dermot and I slide off the seats and out the door, landing with a soft jump in the car park. I slam the door after us and Dermot bangs on it twice in a goodbye. We sling our rucksacks over our shoulders with a rueful look at each other.

  Of course, the one time we look cool, there’s no one to witness it.

  I walk slowly towards school, looking around for Hannah. I’m dragging my feet as I want to see her before class, check we’re OK. This may seem clingy but I’m used to talking to Hannah near constantly now she’s back in school and I don’t like this distance that’s cropping up between us. I’m still a bit cross about it but I’d rather fix it than fight.

  Talking of clingy, Dermot is keeping slow pace with me.

  “All right?”

  “Just waiting for Hannah, so…”

  Dermot doesn’t get it. So … we stand and wait together.

  “Nice jodhpurs,” I say. They flare out at the thighs, which is not something I’ve ever seen before.

  “Really?” he asks drily. “Or are you taking the mick?”

  “Well –” I gesture at the empty yard around us – “I’m not an experienced bully but I think when you make fun of someone, you need an audience.”

  He laughs and I decide to show him my Cammie impression. It’s excellent but obviously I don’t dare bring it out too often.

  “Yeah, great jodhpurs, Dermot,” I say in her breathy, girly voice. She does this thing where her words are nice and her mouth smiles, but above it her eyes glitter with pure malice. “Did your mum find them in a dead person’s house clearance?”

  “Yep,” he admits, cheerfully.

  “Yah, and did she say, ‘Darling, these will totes suit your wicker handbag, you must have them’?”

  “Nope. She said, ‘Bin these, they stink.’”

  That makes me laugh and I can’t keep my impression up any longer.

  “How about you?” Dermot drawls back.

  “Me?”

  “Yah, do you run through Oxfam waving your arms around and hoping
for the best? Or does your mum buy your clothes at the supermarket with the vegetables?”

  “With the vegetables,” I say, honestly.

  “It’s a great look, rilly cute,” he says, insincerely. “Can I take your photo? I have a Pinterest page.”

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s called Street Style. But it’s ironic—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Because the people have no style. And I laugh at them later. And it’s cruel so I love it.”

  I do like Dermot, he makes me laugh at unexpected moments.

  He checks his watch. It’s a yellow one in the shape of a flower that he pins to his jumper, like a nurse. “Maybe Hannah’s ill today or at the dentist?” he suggests. “She’s pretty late.”

  We finally give up and head towards form room, then notice that the corridors are completely empty. With a look at each other, we start running. I enjoy making fun of Cammie behind her back so much, time flies!

  As we run we hear someone behind us. I glance back and see that it’s Mr Peters. Obviously having punctuality problems today too.

  “Excuse me!” he gasps, trying to get around us, but we speed up. “Argh!” He’s really out of breath and we’re running faster. “I would tell you off for being late,” he pants, “but I appreciate that’s hypocritical. Just let me get in the classroom first?”

  “Will you tell us off for being late, though?” Dermot shoots over his shoulder.

  “Of course not!”

  We let him pass, and enter the classroom a nano-second behind him.

  He reaches his desk, slaps his bag down and turns back to us, gasping, “What time do you call this?”

  Traitor.

  I edge towards the back of the classroom, breathing hard. Hannah’s seat is empty – maybe she is ill? Dermot sits by himself at his usual desk so I join him. While Mr Peters calls out the register, I glance around the room and there’s Hannah! With Cammie, Melia and Nicole. They always sit in a bank of four desks with their bags on the fourth chair so no one DARES sit with them. But now Hannah is in that seat. Hannah got a social promotion. She’s their new pile of bags.

  Did they have a sleepover? Giggling, secrets, sweets at 2 a.m., queasiness at 3 a.m.? I sneak a look at Hannah’s hair. If it shows signs of being plaited, I’ll know she’s sleepover-cheated on me.

  I can’t cope with that betrayal, not today. While I’m staring at her hair for clues, Hannah turns her head and makes a little Eek! face at me. This face says: