Boy Trouble (3 page)

“So are you in, Beanie? Will you help me?” Clover asks. “Go on.” She smiles at me. “Please? It’ll be fun.”

It’s very difficult to say no to Clover. I give a mock sigh. “Oh, I suppose so. It’s got to be better than homework.”

She jumps up and gives me a smacker on the lips. I wipe them with the back of my hand. “Yuck! Clover!” She just laughs. And against my better judgement, I help her formulate a plan of action.

Clover’s enthusiasm is highly infectious. Mum says she could talk Inuits into buying snow. I always get swept along by the sheer force of her will. And let’s be honest, I’m dying to see just how far she’ll go. I know Mum will kill me if she ever finds out I’ve been cooking up mad revenge schemes with Clover and as for Dave, he’ll go ballistic.

He never used to be such a boring old crusty, in fact when I first met him he was great fun. He used to let me bang on his bongo drums and he even showed me how to play some old Beatles songs on his guitar. He was in this band years ago called The Colts and they nearly made it, according to Mum. After the band split up, Dave used to sing and play his guitar in pubs, but he hasn’t done that since the babies came along.

At the moment I can’t do a thing right in his eyes. It’s all, “Amy, have you done your homework?” and “Amy, can you keep an eye on Evie?” Amy this; Amy that. Aagh!

And in a way that’s also why I decide to help Clover. To get up Dave’s long, angular nose. He thinks he’s so cool in his T-shirts with obscure bands on them and his iPod that holds thousands of songs, but he’s not. He has a wobbly stomach and one of his fingers is all bendy and funny looking from playing the guitar so much; plus he has a huge mouth you could fit a dinner plate into, sideways. And he’s practically bald. Ah yes, he has it all going for him. Mum thinks he looks like a young Mick Jagger. As if.

Suddenly Clover gets all businesslike and I try to keep a straight face. I love Clover in serious mode; she turns into the boss from
The Devil Wears Prada
. If I didn’t know her so well I’d be completely intimidated. As it is, I’m trying not to laugh. I watch her as she scribbles on a notebook in her spidery handwriting.

“First we need more information,” she barks. “I want you to email Wendy and ask her the following questions. Pretend to be me.” She rips the page out of her notebook and hands it to me.

I read her list (I’m used to her handwriting), my nose scrunching up. “Clover, we’re supposed to be giving her advice, not asking her questions. And why do you need the boy’s name and address?”

“No questions, Grasshopper,” she says in a terrible ninja accent. She jumps to her feet. “I just need to nip out to the joke shop.”

“The what?”

“All will be revealed.” She winks at me mysteriously and thrusts her hands into her pockets. They come out empty. “Siúcra! Got any spondoolicks?”

Siúcra – Irish for sugar – is Clover’s second fave saying after “Got any spondoolicks?” I hand her a crumpled ten-euro note, the last of my babysitting money. “It’s a loan, Clover, I want it back. And I thought you wanted an adviser, not a secretary,” I say to her disappearing back. “How will I explain all this to Wendy?”

“You’re smart, Bean Machine,” she says without turning round. “You’ll think of something.”

I sit down at her desk and click open the Internet. So much for my maths homework. I’ll have to do it later. Luckily I’m good at algebra.

I wiggle my fingers around and then place them on the compact and slightly sticky keyboard of Clover’s laptop. I taught myself to type the summer Alex was born, when Dave gave me an old computer from work. He’s a nurse in St Vincent’s Hospital. A
nurse
, can you believe it? How embarrassing.

“A present from the baby.” He laughed.

“We won’t be able to take you out much this summer,” Mum explained. “We thought you could write a journal or something.”

Mum’s into writing. Before she had Alex, she was a scriptwriter for
Fair City
, Ireland’s answer to
EastEnders
. She had every intention of going back after her maternity leave, had a crèche lined up and everything, but then bang, Evie came along. It would have cost too much to put both of them into crèche, so Mum’s stuck at home.

“I’m hardly Anne Frank,” I told her. “What have I got to write about? Baby poo that looks like mustard? How to use a sterilizer?” She just smiled at me gently and said, “That would be lovely, pet.” She hadn’t really been listening. Mothers are quite, quite mad, especially when they’ve just had a baby.

“Dear Wendy,” I type slowly and carefully. I have to watch my fingers while I type but I can do twenty-seven words a minute, with very few mistakes.

I stop for a second. That’s a bit old fashioned, like something you’d read in a book. I delete it. “He sounds like a complete ER,” I write instead. “I would certainly like to help you.”

*   *   *

“Any luck?” Clover asks when she gets back. She plonks a large canary yellow paper bag down on the desk and flops on to her sofa.

I reach out to open the bag but she swats my hand away.

“All in good time.” She picks up the bag and puts it into her filing cabinet, turns the tiny key and then tucks it into her pink padded bra. She readjusts the lacy bra straps, pulling them up a little to give her cleavage more oomph.

“Go on, spill,” she says.

“If you stop fiddling with your bra straps I’ll tell you.”

“Ooooh! What’s eating you? At least I have boobs.”

“Thanks for making me feel even better about my pancake chest.”

She grabs at the neck of my T-shirt and peers down.

“Clover!” I pull away. I rearrange my stretched T-shirt. “Do you mind? This happens to be my favourite top. If it doesn’t go back into shape I’ll kill you.”

“It’s a plain black T-shirt.”

“I just like it, OK,” I say a little huffily. Clover has no sense of personal space or boundaries.

“You need a proper bra, Beanie. We’ll go shopping. Sort you out. I know just the place.”

“I’m a big girl now. I can do my own shopping.”

She gives a snort. “Hello? You’re wearing a vest.”

“A sports bra.”

She shrugs. “Same difference. You need something with a little padding. Something that gives you shape.” She holds a palm out in front of her own chest. “Even I need a little help,” she admits.

I shrug. She’s probably right. Clover does know her underwear. She has an amazing lingerie collection and is always showing me her shopping; she loves an audience and Mum doesn’t really approve of all her spending.

Clover says, “Anyway, back to work. Where do we stand with Wendy? Any news?”

“Oh yes.” I hand her Wendy’s reply.

She reads it and a smile creeps across her mouth. “Bingo.” She ruffles my hair. “Good on you, Beanie. We’re in business.”

On
Friday evening, Clover arrives at my house at twenty past eight.

“You’re late.” I scowl at her, but I don’t know why I bother. Clover’s always late. I think I’m just nervous.

She ignores me. “Got the Ugly boots?”

I nod and hand over my pride and joys. She takes one off me gingerly and sniffs it. She’d instructed me to spray their lining with deodorant and leave them outside the back door all day to freshen up.

“They’ll do,” she says. She takes off her flip-flops, pulls a pair of navy sports socks out of her bag, sits down on the bottom stair and edges them carefully over her newly French-manicured toes. “I’m not taking any chances,” she says. “You might have a verruca or athlete’s foot or something.”

I give a disgusted snort. “I don’t have any fungal infections, thanks very much.”

Clover just grins. She follows the socks with my Ugg boots, stands up and takes a few steps. “I suppose they are quite comfy,” she concedes. She looks me up and down, wrinkling her nose. “You look like an Emo. Are
all
your clothes black?”

“No,” I say defensively. I thought I looked all right. I’m wearing a black scoop neck top, my best Diesel skinny jeans, a wide gold sparkly belt and gold ballet pumps. OK, the jeans are black too but, hey, it’s my favourite colour.

She must have noticed my face drop because she says, “You look great, Beanie. And that belt really shows off your teeny waist. I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just nervous. You know what I’m like when I’m under pressure.”

I certainly do. Since starting at
The Goss
, Clover seems to be living in a state of semi-permanent stress. She says it comes with the job and that all journos live on the edge. Mum says Clover is a total drama queen and isn’t happy unless something terrible is happening to her. For once, Mum might be on to something.

Mum walks into the hall, Evie snoozing in her arms. “Amy, back by ten-thirty, OK? And make Clover drop you to the door. Do you have your keys? Try not to wake the baby when you come in.” She says all this to the top of Clover’s head. She’s clearly in one of her sleep-deprived dazes.

“I’m behind you,” I say. “That’s Clover on the stairs.”

Mum jumps, making Evie cry. “Jeepers, my heart,” she says, patting her chest with one hand. “I nearly dropped the baby.” She croons at Evie, who gurgles a little and then goes back to sleep. “And why are you wearing Ugg boots, Clover? I thought you hated them.” Mum’s eyes narrow.

“Changed my mind,” Clover says breezily. “Ready, Beanie? And don’t worry, Sylvie, I’ll drop her to the door.”

“And back by half ten, mind,” Mum says.

Clover gives her a wide smile. “We’re only going for pizza, sis. Stop worrying.”

Dave walks through the kitchen door. I glare at him and back towards the wall. The hall’s getting a bit too crowded for my liking. He rubs his stubbly chin and yawns. “Did someone say pizza? Any chance of bringing me back a few slices?”

The man is obsessed with food. My heart sinks. Clover looks at me, her mouth distorted from biting the inside of her lip.

Luckily Mum says, “You’ve already had dinner, pet. Do you really need pizza too?”

“Maybe not.” He gives a laugh and then puts his head on Mum’s shoulder. “Must get my pre-baby figure back.” He winks at her.

Mum kisses the top of his head and I cringe. I do wish they wouldn’t be so lovey-dovey in front of people (me in particular); it’s embarrassing.

“Love to stay and chat, but we have to run,” Clover says, brushing past Mum and Dave and opening the front door. “Our reservation’s for eight. And just look at the time. Come on, Beanie. Mush, you slowcoach.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later we park beside a Sinister FM jeep, a few metres down the road from Monkstown Rugby Club. A flock of D4 girls are sitting on the low wall opposite us, swinging their orange legs, hitting the heels of their Ugg boots against the pebbledash and flicking their GHDed hair for Ireland. D4s spend most of the time hanging out in town or in Dundrum Shopping Centre, when they aren’t stuck in front of their mirrors, or slapping on fake tan. Sophie and Mills, my best friends, fancy themselves as D4s but it’s pure aspiration.

“Ready?” Clover asks me. She gloops on red lip gloss like war paint.

My stomach churns. Lots of people from my school go to the Sinister Frite Nites. Sophie tried to get me to come along tonight but I said no, I was busy.

“Doing what?” Sophie asked, giving me a twisted smile. “Changing the skin on your Bebo page again?”

I bristled. I like my Bebo page. It’s a whole heap better than either of their pages. They just use the same boring old skins and video clips and songs as everyone else. I try to be more original. But sometimes when you’re thirteen being original isn’t appreciated.

“I think we should wait for a while.” I stare at the D4s. They throw their heads back and hoot loudly with laughter when two Emo girls walk past in stripy Pippi Longstocking tights. “We don’t want to look too eager.”

To be honest, I’m terrified of hardcore D4s. If you look at them wrong or they spot a weakness, they’ll bare their fangs and rip you to pieces with their bitchy comments, like a preppy wolf pack. And their verbal wounds can take a long time to heal. I should know; I still have the mental scars to prove it.

The first time they swooped was after Mum had trimmed my fringe. She’d pulled down on it when it was damp and had cut it far too short. The D4s followed me around, calling me “Freak Fringe” for a week. The second time was even worse. I wore Mum’s padded navy raincoat to school one day – big mistake, but Mum had insisted. It was lashing, I couldn’t find my own jacket and she said I’d catch pneumonia. They christened me “Amy Anorak”. It lasted a whole month.

Clover nods at me. “You’re right. I’m being too impatient. I guess I’m kinda nervous.”

“Really?”