Bridesmaid Blitz (14 page)

“All your ickle weirdo friends leave you all alonio? So tragic. Why don’t you join the chess nerds? You’d fit in beautifully.” Sophie pushes my shoulder, hard.

“Leave me alone,” I mutter, slapping her hand away.

“Ah, there you are, Amy.” And Bailey comes up behind me.

“Why are you bothering with this loser?” Sophie asks him.

Ignoring her, he says to me, “Heading outside?”

I nod gratefully, and picking up my bag, I follow him past the D4s and down the corridor.

“We’ll catch you later, Green,” Sophie says, her voice threatening. “Oh, and does Stone know you’re two-timing him? Annabelle won’t be happy either. You know she has her eye on Otis.”

“I’m not interested in Annabelle, or any Saint John’s girl,” Bailey says, walking away quickly. “And you can tell her that.”

Once we’re safely outside, I say, “Thanks, Bailey.”

He shrugs. “’S OK. Thought we could hang out this week, with Seth and Mills in Paris and everything.”

Suddenly, the world seems a lot brighter. “Cool,” I say. I don’t know Bailey all that well yet — he’s quiet and keeps to himself — but Seth and he have really hit it off. And anything’s better than having lunch on my own all week. Plus, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either.

We walk toward the playing fields and sit on the steps leading down to the hockey pitch. I’m chattering on about how Mr. Olen freaked out when Patrick shaved his head in class, claiming it was “performance art.” Bailey doesn’t say much, and after a while, I run out of things to talk about. We sit in silence for a moment, and I stare down at the hockey pitch while Bailey starts playing with the headphones hanging around his neck.

“You can put them on if you like,” I say. “I don’t mind. I know you need your regular music fix!”

“You sure?”

I nod. “’Course.” I pull out my phone. “Need to work on my Beach Volleyball score, anyway.”

He grins. “Cool.” And pulling on his headphones, he begins bobbing his head to a track that sounds familiar. When it’s finished, he takes them off.

“What were you listening to?” I ask.

“The Golden Lions. New Dublin band.”

I practically leap off the step. “No way! The lead singer, Brains, is my Aunt Clover’s boyfriend. But they haven’t released anything yet. How did you —”

“Downloaded some tunes from their website. Tell Brains he’s got a killer voice. Very distinctive.”

We chat about music for a while, and then I say, “You know, I think Brains went to the same school as you: Lakelands. He’s eighteen; he left last year. Do you remember him?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I was only there for two terms.”

“Why?” It’s out before I can stop myself.

He winces and stares down at his headphones. (Sometimes I just can’t leave well alone. I’m like a child with a scab on her knee — pick, pick, pick.)

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you —” I begin.

“It’s not a biggie. I didn’t like Lakelands, so I left, end of story.” He stands up. “Better motor. Books to sort — you know how it is. I’ll see you around.” And with that, he walks back toward the school, leaving me staring after him. What did I say?

I hear a titter to my right and look over: Sophie and the D4s. They must have followed us out. They’re clearly not tired of tormenting me yet. Worse luck.

“Even the new boy doesn’t want to hang with you, Green,” Sophie sneers at me. “You’re such a loser.”

“Loser, loser, loser,” all the D4s start to chant, like it’s one of their stupid All Saints cheers.

I stand up and walk away quickly. One of them throws something at my back, but I don’t turn around; I just keep walking.

As soon as I get in the door from school later that afternoon, Mum starts having a go at me. I’m
so
not in the mood.

“Much homework, Amy?” she asks, following me into the kitchen.

“A bit. I’ll do it later.”

She stands with her legs apart, puts her hands on her hips, and cocks her head, like a farmer about to round up her flock. All she’s missing are the green wellies and the sheepdog. “You need to start as you mean to go on, Amy. Get cracking on it straightaway.”

“But I’m hungry,” I protest. “I can’t study if my tummy’s rumbling.”

“I’ll bring you up a sandwich.”

“But you hate food upstairs. You say it encourages mice.” I shudder at the thought. (We had a mouse once — in the airing cupboard. Dave found some droppings. Completely and utterly gross.) “Can I just hang out in the kitchen for a few minutes?” I beg. “Please? I’ve only just gotten in the door.”

Mum softens a little. “I want you sitting at your desk in fifteen minutes, young lady. And mobile, please. Hand it over.” She puts out her palm. “You can have it back once you’re finished.”

I stare at her. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I know you think second year will be a doddle — I’ve heard you talking to Mills and Clover about it — but it lays the foundation for your Junior Cert. exams.”

Not again! “The exams are in
two
years, Mum. Get a grip.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Do you want to end up stacking shelves or flipping burgers at McDonald’s? Is that it?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Macky D’s. Stop being such a snob. Not everyone’s cut out for college.”

“Are you telling me you don’t want to go to college? What are you going to do, then, eh?”

Oh, dear Lord, I’m so not interested in getting into this conversation now. I’m thirteen, for heaven’s sake. How am I supposed to know what I want to do when I’m a wrinkly? Right now, I’m having enough trouble coping with school
sans
Mills and Seth. And what on earth has gotten into Mum? She’s not usually such a nag.

“Can we have this conversation another time? As you pointed out, I have homework to do. A
lot
of homework. And I’d like to get on with it, if you don’t mind. And for your information, I do want to go to college. At least, I think I do. But that’s light-years away.”

“It’ll be on you quicker than you think.” She pauses and brushes her hair back off her flushed face. “Then you’ll have kids and be stuck at home with them all day, wasting your degree and wishing you’d had the good sense to be born a man.”

OK, I get it. She’s having one of her “I’m nearly forty and what have I got to show for it?” wobbles.

“Mum, once your new job starts, you won’t be stuck at home with the babies all day,” I say, softening my tone a little. “And you’re still kind of young.”

Her back stiffens. “I’m not talking about
me,
Amy. I’m talking generally.”

Yeah, right.

“Can I please get something to eat now so I can hurry up and get on with my oh-so-important homework! Then I’ll get all my exams and won’t end up flipping burgers,” I say in a rush.

“Fine,” she says sniffily. “But I’ll be up to check on your homework soon. No slacking off, understand?”

An hour later, I’m still sitting at my desk, staring into space. Luckily, Mum hasn’t been near me — she’s been too busy chasing after Alex and trying to stop Evie from crying (she’s teething again) to bother.

I still haven’t done my classics essay from Friday. I told Miss Sketchberry that I’d had to mind my baby bro and sis over the weekend — which is stretching the truth a little, I know. She looked a bit dubious but said she’d give me the benefit of the doubt. “But I want it tomorrow, understand? No excuses.”

I also have geography (rivers), math (algebra), and history (the Renaissance) to do. Yawnsville. I mean, really — I get the Renaissance, and math is useful, but who needs to know the characteristics of a mature river? OK, apart from geography teachers. Pushing my books to one side, I pick up
Twilight
and start reading. And Mum picks that very moment to walk in the door. “Amy! What are you doing? You’re supposed to be studying.”

“It’s our new class novel,” I say.

She narrows her eyes. “I thought
To Kill a Mockingbird
was your class novel.”

“That was last year.”

“Hmmm.” Mum doesn’t seem convinced. Probably because I’m such a terrible liar.

“Can I use the computer?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“Have you finished your homework?”

“Nearly.”

“Show me.”

Oops, scuppered. I’m saved by a yell from the hallway.

“Ma-ma, ma-ma.” It’s Alex. Bless him.

“I’ll be back,” Mum warns.

She’s clearly out to torment me tonight, so I get stuck in immediately. No point jeopardizing my whole evening — Mills or Seth may have sent me a message.

I fly through the math, nail the classics essay and the history, and struggle through the geography. Forty-eight minutes later, it’s all finito. I find Mum in the bathroom, washing Alex’s teeth with his favorite purple cat toothbrush. Her hand is covered in spat-out toothpaste. I wince. Yuck! Remind me never to have kids.

“Can I use the computer now?” I say.

“Homework?”

“All on the desk and ready for inspection, sir.” I click my heels together and salute.

Mum smiles. Her mood is obviously softening. “Good woman. And yes, you can use the computer. After dinner. Dave will be home in a minute and I’d like us all to eat together for once.”

“Mum!”

“Go and set the table, Amy, and stop complaining.”

Dinner is painful. Dave’s so tired he almost falls asleep in his chicken curry, and Mum’s not impressed.

“I go to all this trouble to cook, Dave,” she moans, “and you can’t even keep your eyes open. It’s so unfair. Evie’s been teething all day, and I’ve been slaving away in the house, dealing with Alex . . .”

Not again! I zone out and think about Seth and Mills. I wonder where they are right now. Probably sitting outside a fabulously cool Parisian café, shooting the breeze and eating — what do they eat in France? Snails, frogs’ legs. Grim! OK, crêpes, they’re yum! — crêpes with lots of chocolate sauce and ice cream and —

“Amy, your mum just asked what you’re up to next weekend.”

I sit up a little straighter. Dave is staring at me intently.

OK, I have to be careful here. I don’t want to let the Parisian cat out of the bag. “It’s my weekend to stay at Dad’s, but with Gracie and everything, that’s probably not going to happen.”

“Maybe you can help me with the babies on Saturday,” Dave suggests, looking at me pointedly. “We could take them to Cabinteely Park or something. Give your mum a bit of a break.”

“Sure.” I smile at him, safe in the knowledge that I won’t be in the country.

Mum visibly relaxes, sinking down in her seat. A second later, her back goes rigid again. “You always say that, Dave, but it never happens. You slope off to write your stupid Dinoduck songs, and I end up with the babies again.”

“No, honestly, Sylvie — this weekend will be different, I promise.” He gives me a tiny wink.

“No kidding,” I murmur.

“What was that, Amy?” Mum rounds on me.

“Nothing, Mum. Can I use the computer now?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Yes, fine! Use the bloomin’ computer. And thank you so much for the lovely dinner, Mother, and for washing up and ironing my clothes. Oh, and for making sure there’s enough food in the fridge and buying those ruddy Rice Krispie bars I seem to live on and —”

Dave puts his hand on Mum’s arm. “Take it easy, Sylvie.”

She shakes it off and continues her rant: “You’re no better. I spend hours cooking a curry from scratch, toasting the spices, zesting limes, cutting up raw chicken with a knife — and you know how I hate that! You promised to sharpen my kitchen scissors, but you haven’t bothered your barney yet, have you? And not even a lousy thank-you.”

Dave squirms. “Give me a chance. It’s delicious, Sylvie. Thank you. But next time, just order takeaway from Bombay Pantry if you’re tired.”

Mum looks disgusted. “Takeaway? Is my cooking that bad?”

Dave winces. “You’re twisting my words, Sylvie. I just said . . .”

OK, I’ve had enough. Mum isn’t being rational and this could go on for hours.

I stand up and put my plate and cutlery in the dishwasher. (No point enraging her further by forgetting.) I only hope to God she’s cooled down by Friday — Paris will be zero fun with Mum in this kind of snit.

“Thank you for dinner, Mum,” I say quietly, and slip out the door.

She’s still taking lumps out of Dave, so I don’t think she even notices.

In the living room, I click on the computer and check my Facebook page. There’s a new post from Mills:
J’AIME PARIS. VIEW FROM THE ROOF OF THE SACRÉ CŒUR IS TO DIE FOR.

I smile to myself. Then I spot two new personal messages.

One is from Seth:

Hey, Seth,
I reply.