Girls, Guilty but Somehow Glorious (2 page)

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2

FRIDAY 2.30 p.m.

Making a list of love gods . . .

Frau Leibowitz the German teacher is a sporty-looking old bird. Well, when I say old, I mean, like, possibly twenty-nine. But despite her muscles and bouncy walk, she is strangely timid when it comes to dealing with us snarling beasts. Plus she has a ludicrously squeaky voice.

‘Today,’ she peeped, ‘ve are goingk to do translation. Bessie, pliss giv out ze papers. Here you haf a passage I haf printed from ze Internet
. Eine Fahrt mit der Eisenbahn
.’ There were a few sniggers. Some people just haven’t got over it yet: the German for a journey is
Fahrt
. I haven’t got over it myself. In fact, I was one of the people sniggering.

‘I am going to make a
Fahrt
to Paris,’ I whispered.

Fergus was sitting in front of me and he turned round. Fergus looks rather like a pixie. He has slightly pointy ears, a mop of curly hair, and a cute turned-up nose.

‘ThatWouldBeAnOlympicRecord!’ he whispered. ‘WouldItStillCountIfItWasWindAssisted?’ Fergus talks so fast, there’s no time for gaps between the words. He was giggling so hard, his curls were actually shaking. Frau Leibowitz ignored us.

‘You may use your dictionaries,’ she squeaked. Then she sat down and started to mark a huge pile of papers.

We found the passage. The first sentence was: ‘
Eine Fahrt mit der Eisenbahn kann ich beim besten Willen nicht als Reise bezeichnen
.’ I feel really sorry for the Germans. Their language sounds like a house being demolished. I’m glad I’m not doing French, though. Two of the other classes in our year group do French. You have to make really disgusting sounds in French. As if you’re wrestling with phlegm.

Chloe and I were sharing the book, which enabled us to conduct a simultaneous written conversation on some rough paper. Although Frau Leibowitz is weedy and timid, nobody actually messes about much in her lessons, because if she gets any trouble she sends people to Irritable Powell straight away. That’s Mr Powell, Head of Year. His shouting can cause actual cracks in concrete.

‘How about Henry Lovatt?’ I wrote.

‘No!’ Chloe scribbled in reply. ‘Terrible teeth. Impossible to snog without serious injury.’ Chloe herself has slightly goofy teeth, so I guess this is a factor in her choice of boys. It would be terrible to be separated for ever by matching overbites, your tongues waggling helplessly in mid-air.

‘Robin Elliott?’

‘Sweat smells like Camembert cheese.’

Chloe started to translate the German passage, so I thought I’d better have a go, too.

‘I’d like to ask Gus MacDonald,’ Chloe wrote five minutes later, ‘but he is rumoured to have a tartan penis.’

That did it. A laugh burst out of me: a truly disgusting snort. Frau Leibowitz looked up crossly.

‘Zoe!’ she said. ‘Pliss stop being schtupid!’

‘Sorry!’ I said, wiping my nose with a very ragged tissue from my pocket. ‘It was a sort of sneeze gone wrong.’

Frau L ignored this and went back to her marking. I began to browse through the German dictionary. I looked up buttocks. It was
Hintern
. I looked up green. It was
grün
. I looked up polka dots. They weren’t in the dictionary. It was a shame, because I was planning a slightly amusing sentence about Chloe’s bum.

We walked home with Fergus and Toby. They were arguing about football. Chloe pulled her football face. She’s really pretty with masses of freckles, dramatic green eyes, and a wild bunch of red hair. But when she pulls her football face (eyes crossed, tongue lolling out sideways) she manages to look like some primitive life form which has just crawled out of a swamp.

‘If you say one more word about sport,’ she warned the boys, ‘we won’t ever share our crisps with you again.’

Predictably, they laughed in an infantile way as if she’d said something obscene. Chloe was right about boys our age being toddlers. The boys went on ahead, still arguing about a missed penalty.

‘I think you were a bit harsh about Henry Lovatt,’ I said to Chloe. ‘OK, his teeth are sort of very much out there, but he is kind.’

‘Kind?’ said Chloe, looking puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘We were in the cafeteria once,’ I said, ‘and I couldn’t find a place. And he gave up his seat for me. OK, he had sort of finished, so he was going to get up anyway, but he got up kind of quickly and smiled at me.’

‘Oh my God!’ said Chloe, grinning. ‘You must be married at once, before people start to talk.’

‘What’s the goss then, girlz?’ asked Toby, waiting for us up ahead and pouting cutely. He puts on a camp voice most of the time, and he does a hilarious impression of Sharon Osbourne. Toby’s plump and smiley. His hair is flicked up in a series of cute little wisps and his eyes are huge and blue. He has lovely rosy cheeks covered with blond down, like a peach, and his lips are big and rubbery.

‘Mind your own business,’ said Chloe sniffily.

‘It’sBrilliantIt’sBrilliant!’ said Fergus. His voice goes even more squeaky when he’s excited. Chloe once said Fergus is like a cartoon character, which suits him perfectly.

‘What is brilliant?’ Chloe asked.

‘We’veGotThisBrilliantIdea!’ said Fergus. ‘We’re GonnaBringABlow-upDollIntoSchool, DressItInSchool Uniform, FillItWithHeliumAndLetItOffInAssembly. It’llLike
Fly
RoundTheHall!’

‘God, I can hardly wait,’ I said drily. ‘And where are you going to get the helium?’

‘eBay!’ yapped Fergus.

‘You are sick idiots,’ I said, but with genuine affection. ‘Why don’t you get a life? Learn to play chess, or bandage the legs of old women in Africa, or something?’

‘In my gap year,’ said Toby, ‘I’m going to bandage legs like there’s no tomorrow. Only they’re going to be rich legs. Old ladies in Vegas. I’ll give them a massage and a manicure, and they’ll be fighting over me. I’m gonna be married by the time I’m twenty – to a gorgeous ninety-year-old millionairess.’

At this point we turned a street corner, not far from the infamous Dolphin Cafe where, when we can afford it, we hang out after school. A couple of sixth-form guys were strolling towards us: Donut Higgs and Beast Hawkins.

Donut’s real name is Phil, but everyone calls him Donut because he’s such a lard. His head is shaved and his face is like a potato, complete with scabs and hairy warty bits. His breath smells of sick. Apart from that, he’s a real babe-magnet.

As for Beast, he’s a big muscular rugby player with long greasy black hair, strange magnetic grey-green eyes, and a reputation for complete depravity.

As they strolled past us, Beast winked at Chloe. They don’t ever talk to us but sometimes Beast gives us a horrid grin or something. Once they’d gone past, Fergus and Toby started to make howling noises. This is traditional with Beast. Everywhere he goes, people howl like dogs.

‘Let’s hear it for Beast Hawkins,’ said Toby. ‘He’s an animal!’ And he threw back his head and yowled.

‘OneOfYouTwoShouldMarryHim,’ gabbled Fergus. ‘ThenYourKidsWouldBeHalfHumanAndYouCould SellYourStoryToThePapers.’

‘You idiot!’ said Chloe with a nervous giggle. ‘I wouldn’t ever even soil the sole of my shoe by
walking over
Beast Hawkins. He’s half in prison already.’ But then something slightly strange happened. She blushed.

I noticed, because I’m very interested in colours. I know everybody’s interested in colours, sort of, but I’m obsessed by them in a deranged kind of way. Chloe’s complexion is normally porcelain-pale, apart from the freckles. Most redheads are like that.

But for a few seconds after the mention of Beast Hawkins, Chloe’s face went an interesting shade of pink. Not shrimp pink, not shocking pink, not shell pink – oops, sorry, I mustn’t let myself get carried away. Anyway, she blushed. I decided to mention Beast Hawkins later, sort of casually, and see if she blushed again.

Fergus and Toby didn’t notice, of course. They had found an empty drinks can lying on the pavement and had reverted to football. They were competing, as they walked along, to see who could kick an empty can furthest along the pavement. There was quite a lot of jostling, which Toby mostly won, as he is large. But Fergus was small and nippy and darted in and gained possession of the can several times.

‘Why do boys do that?’ I asked.

‘It’s biology,’ said Chloe. ‘My mum says males are programmed to storm about doing violent things to the environment.’ Chloe’s mum is a bit of an old hippie, and she loves the environment a lot more than she loves Chloe’s dad. He’s hardly ever at home. He works in Dubai, which suits Chloe’s mum just fine.

‘Men!’ I sighed. ‘Our only hope is to round them all up and sterilise them.’

‘Yes!’ agreed Chloe. ‘We’d have to save a bit of sperm, obviously, to continue the race.’

‘Ben Jones’s?’ I suggested, with a massive Jonesian sigh.

‘Ben Jones’s, obviously,’ said Chloe with another, even bigger sigh.

‘I know he’s only in our year,’ I said, ‘but we could ask him to escort us to the Earthquake Ball.’

‘Dream on, Zoe,’ said Chloe sadly. ‘There’s a waiting list right around the block just to be spat on by Ben Jones. And you know he never goes to anything with anybody. Except that stupid Mackenzie.’

‘Perhaps they’re
lovairs
,’ I said in a seductive French accent.

‘Well, if they are, all I can say is, lucky old Mackenzie!’ said Chloe.

At this point we reached my house. It’s completely ordinary. The front garden has a couple of bushes and some gravel. My mum sometimes refers to this as ‘the shrubbery’ and she gets very cross when people throw crisp packets over the wall.

‘Hey, guys!’ I called to Fergus and Toby, who were still wrestling and kicking over possession of the dented can. ‘Wanna come in for a coffee?’

‘NoThanks!’ said Fergus. ‘Dan’sGotANewGame!’

‘Yeah,’ said Toby, ‘we’re going to destroy the universe for a couple of hours over at his house.’

They went off, still kicking the can. Chloe watched them for a moment, thoughtfully.

‘We so
can’t
go to the Ball with Toby and Ferg,’ she sighed. ‘Which is a shame, because they’re really sweet guys. But they’re like, totally and utterly
not
Ball material.’ She was right.

I opened the front door and immediately smelt coffee. That meant Dad was home. I just hoped he wasn’t wearing
those
trousers.

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3

FRIDAY 4.30 p.m.

Dad gives v. bad advice . . .

‘Hi, parent, I’m home!’ I yelled, waltzing into the kitchen. There was a faint distant growl from upstairs. Dad was evidently up in his study writing. He designs computer programs, although his actual full-time occupation is drinking cups of coffee.

Luckily Chloe and I could talk undisturbed because my mum hadn’t come home yet. She travels around being a hotshot executive. It’s something to do with insurance. I wish my parents had more romantic jobs. If only Mum was Editor of
Vogue
and Dad was some kind of celebrity TV chef. Or an actor. That would be so cool. People would come up to me in school and say, ‘I saw your dad being abducted by aliens on TV last night. He’s got such charisma!’

There was a note on the table in Dad’s handwriting:

MRS NORMAN RANG: CAN YOU BABYSIT ON SUNDAY?

My heart sank. The Norman twins are terrifying. OK, they’re only pre-school, but already homicide is their main interest. I dread being alone with them, and as often as possible I take Chloe along as back-up. However, their parents pay well and I was saving up nicely for our summer trip to Newquay. Already I had £137.

‘Babysit with me on Sunday,’ I pleaded. ‘It’s those little monsters down the road.’

‘Hmmmn, possibly, OK,’ said Chloe. We are both terrified of the Norman twins, but if I had Chloe by my side at least they wouldn’t outnumber me.

‘OK,’ I said, getting a couple of cans out of the fridge, ‘first, let’s make a list of the boys who are way, way out of our league, just fantasy figures.’

‘What’s the point of that?’ sighed Chloe. ‘We’d just be torturing ourselves.’

‘All the same,’ I insisted, ‘Let’s just put them down, at the top of the list. Under, er,
“Boys to Die For”
. Oliver Wyatt and Jack Bennett?’

‘I’ve gone off Jack Bennett,’ said Chloe. ‘I told you about the peeing. I never, ever want to see my husband in the loo. It would be unbearably foul.’

‘Well, put Oliver Wyatt down,’ I insisted. ‘I haven’t gone off him, and I’m sure he pees with style and grace.’ Briefly I went into a kind of dream in which Oliver swept me up on his white horse and galloped off towards a glamorous castle where I just knew he was going to kiss me for hours by a log fire, with owls hooting outside. ‘I wish I was aloof and mysterious, like Oliver,’ I sighed.

Chloe smiled to herself, and wrote:
Oliver Wyatt: not available, as he is too grand for girlfriends
. ‘I don’t understand what you see in him, Zoe,’ she said.

‘Charisma?’ I suggested.

‘Hmmm.’ Chloe frowned. ‘Charisma? I don’t think so. He’s just tall and quiet, really. You might as well date a lamp-post.’

A little flicker of annoyance went through me. OK, I love Chloe to bits, but she knew she shouldn’t ever diss Oliver.

‘How about Beast Hawkins?’ I suggested, with a sudden bitchy flash of inspiration. Well, she deserved it.

‘Beast!’ exclaimed Chloe. ‘Ugh! Horrid! He should be on a list of Boys Who Are Half-Human.’ And then she blushed! Again!

‘You fancy him!’ I yelled. ‘You do! I saw you blush!’

‘I do not!’ Chloe screamed. ‘Ugh! Ugh! He’s unbearably gross!’

I grabbed the pencil and drew a heart with an arrow through it. On one side I put ‘Chloe’ and on the other, ‘Beast’.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Chloe was laughing hysterically, and trying to rip the pencil out of my hand. It went flying across the room. Then she grabbed the paper, screwed it up, and tried to force it into my mouth. ‘Eat your words, Morris!’ she cackled hysterically.

At this point my dad came downstairs. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t be wearing the burgundy shirt and the jeans that are too young and too tight, but of course he was. He appears when he’s hungry, although all the time he’s working up in his study, he’s snacking for England on cheese and biscuits and cups of coffee. I jumped up and gave him a hug.

‘Love you, Dad!’ I said. ‘But I’ve told you before: those jeans are a mistake!’ I spend hours with my big sister, Tam, leafing through fashion mags and trying to work out which Armani suit would make Dad look like a million dollars.

‘Listen, Zoe, I’m a style disaster,’ said Dad. ‘Get over it. Hi, Chloe!’

Chloe greeted my dad rather politely. She’s a bit shy of him, probably because her own dad’s away so much on business, she doesn’t have much practice at Dad Talk.

‘Guess what, girls,’ said Dad, ‘I just did a quiz on the Internet. Apparently, I’m officially obese. So I’m going on a diet, starting tomorrow.’

He ripped open the fridge door and looked inside, drooling. My dad is one of those parents who think they have to entertain children. This is fine, and even delightful, until the child is about ten. Then, the cringing starts.

‘What sort of day did you have at school?’ he asked, feasting his eyes on a cold chicken.

‘Fine, OK,’ I said, assuming he was addressing us rather than the dead hen. ‘How about you?’ I have to say this, otherwise apparently it’s not polite.

‘Terrible writer’s block all day,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve been watching daytime TV, snacking every five minutes and doing quizzes on the Internet.’

‘What’s your latest project?’ asked Chloe politely.

I prayed.
Please, God, don’t let Dad get started on his work
.

‘It’s about Computational Physics and Physical Chemistry,’ he said.

Chloe and I groaned in stereo.

‘Don’t say any more about it, Dad,’ I begged. ‘Like,
ever
.’

‘Sorry you’ve had a crap day, though.’ Chloe frowned. She was only being polite, of course. When I go to her house I’m polite in the same way when her mum, Fran, launches into a passionate account of her struggles with the zodiac.

‘It’s awful, Zoe,’ she said to me last week, ‘I can’t get the right colour curtains, because I’m an air sign and Chloe’s a fire sign, so we’re totally incompatible. I want pale gold curtains, but Chloe needs to be surrounded by red.’

‘Tragic!’ I sympathised. I didn’t dare tell her that red and gold were both totally wrong, in fact her whole curtain project was doomed, and she should dump the lot at a jumble sale and invest in pale, latte-coloured linen. (Tam and I spend hours reading Mum’s interior design mags, too.)

‘Yes, my work sucks,’ said Dad thoughtfully, ogling a chocolate mousse. ‘I’m thinking of getting a job in a shoe shop. You staying to supper, Chloe?’

‘Er – not if it’s chicken, sorry,’ said Chloe. She’s a very picky eater.

‘How about nachos?’

‘Sorry,’ cringed Chloe. ‘I don’t like Mexican food.’

‘How about fishcakes?’

Chloe looked deeply disturbed. ‘Er . . . I can’t eat fish, sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m allergic to it.’

‘Oh really?’ said Dad, tearing his eyes away from the fridge for a moment and staring in fascination at Chloe. ‘What happens if you eat fish, then?’

‘Don’t ask, Dad!’ I yelled. ‘It’s disgusting! Just let Chloe have some beans on toast or bread and jam and cereal. That’s all she ever eats, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Dad, turning back to his beloved food. ‘Fine, OK.’

‘I
do
like chocolate, Zoe,’ said Chloe almost indignantly, as if I’d done her a major injustice.

‘The rest of us are going to have spaghetti,’ said Dad, getting out a chopping board. ‘Zoe, lay the table. Mum’ll be back in half an hour.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s on the train.’

‘Well, I can’t lay the table yet,’ I objected. ‘We haven’t finished our list.’

‘What list is this?’ asked Dad.

‘It’s hopeless,’ said Chloe. ‘We’ve only got a week to find a couple of boys to take us to the Earthquake Ball. Most of the boys we know are horrible and nerdy, and the few who aren’t are way out of our league and already bagged.’

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Dad light-heartedly. ‘You could put up a postcard on the supermarket noticeboard. Or hire a couple from an escort agency. Or go to a football match and recruit a couple of hooligans. OK, that’s sorted. Now get off the table! I’m going to chop onions.’ He switched on the radio and searched for onions all over the kitchen, while listening to the news.

‘My God! Your dad’s so right!’ hissed Chloe. ‘He’s so brilliant – honestly, you are lucky. My parents are rubbish by comparison.’

‘He was being ironical,’ I told her.

‘No, no!’ whispered Chloe. ‘Your dad’s right. We should think laterally. OK, all the boys we know are nerds or out of our league. But what about all the boys we
don’t
know?’

‘Oh. I see . . . yeah,’ I mused. ‘There must be a couple of boys somewhere in this city who are, like, tolerable.’

‘And it’s our job to find and fascinate them,’ said Chloe. ‘Before they’ve had time to realise how nerdy
we
are.’

‘It’s a challenge, all right,’ I said. ‘But I fear we have no choice.’

‘It’s either that,’ said Chloe, ‘or go to the Ball alone and needy.’

‘I’d rather swim a mile through sick than go to the Ball alone,’ I shuddered.

‘OK, then,’ Chloe whispered. ‘After supper we go up to your room and draft an ad.’