It's a Girl Thing (19 page)

So why do I feel sick? And why does it not feel all lovely and dreamy like it does when I've thought about it for an entire double science? Instead, I'm just feeling clumsy and frumpy and more than a little aware that my deodorant is doing me a disservice.

“Oh, hiya, Jimi,” I say. “Why are you following me home? Are you stalking me?” This was meant to sound funny, but it seems to come out a bit snarly.

What is happening to my head?

I feel like just cutting my losses and running off. Luckily, Jimi throws his head back and laughs.

“Yeah, I'm stalking you,” Jimi agrees. “I follow you home every night. I usually wear a beard, though.”

“Ahhh, I knew that was you,” I say, now trying to concentrate on walking casually. I'm holding my stomach in, sticking my meager bosom out and keeping my head tilted toward Jimi so he doesn't see my side profile and notice how enormous my schneck is. On catching sight of myself in a shop window, I realize I look like I've got a trapped fart, so I decide to walk normally instead.

“Okay, I wasn't really stalking you,” says Jimi. “But I
was
following you, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh, what?” I say, praying it's “I wanted to ask you if you fancy being my girlfriend as I'm totally crazy about you.”

But of course it's not, it's “I wanted to know if you'd let me into the function room in your pub? I think I left my Quiksilver hooded top in there after last week's practice.”

“Yeah, 'course you can,” I say, a bit disappointed this wasn't a lead-up to snogging. “Come and have a look now if you want. I've not seen it, though. I'd have thought the cleaner would have handed it in.”

“Hell.” Jimi grimaces. “I hope it's there, my mum only bought me it last week, she'll go schizoid if I've lost it.”

“Don't fret, we'll have a look anyway,” I say. “Our cleaner's useless, she's probably missed it,” I reassure him, silently thanking God that the cleaner HADN'T found Jimi's top. I don't know how I'd have explained it if we'd reached the pub and found it in my bedroom under my pillow, where I'd have no doubt been cuddling it like the big sap I am.

We carry on walking down Lacy Road in silence, both of us trying to conjure up something to say. Ironically, for a girl who talks and talks most days until she is quite sick of her own voice, someone whose school report every term reads, “A bright girl, but far too talkative”—suddenly I cannot think of a single thing to say.

Why does this happen every time I meet someone I really really fancy? I mean, I'm the daughter of a pub owner, for the love of God! It's in my flesh and bones to talk rubbish with strangers all day! But put someone like Jimi Steele in front of me, with his long eyelashes and aqua eyes and toned upper arms . . . and suddenly all my small talk disappears.

“Warm day today, eh?” I eventually say.

Oh, no. Three minutes of nothing, then I come up with an observation about the weather. I suck.

“Yeah, not half,” says Jimi, sounding quite relieved one of us has broken the silence. “It's hotter than yesterday, eh?”

“Yeah, boiling,” I say.

“Bit of a change from the rainy weekend, though, eh?” adds Jimi.

“Yeah,” I mutter.

Can you understand why I have no boyfriend now?

“So . . . Did you do anything special last weekend, then?” asks Jimi.

“No, I just . . .”

Oh my God, I can't tell him I watched TV in my bedroom with the curtains closed. Damn you, Dad, you were right! If I'd gone out and “made the most of the outdoors,” I'd have a good anecdote to share. Quick, Ronnie, make something good up!

“I . . . was planning Blackwell Live. You know, costing the festival out, that sorta thing. We're really busy at the moment.”

“Right, I can imagine,” says Jimi, flashing me an amazing smile, then sort of touching my elbow as he begins his next sentence. “Actually, I wanted to chat to you about that, you know, I just, er, wanted to say that I think it's really cool what you're doing. Like, total respect to you for getting around McGraw and sorting out the auditions and all that. . . .”

Jimi looks me straight in the eye as he says this, quite clearly meaning every word.

“Oooh, er, right,” I say. “Er, yeah, thanks. I mean, it's mostly Claude really, though, I just sort of help out where I can . . . ,” I say, wittering on and on and on . . .

I wish I could take a compliment without pointing out to the person giving me it why it isn't true. It's a really bad habit.

“Well, you
all
seem to be working hard to me, not just Claude,” Jimi corrects me, kindly.

“Cheers, Jimi, I suppose we are,” I say, with a lovely warm feeling spreading all over my body.

And after this, we chatter nonstop all the way home. In fact, I reckon Jimi Steele has got to be one of the easiest lads to speak to in the entire world. Over the course of the next hour, while we search for Jimi's hoodie, we chat about Blackwell School, and all the folk there that we do and don't like. And before I know it, I'm telling him all about this weird
feud
my mum and dad are having. About the silences interspersed with bickering, that sort of thing, and how it just makes me want to stay around at Fleur's.

It's weird how easy it feels to say this to Jimi. He just seems to understand what I'm saying, even without me giving loads of detail; but then he tells me all about his parents splitting up, twice, then getting back together.

“Both times we all thought it was forever . . . but it wasn't,” says Jimi, reassuring me a bit. “I reckon there's always hope. I mean, it takes a lot to really decide to split up forever, doesn't it?” he says.

I just say nothing. I'm not sure anymore.

“Well, I reckon it does,” Jimi continues.

At this point, I feel a lump growing in my throat, but I manage to stifle it. If Jimmy did, miraculously, want to snog me at this moment, I'd be a lot happier with a big hug and being told that “everything's gonna be fine.” I feel totally poo about all this Mum and Dad stuff.

And I tell him about how being an only child sort of annoys me (Jimi's got three older brothers and they annoy him too) and even about how I hate science (Jimi got thrown out of stream one for maths cos he couldn't do quadratic equations).

“Only weirdos like science and quadratic equations,” announces Jimi.

“Totally. I quite fancy a job as a street cleaner, actually,” I joke. “Who needs maths or science . . . or any exam passes, for that matter?”

“Not us, thank God,” Jimi says.

I even make him laugh, and I mean really laugh from the bottom of his stomach, loads of times too . . . and this is a ma jorly good sign when attracting the opposite sex, according to
Glamour
magazine.

By the time he leaves with his skateboard and red hoodie under his arm, I feel like I've just taken a crash course in being Jimi Steele's girlfriend. I've studied all the theory, all his little likes and dislikes, I'm now ready to move into the practical stage when he takes me in his arms and gives me a big snog.

But he doesn't.

He just says, “Oh, noooo! Is that the time? I said to my folks I'd eat dinner with them tonight. Gotta go, Ronnie, cheers for helping me find the sweatshirt . . . you're a star. See ya.”

And then he's gone.

And although we'd been talking to each other for ages, it was just like we'd been having different conversations all the time.

Chapter 8

“So what you're saying to me, essentially, is,” begins Fleur Swan, picking the salami off her Americano pizza and shoving it in her mouth, “is that you had Jimi Steele inside your house, all to yourself, for the best part of an hour—”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble.

“And you were chatting and laughing and telling each other your deepest, darkest secrets?”

“Mmm, s'pose.”

“And NOTHING happened after that? No snog? Not even a phone number swappage!?” Fleur is peering at me, shaking her head from side to side. “You're useless.”

Suddenly Fleur is distracted by a rather gorgeous Italian lad brandishing a bowl of Parmesan. “Ooooooh! Yoo-hoo! Gianni! Can I have some more cheese, please!” She giggles, batting her eyelashes.

Fleur always insists the LBD go to Paramount Pizza on the high street for the Saturday lunchtime buffet: not only is it “eat as much as you can for £4”; additionally, the owner, Carlos, employs all his Italian sons and nephews to wait on tables and throw pizza dough about. They do this clad in black silk shirts, tight trousers and lots of pungent aftershave. No wonder we're here today for our little Blackwell Live “business lunch,” as Claude keeps calling it.

“This pizza is wonnnnderful, Gianni,” says Fleur to the Italian hunk hovering by our table. “Did you make it?”

“Ah,
non,
my
va-ther,
Gianni Senior, is the chef today.” Gianni Junior blushes, hopping nervously from one foot to the other.

“Well, it's a really great pizza, make sure you tell your dad I said so,” continues Fleur.

“I will. And you make sure you come back again. I'm here next week too. Maybe you will be popping by, er . . . I no know your name?” ventures Gianni Jr. bravely.

“It's Fleur . . . and maybe I will!” she teases.

“Well, I hope you do, Fleuurrr,” says Gianni earnestly, turning on his heel to attend another customer.

“Good grief,” mutters Claude, staring at Fleur, then back at her untouched pizza. It's practically the first thing she's said since we sat down. “Could you two make it any more obvious you fancy each other? Why don't you have T-shirts made?” she mumbles.

Fleur ignores Claude completely.

“See, THAT'S how it's done, Veronica! You have to make things obvious. Pah. Let's face it, all these meaningful looks and little hints aren't getting you anywhere with Jimi, are they? Are they?”

“Well . . . not really.”

“Exactly. Right, I've got Jimi's phone number from the auditions. Let's ring him and get you a date,” Fleur announces, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.

“Don't you dare!!” I yelp, pulling it from her interfering hand. “Claude, tell her!”

But Claude is distracted, gazing at her sheet of figures, biting her lip. A frown creases her forehead.

“Claude! Fleur's going to ring Jimi! Do you think she should?” I say.

“Hmmm, well,” says Claude, glancing up at her squabbling pals, “if I thought that you getting a date with Jimi would shut the pair of you up talking about him, well then I'd say yes, but—”

“But what?” Fleur and I chorus.

“But whatever the outcome, you'll probably just blabber on about him even more . . . so I'm saying, both of you, SHUT UP, as I need to tell you something pretty bad about Blackwell Live.”

“Fair enough,” says Fleur, snapping closed her phone. “Go on, Little C, hit us with your worst.”

“What's up?” I say.

This sounds serious.

“I've messed up,” says Claude, her voice sounding a little choked. “I sort of assumed something before checking it out properly. And now I've found out the facts, and it's not good . . . I think we might even have to cancel Blackwell Live.”

Claude stares back at the sheets of paper again, her bottom lip wobbling.

“Claude, it can't be as bad as that. Tell us the whole story,” says Fleur, pushing away her pizza, placing her arm around Claude's tiny shoulders.

“Oh, I've been an idiot. I really have,” says Claude, gazing at us both. “You know that I said we needed a thousand pounds to cover our costs for Blackwell Live. Well, I assumed we could pay it later.”

“Yeah . . . and we can!” I say. “We'll make that cash back, no bother, won't we? We start selling tickets next Wednesday.”

“Well, yeah, but you see, the only company who will hire us all the equipment we need for July twelfth are Castles in the Sky, you know, the folk who usually help Blackwell with the summer fete?”

“The people who owned that bouncy castle that I destroyed with my stiletto heel?” says Fleur, wincing.

“Yep,” says Claude, trying not to cry. “But that wasn't the only thing last summer that got us in their bad books. I spoke to the boss, Cyril, this morning. Turns out there was lots of little breakages and spillages last year. Blackwell kids are just clumsy. So anyhow, Cyril won't let me reserve anything without paying the entire one-thousand-pound fee up front.”

“All one thousand pounds!!?” I gasp.

“Yes. The full whack,” says Claude. “I don't suppose you've got a thousand pounds, have you, Ronnie?”

“No,” I say, a little gobsmacked. “I've got £42.50 in my current account. That's not really any help, is it?”

“But we can give him it in a few weeks when the ticket money comes in,” argues Fleur. “Did you tell him that?”

“Yeah. I told him that,” assures Claude. “He wants it now.”

“What a pig,” I say, for want of anything positive to add.

“He's just covering his back, I suppose. We're a bit of a risk to get involved with, so he reckons anyway,” says Claude, being fair as ever.

“Hang on. I've got a little fund of cash my gran has put aside for me,” offers Fleur sweetly. “I'm sure that's more than a thousand pounds . . . ,” she says. “But actually I don't think I can have it till I'm aged twenty-one . . . oh, God, that's seven years away, isn't it?”