It's a Girl Thing (5 page)

“Spike, tell me it's not true. Don't do this without me,” Fleur pleads toward her Wall of Spike poster area, just behind her headboard.

Spike smiles down a perfect-toothed grin at Fleur, as if to say, “Sorry, mate, you know I love the LBD, but the money for playing Astlebury is amazing. Don't worry, though, I've heard that Walrus World, Penge, is very nice this time of year.”

Fleur and I sit in silence for about ten minutes, staring into space, while Claude reads quietly, cuddling Larry into her bosom.

“Prrrrrrrrrr prrrrrrrrrr prrrrrrrrr,”
purrs Larry.

“Well, I'm glad somebody is happy!” huffs Fleur.

“Oh, c'mon. Things aren't that bad,” snaps Claude. “It's nearly summer vacation,” she chirps.

“Same miserable life, just hotter,” snaps back Fleur.

We all sit in silence a bit longer. Eventually Fleur speaks.

“So, what excuse did your mother trump up to ban you from Astlebury?” she asks Claude.

“Mmm, well . . . I didn't really ask in the end . . . ,” Claude mumbles.

“YOU DIDN'T ASK!” Fleur and I shout, hurling assorted teddy bears and pillows in Claude's direction.

“There was no point! Mum didn't let my big sister, Mika, stay out all night till she was almost seventeen. You know what my mother is like. She likes us all at home, present and correct. She doesn't even like pajama parties, in case some freak accident happens.”

Claude isn't exaggerating, her mum is really protective. I think it's because there's only the three of them.

“Oh, dar-link . . .” Fleur laughs, being about as patronizing as a girl bleaching her mustache can manage.

“Your sister, Mika, stayed out at sixteen . . . therefore . . . the international rule of the younger sister is to push back that boundary to fourteen! You are so lame,” mocks Fleur.

Claude looks slightly hurt.

“Well, fat lot of good that rule did you, huh? Are Joshua and Daphne not both older than you? And remind me again where you're going to this summer? Oh, that's it. NOWHERE,” Claude eventually snaps back.

Hmmmpgh,
I think to myself,
I really wish I had a flipping big sister or brother . . . or a younger one for that matter . . . or anyone to take the heat off me at home.

I've tried complaining about my tragic only-child status to the LBD on many occasions: It gets me precicely nowhere.

Fleur always points out that for the last fourteen years of her life, the most meaningful interaction that's occurred between herself and Joshua, her seventeen-year-old big brother, has been when he farts into his hand, shoves it in her face, then runs off laughing like a drain. Fleur's nineteen-year-old big sister, Daphne, however, is certainly someone more to be proud of. She's taking a year off before university to work in Nepal, which is like a total adventure. Some of Daphne's friends have probably even been eaten by lions and trampled by elephants, which is really cool in a morbid way. Well, it is for me. I live a low-excitement life in only-child solitude. It's a big deal in my family when the Fantastic Voyage gets a new-flavored box of potato crisps in.

“You could have AT LEAST asked!” nags Fleur.

“Well, none of us are going anyway, so it makes no difference!” screams Claude, eventually losing patience.

“And I've got no boyfriend now either,” moans Fleur, checking her phone again, hopefully. “I've got nothing to look forward to. Not even Blackwell fete.” Fleur's bottom lip is really wobbling now.

“That music festival was going to be the highlight of my whole life,” she sobs.

Okay, Fleur has a point here.

“Well, fine!” shouts Claude. “But if we want to see some live music, and we want to meet some live music fans . . . and we're not allowed to leave the city limits apart from on supervised walrus fact-finding missions . . . why don't we stop feeling sorry for ourselves and DO SOMETHING proactive and positive about it?”

“Like what?” sulks Fleur.

“Well . . . why don't we put on our own little music festival? You know, like in place of Blackwell fete?”

Claude sits back on the bed, looking very pleased with her idea.

We both stare at her in utter disbelief.

“Huh?” grunts Fleur after about thirty seconds. “And who would play at this festival?” she mocks. “Spike Saunders? Or will he be busy that day?”

“No, not Spike Saunders,” says Claude firmly. “But Jimi Steele's band are pretty good. Aren't they, Ronnie?!”

“Er . . . yeah, they're great,” I say, remembering the time they played a few songs in assembly and Jimi wore a tight T-shirt that showed off his perfect brown six-pack and slightly outy belly button. I'm warming to Claude's idea now.

“Er, and what about Catwalk, Panama Goodyear's group?” Claude continues.

“Oh, God, they're so popular. They sing and dance and everything,” I say, rolling my eyes.

Catwalk, in case you've not heard of them, are a Year 11 pop group made up of the irrefutably beautiful Panama plus four of her equally jaw-droppingly perfect-looking chums: two boys and two girls. In Panama's spare time, when her diary isn't too hectic with essential school-bully duties or bragging about her modeling career, she's working on her destiny as an international pop starlet. No end-of-year party or school gathering is complete without a quick number or five from Catwalk. Panama's group started as a little after-school project; before we all knew it, they were set to conquer the world.

“We've had a lot of interest about our music from some important people,” Panama always brags to anyone who will listen.

“Yeah, like the Noise Pollution Department at the Town Council,” muttered Claude after sitting through another all-singing, all-dancing presentation. What Catwalk lack in actual talent, they more than compensate for in cute looks and designer wardrobes. I hate to say it: Lots of people really really love them.

“Yep, the Blackwell crowd love Panama's band, they'd be a definite to play,” I admit.

“Tell you who I'd like to see,” cheeps Fleur, surprisingly up-beat for a girl who thinks Claude's idea is poo. “Ainsley Hammond's band Death Knell. I've no idea what they do, but apparently it involves an electric guitar, a steel drum and a glockenspiel.”

“Interesting!” Claude smiles, putting her and Fleur's quarrel behind them in seconds, in true LBD fashion.

“And if they're the Blackwell bands that we know about, there's bound to be more that we don't know about,” says Claude triumphantly. “We could hold auditions.”

“Ha ha, good idea, Claude . . . ,” says Fleur.

We can all sense a “but” coming.

“But . . . how on Earth are we going to convince old Prozac McGraw to let us hold a music festival in his school grounds? That's impossible, isn't it?” Fleur says, furrowing her pimple-free brow. “The bloke loathes music, hates his pupils, doesn't like crowds of people and isn't very keen on any type of fun at all!”

“Ah, Fleur.” Claude smiles mischievously, rubbing the top of Larry's furry head until he almost explodes with pleasure. “Why don't you just leave our good friend Mr. McGraw to me?” She chuckles.

Chapter 3

So it's 9:25 and I've just arrived at double science.

It's the fresh dawn of another of “The Happiest Days of My Life,” which is how Mum refers to Blackwell School as she's prodding me out the door every morning.

I find this description ironic in view of Granny informing me that Mother was a terrible truant back in the 1980s, who only attended lessons if chased there “with a swishy stick.” Nevertheless, despite being extra snug as a bug in a rug under my duvet earlier this morning, plus one very good go at feigning glandular fever, I'm here at my bench, eager to embark on some vital Bunsen burner and pipette action.

This is more than can be said for Mr. Ball, our science teacher.

Eventually, at 9:35, following a good gossip with Fleur and Claude about which shoes we might buy next term (to heel or not to heel? That is the question), the door to the science lab creaks open and the upper half of Mr. Ball's body swings into view.

Ball's forehead is all wrinkly, he looks confused.

“Er . . . have I got you lot now?” Ball asks, peering at his watch.

“No, sir,” lies Liam Gelding.

“Oh? . . . Right. Sorry,” says Mr. Ball, closing the door again.

Through the windows we can see Ballsy disappearing off along the lower school's main corridor on the trail of his lesser-spotted science class. All thirty-two of Ball's pupils dissolve into sheepish giggles. It's got legs, Liam's little joke, it's run and run since first year. It doesn't take much to confuse Mr. Ball, so the kids tend to have a little fun at his ditzy expense.

You see, if you needed to know about quantum physics, or the lowdown on moon landings or man's evolution from an ape, Mr. Ball is the right man to ask, he'll truly wow you with his big scary-scientist brain capacity; however, ask Mr. Ball which class he's teaching next period or even where he parked his car that morning, well, now you've got him bamboozled.

I like Mr. Ball, though, it's good to be a bit ditzy, I reckon. “You're evil, Liam Gelding!” hisses Claude, shaking her head, trying not to smile. “Go and chase up Ballsy and tell him he's got us until ten thirty-five.”

Liam Gelding, with his pale green eyes, brown cropped hair and rather sexy silver earring, has, for some bizarre reason, become a whole heap more attractive and fragrant this term; however, at this precise moment he's spoiling the effect slightly by excavating his left nasal cavity with his finger. Liam's desperately trying not to meet Claudette's eye as he knows she's absolutely right.

“And he'll be in the admin office getting a right roasting off Edith now too . . . she was exceptionally irate when I was passing by her hatch this morning. Poor bloke,” nags Claude.

Liam gazes straight ahead, his index finger buried almost near to the knuckle.

“And he was off sick with flu last week as well,” Claude adds in a melodramatic way. “He must feel terribly weak.”

Liam's willpower is cracking, he begins to stand up.

“Okay! Okay! Cassiera, you win! I'll go and get him.” He laughs.

It's incredible how readily the boys cooperate with Claudette's wishes ever since she sprouted that stupendous C-cup bosom.

Too late, however. Mr. Ball has returned, he must have found his timetable. Mr. Ball, I always think, looks a touch like a scientific teddy bear: He's short and plumpish with a furry beard, a tufty mustache and an abundance of chest hair, which creeps from the top of his creased white lab coat. None of Mr Ball's lab coats quite fit; the top three buttons are traditionally left unfastened, displaying several unattractive inches of graying string vest. As ever, Mr. Ball is completely unfazed by Liam's little gag.

“Are you guys Year Nine or Year Ten?” he asks, still not quite up to speed. “Year Nine!” we all chorus.

Ball grabs the exercise book belonging to one of the kids on the front bench and flicks to the last written page.

“What were we doing last time we met?” he inquires. “Crystals or locusts?”

“Crystals,” we all shout.

The locusts, lazing about in their cages at the rear of the lab, breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“Ahhh, I know where we are now!” announces Ball, a broad smile breaking through his beard. We all give him a little cheer and round of applause.

Quickly, Mr. Ball springs into action, gathering all the class, including me, Fleur, Claude and Liam, around the demonstration bench to watch his latest trick.

Now, last time, as far as I can recall, we were distilling some light blue—or, hang on, it could have been dark green—fibers in a conical flask with some other sort of white powdery stuff.

I think.

Then . . . after heating the contents of the flask, we discovered that the clear liquid (I didn't quite catch its name) that Mr. Ball dropped the fibers into had changed color. It turned either blue or green.

(I'm not quite sure which.)

Mr. Ball's experiment proved without doubt that . . .

Oh, God, I'll admit it: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS PROVED. I wasn't listening. I'm not even listening this time either, despite the fact that Mr. Ball seems to be frothing-at-the-mouth excited about the formation, over the previous seven days, of turquoise crusty bits on the sides of his conical flask.

“This chemical reaction,” Mr. Ball announces, “denotes something very very interesting indeed!”

In truth, I'd be more interested hearing Mr. Ball explain how I have now been sitting in science for what seems like over four hours while the clock on the lab wall still insists on reading 9:51.

I really wish I could like science, but it really doesn't float my boat at all. It didn't seem to matter in Year 7 and 8, but now I can feel that I'm slipping behind and I don't even know how I could begin to catch up. What do I do?

If I tell Mr. Ball, he'll just make me do extra science tuition, which is like signing up for extra medieval torture or something. He might even make me go and sit in Room 5 in the “special tuition” center, which isn't something anyone wants to be seen doing. Liam Gelding had to go to Room 5 for English and maths for a while last year, then when he came back afterward to join us for his other lessons, everyone in the class would sing, “Special needs, special needs, spesssshhhhel needs!” to the tune of that old song by the Beatles “Let It Be” until Liam's face flushed scarlet.