Mumnesia
Authors: Katie Dale
For Elizabeth Dale – my wonderful
mum and my best friend x
1 LUCYOMG, it’s official. Sharon hates me.
Why else would she ruin my life?
‘Lucy, I said no.’ Her frazzled bun bobs as she
shakes her head.
‘But, Sharon,’ I cry, jumping up from the kitchen
table, ‘that’s so unfair!’
‘No, it’s not.’ She glares at me as she
fills the sink with steaming water. ‘And don’t call
me Sharon. I’m your mother.’
‘Allegedly,’ I mutter, slumping in my seat and
scowling at her as I stab at the remains of my tasteless tofu
stew. Honestly, we’re so unalike I swear the only thing
I’ve inherited from her is my mousy-brown hair – and
I hate my hair! Why, of all the girls in my year, do I have to be
the one with an uber-uptight control-freak mum? Who thinks sunset
means bedtime, make-up and chocolate are mortal sins, and a
monthly book club is a social life? #AsIf
‘Please,
Mum
–’ I clear the table and
sidle up to her as she starts the washing up –
‘
everyone
else is going. Even Kimmy!’
Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘
Even
Kimmy? I thought she
was your best friend?’
‘She is,’ I grumble, scraping the scraps into the
bin. ‘When she has time. Which is
never
.’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘I’m not!’ I protest, dumping the dirty
dishes on to the counter with a clatter. ‘She’s
suddenly become this mahoosive fitness freak – playing
boring sports before, after and even
during
school,
leaving me by myself like Billy-no-mates!’ I hug my arms
tightly.
‘Well, just make some new friends,’ Mum says,
stacking clean plates on the draining board.
‘I’m trying!’ Like it’s that easy!
‘But if I don’t go to the ball, it’ll be
impossible! I’ll be left out of every conversation for the
rest of term!’
‘Don’t be such a drama queen!’
I grit my teeth. Why doesn’t she ever take me
seriously?
‘Maybe you should take up a sport too,’ she
suggests. ‘You could do with getting a bit more
exercise.’
‘Like dancing?’ I suggest, batting my eyelashes.
‘At a ball?’
‘No!’ Mum snaps. ‘Now, please, give it a
rest, Lucy. I’ve got a headache.’
‘So we can’t even
talk
about it?’
‘We have talked about it.’ She grips the
washing-up brush so tightly I think it might snap. ‘I said
no
.’
Like that’s fair.
I shove a slice of bread into the toaster and yank the handle
down roughly. She just doesn’t get it. The Black and White
Ball is a BIG DEAL. It’s all everyone at school’s
been talking about for weeks, plus it’s possible –
just possible – that Zak will be there. #Swoon
Just the thought of him cheers me up – his gorgeous
floppy black hair, his melted-chocolate eyes, that lovely
lopsided grin . . . Not that he’s ever smiled directly at
me. Or even
looked
at me actually, but every day I watch
out for him in assembly, hoping that our eyes will finally meet,
that I’ll actually get up the guts to talk to him.
But at a ball . . .
I can just imagine it. A disco ball sprinkling everyone with
swirling glittering lights, as a slow song comes on, our eyes
meet across the dance floor, he smiles, and—
Pop!
My toast jumps up, startling me from my daydream.
I cover it in thick, gooey chocolate spread – perfect
comfort food – but just as I’m about to take a bite,
Mum snatches it off me with her wet soapy hand. Gross!
‘No sugar before bed,’ she chides, dropping it
into the bin.
‘But, Mum!’
‘And stop sulking,’ she says. ‘It’ll
give you wrinkles.’
Like she can talk! But pointing out that she’s got
hundreds of wrinkles probably won’t help my case . . .
I take a deep breath. ‘Can I at least ask
why
I
can’t go to the ball?’
She looks away. ‘Well, for one thing you’re too
young.’
‘It’s a
school
ball!’ I cry.
‘
At school
. For schoolchildren. How on earth can I
be too YOUNG?!’
‘Lucy,’ she says, wincing.
‘Sorry!’ I’d forgotten about her headache.
Time for a new approach. I pick up a tea towel. ‘Here, let
me help.’
‘Thank you. But you still can’t go, Lucy.
It’s my weekend with you. I’ve made dinner
plans,’ Mum says, handing me some wet cutlery.
‘We have dinner together every day!’ I protest.
‘We just
ate
dinner together! Can’t we
rearrange it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? You’re so unreasonable!’ I moan,
shoving the cutlery into a drawer and slamming it shut –
forgetting it has one of those ‘soft-close’
mechanisms. #Fail
‘No, you’re extremely ungrateful!’ Mum
scolds, violently scrubbing a baking tray.
‘I’m not!’ I insist. ‘I’m happy
to go out to dinner – I’m happy to
pay
for
dinner on
any other day
! I’ll pay for my ball ticket
too!’
‘Oh really? With what?’
‘I’ll . . . get a Saturday job,’ I say.
‘Oh, Pumpkin, you’re only twelve years old.’
Mum smiles sympathetically as she picks up a saucepan.
‘You’re too young to get a job.’
‘Then I’ll ask Dad for an advance on my pocket
money.’
‘You will not!’ The pan clatters into the sink,
splashing suds everywhere.
‘He won’t mind!’ I argue. ‘He told me
if I ever need money just to ask, so—’
‘I said NO!’
OK, so maybe mentioning Dad wasn’t such a great idea. I
overheard them arguing on the phone earlier and Mum’s been
uber-touchy ever since. Which is weird, as they’ve never
argued much – even when they were getting divorced. Not in
front of me anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I was completely
gutted when they split up – and devastated when Dad moved
in with his blonde Aussie fitness-freak girlfriend, Irritating
Ingrid – but now . . . Dad seems younger somehow;
he’s out meeting new people, having fun – while Mum
just seems more stressed. I glance over at her, her grey roots
showing more every day, and I’m not sure which one looks
more tired, Mum or the shapeless baggy dress she’s wearing.
I swear it’s older than me, repaired to within an inch of
its life, like everything in her wardrobe. #FiftyShadesOfBeige.
She could do with some new clothes. She could do with some fun.
Like going to a
ball
, for instance . . .
‘Why don’t you come to the ball too? They need
chaperones,’ I suggest. ‘That way we could still
spend the evening together?’
‘You must be desperate.’ Mum raises an eyebrow.
‘I thought I embarrassed you?’
‘Of course not!’ I lie awkwardly. But having my
embarrassing mum there would be better than not going at all.
Just
.
‘What’s the big deal anyway, Lucy?’ Mum
asks. ‘Why are you so keen to go to this ball?’
Zak’s dreamy face dances in my mind.
‘Well . . . it’s just . . .’
‘Wait!’ Mum says suddenly. ‘Is this about a
boy
?’
My heart lifts. She
does
understand! ‘Yes! Oh,
Mum, he’s so—’
‘I
knew
it!’ she cries, throwing her hands
up and flicking grotty washing-up water all over me.
‘Pumpkin, you’re too young to have a
boyfriend.’
My heart plummets. ‘But you met Dad when you were my
age!’ #Hypocrite
‘That was completely different.’
‘How?’ I demand.
‘We were just friends at your age! We didn’t start
dating till we were much, much older. And neither will you. Boys
are too distracting.’
‘But Zak could
help
me with my schoolwork!’
I insist. ‘He came top in the maths challenge
and—’
‘Wait, Zak
Patel
?’ Mum turns.
‘Nina’s son?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Lucy!’ Mum’s eyebrows shoot up.
‘He’s two years older than you!’
‘So? Dad’s
ten
years older than
Ingrid!’ I retort before I can stop myself.
#UberHypocrite
‘I’m aware of that,’ Mum says quietly.
‘But he’s a grown-up. Allegedly.’ She brushes a
hair from my face with her soapy fingers. ‘And you’re
my little Pumpkin.’
‘I’m not a freaking
pumpkin
!’ I
protest, flinging down the tea towel, my blood boiling.
‘I’m not a child any more, but you can’t even
see it!’
‘You’ll grow up soon enough, Lucy.’
‘How?’ I exclaim. ‘How am I
ever
supposed to grow up if you won’t
let
me?! All my
school friends get space and independence and phones and freedom
– but not me! It’s so unfair, Sharon!’
‘I’ve told you, don’t call me that!’
she snaps. ‘I’m your mother!’
‘No, you’re my
dictator
!’
‘Lucy, this conversation is over! Go to your
room.’