On the Bright Side, I'm Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God Page 11

  The slimiest wet weed who shall remain nameless (Lindsay) is captain of the team. Erlack . . . well I will not do anything that she says. In our pre-match talk she said, “So remember to watch me for instruction, and when you get into any kind of shooting position, watch for me to come and take on the shot.”

  Oh yeah, dream on, wet and weedy one. With a bit of luck someone will knock her stick insect legs from under her. I am not saying I want her to be badly injured, just badly enough that she has to go away to a convalescent hospital somewhere in Europe for a year or two. Thank you, Buddha. (You can see how I am not taking poo lying down.)

  2:50 p.m.

  Cracking match. I was playing a stormer, even if I say so myself. Zipping up and down the pitch, hitting the ball up to the forwards. Excellent passing! I was like David Beckham apart from the hockey stick and skirt and three pairs of huge knickers. Although who knows? Posh Spice may insist he wears sensible snug knickers in the wintertime. She is a very caring person. But quite thin.

  halftime

  no score

  3:15 p.m.

  Rosie, Ellen, Jools, and Mabs are like cheerleaders. They have made up this song which goes, “One—two—three—four, go, Georgia, go!”

  I said to them as I came off, “It doesn’t rhyme,” and Ellen said, “Well, it’s too nippy noodles.”

  Brrr. I went into the loos to run my hands under the hot water tap. Oh no; the Bummer Twins had got Nauseating P. Green cornered in the changing-rooms. She was blubbing. They didn’t even look round when I came in. Jackie was saying, “So, Snitcher, what did you tell Lindsay about us knocking off school?”

  Nauseating P. Green was trembling like a huge jelly elephant. “I . . . I . . . didn’t say . . . anything. . . .”

  I thought I should shout at her, to help, “Tell them about your hamsters, P. Green, that will bore them to death and you can run off.” But I looked at Jackie’s big arms and thought I wouldn’t bother.

  As I was going out again the Bummers started shoving P. Green against the loo doors. Oh bum, bum.

  Alison said, “We don’t like snitchers . . . do we, Georgia?”

  I said, “Oh, they’re all right, I . . .”

  Jackie shoved P. Green so hard that her glasses flew off. That did it. I could no longer be the Bummer Twins’ armchair. I said, “Leave her alone now.”

  Jackie looked at me. “Oh yeah, big nose, what are you going to do about it?”

  I said, “I’m going to appeal to your niceness.”

  She laughed and said, “Dream on, Ringo.”

  I said, “Yes, I thought that might not work, so this is plan two.”

  Actually there wasn’t a plan two, I didn’t know what I was doing. I was like a thing possessed. I leaped over to them and grabbed Jackie’s fag packet out of her hand. Then I ran into the loos with it and held it over the toilet. I yelled, “Let her go or the fags get it!”

  Jackie was truly worried then and had a sort of reflex action to save her packet of fags. Alison came toward me as well, leaving Nauseating P. Green trembling by herself. I shouted, “Run like the wind, P. Green!!!”

  She picked up her glasses and just stood there, blinking like a porky rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. Good grief! I tried to give her confidence. “Well, not like the wind, then, but shuffle off as fast as you can.”

  Eventually she went off and I was left to face the Bummers. I charged past them shouting, “Uurgghhhhgghhh!,” that well-known Buddhist warrior chant. I chucked the fags out of the packet onto the floor. When I looked back as I dashed out of the door they were scrabbling around picking them up. I raced out on to the pitch for the second half to a big cheer from the ace gang. I thought I may as well enjoy the game because the Bummers would be killing me immediately after it was over.

  I noticed there were a few boys gathered at the opposition end of the pitch. One of them cheered when I ran on. Probably Foxwood lads. They sort of appeared any time there was the least hint of knicker flashing. Or nunga nunga wobbling. I don’t know how they knew, or had found out we were playing today. Probably Elvis Attwood got on the tom-toms in his hut and drummed out a message to let them know there was a match on. He was lurking around pretending to be busy, wheeling his wheelbarrow. There was never anything in it. Anyway, let the lads look at my nunga nungas if they want! Let my nostrils flare free. Let my waddly bottom waddle; what did I care? I was going to be dead anyway when the Bummers got hold of me.

  4:10 p.m.

  Victory! Victory!!!!! We won one-nil. It was a close match considering we were playing such a bunch of wets. One of their team blubbed when I accidentally hit her on the shin with my stick. I wonder if all the times I have been savaged by Angus have made me immune to pain? Anyway, it was a nil draw until the last few minutes. I raced up the wing and found myself in the opposition’s penalty area. The ace gang were going, “Georgia, Georgia!” And then our so-called captain Wet Lindsay shouted from the left side, “Pass it to me, number eight!”

  You know like in the movies when everything slows down and it’s in slow motion? Well, I had that. I saw Wet Lindsay’s face and her thin stupid legs and I thought, Hahahahahahaha! (Only really, really slowly.)

  I kept the ball myself and raced for goal with it. I dribbled past one opposition player, then another. Tripped. Picked myself up, nipped the ball through someone’s legs. The crowd were cheering me on. They were going BERSERK! Then there was the goalkeeper. Good grief, she was a giant! But I feinted to one side of her and got past. Then there was just the open goal. I whacked the ball and scored!!! . . . as Lindsay tackled me savagely from behind.

  4:30 p.m.

  Wet Lindsay tried to pretend that she had been “helping” me. Huh. Very likely . . . not.

  Miss Stamp wanted Elvis to carry me to the sick bay but he said he had an old war wound and brought his wheelbarrow out on to the pitch. He said, “Get in. One of your mates will have to wheel it because I hurt my back serving this country.”

  Oh yeah. I said to Jools, “His back has probably seized up because he sits on his bottom all day.”

  Rosie wheeled me to the sick bay but I still couldn’t walk even after the sadistic Adolfa Stamp had strapped up my ankle. While she was kneeling down in front of me bandaging it all my so-called mates were behind her doing pretend snogging. The Hollingbury girls didn’t even bother to get changed. They just shook hands really quickly and got on their coach.

  I hopped about a bit after I was strapped up but it was aggers. In the end Elvis said reluctantly that Rosie and Ellen and Jools could push me home in the wheelbarrow. Cheers, thanks a lot.

  Elvis went grumbling back to his hut, saying, “Make sure you bring it back tomorrow . . . it’s my own private equipment and shouldn’t by rights be used for school business.”

  His own private wheelbarrow. How sad is that? Sensationally sad, that’s how.

  We set off, wheeling along. It wasn’t very comfortable in the barrow and there was the suggestion of something brownish in one of the corners. But I was being all brave and heroic as I was the heroine of the hockey universe. And attractively modest. For a genius.

  When we got to the school gates Dave the Laugh was there. He had been one of the lads at the match. He has seen my gigantic bottom hobbling around on the pitch! Closely following my gigantic schnozzle, bobbling around! OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.

  He was laughing like a loon as we squeaked up to him in Elvis’s wheelbarrow. Then he got down on his knees and was salaaming and chanting “We are not worthy” to me.

  He said to Rosie and Ellen and Jools, “Let me push the genius home.” And as he pushed me along he sang that really crap song by that band that Dad thinks he looks like the drummer from. The song was “We Are the Champions.” The ace gang joined in really loudly. Everyone was looking at us as we went down the High Street. I don’t suppose shoppers often saw anyone in a wheelbarrow. They probably had very narrow lives and traveled around by car. Or moped.

  Dave the Laugh kissed me when
he left me at my gate. In front of everyone! And he said, “Byebye, beautiful. See you soon. Let me know how the ankle is. I’ll bring you pressies.”

  When he’d gone the girls went, “Aaaahhh.”

  Ellen said, “He really is quite cool-looking. Has he done that nibbling thing again? I quite fancy the sound of that.”

  But he is just a Herring. We must not forget this.

  6:15 p.m.

  Mum was quite literally ecstatic about my ankle. She just left me in the wheelbarrow outside the front door and got on the blower immediately. I could hear her talking to the doctors’ receptionist.

  “Yes, it really does seem quite bad. No, no, she really can’t walk at all. Yes, well thank you.”

  Libby came trailing out with scuba-diving Barbie and got in the wheelbarrow with me. She gave me a big kiss. Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister, but I wish she would wipe her nose occasionally. When she kisses me she leaves green snot all over my cheek.

  Mum came outside and said, “The doctor will pop round after surgery, Gee. Will you just lend me your mascara? I’ve run out.”

  I said, “Huh, it’s just one-way traffic in this house . . . if it was me, if the shoe was on the other boot, if I said, ‘Mum, can I just borrow. . .’”

  She wasn’t listening. She called from indoors, “Hurry up, love, just get me it.”

  I yelled, “I can’t walk, Mum! That is why the doctor is coming to see me. That’s why I came home in a wheelbarrow.”

  “You don’t have to walk. Just hop out of the barrow and up the stairs and get the mascara.”

  Hop hop, agony agony, hop hop.

  Why was I hopping around getting things for my mother who only wanted them so that she could make a fool of my father? (The answer to that question is I didn’t want her poking around in my room. She might come across a few things that weren’t strictly mine, things that in a word were—er—hers.)

  I hopped into her bedroom and said, “It is pathetic and sad. You are trying to get off with a young doctor and my poor vati is coming home to a—a—facsimile of a sham!”

  She just tutted and went on primping. She said, “The trouble with you is that trivial things are really serious to you, and stuff you should care about that is serious, you don’t.”

  I said, hobbling off, “Oh very wise. Is that why you are stuffing yourself into things that are quite clearly made for people a)—smaller than you and b)—several centuries younger than you?”

  She threw the hairbrush at me. That’s nice behavior, isn’t it? Attacking a cripple.

  7:00 p.m.

  Doctor home-wrecker arrived. He strapped up my ankle again and gave me painkillers. I said, “I suppose that is my hockey career over. Do you think that perhaps I have weak ankles because of my diet?”

  He laughed. He had a good laugh, actually.

  Mum said, “Can I get you a coffee, John?”

  John? John?

  Mum went off into the kitchen and I heard her say, “Take Angus out of the fridge, Libbs.”

  “He likes it.”

  “He’s eaten all the butter.”

  “Teehhheeeeeheeee.”

  7:15 p.m.

  I hobbled up to my room and played moody music really loudly as a hint. It was ages before the door slammed. I looked out of my bedroom window. I could see John going off in his quite cool car.

  7:45 p.m.

  Lying on my bed of pain. Well, it would be if I could feel my ankle.

  Mum popped her head round the door. She was all flushed. “How is the ankle?”

  I said, “Fine if you like red-hot pokers being stabbed in you.”

  “That’s my little soldier.” She was humming.

  Brilliant; a week before my dad gets back my mum starts a torrid affair with a doctor.

  8:00 p.m.

  Mind you, I would get tip-top medical priority.

  8:30 p.m.

  He might be able to get me a good deal on my nose job.

  9:00 p.m.

  I must get revenge on Wet Lindsay.

  10:00 p.m.

  I wonder how the Bummers will kill me?

  10:10 p.m.

  Why is the Herring so nice to me? What is wrong with him?

  wednesday october 11th

  school

  8:30 a.m.

  Mum made me hobble to school. Unbelievable. She said a bad ankle didn’t stop me learning things. I tried to explain to Mum that it would be just a question of hobbling in to be killed by the Bummer Twins, but she wasn’t interested.

  I made Jas wheel the wheelbarrow as I hopped along with a crutch. The Foxwood lads had a field day with us, shouting, “Where’s your parrot?” and so on.

  Jas had perked up enough to say, “I wonder how the Bummers will kill you?”

  She sounded quite interested. She’s only cheered up because Tom is finally coming home.

  I managed to keep out of the Bummers’ way for the morning but eventually at lunchtime the fatal moment came. The Bummers cornered me in the loos. I tried to hobble off but they blocked the doorway. Here we go. Well at least death would solve the Dave the Laugh situation.

  Jackie just looked at me. She said, “Fancy a fag?”

  What were they going to do, ritually set fire to me?

  Jackie put a fag in my mouth and Alison lit it. Jackie said, “Cool,” and Alison said, “Good call.” And then they just went out.

  What in the name of pantyhose did that mean? Why hadn’t they duffed me up?

  I hobbled over to the mirror to see what I looked like smoking. Quite cool, actually. I sucked my nose in. I definitely looked a bit Italian.

  Out of the corner of my mouth I said, “Ciao, bella.”

  But sadly smoke went up my nose and I had a coughing extravaganza.

  I can’t believe life. As I was having my coughing fit Lindsay walked in and booked me for smoking in the loos. I saw the Bummer Twins sniggering in the corridor.

  Great. Stacking gym mats for the rest of the term. Elvis passed by and when he saw me hobbling and heaving mats around, he laughed.

  4:00 p.m.

  Left school limping along next to Jas. I think it’s quite attractive if you like Long John Silver. I said to Jas, “You know, I think I am going to give up on boys altogether—tell Dave the Laugh it’s over, forget the Sex God, and just concentrate on lessons and so on. I might ask Herr Kamyer to give me extra lessons.”

  “He’d have a spasm to end all spasms if you did.”

  I said, “I think I might be over the Sex God anyway. When I saw him pick up Wet Lindsay in his car, that did it for me. Anyone who can go out with someone with no forehead and sticky insect legs, and . . . er . . .”

  “Goggly eyes?”

  “Yeah, goggly eyes. Anyone who can do that has got something very wrong with them. You know, if he asked me out now I would say n-ung.”

  I meant to say “no” but that was when I saw him leaning against his car. The Sex God. Oh don’t tell me he was waiting for Wet Lindsay. Pathetic! Très pathetic and très très sad.

  I hobbled past him. He wasn’t so very gorgey. Well actually, yes, he was. He was a Sex God. Really. He looked me straight in the eyes and I went completely jelloid. In fact, my other leg nearly gave way. He half smiled and I remembered what it was like to be attached to his mouth. Somehow I kept hobbling. We’d got past him and I was feeling all shaky when he called after us, “Hi, Jas, all right? Seen my kid brother yet? Georgia, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Ohmygodohmygod. Was this an elastic band moment? Jas was just goosegogging at my side. I said, “You walk on, Jas. I’ll catch you up.”

  She said, “Oh it’s OK, I’m not in any hurry. Anyway, you might fall over and lie for ages with no one to help you. Like a tortoise on its back or. . .”

  I opened my eyes really wide at Jas and raised my eyebrows. After about forty years she got it and walked on.

  Robbie said, “Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, but . . . well . . . I’d just
like to tell you something . . . I’m really, really sorry about what happened between us . . . I handled it really badly, I know. She, you know, Lindsay, just was like, so upset, and you were so young and I couldn’t . . . I didn’t know what else to do. I thought I’d be going away soon and that would just sort things out . . . but then I was at the match.”

  God, was there anyone in the universe who hadn’t seen my huge wobbly bottom and enormous conk bobbling around the hockey pitch?

  SG was going on in his really sexy voice, “. . . and I saw how Lindsay deliberately hurt you . . . and I . . . I’m sorry. I’ve caused a lot of trouble and you’re a really nice kid . . . Look, I’ll . . .”

  Then I heard, “Robbie!”

  Wet Lindsay was walking over toward where we were and I just couldn’t handle anymore. I hobbled off.

  5:00 p.m.

  Ohgodohgodohgod. I love him, I love him.

  He thinks I am a kid.

  It’s all a facsimile of a sham.

  He was at the match. He saw my giganticus pantibus.

  But he still spoke to me.

  Oh I don’t know.

  Why does he still make me go jelloid?

  6:00 p.m.

  Dave the Laugh had left me a card at home which said, One-legged girls are a push-over. Love Dave xxxxxx. And some chocolates. Oh GODDDDDDD!!!!

  saturday october 14th

  11:00 a.m.

  I am a horrible person. I have dumped Dave. I had to. It was really double poo. I thought he was going to cry. He turned up at my house with some flowers because of my injury. He is so sweet and it didn’t seem fair to lead him on. I explained that he had only really been a red herring.

  2:30 p.m.

  Phoned Jas.

  “He said I was a user and, er . . . something else . . .”