On the Bright Side, I'm Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God Read online

  9:10 p.m.

  Looking out of my window. I can see Mark, the boy with the biggest gob in the universe, going off to town with his mates. I went out with him for a fortnight and was going to dump him but he dumped me first because this other girl Emma let him “do things to her.”

  People are out there having fun. I hate that. I haven’t got any real friends—as soon as a boy comes along they just forget about me; it’s pathetic.

  I could never be that shallow.

  I wonder if the Sex God is having second thoughts about me because of my nose?

  9:15 p.m.

  Jas phoned. Tearing herself away from Tom for a second. She said, “Have you told your mother you are not going to Kiwi-a-gogo yet?”

  “No, I try but she takes no notice. I told her that it is a very important time for me as I am fourteen and poised on the brink of womanhood.”

  “On the what?”

  Jas can be like half girl, half turnip. I said, “Do you remember what our revered headmistress, Slim, said at the end of summer term? She said, ‘Girls, you are poised on the brink of womanhood, which is why I want to see no more false freckles painted on noses. It is silly and it isn’t funny or dignified.’”

  “False freckles are funny.”

  “I know.”

  “Well why would Slim say they weren’t?”

  “Jas.”

  “What?”

  “Shut up now.”

  9:30 p.m.

  I’ve got Libby, her scuba-diving Barbie doll, which has arms like steel forks, and her Thomas the Tank Engine all in my bed. It’s like sleeping in a toy box only not so comfortable. Plus Libby has been making me play Eskimo kissing. It has made my nose really sore. I said, “Libby, that’s enough Eskimo now,” but she just said, “Kwigglkwoggleugug,” which I suppose she thinks is Eskimo.

  What is the matter with my life? Why is it so deeply unfab?

  10:00 p.m.

  Looking at the sky outside my window and all the stars. I thought of all the people in history and so on who have been sad and have asked God for help. I fell to my knees (which was a bit painful as I landed on a plate of jam sandwiches I had left by my bed). Through my tears I prayed, “Please, God, let the phone ring and let it be Robbie. I promise I will go to church all the time if he rings. Thank you.”

  midnight

  So much for Our Vati in Heaven. What on earth is the point of asking God for something if you don’t get it?

  Decided to buy a Buddha tomorrow.

  1:00 a.m.

  As time is short it might be all right to ask Buddha for something before I actually invest in a statue of him.

  I don’t really know how to speak to Buddha. I hope he understands English. I expect, like most deities, it’s more a sort of reading your thoughts job.

  1:30 a.m.

  Because I haven’t been a practicing Buddhist for long (half an hour) I’ll restrict my requests to the essentials.

  Which are:

  (1) When I suggest to Mum that she leaves me behind to look after the house, she says, “Of course, my darling.”

  (2) The SG rings.

  1:35 a.m.

  I’ll just leave it at that. I won’t go into the nose business (less of it and more sticky up) or breast reduction requests, otherwise I will be here all night and Buddha may think I am a cheeky new Buddhist and that I’m only believing to get things.

  tuesday july 18th

  10:00 a.m.

  My room . . . soon to be a shrine to Buddha. Unless God gets his act together. Birds tweeting like birds at a bird party. Lovely sunny day. For some. I can see the sunshine glancing off Mr. Next Door’s bald head. He’s playing with his stupid yappy little squirt dogs. Just a minute, I’ve spotted Angus hanging about in the potting shed area. Oh-oh, he looks a bit on the peckish side, like he fancies a poodle sandwich. I’d better go waggle a sausage at him and thereby avert a police incident.

  How in the name of Mr. Next Door’s gigantic shorts am I supposed to be a Buddhist with these constant interruptions? I bet the Dalai Lama hasn’t got a cat. Or a dad in New Zealand. (I wonder if the Dalai Lama’s father is called the Daddy Lama?)

  10:02 a.m.

  I amaze myself sometimes because even though my life is a facsimile of a sham I can still laugh and joke!!

  10:36 a.m.

  What is the point? Mum just laughed when I told her about looking after the house and told me to go and pack.

  midday

  Even though it is quite obvious I am really depressed and in bed Mum comes poking around being all efficient and acting as if life is not a tragedy. She made me get up and show her what I had packed for Whangamata. She went ballisticisimus. “Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, eyelash curlers, two bikinis, and a cardigan?!”

  “Well I won’t be going out anywhere as I don’t like sheep and my heart is broken.”

  “But you might wear your bikini?”

  “I’ve only packed that for health reasons.”

  “What health reasons?”

  “Well, if I can’t eat anything because of my heartache, the sun’s rays may keep me from getting rickets. We did it in biology.”

  “It’s winter over there.”

  “Typical.”

  “You are being ridiculous.”

  That’s when all the pain came raging out of me. “I’m being ridiculous!!??? I’m being ridiculous??? I’m not the one who is dragging someone off to the other side of the world for no good reason!!”

  She went all red. “No good reason? It’s to see your dad!”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Georgia, you are being horrible!” And she stormed off.

  I feel a bit like crying. It’s not my fault if I am horrible. I am under pressure. Why can’t Dad be here? Then I could be horrible to him without feeling so horrible.

  It’s not easy having an absent dad, that’s what people don’t realize. I am effectively (apart from my mum and grandparents, etc.) an orphan.

  1:00 p.m.

  Libby crept into my room carrying a saucer of milk really carefully. She was on her tippy toes and purring. I said, “You are nice, Libbs. Just put it down; Angus is out hunting.”

  She very slowly and on tippy toes brought the saucer over to me and put it on my desk. She put her little hands on my head and started stroking my hair. My eyes filled up with tears. I said, “If I can’t be happy in my life I can try and see that you have a nice life, Libbs. I will give up all thoughts of happiness myself and be like your Buddhist nurse. For your sake I will wear flat shoes and those really hideous orange robes and . . .”

  Then Libby started pushing my head quite roughly down toward the saucer of milk. “C’mon, Ginger, come on. Milky pops.”

  She’ll make me sleep in a cat basket soon. Honestly, I think it’s about time she started kindergarten and mixed with normal children.

  It takes twenty-four hours to fly to New Zealand.

  6:00 p.m.

  Uncle Eddie roared up on his prewar motorbike. He’s come round to collect Angus. How can I live without the huge furry fool? How can he live without me? No one else knows his special little ways. Who else will know that he likes you to trail his sausages around on a string so that he can pounce on them from behind the curtains? Who else will know about mouse racing?

  Not Uncle Eddie; that’s for sure. He came in wearing his motorbike leathers, took off his helmet, and said, “How’re you diddling?”

  Why Mum thinks anyone as bald and barmy as him could look after an animal I don’t know. Anyway, it’s irrelevant what anyone thinks as he will never in a zillion years catch Angus and get him in a basket.

  6:30 p.m.

  I don’t think I could be more sad. We are going to be away for months: I will miss all my friends; I’ll lose the Sex God. My hockey career will be in ruins. Everyone knows the Maoris don’t play hockey. They play . . . er . . . anyway, we haven’t done New Zealand in geoggers yet, so I don’t know what they do. Who cares?

 
; 6:35 p.m.

  Time ticking away. It’s like waiting to be buried, I should think. Or being in R.E.

  Phoned Jas. I wanted to know if Tom had heard anything from the Sex God, who happens to be his older brother, but I didn’t want to let Jas know that I wasn’t interested in her life. So I asked her a few questions first.

  “Hi, Jas, how are you and Tom getting along?”

  She went all girlish and giggly. “Well, do you know, we were just laughing so much because Tom said that he was in the shop the other day and . . .”

  “Jas, did he mention anything, you know, interesting?”

  “Oh yeah, loads.”

  Pause—she drives me INSANE!

  I said, “Like what?”

  “Well, he was thinking of suggesting that they start selling more dairy products in their shop, because—”

  “No, no, Jas, I said interesting—not really, really boring. Has he, for instance, mentioned his gorgey older brother?”

  Jas was a bit huffy but she said, “Hang on a minute.” Then I heard her shouting, “Tom! Have you spoken to Robbie?”

  In the distance I heard Tom shouting downstairs, “No, he’s gone away on a footie trip.”

  I said to Jas, “I know that.”

  Jas shouted again, “She knows that.”

  Tom shouted, “Who knows that?”

  “Georgia.”

  Then I heard Jas’s mum shouting from somewhere, “Why does Georgia want to know about Robbie? Isn’t she off to New Zealand?”

  Jas shouted, “Yes, she is. But she’s desperate to see him before she goes.”

  I said to Jas urgently, “Jas. Jas, I wanted to find out when he’s back; I didn’t want to discuss it with your street.”

  Jas went all huffy. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “Well don’t.”

  “Well I won’t, then.”

  “Good.”

  There was a silence. “Jas?”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not helping.”

  I’m going to have to kill her.

  “Ask Tom when Robbie is due back.”

  “Huh. I don’t see why I should, but I will.” She shouted up again, “Tom, when is Robbie back?”

  Jas’s mum yelled, “I thought he was going out with Lindsay?”

  Tom yelled back, “He was, but then Georgia and him got together instead.”

  Jas’s mum said, “Well, Lindsay will be very upset.”

  This was unbelievable.

  Tom yelled back again, “Tell Georgia he’s not back again until late Monday.”

  Monday! By that time I would be being bored half to death by Maoris. I tried to be brave so that I wouldn’t upset Jas. “I know I can joke about it and everything but I have fancied Robbie for so long. And it’s not just because he is in The Stiff Dylans. You know that. It’s a whole year since I started stalking him. It was so groovy when he kissed me, I thought I would go completely jelloid and start dribbling. Luckily I didn’t. And I think he will forget about that chunk of my hair snapping off, don’t you?”

  There was this clanking noise and then Jas said, with her mouth full, “Hello? Hello? What were you saying? I just went and got myself a sandwich while Tom was shouting at you.”

  Qu’est-ce que le point?

  7:30 p.m.

  Jas is dead to me. Like in the Bible, when somebody goes off and becomes a prostitute or something. She is now the girl who has no name.

  And Buddha has failed me.

  9:00 p.m.

  Phone rang. I leaped downstairs.

  It was Rosie, Ellen, Jools, and She Who Has No Name calling me from the phone box at the end of our road. Rosie said in a fake robot accent, “Bring self to phone box.”

  I put on some mascara and lippy so that no one would know about my broken heart. Not that it made the slightest difference to Mutti and Uncle Eddie—they were too busy trying to trap Angus.

  He’s lurking on top of my wardrobe. I know he’s got a few snacks with him because he dropped a piece of mackerel on my head when I passed. He’ll be happy up there for hours. Serve them right if they can’t find him.

  I don’t want to be rude to the afflicted but Uncle Eddie is bald in a way which is the baldest I have ever seen. He looks like a boiled egg in leather trousers. Once he came round and after he and Mum had had their usual vat of wine he fell asleep in the back garden facedown. So I drew another face on the back of his head. In indelible pen. He got his own back, though, by turning up to a school dance on his prewar motorbike and asking all my mates where I was because he was my new boyfriend.

  Still, that is life for you . . . one minute you are snogging a Sex God and have got up to number six on the snogging scale without crashing teeth. The next minute you are made to go to the other side of the world and hang out with Kiwi-a-gogos. Whose idea of a great time is to sit in mud pools and eat toasted maggots. (This is true as I have been reading a brochure about Kiwi-a-gogo land and it says it in there.)

  Oh pig’s bum!! Or as our French friends say, Le grand bum de le porker!!!

  9:30 p.m.

  When I got to the phone box the gang were all in there. They squeezed open the door and Jools said, “Bonsoir, ma petite nincompoop.”

  Once I was in we were all squashed up like sardines at a fish party, Rosie managed to get a hand free and give me one of those photobooth photographs.

  “We brought you a present to remember us by.”

  It was a picture of her, Jools, Ellen, and the girl with no name (Jas), only they had their noses stuck back at the tip with Sellotape so that it made them look like pigs with hair.

  On the back it said, GRUNTINGS from your mates. STY in touch. This is a PIGTURE to remember us by.

  It made me feel a bit tearful, but I put on a brave face. “Cheers, thanks a lot. Good night.”

  We had to get out of the telephone box because Mark from up the road came to use the phone. He just looked at us as we all struggled out. He really has got the biggest mouth I have ever seen. I was lucky to escape from snogging him with my face still in one piece.

  He said, “All right?” in a way which meant, “All right, you lesbians?”

  What do I care, though? My life is over anyway.

  We all walked back to my house arm in arm. I wouldn’t link up with Jas though because she has annoyed me. Uncle Eddie must have got Angus into the cat basket because the gardening gloves he was wearing were lying in the driveway with the thumbs torn off.

  We all hugged and cried. It was awful. I’d nearly got to the door when Jas sort of threw herself at me. She couldn’t speak because she was crying so much and she said, “Georgia, nothing will be the same without you . . . I . . . I love you. I’m sorry I ate my sandwich.”

  wednesday july 19th

  dawn—well, 10:00 a.m.

  Phoned my dearest friend Jas who loves me.

  It must have been a fleeting emotion because what she said was, “Look, Gee-gee, I can’t talk really because I am on the dash to meet Tom. Dig you later, though. Ciao for now.”

  . . . Ciao for now? I wonder if she has finally snapped? Nobody really cares about me. No one wants you when you are in trouble; no one is interested when you are not the life and soul of the party. I may have to try to make it up with God again at this rate.

  2:30 p.m.

  I don’t care what happens. I am not going to New Zealand. Not. Definitely. They will have to carry me onto the plane. Or give me knock-out drugs.

  That is it. I am not going.

  3:00 p.m.

  I am not speaking to Mum but as she has gone out shopping (again) she probably hasn’t noticed.

  3:19 p.m.

  Sitting by the phone and using telepathy to make it ring. I’ve read about it a lot—it’s where you use your willpower to make something happen. In my head I was saying, “Ring, phone!” and “The phone will ring and it will be Robbie . . . by the time I count to ten.”

  3:21 p.m.


  “OK, the phone will ring and it will be Robbie by the time I count to a hundred . . .”

  3:30 p.m.

  “. . . in French. By the time I count to one hundred in French the phone will ring and it will be the SG.” (God, Buddha, or whoever it is that deals with willpower, will respect that I am making a bloody huge effort by counting in a foreign language.)

  Everything really is sheer desperadoes and in tins. In two days’ time I will be on the other side of the world and the Sex God will be on this side of the world. And what is more I will be a day ahead of him. And upside down.

  3:39 p.m.

  I’ve got an appalling headache now.

  While we are on the subject of French, why in the name of Louis the Fourteenth did Madame Slack (honestly—that is her name) make us learn a song called ‘Mon Merle A Perdu Une Plume’? My blackbird has lost a feather?

  That will be a great boon and help if I ever get to go to Paris. I won’t be able to get a sandwich for love nor money but I will be able to chat to le French about my blackbird’s feathers.

  3:40 p.m.

  I really miss Angus already. He is the best cat anyone ever had. I can still imagine his furry head snuggled up in my bed. Bits of feather round his mouth. The way he used to bring me little presents. A vole, or a bit of poodle ear or something.

  3:41 p.m.

  How do you say my blackbird has had its legs chewed off by my cat? Mon merle a perdu les jambes . . .

  phone rang

  3:45 p.m.

  Thank goodness because I thought I was going to have to count up to a hundred in German and nobody wants that. (And besides, I can’t.)

  “It’s me, Jas.”

  “Oh . . . What do YOU want?”

  “I’ve just called to see how you are.”

  I said, “Dead actually; I died a few hours ago. Good-bye.”

  That will teach her. I’m not going to answer the phone if she rings back, either.