Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers Read online

  As I didn’t respond, she went back to talking absolute bollocks to her sad mates. I don’t know what was keeping the ace gang, unless Ellen had had another dither attack and fallen down in the lavatory. Or maybe Jas was chatting about her fringe.

  I was unwrapping my lunchtime jammy dodger when I nearly fell off my chair. I could hear Lindsay whining on, whiney whine, and then she said, “Mas is having a great time in the States, he’s been gigging with a group in New York and—”

  What? What??

  I was interrupted by the gang arriving. They were all singing “My gosh I’m fit, but don’t I know it!” so loudly that I couldn’t hear anything else Wet Lindsay said.

  4:15 p.m.

  On the way home with Jas.

  “Jas, HOW could he be in touch with her? Did he phone her? Why? Why?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but he’s not…he’s not like your boyfriend, is he? And…”

  “Jas, I hope you are not going to try and be reasonable, because then I really will have to kill you.”

  bedroom

  Oh, no, I am once more on the rack of love.

  I must speak to the Hornmeister.

  Even if I show no pridenosity, I must know what he thinks.

  I can’t phone him now, though, in front of Mum. Why can’t I have a mobile phone???

  Oh goddy god god.

  5:00 p.m.

  Libby has got her “boyfwen” Josh with her. Even my little sister has got a boyfriend. She and Joshy went off into her room and I could hear them murmuring and singing together.

  Oh, I am so fed up.

  5:15 p.m.

  Mum is still pratting about; for once, when I wish she was out, she is in. Typico.

  She said, “Why are you mooning around? What are you up to?”

  Honestly.

  5:20 p.m.

  I can’t bear this tensionosity.

  Libby came in to my room to sing me a new song that she has learnt at kindy. I notice that Josh has quite a lot of lipstick on. She cleared her throat and then began singing in her little but very piercing voice; the tune is the same one as for “Sex Bum.”

  Quite quite delightful. She sang:

  “Bum oley, bum oley, arsey

  arsey bum bum.

  Poopoo and bummy bum

  bum arse!!”

  Yes, that is what my little sister is learning at her kindy.

  Songs about bottoms.

  5:30 p.m.

  I must speak to Dave.

  Libby’s back in for another round of “Sex Bum.”

  Oh good, Josh knows the words too.

  6:00 p.m.

  Mum had to quickly scrub Josh so that his mummy will let him play with Libby again. I don’t think Josh’s mum suspected anything when she collected him. But she hasn’t heard his lovely song yet.

  7:00 p.m.

  I HAVE to speak to Dave.

  Crept downstairs. Mutti and Vati and Uncle Eddie are in the front room discussing the clown-car convention. When I listened at the door I could hear them raving on.

  Vati was saying, “Apparently there is a Robin Reliant from the sixties that has its original wheel hubs.”

  And Uncle Eddie said, “I’ve packed my special comedy underpants.”

  Good grief.

  I girded up my loins and dialed Dave’s number. What if he was with Rachel? That would be the coup de poo.

  Oh, it’s ringing…maybe I should just…Then he answered the phone.

  “Dave?”

  “Bonsoir, it is he.”

  “I must ask you something.”

  “Is that you, Georgia? I’m afraid I never do phone sex. I think it cheapens things.”

  “Dave, please…”

  later

  Feel a bit better. Dave can be really nice in an annoying way. He is off to a club night tonight and Dom from the Stiff Dylans will be there, so he’s going to find out what he can about Masimo and Wet Lindsay.

  in my bedroom of pain

  9:30 p.m.

  Why can’t my life be simple?

  And happy.

  Tell me that, Jesus.

  I have rescued Jesus from Libby and replaced him on my dressing table. I’ve taken off the frock that Libby put on but I can’t get the rouge off. He looks like he has a bit of a holiday tan. When was the last time I had fun?

  Never, that’s when.

  I don’t think I will ever laugh again.

  in bed looking at the moon

  11:00 p.m.

  I wonder if Masimo is looking at the same moon as I am. Probably too busy thinking about Wet Lindsay to look at the moon.

  I read one of the many many books that Mum buys to try and make herself a better person—I think it was called I’m OK, You’re OK, But What If We Only Think We Are OK But We Are Not Really OK? Anyway, whatever it was called, it said in the book that men like blond girls with sort of baby faces because they think they are babies and want to look after them.

  Have I got a baby face?

  Looking in the mirror.

  Even when I was officially a baby and I did have a baby face you wouldn’t have known because my nose covered most of it.

  I pushed the tip of it back with my finger.

  Would boys like me better if I looked like a small pig with a bob?

  Who knows?

  Who cares?

  11:20 p.m.

  The fact is that Wet Lindsay has heard from Masimo and I haven’t.

  And not one single person on the planet cares. That is the point, really—who does care?

  If I just disappeared from the planet, who would really care?

  11:25 p.m.

  I bet if I committed suicide no one would notice for days. And then when I did get found they’d all be going: “Why did she do such a stupid thing? She was always so happy and cheerful and brave. She never complained.”

  They would never suspect the deep sadnosity that had tainted my life.

  11:30 p.m.

  They might if I wrote a note spelling it out even for the very very dim. I got a piece of paper and started a suicide note.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  I can’t go on any longer. Some people just cannot see beyond the superficial.

  Maybe noses shouldn’t count, but they do. It is tragic that you cannot pick your own nose.

  [Hang on a minute, that sounds a bit wrong, I’ll cross that out.]

  People may say I am a crazy mixed-up confused teenager. Maybe they are right. Maybe they are wrong. Who are they, anyway?

  I realize I am an embarrassment to you all. Grandad in particular has said this many times. But the fact is I am too sensitive for this life.

  Good-bye, I love you all.

  Georgia

  P.S.

  Don’t blame yourself, Dad. You have learned to live with your nose; I can’t.

  I could imagine them all at my funeral. People crying, looking at the photos I had enclosed in the suicide note envelope. In particular that really nice one that Jas took of me in my groovy leather skirt and boots. My mum gazing at the photo and crying and saying, “But she was BEAUTIFUL. So beautiful, why didn’t she realize it??” A woman coming up and saying, “I am from a modeling agency…. Why, oh why did no one tell me about this girl? She is the most photogenic girl I have come across in all my long years of talent hunting.”

  Them gazing at me in my coffin and crying…as they tried to force the coffin lid down over my nose!

  Merde.

  saturday may 21st

  9:30 a.m.

  Rereading my suicide note. I could kill myself now so as not to waste the note.

  I can’t really be bothered, though. I’d have to get out of bed.

  What is the point of going to Hamburger-a-gogo land? Or even thinking about Masimo if he isn’t interested in me and likes Old Thongy?

  Anyway, what could I commit suicide with?

  There aren’t any pills lying around the place because Mum and Dad are just too cheerful to bother getting any. And I’m not tr
ying anything else, because it might hurt.

  I could play really really sad music to get me in the mood.

  Mozart or something.

  I haven’t got any of that.

  Vati has got some old Elvis records that might count.

  10:00 a.m.

  Cor. Shut up, Elvis, going on about not having a wooden heart.

  10:30 a.m.

  Anyway, there is so much noise coming from the bathroom, how I am supposed to concentrate on being depressed?

  Vati is giving Angus a bath in preparation for our holidays.

  I can hear him yelling, “Right, that’s it, it’s no use struggling, Angus my friend. You are going in that bath for a good scrub. You smell like a dustbin.”

  The phone rang but no one answered it, of course, so I dragged myself downstairs.

  It was Dave. Ohmygiddygod.

  He said, “OK, this is the deal.”

  At which point there was an enormous splash from the bathroom and my vati started shouting and swearing like the lunatic he is. “Buggering bastard bollocking bloody…bugger!!!”

  Dave said, “What in the name of arse is going on?”

  I was just about to apologize for my father, when he appeared at the bathroom door absolutely soaking. He had obviously fallen in the bath.

  He looked at me and said, “Don’t say a bloody word.”

  It was vair and thrice times vair amusant. I didn’t laugh, though, because a) I might be heartbroken and b) if I am not I might still want to go to Hamburger-a-gogo.

  I whispered to Dave, “My vati has just been bathing Angus with a firm hand, but sadly he has fallen in the bath himself.”

  Dave said, “I love your house. Anyway this is the deal. Masimo, the well known Italian homosexualist—”

  “Dave…”

  “Anyway, he sent a postcard to Dom and a couple to the other lads in the Stiff Dylans, and they all seem to have the same theme—you know, like, ‘I am a flash Italian git on my holidays’ type scenarios. Dom told Lindsay about the gigging in New York and so on. In my Hornmeister opinion you are in exactly the same position as you were yesterday.”

  Thank you, thank you, God.

  I said to Dave, “Oh, fanks, Dave. You are indeedy a pal of the first water.”

  “And sexy beyond words.”

  “And…sexy beyond words.”

  11:15 a.m.

  Phoned Jas.

  “Jas, he didn’t get in touch with Thongy, he just sent a postcard to Dom, and Wet Lindsay pretended that he had got in touch with her!!! Hahahahaha, how pathetico she is. Hasta la vista, baby!!!”

  I slammed down the phone so that Jas couldn’t spoil my mood by rambling on about Hunky.

  Oh, I luuurve life!

  And the Italian Stallion.

  And I quite like Dave the Laugh.

  In a laughy way.

  If I have time in between snogging I may send him a postcard.

  12:10 p.m.

  Ditherspaz attack on the clothes front.

  I said to Mum as she came in to hand me some clean “panties”: “I have not got one single thing to wear.”

  She didn’t even bother to reply, she just looked meaningfully at my two cases, one of which I was sitting on to try and make shut.

  12:20 p.m.

  Maybe one set of boy entrancers will be enough to last me the week? That would save a bit of space.

  12:24 p.m.

  Nope, I still can’t shut the lid of one of my suitcases. Vati has relented and let me take two cases, but he will have a nervy b. if I ask for another one.

  Maybe I can make do with just eight pairs of shoes?

  Oh, the tension, the tension.

  12:30 p.m.

  There’s a horrible scratching and banging against my bedroom door. Angus is doing his paws thing under the door. Oh God.

  I said, “Go away, Angus, this is a cat-free zone.”

  I’m not having him in here dropping his bat ears and so on on my clean things.

  12:45 p.m.

  He will not go away. If I didn’t know better I would say that he sensed we are going away. This is driving me insane. Now Gordy is putting his paws under the door as well.

  I got up and opened the door. Gordy was on his back wriggling around with his pretend mouse pal, but Angus was just sitting there looking at me with his tongue lolling out.

  And foam coming out of his mouth.

  Honestly.

  The foam was frothing all over his face and dripping onto the carpet.

  My God, he has got rabies!

  1:00 p.m.

  It turns out that Angus has eaten his bath-soap.

  2:00 p.m.

  Hurrah hurrah and total result, Grandvati has given me twenty squids for my holidays.

  Vati said, “Oh well, that is a score less I have to give you.”

  Is he mad?

  I said to Mum, “Mum, that’s not fair, is it? I mean…it means that Grandvati hasn’t really given me twenty squids. No, what it means is this: Grandvati HAS given me twenty squids out of his little tiny tiny pension-type money and Dad has STOLEN it from him. And another thing…”

  2:15 p.m.

  Relentless moaning strikes again!!!

  Vati yelled at me, “Go on, then. Go and waste the money, just don’t give a second thought to the hours it takes me to make the stuff.”

  I said, “Okeydokey, I won’t.”

  As I went out of the door to go and spendies my squids I said, “S’later, Mum. I don’t know whether to get another mood ring or a piercing.”

  I slammed the door before my father could explode.

  6:30 p.m.

  Two new eyeshadows and a flavored lip gloss. I wonder if Masimo likes strawberry flavor. I’ve got raspberry as well. Maybe I should mix them for that fruit cocktail–type snogging experience. Perhaps I should have got some custard flavor lip gloss as well. Shutup, brain.

  7:00 p.m.

  Loon village at my house.

  Jas has come round to stay overnight. Her eyes are like little piggie eyes because of the “Bye-bye, Hunky” scenario. What a great laugh NOT she is going to be. I’m sure she will perk up, though, when we are driving through Hamburger-a-gogo and she gets the smell of bucking broncos and beans in her nostrils.

  Jas’s dad actually said something when he dropped her off. He said, “Take care, my little love. Have a great time.”

  And then he said this really really touching thing to Jas that nearly made me weep. He said, “Here’s a bit of extra cash, get something nice.”

  7:10 p.m.

  It was Hug City when Mr. and Mrs. Jas left. Unfortunately it started Jas on an uncontrollable crying jag AGAIN. She is going to have to be more rufty tufty if she wants to survive this Vale of Tears we call life.

  7:30 p.m.

  Mutti has made us an unusually normal and nutritious meal, and Jas managed to stop sniffling enough to stuff down forty-five pounds of shepherd’s pie.

  my bedroom

  8:30 p.m.

  We are doing our last-minute emergency packing check. It is not made very easy by Gordy pouncing on my hand every time I move it. I will be glad when Gordy can run free and wild. He will be allowed out when we get back and he can get rid of his pent-up kittykat aggression on the Prat Poodles and voles and so on.

  As I predicted, Jas has got an insane amount of “panties” with her. I said, “Are you expecting a worldwide famine on the botty hugger front?”

  But she was rambling on about Hunky again.

  “What if he meets someone else in Kiwi-a-gogo land? A Maori or something?”

  Before I could join in she went raving on.

  “He has given me a love token. Do you want to see it?”

  “Jas, if it’s some sort of secret tattoo thing like last time, I don’t really want to see—”

  I might just as well be speaking to myself.

  “It’s a sort of secret tattoo thing. Like last time. Look.”

  Is it normal to have a secret tattoo of tw
o voles kissing? “No” is the answer you are looking for. Jas has one, though.

  On her bottom. Suddenly, the enormous botty huggers make all kinds of sense to me.

  “Tom made the tracing in technical drawing and then he inked it in. He’s got a similar one on his—”

  “Jas, Jas…please leave it out. I am trying to make sure I have not forgotten anything essential like something to kill you with.”

  But secretly I am vair vair happy because I am almost on the LUUURVE trail and nothing Jas does can upset me.

  I said, “Stop thinking about Hunky now. We must have a plan. As soon as we land we will get a bus timetable to see what bus we must catch for Manhattan.”

  “You have to catch a Greyhound.”

  “Jas, I am not riding a dog all the way to New York.”

  “It’s an American bus-type thingy, and anyway, I am not going to Manhattan.”

  “Yes you are, Jazzy Spazzy.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Jas, if you go on being so vair vair silly I will have to confiscate some of your botty huggers.”

  She got the mega hump then and wouldn’t even cheer up when I made an amusing hat out of her pink-spotted panties.

  8:45 p.m.

  There was a mad ringing at the door.

  Grandvati and his “girlfriend” Maisie are here. I said hello to the elderly loons, and when they went off into the front room to talk to Dad about their cat duties I followed Mum into her bedroom.

  She said, “I’m really looking forward to this trip, aren’t you? I wonder if we will bump into George Clooney. I hope we do! He’s so…woof woof.”

  I said, “Mum, excuse me if I am right, but did you just bark like a dog?”

  She laughed. “Well, you know, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he? And he might really like English women.”

  “Mum, do you really think it is likely that George Clooney is going to be at a clown-car convention?”

  Mum said, “Well, he’s got lots of hobbies; he’s got a pet pig.”