Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging Page 7

  “Two spare wotsits at a wedding?” I suggested.

  4:00 p.m.

  The most cringe-making thing in the Universe of Cringe-making Things happened this afternoon in religious education. It was with Miss Wilson, who is not what you might call normal (still, who would be—teaching RE?). She is a very unfortunate person, with ginger hair in a sad bob, her tights are always wrinkly, plus she wears tragic cardigans, usually done up the wrong way. She is not blessed in the looks department, but worse than this, she has not got a personality—at all—none.

  Mostly she just talks and we get on with writing notes to each other or filing our nails. Last summer Rosie was so relaxed that she started moisturizing her legs during RE. It was so hot that we hadn’t been wearing stockings, and Rosie put her legs on the desk and started putting cream on them. Well, even Miss Wilson noticed that. I remember she said, “Rosie, you’d better buck up your ideas and buck them up fast.” Which struck us as very funny indeed—we were still laughing hours later.

  Anyway, this afternoon, for some reason, Miss Wilson got talking about personal hygiene. I swear I don’t know how she got there from religious education. Maybe people in ancient Hebrew times cast someone out for being a smelly leper. I don’t know.

  We just heard her say, “Yes, girls, I know how that person felt because when I was younger I had a BO problem myself and people used to avoid me. I never used to wash because I was an orphan and depressed. . . .” We just sat there staring at our desks while she went on and on about her body odor . . . it was AWFUL. I have never been so glad to get up and go to PE.

  We all ran screaming into the showers and washed ourselves like loonies. Miss Stamp was amazed—she usually has to prod us and shout at us to get us to change at all in winter. She came and looked at us in the shower in amazement. Then we remembered she is a lesbian. So we ran screaming out of the shower.

  It’s a bloody nightmare of pervs, this school. You’d be safer in Borstal.

  8:00 p.m.

  Jas came over for the night. We yattered on about a plan for the school dance.

  9:00 p.m.

  Looking through my bedroom window to see if we could see into next door’s bedroom window because I wanted to know what Mr. Next Door wore to bed. Jas thought jimjams but I thought shortie nightshirt.

  Then as we were looking we saw Mark (Bonfire Boy) coming up the street with a girl. They stopped under a lamppost but I couldn’t see what she looked like as they were kissing. Not in the shadows or anything, but under the lamp. We couldn’t stop watching, and to get a better view we got up onto the window ledge. It was a tight squeeze but you could see everything. Then I heard tip tap tip tap and Libby came in, carrying her blanket (or blankin’ as she calls it— it’s not actually a blanket, it’s an old bra of Mum’s but she likes it and won’t let it go. It must have been white once but now it’s a horrible gray color).

  She spotted us on the window ledge and said, “Libby see.”

  I said, “No, Libby, I’m coming down,” but then she started saying, “No, no, bad boy, bad boy . . . me see,” and hitting me with her blankin’ so that I had to lift her up. Honestly, I’m bullied by a three-year-old and a Scottish wildcat.

  I lifted her up and she snuggled down in between me and Jas. She spotted the couple under the lamppost. “Oohh, look! Manlady manlady!!! Hahahaha.” It was a bit difficult knowing where Mark ended and the girl began but all was revealed when Mark stopped kissing and looked over her shoulder. Right up at my window. I don’t know if he could see us in the dark but we got down from the window ledge so quickly we fell onto my bed. Libby said, “More bouncy now!!!”

  Pray God Mark didn’t see us spying.

  wednesday december 2nd

  8:30 a.m.

  Dashing out of the house, Jas and I almost fell into Mark, waiting by the corner. Jas (big pal) said she had to run to her house first and she would see me at school. I went a bit red and walked on with him walking beside me. He said, “Have you got a boyfriend?”

  I was speechless. What is the right answer to that question? I tell you what the right answer is . . . a lie, that’s the right answer. So I said, “I’ve just come out of a heavy thing and I’m giving myself a bit of space.”

  He looked at me. He really did have the biggest gob I have ever seen. “So is that no?”

  And I just stood there and then this really weird thing happened . . . he touched my breast!!! I don’t mean he ripped my blouse off, he just rested his hand on the front of my breast. Just for a second, before he turned and went off to school.

  12:30 p.m.

  What does it mean when a boy rests his hand on your breast? Does it mean he has the megahorn? Or was his hand just tired?

  4:30 p.m.

  Why am I even thinking about this? No sign of Mark (the breast molester) when I got home, thank goodness.

  4:45 p.m.

  Still, you would think if a boy rests his hand on your breast he might bother to see you sometime.

  5:00 p.m.

  Up in my bedroom “doing my homework” when the doorbell rang. I put down my magazine and answered it. It was Mark. He said, “I’ve dumped Ella, do you want to go to The Stiff Dylans gig?”

  I said, “Er, well, er, yes thanks.”

  He said, “OK, see you later.”

  6:00 p.m.

  On the phone to Jas, telling her about Mark, I said, “So then I said, ‘Er, yes,’ and he said, ‘OK, see you later.”’

  Jas said, “See you later—what does that mean?”

  I said, “I don’t know—who does know?... See me later tonight, or at the gig, or what?”

  Jas said, “Well, do you like him?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t really know. He makes me feel like a cobra, you know, all sort of funny and paralyzed when the bloke starts playing the bugle thing.”

  Jas said, “What do you mean? Your head starts bobbing around when he plays his instrument?”

  I said, “Don’t start, Jas. Anyway, what do you think of him?”

  Jas thought. “He’s got a very big mouth.”

  I said, “Yes, I know,” and then she said, “But then so have you.”

  midnight

  Oh-oh. What to do. Why is life so complicated? Do I like Mark? Why did I say yes? Why can’t Robbie realize that Lindsay is a drippy git?

  Ohhhhhhh. QueI dommage!!! Merde. Poo.

  monday december 7th

  5:00 p.m.

  Mark sent a note, which is quite sweet, except that it is very badly written: Dear Georgia, Away training till Saturday. Meet you at 8 at clock tower on Saturday. Mark.

  That’s it, then, I have no choice. I have to go with him.

  9:00 p.m.

  Mum comes into my room and says will I come down for a “talk”? I pray it’s nothing to do with personal hygiene or her and Dad’s relationship problems. Dad seems a bit nervous and he’s growing a mustache—how ridiculous. It looks like some small animal is just having a bit of a sleep on his top lip. He says, “Look, Georgie, you’re a young woman now [what was I before? a young horse?] and I don’t think there should be any secrets in our house [on the contrary, Vati, you will never know about the hand on the breast scenario even if hell freezes over], which is why I need to tell you that as work is so hard to find here in England, I am flying off to Auckland straight after Christmas. I’ll be staying there for a month or two to get a feel for the place and to try a new job opening there. Then, when I get settled, your mum and you and Libbs can come out and see what you think.”

  I said, “I know what I think of New Zealand, I have seen Neighbours.”

  Mum said, “Well, that’s set in Australia.”

  What is this, a family crisis or a geography test? I went on patiently, “My point is, Mutti and Vati, that it is very far away, I’m not from there, all my friends are here. Or to put it another way: I would rather be adopted than set foot on New Zealand soil.”

  We argued for ages—even Libby came down and joined in. She had dresse
d Angus up in her pajamas and he had a bonnet on and a dummy in. I don’t know how she gets away with it. If I went anywhere near him with a bonnet he would have my hand off.

  midnight

  So Vati is off to New Zealand. But that still doesn’t solve what I am going to be wearing for The Stiff Dylans gig.

  friday december 11th

  2:50 p.m.

  Christmas fever has set in at school. We all wore silver antlers in physics this afternoon. Herr Kamyer tried to join in with the joke by saying, “Oh ja, jingle bells, jingle bells.” It’s pathetic really. Also, why are his trousers so short? You can see acres of pale, hairy ankle between his trousers and his plaid socks. (Yes, I did say plaid socks. Now that is not just sad; it’s double sad.)

  8:00 p.m.

  Mutti and Vati strangely quiet and nice to each other. I saw Dad put his arms round Mum in the kitchen. Also Libby was singing, “Dingle balls, dingle balls, dingle on the way,” and Dad got all sort of wet round the eyes. Honestly, I thought he was going to cry, which would have been horrific. He picked her up and hugged her really hard. Libby was furious, she called him, “Bad, big uggy, bad,” and stuck her finger in his eye, which made him cry properly.

  saturday december 12th

  the stiff dylans!

  7:00 a.m.

  Damn, I didn’t mean to wake up so early. Still, it gives me lots of time to get ready for tonight. I thought first of all I would do my yoga, which I haven’t been able to fit into my busy schedule.

  7:20 a.m.

  Now I know why I don’t bother with yoga—it’s too hard, that’s why. When I did “dog pose” I thought I’d never be able to get up again. I’ll just have a lie down and relax with an uplifting book for a few minutes.

  7:40 a.m.

  I’m not reading The Tibetan Book Living and Dying ever again. I’m not going to become a Buddhist if I might come back reincarnated as a stick insect.

  7:50 a.m.

  Cup of milky coffee and toast, yum yum yum. Mum has got a new Cosmo.

  8:10 a.m.

  Back in bed for a few minutes’ read. Hmmm, ‘‘What men say and what they mean.”

  9:30 a.m.

  If a boy says “See you later,” it might mean “Leave me alone, it was great while it lasted but I am not ready for anything more serious,” or it might mean “See you later.”

  9:40 a.m.

  I am going to become a writer for Cosmo—you don’t have to make any sense at all. Or maybe I’ll be a bloke, they don’t have to make any sense either.

  10:00 a.m.

  I am going to wear my short black Lycra dress. Jas has already phoned five times and changed her mind about what to wear each time.

  1:00 p.m.

  Rosie has asked the foreign exchange guest student who is staying next door to come to The Stiff Dylans. I said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” and she said, “He’s called Sven,” and I said, “Well, that’s what I mean.’’

  Rosie says he’s a “laugh,” whatever that means. She said, “He doesn’t speak any English but he is very tall.”

  When I asked where he was from, she said, “I don’t know, Denmark, I think. He’s blond.”

  Apparently she asked him to go to The Stiff Dylans by pointing at him, pointing at herself and doing a bit of a dance. She’s bonkers. We arranged to go to Boots because we needed to have perfume for tonight and we can use the samples while we pretend we might buy them.

  4:30 p.m.

  Back home, covered in Paloma—l hope it wears off a bit as it’s making my eyes water. Also, I’ve got some new lip gloss which is supposed to plump up your lips. I’m not sure that this is such a good idea in my case, especially going with Mark. I wonder if the same rule applies to lips as does to breasts? I mean, if you use them more, I wonder if they get bigger?

  5:00 p.m.

  If using your lips does make your lips bigger, what on earth has Mark been up to? Am I going to let him kiss me? What does the hand on the breast mean? Do I want him to be my boyfriend? I don’t think he’s very bright but he might turn out to be a brilliant footballer and then I could marry him and be kept in luxury.

  5:10 p.m.

  But then I’d be in all the papers. I’d have to have my nose done. I would have to be careful not to smile . . . what if I forgot? What if I got caught by the paparazzi smiling and my nose spreading all over my face . . . in the Daily Express?

  5:15 p.m.

  I can’t marry him, the pressure is just too much. I am losing my own self-esteem while he gets all the attention. I’ll have to explain to him tonight that it is all over.

  6:00 p.m.

  I feel a bit sick. I’ve got a bit of hair that will NOT go right, in a minute I am going to cut it off. Also, I think I have got knobbly knees. Maybe when I am Mark’s wife I could have fat injected into them (possibly taken from my nose, so it would be a two- in-one operation . . . smaller nose and fatter knees all in one swift plunge of the huge, hypodermic, fat- extractor needle. . . er, I really do feel sick).

  7:30 p.m.

  I wish I had gone with Jas and Rosie, all in a big gang, now it means I’ll have to walk in with Mark and everyone will look at me and think he’s my boyfriend.

  midnight

  I cannot BELIEVE my life. Well, if you could call it a life . . . When I think about tonight I feel like staying in bed for the rest of it.

  * * *

  Mark was at the clock tower, smoking a fag . . . he looked sort of OK. When I got near him he grabbed me and gave me a kiss right on the mouth, no messing about. I was surprised and also a bit worried . . . maybe the hand would sneak up to the breast for a bit of a rest . . . but no.

  Mark doesn’t seem to say much—after the kiss he took my hand and we started walking to the gig. It was a bit awkward because I’m actually bigger than him, so I had to sort of let my shoulder down on one side like Quasimodo.

  As soon as we got there Mark went to say hello to a few of his mates. Rosie’s Sven was a GIANT— about eight foot tall, with a crewcut. Jas was all moony and looked a bit pale. She said, “I wanted that anorexic-model look, like I’ve been up partying all night. I want Tom to think I’ve not been thinking about him.”

  The gig was packed, mostly boys on one side and girls on the other. Jas said, “Aren’t you going to talk to your boyfriend?”

  Which is when Tom and Robbie walked in. They saw us and Robbie caught my eye and he smiled . . . I’d forgotten what a Sex God he is. He’s all muscly and dark and ooohhhhh. I smiled back, a proper smile because I’d forgotten about my nose for the moment. Then from behind me came Lindsay and crossed over to Robbie. He had been smiling at her!!! My face was so red you could fry an egg on it. Robbie kissed Lindsay on the cheek. She had her hair up and was quite literally all ears. Yukko.

  Robbie went up onstage and Tom was left by himself as wet Lindsay chatted to some of her stupid sixth-form mates. Jas said, “Do you think I should go over and say something to him?”

  I said, “Have some pride, Jas, he chose vegetables over you.” At that moment a dark-haired girl came out of the 100 and went over to Tom. She put her hand on his arm and they went off together.

  And it got worse.

  The Stiff Dylans started playing and Mark came across to me, got hold of my hand and pulled me on to the dance floor. His Mick Jagger impersonation did not stop at the lips. He was a lunatic on the dance floor, strutting around with his hands on his hips. I nearly died. Then Sven joined in, dragging Rosie with him. His style of dancing was more Cossack, a lot of going down into a squat position and kicking his legs out. Then he lifted Rosie up above his head!!! He was whirling her around, going, “Oh ja, oh ja,” and Rosie was trying to keep people from seeing up her skirt.

  And that is when I lost it. It was just too funny . . . Jas, Ellen and Jools and I were laughing like hyenas. I had a coughing fit and had to rush to the loo to try and recover. I’d just calmed myself down and then poked my head round the door to see Sven dancing around and it started me off a
gain.

  Then Mark wanted to slow dance. I knew because he grabbed me and pulled me up against him. He was all lumpy, if you know what I mean, and had his mouth against my neck. It was even more difficult dancing with him than it was holding hands. I had to sort of bend my knees and sag a bit in order to “fit in.” At one stage I found myself looking straight at Robbie. He looked so cool. Oh bloody sacré bleu. Even though I hate him and he is a pompous pratboy, I think I may love him.

  Then the band stopped playing for a break but Mark yelled, “Play more.” Some of his mates started joining in, then they sort of rushed the stage and Mark grabbed the microphone from Robbie. He was “singing”—I think it may have been “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Robbie put his hand on his shoulder and then a massive fight broke out. All Mark’s thick friends got stuck into the band and then the band’s mates got stuck into them. All us girls were screaming.

  Sven lifted two boys up at once and tossed them outside into the street, and that’s when Ellen, Jas, Jools and I decided to do a runner.

  So, a gorgeous night. I am tucked up in bed, my “boyfriend” is a hooligan, before him I had another “boyfriend” called whelk boy. The boy I like hates me and prefers a wet weed with sticky-out ears. . . .