just don’t make the comment too smart, or she’ll probably give you that beating after all. And if all else fails and she’s still coming at you, turn and walk away. You may feel like a wimp for doing so (when in fact you’re behaving like the BIGGER person), but it’s the best way in the long run and just shows how unwilling you are to stoop to her low-down level. I say HER because if it’s a boy then report him to a teacher straight away. No question about that.
I threw the one-eyed teddy across the room in frustration as I thought about Sharlene Rockingham waiting outside the school gates for me. Sharlene Rockingham, the thorn in my arse. She’d started her vendetta against me all because she found out I hadn’t cheered for her during sports day last summer. Admittedly, we’d never got on, but the constant snide remarks and dirty looks across the dinner hall were all leading up to something big.
Sharlene was the main reason I often fantasised about bad things. Like her death. Yes. I’d thought about her dying. Far from being a psycho, I’d never actually thought about HOW it would happen, or that I’d be the one to do it – only that when it did I’d be left to get on with things without wondering if she’d follow through with the promise of bashing my head against the science-block wall. I hated being a wimp about it, but not being part of the coolest crowd meant minimal back-up and a good chance of a kicking. Far from ignoring her, I made sure I put up a good-enough front by calmly telling her to ‘just buzz off’ while pushing past and almost swallowing my chest in the process. To be honest I was kind of doubtful this piece of advice would work in the real world.
I read on.
I loved PE.
PE’s one of those things you either love or hate. And yes, I was one of those morons who couldn’t wait for Wednesday afternoon and a good session, rain or shine. Don’t worry, Lowey, if sport isn’t for you. Just remember it’s rather pointless pulling a sicky each week as you will have to go through PE eventually, anyway. So – and you’re not going to like this – just get through it. Doing so will make you stronger, independent, a leader… or a shivering wreck. If, of course, you really are sick, that’s different. By the way, your dad’s not saying don’t pull the odd fake sicky, just be smart and spread them out a bit – like twice a term – because teachers aren’t that stupid.
I flicked back to the miscellaneous section of The Manual and soon arrived at a new and surprising heading. Why are boys such arses? I giggled at Dad’s use of the word ‘arse’ while hoping he’d have the power to at last shed some light on the opposite sex for me. An image of Corey in his big British Knight trainers sprang into my head, basically because he was the only boy I spent time with – as Mum had put me in a girls’ school.
Boys can be such arses, right? Idiots, cretins, morons, this list goes on, I hear you cry. But that age-old question has baffled scientists for centuries – and you want ME to explain this further?
At your age now, males are at their most arse-asistic (okay, that’s not actually a real word). They run around in packs, tease you for no good reason, they’re lazy, moany and their feet smell like slabs of mouldy cheese.
How do I know this?
Because I am one. A bloke, that is.
Okay, seriously, Lowey, males do get slightly better as they age – a bit like a fine wine – but you’ll have to wait until they receive that telegram from the queen (or, by your time, King Charles) to see any significant changes.
I giggled nervously at Dad’s sense of humour, never realising he could be so funny. In fact, Mum never mentioned anything about Dad these days, so obsessed was she with washing her new husband’s greying Y-fronts, laughing at his unfunny jokes, kissing him full on the mouth – and right in front of me, as if I enjoyed bringing up my dinner. My mood, as always, lifted with joy at the thought of getting to know my dad, but was quickly replaced by a stab of sadness at the thought of the following week. My thirteenth birthday, and I’d yet to think of anything memorable to do while I was twelve. I searched my memory bank for something and then it came to me…Dad’s manual. Hadn’t my life changed since it had appeared? I no longer had an excuse to feel like a kid any more. I was on the brink of becoming a woman, and Dad knew that too. But most of all I didn’t feel alone. And that had to be the best bit of all, no longer feeling lonely.
I reopened The Manual, pleased I hadn’t let my dad down and thankful a new memory had been planted.
One I’d never, ever forget.
* * *
Teabags Bursting with Hormones
Did you know…? While England won the World Cup, Kevin scored (kissed) a girl for the very first time.
The morning of the Saturday before my thirteenth birthday, I peered out of the window to see the Bingo Caller helping Mum into the back seat of his car, her hand on her tummy. I went back to sleep and awoke to the sound of the front door being banged almost off its hinges. I smiled.
‘Get up, you lazy thing!’ shouted Carla as I opened the door. She was dressed in a pretty little baby-doll dress I could never wear, (not with my bandy looking legs) and huge trendy boots. ‘Change of plan. Your birthday party’s gonna be at our house!’
Apparently, Mum had called from wherever it was she and the Bingo Caller had gone and requested my thirteenth birthday party be shifted next door to Carla’s.
‘Charming!’ I remarked.
‘Is your mum all right? My mum wouldn’t tell me what was going on.’
‘Probably had something better to do,’ I said, feeling a little put out, but hoping she had a good reason for her missing my thirteenth birthday.
Looking around next door’s tiny kitchen – which was almost identical to ours, but filled with pictures of the family and with Corey’s huge smelly trainers by the entrance – it was clear a lot of effort had been made. Tiny cupcakes (soon to be decorated with hundreds and thousands) were baking in the oven; a wonky stool with dusty footprints was evidence of someone having placed colourful streamers on to the wall. A few friends from my school were invited (with Carla’s help), along with Corey’s mates, assuring a good turnout (even though I still doubted whether anyone would actually show up). Carla’s mum forced a red bow onto my head, even though I’d insisted on wearing jeans and not a dress. But for once I decided not to mind because it was my thirteenth birthday. The biggy.
Mum rang just before the first lot of party guests arrived.
‘I’m really sorry I can’t be there, darlin’.’
‘So, why can’t you come?’
‘You know what it’s like with flu. Thought I’d stay away so I didn’t spread it around.’
‘The flu? I never heard you coughing last night?’
‘It must have started during the, erm, night.’
