sorry, Lois.’
‘Don’t worry. I have everything I need here,’ I whispered to myself.
‘Never mind, though, your actual birthday isn’t until Monday. I’ll make sure I’m there for that. Okay, darlin’?’
‘Mum, I have to go now. People are arriving.’
She started to mumble something as I replaced the receiver.
People began to trickle in quite slowly. And quietly. No one saying a blimmin’ word. There was the odd sound of a leg tapping against a chair as guests basically gazed at each other, as if waiting for someone, anyone, to utter anything mildly witty. The silence was deafening and my life flashed before me – grand confirmation of my big fat L of a Loser status at school. But just as I thought the party was more than over, Carla’s mum turned up the record player and began to move expertly to the fast melodies of ‘Motownphilly’ by Boyz II Men, complete with tube dress and a group of lustful eyes belonging to Corey’s mates. Soon, others followed. My initial fear of mass yawns and exits evaporated and I was free to find the loo to let out nothing but a sigh of relief.
I shut the loo door behind me just as Carla’s mum, still on the ‘dance floor’, proclaimed it was indeed Hammertime!
‘Lo Bag, where have you been?’ asked Corey, sounding like an old man. Voice all deep, as I shut the loo door behind me.
‘In the bog of course!’ I shook my head to this silly question, itching to return to my guests and new friends.
‘I…erm…wanted to give you your present.’
‘Your mum’s already done that!’ I replied. A roar of laughter escaped from the living room and I longed to be among the joviality and not stuck with Corey the Moron outside the toilet.
‘When?’ he asked with a puzzled look.
‘What do you think all this is about?’ I said, gesticulating wildly towards my new pair of stone-washed jeans. ‘And the party!’ The kid had been hanging around with his mates too long it seemed.
‘Oh! So what did your mum get you?’
‘A puffa jacket! I told you she gave it to me weeks ago! Look, this isn’t the time to annoy me, Corey!’
‘I’m not…I don’t want to annoy you. I wanted to give you this.’ He produced a square package hastily wrapped in what looked like Christmas paper. ‘Sorry, we didn’t have any birthday wrapping left.’ He thrust the tiny item into my palm. ‘From me.’
Before I could say thanks, he’d walked off. So I opened the present to reveal LL Cool J’s ‘Mama Said Knock You Out’ album on tape. Wow! My feet were already tapping to the beat of my favourite track. The one album I’d been after for months but Mum wouldn’t let me buy (because it was rap music) and Corey had just handed it to me! Carla must have told him, I reasoned, along with wondering why Corey would save up his pocket money to buy me a present. The same Corey who up until about a month ago pulled my hair, farted in my face and called me all sorts of silly names. I thought nothing more as I rejoined the others on the ‘dance floor’ and launched into Lois’s very own awkward and stiff dance routine.
For the next week, I was on a high. I stood in the dinner queue, constantly greeted with invisible high-fives from girls who’d never even burped in my direction before. It would seem my party remained on the lips of almost everyone in my year, which unfortunately included Sharlene Rockingham, who cornered me behind the science block as I raced to Maths.
‘Why didn’t I get an invite to your poxy little party, then?’ she asked gruffly.
‘Why should I have invited you?’ I replied. It seemed to slip out before I’d a chance to really think about it as Dad’s advice pounded against the wall of my head, desperate to get in.
‘You think you’re better than me, don’t you, Lois?’
‘No,’ I moaned, a little cheesed off that my week of glory was about to be soured. I inched away, trying hard not to look like a ‘wimp’ but without being too ‘smart’ about things.
‘I’m gonna be late, so I’ll, er, see you…’ I said pathetically.
Sharlene’s eyes narrowed with evil. ‘Yep. You will.’
On the morning of my actual thirteenth birthday, I opened up The Manual.
Happy Birthday baby!
You’re now officially a teenager. From now on, every time there’s a Y in the day of the week you’ll be thinking ‘I’m not a child any more, damn it! I’m a grown-up!’ while at the same time being scared to death (sorry) of becoming one.
I suppose you are a grown-up – almost. And let’s just say, the lads will also be noticing how grown up you’ve become. They’ll start staring at your chest whenever they speak to you for a start (I’ll give you a few seconds to pick your jaw up from the floor in total embarrassment)…
Yes, I did feel a little flushed with embarrassment, but read on.
Actually, I’ll come back to the boy bit later. (This is hard for me too, you know.)
Right now, let’s go back to another subject.
Friends.
They’re becoming more important to you now and you probably hate your mother.
Give her a break, though. Please. It couldn’t have been easy picking up the pieces when I left. She’d never much liked being alone. It wouldn’t surprise me if by now she’s found another bloke to spend time with. I expect that. Please don’t give her a hard time for it, though, cut her some slack, Lowey. She’s a good woman.
I slapped the manual shut, remembering Mum’s sudden bout of flu during my birthday party. I was still angry with her and no amount of words from Dad could change that. Part of me was pleased to know he forgave her for hooking up with the Bingo Caller, though, and perhaps I could try to like him… even if I did think the man was a Tosser.
During the next few weeks, I attempted to be civil towards the Bingo Caller.
‘Thanks for trying with him,’ said Mum, who’d obviously noticed the change in me. General politeness, helping to wash his car; I became the model stepchild.
‘Thanks, Lois,’ he said one Saturday afternoon, right after I’d helped clear the shed – a job I’d been putting off for weeks.
‘For what? It’s only a shed.’
‘The effort you’ve made. Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed, because it hasn’t.’
I wasn’t about to move in for a hug but did manage a quiet ‘Thanks’.
But, of course, in true Mum fashion she had to go and spoil things one Sunday, right after I’d just reread some of Dad’s entries.
Strike
