Jenny Q, Stitched Up Read online

  PAULINE MCLYNN

  PUFFIN

  Table of Contents

  Dizasso

  Nix!

  Jennifer Quinn, Vital Information

  The Gods are Toying with Us

  Gypsy

  Location, Location, Location!

  An Unforgivable Crime

  Quinn Family Quirks

  Photo Evidence

  Knit ’N’ Knatter

  Noteworthy

  Zits

  Boobs

  Single Ladies

  Growing Pains

  Love Hurts

  Confession

  Stationery

  Monday, Monday

  Grandad Jack

  Skwl

  Day One

  Holding On … And On …

  Wow

  Hols … Past Tense

  Paint ’N’ Patter

  Crafty

  Lists

  Grubby

  Kissing

  Lol

  Bully 4 You

  The Bus of Embarrassment

  Down Town

  Hell on Wheels

  The Heel of Humanity

  Eugene’s Bath Bombs

  Fair Trade

  Crimestoppers

  The Morning after the Night Before

  Mr Bombtastic

  Knit Wits

  The Admission

  Charm School

  The Big Bang

  Out Out Out

  Queue for Q

  The Fear

  The Shame

  Cornered

  Friends vs Fiends

  Heroes

  Emergency

  Yule Do

  Christmas Day

  If you want to learn to knit like me, …

  Dad’s Skinny Tie

  Gran’s Fingerless Mittens

  Mum’s Cowl/Snood

  Dermot’s Stripy Hat

  Harry’s ‘Pixie’ Hat

  Puffin Web Fun

  The Srory of Puffin

  Pauline McLynn lives in Dublin with her husband, Richard, and two cats named Brenda and Alice. She used to have other cats too – Mutt, Geoff, Noel, Brendan, Snubby and Geezee. When she was growing up in Galway, in the west of Ireland, her family had dogs – Roberta, Lady Pink Weasel, Dennis and TD. Her brothers used to call her ‘verucca head’ and ‘hook nose’ (serio) but they don’t do that any more, at least not to her face, which is good. She has a wonky, crackly right knee from doing Irish dancing (probably the wrong way!) when she was younger. Pauline still loves performing and is now an award-winning actor, perhaps best known for playing the role of Mrs Doyle in Father Ted and Libby Croker in Shameless. She is also very good at knitting and has written eight other novels, but Jenny Q, Stitched Up! is her first book for teenagers.

  For Sarah Webb, who told me I could do this,

  so then I had to,

  and Paddy O’Doherty, who helped me

  along the writing road

  Dizasso

  Right, here’s how things are, and I warn you from the outset that this is ugly. Here goes – my parents have done the icky thing (the Big Icky) and I am going to have a new brother or sister. I am in a sweat even saying it, feeling faint. My mother is pregnant.

  I can tell you for nothing that this is most unexpected for all concerned, and very most certainly totally out of the blue for me (= understatement of the year). URG. And pregnant is not a lovely word, either, is it? It’s not pretty, like flowery aprons and baking. PREG–NANT. I am so not loving the sound of that, at ALL. It’s not something I want to even think about. It makes me, I dunno, queasy. I mean, really, at their age you’d think they’d have calmed down. It’s just so, well, SHAMEFUL. And now it’s going to be plain for all the world to see. My mum is going to be walking around with a bump that proves she’s still, well, shagging. Shagging my dad, who is, like, ancient. Oh God, I can’t bear it … People are so uncaring. No one asked me what I’d feel about all of this. And it’s not like I won’t be affected. I am thirteen and about to become the butt of all Oakdale jokes …*

  HOW COULD THEY?

  I’d call Dixie for a meeting to discuss this but I cannot face her crowing and picking over the situation. She may be my Bestest but she is also a mere human and there are some things that are just too delicious for any friend not to enjoy and I reckon this is one of them. I will have to plan how to tell her with extreme care if I am to avoid further dizassos.

  As far as family goes (and I wish they would!), I already have a brother, Dermot, and he’s plenty to be going on with. He’s sixteen now and thinks he’s God’s gift to the world. He plays a lot of rugby so his name has morphed into ‘Dermo’ because all rugby-heads are Beno or Domo or Thicko or whatever(o) – it’s like some weird(o) rule they have with names. He’s started wearing shredded clothes and I think he’s stopped washing,† so he’s very noticeable. Moody too. I don’t need extra attention being brought on us Quinns as a family. We’re freakish enough as it is.

  Now, I’ve been well aware of how all the ickiness happens since I was a tiny kid. Our house always had those pop-up books with men’s and women’s bits in 3D so I was under no illusion as to what went where. And for what it’s worth I didn’t like those books half as much as the ones with fairy tales in – there’s only so much anatomy any child should have to look at. Then Mum took it upon herself to clarify a few things when I was a bit older. It went along the lines of ‘the man and woman needed to be deeply in love to make babies’ and all that. You’d think the Seed passed from the man to the woman kind of invisibly and magically the way she described it – I SWEAR that’s what she tried to fob off on me. After all the educational books I’d had to endure as a child, who did she think she was kidding?

  So when we got our official Biology books at school from Miss Greene, and on page 121 there were (flat, non pop-up) diagrams of men’s bits and women’s bits and a full explanation of all that was involved, I took the opportunity to storm home and ask: ‘Are you honestly telling me that people do it like the dogs on the street?’

  Mum almost smiled.‡ She read the piece and said, ‘Yes, Jen, that looks like an accurate enough description of it all.’

  ‘So much for love,’ I announced, all indignant (though I am still secretly hoping that there is something in all that love stuff). I didn’t get to say anything more because I heard a snuffling and realized there was someone else in the kitchen. It was my gran. She had stuffed part of a teacloth into her mouth to stifle the sound of her laughing and she nearly choked on it.

  And to think that’s how I got made too … I’m feeling faint again … Choccy bicky time for Jenny Q. Actually, it’s Emergency Kit Katб time, which is major crisis diversion and not to be taken lightly. I am heading down to the kitchen to raid my stash of chocolate, the one truly reliable thing in the Quinn household.

  Thank goodness it is still the school holidays and as such I do not have to confront the HORROR that is my class for another few weeks. They could surely not help but snigger at my obvious predicament now that I am the Ideal of Ickiness, thanks to my parents. Come to think of it, ‘Ireland’ is only two letters away from being ‘Ickland’, so we had a lucky escape. I have no doubt that I would be crowned the Rose of Ickland under current circumstances.

  Nix!

  To add to my annoyance (as if that’s needed), Dixie (supposed Bestest) is in the kitchen with Mum when I get downstairs. They’re both snaffling anything and everything covered in chocolate. I try a reverse move the minute I see them so that I can regroup my thoughts and get a plan of action together but they’re on to me immediately and I am trapped in their gaze.

  I think they’ve got through all of the Kit Kats, so I’m probably going to have to settle for a bl
inkin’ Wagon Wheel or some such, and it may not be up to taking the edge off the awfulness of what’s happening here. I’m getting a v v uncomfortable feeling about the way they’re smiling at me.

  ‘HULlo,’ I say to Dix, all pointed as in ‘What are you doing here with my mum and not upstairs with me discussing major life developments?’ kinda thing.

  She’s all innocent and beaming and then gets me with the word I just know is coming, the word that takes things up a notch in the Jen Quinn Cringestakes. ‘Congratulations,’ she says (or rather, ‘Congratulations,’ she lies!).

  ARGH, Dixie knows, and I wasn’t the one to tell her. This is not good. I so don’t want to be here. Things cannot get any worse, surely.

  They do.* That’s the major lesson you learn in life as you get older: as bad as things are, they can certainly get worse, especially if your name is Jennifer Quinn.

  Dermot and his friends pile in, including Stevie Lee Bolton, who is a god, end of. He’s got these deep brown eyes that a girl could lose herself in. Today he’s in a white T-shirt that shows off his tan and a pair of totally fabulous camouflage cargo shorts. He makes my knees want to stop doing their job and my breathing goes wonky when he’s around.

  I am feeling hotter and hotter now, close to boiling, and I’m hoping my face isn’t all red and blotchy. Why didn’t I slick on some lip gloss before I came down the stairs? I have a rule never to leave or enter a room without doing that, and the latest one is strawberry flavoured and I’m hoping it’ll make people think my breath is always fruity too. (In a good way, not fruity like Mr Fox, our Mathematics teacher, who has, well, fox breath and seems to be decomposing.) But I have not glossed. This is how scrambled my poor head is with this family and all that comes with it. Thankfully I am wearing a summery skirt instead of my usual jeans, which Dixie persuaded me to buy because she said it’s ‘on trend’, so Stevie Lee Bolton will at least think I am at the cutting edge of fashion = brief PHEW for that.

  Maybe I’m adopted, I suddenly think. Yes, that would offer a plausible† explanation as to why I am clearly so different from the rest of the mentalists‡ in this house. I file this idea with all of the others like it in my brain, because it’s not the first time I’ve had this notion.

  Then my friend Uggs arrives, and it’s all ‘Eugene, my man’ and high fives from the older boys, which makes him preen. Although he is my friend, Dermot will actually speak to him because he is also our neighbour. And a boy. But all I can think is that Uggs being here means Gyp cannot be far behind.

  She’s not.

  She races in, barking, and attaches her sticky-outy teeth to my ankle and starts to chew. I shake my leg a bit to get her off but she’s tenacious today and all that happens is I teeter, alarmingly. I shake harder and mutter, ‘Get off me, you evil creature’ (because she is, she SO is). Time slows. Everyone shuts up and turns to look at me. I try smiling as if there’s nothing to see here and they should carry on with whatever important stuff they need to do or talk about. I even consider pointing into the distance and shouting, ‘Look, over there, a lion!’ But they’re staring now, just as Gypsy lunges all of her filthy, hairy, wiry little body against my left leg and I’m doomed. I fall out of the patio doors on to the decking. My skirt flies up around my waist as I let out the most inelegant sound ever to grace the Quinn household, even counting the time Gran gagged on a piece of turkey three Christmases ago.б Following a short, stunned silence, everyone applauds and, worse, cheers.

  I hear Mum say, ‘Phones back in your pockets,’ to the assembled gloaters and I’m praying she got to them before anyone captured my shame. I silently beseech Heaven to spare me having to see incriminating photographic evidence of this tragedy.

  Gyp, however, is not quite finished. While I am flailing on my tummy and trying to pull my skirt down and get to my feet, she leapfrogs over me twice. Then, crossing the third time, she stands on my back and barks delightedly.

  ‘Yip-yip-yip!’

  As I get to my feet she tries to pull my knickers off, so I swat her away and she does a pathetic yeowl as if I’ve hurt her. I WISH. But that dog’s well pleased with her day’s work and prances about, barking more and showing off.

  ‘Yip-yip-yip!’

  I just know my legs now smell of her rancid breath and she’ll think I smell nice and doggy-dandy, probably good enough to chew on again. Even though she is not my dog, I am SO going to make sure she gets a bath this evening, which she loathes.

  ‘Yip-yip-yip, yip-yip-yip, yip-yip-yip!’

  As I get to my feet I close my eyes and silently forbid anyone to come and commiserate, particularly Stevie Lee Bolton. In the end Uggs takes pity§ and he changes the subject. Though OF COURSE it involves the substantial news of the day. For a nanosecond I am actually pleased there is something more dramatic than my public humiliation to focus on.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he says to my mother.

  I’m beginning to hate the sound of that word but I’d better get used to it.

  Mum rubs her tummy and looks all glowing, as if everything is right in the world.

  I guess I’d better get used to that too.

  Jennifer Quinn, Vital Information

  Name: Jenny Q (actually Jennifer Alison Margaret Quinn). That’s Jenny with a y, not Jenni with an i!

  Date of Birth: 11 July 1998

  Star Sign: Cancer

  Hair: strawberry blonde (NOT ginger)

  Eyes: blue

  Height: maybe not as tall as I’d like …

  Weight: enough

  Home: Oakdale, Dublin, Ireland

  School: Oakdale High School

  Likes: Teen Factor X, Glee, strawberry lip gloss, singing, Stevie Lee Bolton, words, being left alone

  Dislikes: her muffin top, Gypsy (next door’s dog – that mutt is a menace), school uniform (it’s maroon = ’nuff said), zits (natch)

  Skills: singing (I make up a lot of new words to popular songs, usually with Mum – it’s goofy but fun), embroidery, I’m working on my knitting too (Dixie is on a mission there)

  Friends: the Gang, aka Dixie Purvis (Scorpio), Eugene ‘Uggs’ Nightingale (Cancerian also) … but not a wizard or a vampire among us. I have other mates too but the Gang are the supremo friends. (Gyp thinks she’s one of the Gang – she is not.)

  Family: one Gran, one Mum (Vicky), one Dad (Douglas), one brother (Dermot) – SO FAR …

  The Gods are Toying with Us

  ‘Pants,’ Dixie says as she enters my bedroom, where I have fled after the Horror in the kitchen.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I agree.

  ‘No, you’re pants.’

  ‘Er, excuse me?’ I am indignant. ‘There is no need for petty insults.’

  ‘No, you idiot, your pants.’

  Oh.

  I do NOT like where this conversation may now be going. I find I preferred the petty insults. ‘What about my pants?’ I ask, cautiously.

  ‘They won’t do, is what.’

  EEK, this means she saw them, MY KNICKERS, which means they were on show, MY KNICKERS, which means other people present saw them too, doesn’t it? MY KNICKERS. Ooh, feeling a bit faint now …

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone would actually be seeing them,’ I manage to wail.

  ‘Have we not spoken before about expecting the unexpected?’ she asks.

  I’m not sure that we have but it’s no time to be picky. I don’t want to remember what pair I put on this morning and can only pray that it wasn’t the big, comfy ones with the hearts that went pinkish because something ran in the wash.

  ‘They’re big and covered in red hearts and probably had a white background until something ran in the wash,’ Dixie confirms.

  ‘And Stevie Lee Bolton saw them?’ I say in a tiny voice, hoping against hope I’m wrong.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Could you tell what he thought?’

  ‘He’s hard to read, as you know, but I would say he was … agog.’ Her mouth twitches in a suspicious way, like she’s trying to h
old something back.

  ‘Though not in a good way?’ I ask, clutching at straws.

  ‘Ehhhhh, I wouldn’t have thought so, no.’ Then Dixie falls back on the bed before I have a chance to throw myself melodramatically across it, as I have been planning to, and starts to laugh so hard that tears roll down her cheeks.

  ‘They’re my comfort pants!’ I yell. ‘I’m traumatized by life and I needed them.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone in that kitchen will ever forget them, Jen. For starters they’re HUGE.’

  ‘They’re clean!’

  ‘That’s not what anyone’s gonna remember about them.’ She’s clutching her tummy now in an agony of laughter. ‘I heart pants,’ she wheezes. ‘Not hot pants but heart pants!’

  ‘DIX! You are supposed to be a mate, a support, not a mocking –’ I’m getting stuck – ‘mocker.’

  I’m really not managing this situation well. This is not my finest moment. I may never have another fine moment in my sorry life the way things are going. I really hope she snots herself from laughing, though it’ll be of no satisfaction at all if I am the only one to see it … Unlike my huge, hearty knickers, which, we have established, the world and its mother* have seen.

  Times like this I am so glad I don’t have a sister because I’d probably have to put up with this sort of treatment 24/7. At least Dixie goes home to hers every so often. What if this new baby is a girl and then I will have a sister and she might turn out like Dixie and I will have to put up with this kind of carry-on 24/7? Controversial …

  EEEP!

  Gypsy

  Dixie finally stops laughing enough to manage: ‘You have big problems, amiga, even bigger than those pants.’

  I roll me eyes. Here we go. ‘Yes, I know. I was going to tell you about Mum but –’

  She puts up her hand. ‘I don’t even mean that … yet.’

  ‘Oh?’ How could I possibly have a bigger problem than I already do? This does not compute … and I really don’t want it to …

  ‘Yup, maximo problemo. Jen …’ She pauses for effect. It works. ‘Your mum spread peanut butter all over her Kit Kat before she ate it.’