Jenny Q, Stitched Up Read online

  If only I could be totally right again with Dixie.

  Mr Bradley gives us a speech at Assembly about how the school has a ‘zero-tolerance policy’ with regard to bullying or any other sort of threatening behaviour. He looks like he loves this crisis. He does make one cracking point that teachers can’t help if they don’t know what’s going on, but that doesn’t cover the fact that you’d look like a snitch if you went running tattling tales. Thankfully no one thinks I’m a snitch for going to him about Mike Hussy, because he had nearly been the cause of very serious bodily harm.

  Teddy says Mike was made to apologize to him personally but that it was all a bit weird because Mike and his mum looked really scared as they were walking away, even though Mike should be delighted to be off school for a while and that the police aren’t involved. Teddy puffed his chest out a little as he said, ‘I’m not pressing charges,’ and he looked megacute.

  Teen Factor X auditions are this weekend and it is a banned subject for discussion. None of the Gang said that ‘rule’ out loud, it’s just clear that this is the best way to progress. Of course, now that both Uggs and Dixie know, the sensible thing would be for them to come with me, but that can’t happen. I have been a fool and we’d all lose face if I asked them because then they’d be forced to accompany me and maybe they wouldn’t want to be seen with a total EEJIT.

  Thankfully we have a lot of other work to tackle, namely DA BOMB. Uggs wants to try out the other recipes we’re proposing and we agree that Sam Slinky should be given samples of those as our Celebrity Endorser. Also, if we have stock, we can fill any orders we might get quicker.

  It’s a lot of fun in the kitchen as Uggs calls for ingredients and we go, ‘Yes chef!’ We’re getting along fine but there is an invisible barrier that we all feel and it’s my fault. If I tear at that by trying to be all big and tackling the problem I’ve made head-on, I worry that I will ruin what we have altogether. I am going to see how we get on and, IF the time is ever right to talk to Dix about how dreadful I have been, I will.

  The weekend is looming and I’m not sleeping well. I wake at 5 a.m. most mornings, even before Gypsy starts her barking routine next door. I lie there listening to the sounds of birds (v noisy) and people going to work early or maybe coming home from a night shift, roaring past on motorbikes or starting cars, and Mum going in and out of the loo a lot.* I’m usually too tired to knit or read or do anything much but lie there and worry. And hum. I’m trying out songs in secret and using choir practice as stealth rehearsal for performing in public. At breakfast each morning Gran tells me my eyes are like two holes burnt in a blanket.†

  Queue for Q

  When Saturday comes I slip out of the house and everyone thinks I’m off to meet Dixie and Uggs. I skulk along the road to the bus stop and then have to duck back and lurk because all of Oakdale seems to be getting the bus to town. Dermot is there with some of his mates and he’s got his guitar and then it hits me – he’s trying out for the show. It never occurred to me that another Quinn would be interested in that. I have been ultra wrapped up in myself. But right now I don’t feel any sympathy for him, more annoyance that I didn’t spot this plan earlier so that I could prepare for my brother being in the audition queue too.

  I decide to get the later bus, which means I have twenty minutes to kill – the longest twenty of my life. It’s hard to waste time when you have nothing to do. I walk around the streets trying to look like I’m going somewhere and getting more and more wound up. This audition is a really BAD plan, I decide, but I have to go through with it now because Uggs and Dixie know: oh, the irony of that! I pass a house with toys in a top window – there’s Woody and Buzz from Toy Story and some dolls and bears, and I wish I was still at the age when I could play with those. I’d be happier, that’s for sure.

  I start to worry that I’ve picked the wrong clothes to wear. I couldn’t choose anything that looked too dressed up because the household would have pounced on that and asked why and also I don’t want to look like I made too much effort, so I’m in a white T-shirt, a long floaty skirt and a cropped denim jacket. It’s nice, without screaming, I’M HERE TO GET FAMOUS – PICK ME! (I hope). I also have a teensy bit of make-up on – concealer on my spotty chin and a swipe of mascara, as well as some lip gloss.

  I somehow manage to flitter away the twenty minutes and sneak back to the bus stop. I wait for all the other passengers to get on the bus and then I sneak on last and sit at the back downstairs. I have brought a book to hide behind but trying to read in a moving vehicle just makes me want to throw up, which does nothing for my shredded nerves. I think I’m safe from meeting anyone I know when I get off in town, but who’s ahead of me on the street but Maya and Delia Thomas. I play all cool.

  ‘Yeah, I’m just getting some more wool for the things I’m knitting for Christmas presents,’ I say.

  ‘We’re going to the Teen Factor X auditions,’ Maya says.

  Without thinking, I squawk, ‘WHY?’

  ‘Delia’s got a stand-up routine she’s going to do.’

  ‘WHAT?’*

  ‘Yes, it’s really funny.’

  That is so hard to believe as to be laughable. Delia Thomas is an odd, quiet geekette, surely? Jeepers, you think you know someone, and then …

  ‘I’ll walk around with you,’ I say. ‘I’d love a look at what’s going on.’

  The queue is the longest snaking line of people I have ever seen in my life, and that includes the queue for Santa in the shopping centre when I was a kid. It’s going to take hours for Delia to get to the top of it but she doesn’t seem too bothered about that.

  ‘We’ll take it in turns to go get drinks and ice creams,’ she says with a shrug.

  If I sneak away and join a bit later, I will be even further back and it’ll take even longer for me to get seen. My resolve is wavering, and it wasn’t all that strong to begin with. I hear some lads laughing and, when I look ahead to where the sound is coming from, I see my brother’s familiar head above the crowd. Right then he turns around and spots me, and I have no choice but to acknowledge him. He looks surprised but beckons me over.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say to Delia and Maya and then wander over, feeling slightly dazed.

  ‘Hey there, lil Jenser,’ Dermot says and ruffles my hair (ARGH, it took me ages to get it looking tousled but not frizzy and he’s probably ruined that now).

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Obvious, really, sis, trying out for the Big Time.’

  He’s with a proper gang of lads (i.e. more than three) and they all have guitars.

  ‘You know the guys,’ he says. ‘There are ten of us and we’re called … guess …’

  ‘Ten Guitars?’ I chance.

  ‘Bingo!’

  ‘If we all play the same thing at the same time, it’ll be awesome.’

  Stevie Lee is right in front of me and I could swoon. I get a bit dizzy instead.

  ‘Hey, lil dudette,’ he says.

  I wish they’d let go of the ‘little’ thing. OK, I might not be as tall as other girls of my age or older,† but don’t rub it in.

  ‘Are you trying out?’ Dermot asks.

  I snort and try to look dismissive. ‘No way, I just wanted a look.’

  ‘You should, you know, you have a good voice,’ he says.

  He hasn’t been this nice to me in yonks and I get a lump in my throat. I’m a bit hot and bothered that SLB has heard this, though, as I’d prefer to keep my supposed talent under wraps until such time as I know if it’s any good at all.

  And then I hear a yippedy bark that I recognize‡ and I know, without even looking round, that Gypsy is in town and right behind me.

  ‘Wehay!’ Dermot is giving a high five to someone I can’t yet see.

  I turn around and there are Gypsy, Uggs and Dixie. Dermot was high-fiving Uggs and not the mutt, thank goodness.

  ‘We thought you’d need support,’ Dixie says. Before I splutter anything total
ly and utterly and untakebackably embarrassing, she adds, ‘Gypsy’s idea.’

  I quickly check that none of the Ten Guitars have heard that, or my cover is blown, but they’re so engrossed with being deadly cool that they haven’t, so I can breathe a sigh of relief on that slim level.

  In other news, my life has just gone down the can.

  The Fear

  ‘I’m really touched, you know that, but I can’t let you stay with me,’ I explain. ‘I don’t mean to be ungrateful, it’s just that this is going to take hours and I’ll get tetchy and I’ll pick fights with you and that won’t be fair on you and then we’ll fall out even worse than we have already.’

  There, I think that about covers everything.

  Dixie isn’t even listening; she’s watching the television cameras. The programme interviews various saddos in the queue and I am determined not to be one of them. I don’t want anyone knowing that I was once insane enough to think I could do this, and then went further with the madness and turned up to audition.

  The presenter is hyping the crowd up to scream and go wild and she’s asking who everyone is and then – oh no, oh, absolutely no blinkin WAY, no, nono – she’s seen Gypsy and she’s approaching to talk to us.

  ‘Who’s this little creature here?’ she’s asking. ‘Can we get a shot of this little cutie?’

  Gypsy is in a frenzy of leaping and barking, like she knows she’s going to be on television.

  I hear Dixie say, ‘Hi, I’m Dixie Purvis and I’m here with my friend …’ She looks round but I’m gone. I’m hiding behind a huge guy with a tuba so I won’t be safe for long – novelty items always turn up on the show and a tuba is not an instrument you meet every day on the street.

  ‘Our friend is doing stand-up,’ I hear Maya say, approaching the camera crew.

  I peek round the tuba and see Delia Thomas has put on specs and is talking to the camera. It’s like she’s taken on a completely different character, but it’s kooky and funny.

  ‘Yeah, Val, I’m trying out,’ she’s saying to the presenter. ‘I’m going to talk about my life and how impossible it is. Like, my dog ate a big chunky corner of my French grammar book,’ (Gypsy jumps up and down on cue!), ‘so now I’ll never know the verb “to give” or how to conjugate it – French people are going to think I’m a deeply selfish person.’ She shrugs. ‘What can you do? It’s like wearing glasses, people think no guy will ever make a pass at you – not so, they practise their lines on girls like me and that’s good, up to a point – trouble is I can see them clearly because of the specs, so that balances things up, too much really.’

  She’s really got a good patter and everyone around us is laughing and I realize I have nothing to match that. Singing, as I plan to do, is different and can’t be compared, but I know it’s not special because I haven’t written my own song, for example, and from where I am* Delia does have something unusual and good. My throat starts to ache and close in. I don’t feel well.

  The camera crew move on and I sneak back to my friends. Dixie has slotted us into the queue with Delia and Maya, as if that was where we were to be all along. I thought the twenty minutes earlier waiting for the bus was long, but no, THIS is what a long time means. We shuffle forward for hours and with each step I feel worse and worse. Finally, we make it into the building but it’s hotter than hell in here and I think I’m going to pass out at any minute. We’re given numbers and then we wait some more. And more.

  Dermot and another nine guitars come out punching the air – they’ve got a call back. I could not feel more tiny or insignificant. The ‘lil’ name is apt for me after all.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Uggs asks. ‘You look really pale.’

  I nod, but I’m not convinced I am OK. I try to speak but I can’t seem to make a sound. Nerves, no doubt. I do my breathing exercises, like we do at choir practice. That feels a bit better.

  After waiting for six or seven centuries, suddenly we’re at the door and Delia is going in – Oh. My. Actual. GOD. I’m next. I do some more breathing but I must be doing it too fast because I get very woozy and have to sit with my head between my legs.

  Delia comes out smiling and everyone’s voice now sounds like it’s coming to me through treacle. She’s saying, ‘I’m called back,’ but it’s deep and drawling: ‘Eyemcawwwlllledbaaaaaaack,’ and it’s certainly not at the right speed.

  A woman with a clipboard grabs me and shoves me through the door going, ‘Goooodluuuuuck,’ and I’m inside a big room with a table at the other end and sitting there are Danny Faller (legend and a v v hard man to please), Nicki Richie (singer and professionally fabulous showbiz person) and Tate Goodwin (impresario and top manager). I stagger towards them and try to say my name but my voice won’t come. A tiny squeak is all I manage and when I stand in front of them and try to gather myself to sing, the terror is so great that the world goes black and I faint clear away.

  When I open my eyes I see a circle of familiar faces leaning over me, all looking very concerned. I am no longer in the Room of Dreams but in a Corridor of Lost Opportunity. The show must go on, it seems, and it has, without me. Thankfully the Ten Guitars are not among the spectators, so I may have escaped Complete and Utter Humiliation.†

  The woman with the glasses wants me to sign a form which gives permission for the show to use the footage of me fainting through the Fear but Dixie says, ‘No way,’ and, after an argument, the woman goes away looking peeved that they can’t broadcast my shame. I’m so glad my friends are here for me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dixie,’ I croak.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says.

  ‘Are you going to make fun of me because of this?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she says.

  Uggs shakes his head. ‘Too soon,’ he says to her.

  ‘Yeah, too soon, NOW,’ she agrees. ‘But a time will come.’

  I actually manage a small laugh at that and then Gypsy licks my face and I even keep smiling then. Clearly I need medical attention.

  The Shame

  So, my name should be changed to Jenny Fail. This is the most spectacular mess-up yet. And to think I nearly lost my Bestest Galpal for something that I couldn’t even manage to get through without passing out. EPIC disazzo. But one that we are keeping to ourselves. Maya and Delia have been sworn to silence, and everyone agrees that what went on at Teen Factor X for Jenny ‘Failure’ Q stays at Teen Factor X. I am totally humiliated but relieved that it goes no further.*

  Life can move on again with all of the alterations that the latest fail-fest has added to it, but I’m feeling really strange about the whole event. It’s like too much spice in a muffin, or too much salt on your chips. Sometimes I get a horror flashback. It can come out of nowhere. It’s like I’m reliving the audition room beginning to spin and me beginning to wobble and then the blank before I wake to see so many eyes staring down at me. The shame makes me cringe more than the memory of when I fell over and showed my (big) pants. Strangely, I am also relieved that I didn’t make it through because I don’t think I was ready.† But the knock-back has left me with no self-confidence whatsoever and I feel hollow.

  The big thing for the Quinns is that Dermot is going to be on TV. Mum and Dad are so excited and proud and I am vaguely sorry that I couldn’t add to that by being chosen too, even if I am also now v v glad that I was not.

  It’s half-term holidays and Dad decides to throw a celebratory barbeque, even though the weather is quite nippy. Ten Guitars are the special guests. It means there are a lot of wrapped-up-warmly guys in the garden giving tips over the flames and burning food, both of which they seem to like to do. I doubt any of them really knows all that much about cooking with fire. I eat too much houmous and I know I REEK of garlic so I’m feeling v v self-conscious as a result. It seems I don’t need a worst enemy as long as I am still breathing‡ myself!

  Then we go indoors and Ten Guitars play some tunes. They’re really, really good, I think. I am boiling due to the adjacent presence of Stevie
Bolton. I’d say I look like a lobster with orange frizzy hair, but I am grinning away and enjoying the performance.

  Of course, I think SLB looks coolest and is the best guitar player in the group but I’m also chuffed that my brother seems to be the leader and the one who came up with the whole idea. Then Stevie Lee winks at me and I swallow air so quickly I get hiccoughs. Très undignified. I also hope I wasn’t staring at him or dribbling and that maybe that’s why he winked, like telling someone they have a bogey in their nostril or some of their lunch still on their face.

  I wish I had the guts to do a song but I don’t. And right now I am only able to make ‘hic’ noises anyhow. I may never sing in public ever again. I’ll hide at the back of the school choir. When Ten Guitars finish we all clap and then I make my way to the kitchen for emergency chocolate. Mum is telling one of the Oakdale mums her due date and I am reminded that life is about to change for us Quinns. I discover that the two Kit Kats that were there this morning are gone, but instead of being annoyed I start to feel hopeful that Baby Quinn might have something in common with me after all.

  Cornered

  Finally some good news. We got a big order for DA BOMB from the other Slinkies. We’ve decided to charge two euros a bomb but we may go into making smaller ones so that customers have a choice and can buy one for a euro if they’re cash-strapped.

  Actually I can’t wait for us to sell these bath bombs because we’ve invested our spare and sparse cash in them and we need to start seeing some returns now. As a result, we’ve decided this will be our last batch till the initial stock is sold off. I’m getting into the lingo of commerce with ‘tradeables’ and ‘collateral’ and all sorts that I don’t understand but love the sound of.