Jenny Q, Stitched Up Read online

  Eventually she says, ‘That was close,’ and we both try to giggle at the near catastrophe.

  Single Ladies

  It’s seven o’clock. Dixie has left and I am speculating what will happen at the Youth Club. The Slinkies will turn up in vaguely matching outfits, as in similar styles but different colour co-ordinations. It’s their version of a uniform, a bit like the Pink Ladies in that movie Grease. They will look fabulous. They’ll hang around outside for ages so that their entrance to the club creates a buzz, which, of course, it will. In the meantime, they’ll sit on the wall and laugh their tinkly laughs, and look unbearably cool and gorgeous. Everyone will want to talk to them and be part of their fabness, but everyone will be torn about going in and doing some dancing before the spotlight switches to SamDanandEmmyLou. Only a Slinky can match a Slinky.

  Dad is having a beer in the garden and setting fire to some barbecue coals. My face is throbbing with zittiness and I think I may have overdone the sunshine earlier. Instead of getting rid of the spots, it has helped them grow even bigger and now I’ve got a red face on me that’ll peel within the week and then I’ll be a flaky, hideous monstrosity.*

  I sigh, resigned to the life of Jennifer Quinn. The window to the bathroom is open and I can practically hear the effort Dermot’s making to get squeaky clean in the shower. He’s having a major wash, as it’s a hot action night for him. Then there’s a lot of spraying and Dad shouts up, ‘If you’re using my stuff, I will hunt you down.’ But he doesn’t mean it.

  Next is a big drama and kerfuffle because Dermot can’t find his denim shirt and Mum is telling him it’s exactly where she left it after she ironed it, which was on his bed. I mutter that he should have ironed it himself and Dad smiles and lifts an eyebrow. Both myself and Dermot are well able to iron our own clothes but we both avoid it unless there’s money involved.

  I wonder what Stevie Lee will wear and my face aches even more. I’m guessing it’ll be his sexy white shirt and dark jeans. If I’m not careful, I’ll cry and that’ll just add more red to my face.

  My mobile goes and it’s a text from Uggs: U sure ur not comin?

  I don’t bother to answer it. No need to because I know exactly where he has sent it from. Instead, I say loudly, ‘Yes, I’m sure, Eugene.’

  He looks over the fence from his side.† ‘It’ll be rubbish without you.’

  Darn him for his niceness but I can’t go all weak now. I sigh and do my best, cool, ‘Yes, I know, but you’ll just have to manage.’

  ‘I could stay here, if you’d prefer? Not, like, with you or anything, if you don’t want, but just at home.’

  I swear he’s going to make me bawl my eyes out if he keeps this loyalty up, so I go, ‘No WAY. You are my eyes and ears out there. I NEED you at that club reporting everything!’

  Dermot has stormed into the garden, still in some sort of huff about his shirt, even though he’s wearing it. I can smell him at a hundred paces and it’s kind of overbearing. I fear he has overdone the Lynx. ‘Pooh,’ I say and hold my nose.

  He sticks his tongue out at me and I return the look, with some crossed eyes for good measure.

  ‘Stop it, you two,’ Dad says, even though he has his back to us and hasn’t seen any of this.‡ ‘They didn’t learn that from me, Euge,’ he says, shaking his head.

  Actually, I can’t remember where or when most of my bad habits come from, except for biting my nails from time to time. That’s directly because I saw Orla Shortall doing it at the bus stop once and I thought she looked really cool, so I gave it a go and now I’m stuck with it. I suspect I don’t look nearly as cool as her, nibbling daintily, more like I’m gnawing my hand off.

  And if Gran catches me mid chew she’ll always say something loudly, like, ‘Take that paw out of your mouth, Jennifer Quinn, or you’ll end up with hooves instead of hands.’

  Enchanté, I’m sure (not).

  Growing Pains

  I’m waiting for something inevitable and Uggs delivers. ‘Gypsy was wondering …’

  ‘No, Uggs, I don’t want or need that beast keeping me company. She’s a terrierist and will only cause me trouble.’ All true.

  He actually disappears to talk to the mutt, who yips a bit as if she understands him. His face reappears to say, ‘I think she feels left out too.’

  ‘Well, take her with you, then, if you’re so concerned.’

  All three of us know that’s not going to happen, if only because there’s a No Pets policy in the hall – in fact sometimes Dixie and I threaten not to bring Uggs along under this rule, a No Pests Policy, as we like to call it.

  He has another few words with Gyp and I can almost hear her doggy sigh before the clippety-clip of her nails on the decking as she heads back into the Nightingales’ house to sulk.

  Uggs seems to want to stay home too. He’s lingering.

  ‘You’re creeping me out now,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he says. Then he sees Dad heading inside to get food for the barbecue. ‘I found out something interesting today. Apparently it’s against the law to give someone a tattoo unless they’re over sixteen, so we can’t get ours done. Not legally, anyhow.’

  This must be a great relief to him; one less fainting opportunity in the face of needles.

  ‘We’ll have to make do with transfers, so,’ I say.

  ‘Will I break the news to Dixie?’

  ‘Do.’

  There’s an awkward silence.

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’ I say.

  ‘Erm, yeah.’

  ‘Well, GO.’

  Uggs gives me a miserable look, the big eejit, and I relent a little. As he slopes off I call after him, ‘Those combats are SIIICK!’ Which means they are in fact brillopad. He looks back over the fence and smiles. It wasn’t hard to guess what trousers he was wearing: Uggs always wears his khaki combats if it’s a big social occasion, and it doesn’t get any bigger than the Youth Club do round these parts.

  Dermot comes outside with Dad to get some money and then he disappears too, passing Mum as she brings out the bread rolls for the barbecue. She must have got a whiff of the Lynx Attack because she raises her eyebrows and smirks at me.

  Then everything goes quiet. The air is really still, as if someone has deflated the garden. I’m feeling terrible and it’s more than just that I’m missing the Youth Club. My head aches, my back aches, my zits throb. Most of all, I’m relieved to be here at home, which is probably wimpy beyond words.

  Then I get all worried that Dixie is making friends with someone else and that this day will lead to her having a new Bestest. She must read my mind because she texts: Slinkies on wall. Me stuck wit Delia Thomas. She v odd, 2 quiet. Plschngeur mind n get here!

  I send: Uggs on way 2 res q u.

  Dad has poured too much fuel on the coals and he’s trying to tame the barbecue flames and hug Mum at the same time, which is both dangerous and a bit EUWWW. They’re discussing the recession too, so that’ll make them feel like they’re majorly multi-tasking.*

  I get a text pic of the Slinkies from Dix. They’ve gone for shorts and halter-neck tops and coloured sneakers. Sam is in blue (she’ll match Dermot), Dan is in white and EmmyLou is in a light green. They look great. I text back, blurg! and get the reply, x actly.

  Uggs sends through a general pic of the room. I can see a sliver of Stevie’s right side and he’s wearing his white shirt† and his tan looks glorious. I can’t see who he’s talking to and that makes me jittery.

  My phone goes again. From Dix: Slinkies in Phase 2.

  This is what’s happening, so – they’re on the floor dancing to Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’. I would love to tell you that it’s simple line-dancing gone mad, and maybe a bit rubbish, but their routine is seriously cool. Everyone stands back from the floor and admires it and feels all self-conscious afterwards about their own pathetic attempts at hitting a groove. I’m so glad I’m not there because all my zits would probably pop with embarrassment at how red and b
umpy I look.

  To add to my misery, I get: OMG hairography now! That’s a super-new development. I can picture them swirling their long tresses in perfect co-ordination and the glorious applause they’re getting – you’d have to be dead not to be moved by the Slinkies when they Turn. It. Up.

  Mum comes over. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I manage, but I don’t sound convinced.

  She hugs me. ‘You’re my special girl, Jen. Always will be.’

  But how can that be? If this new baby is a girl, I won’t be unique in the family any more. And worse, I won’t be the youngest either. I’m going to be a middle child and that fills me with dread, though I’m not sure why. I want to hang on to Mum for ever but I’m hot and clammy and feeling slightly dizzy.

  I try to eat some of the burgers Dad has incinerated but my appetite is gone too. I’m not sure I even want chocolate or to hum, so that’s pretty darn extreme. But I bravely manage a choc-ice for dessert and it’s comforting to hear the crack of the chocolate coating and feel the coolness of the ice cream slide down my throat.

  I get a text pic of a tongue lurching at me and it’s most unsettling. My burger and ice cream stir within me and I really hope they’re not returning to the world the wrong way! I have to guess that the tongue belongs to Jason Fielding and he is making a play for Dixie. Sure enough, it’s followed by another of both of them, from a very strange angle indeed. I sometimes think she really fancies him.

  Uggs sends through a few more snaps. Delia Thomas seems to be hanging around the edges of his space. She looks glum but she has actually made an effort with her hair and make-up and it’s not too awful. She also seems to be wearing a passable smock top. Strange. My heart gets shredded when I see Stevie Lee deep in conversation with Danielle of the Slinkies. I thought EmmyLou was the one to watch out for, but it may be that both of them want to get with him. I can only hope this causes friction in the Slinky camp – they can’t have it all, surely? I want the day to end now. I’ve truly had enough of it.

  I go upstairs to my room and sit on my bed and get a weird cramp and then a funny wet feeling. I pull down my pants and there it is: I’m having my first period. I am so stunned I just sit there on the edge of my bed staring at it. It’s unexpected, even though lots of girls in my class have had theirs and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I joined them – I just didn’t think it would be tonight. It didn’t factor in my thinking. I thought I had a summertime lurgy. But this makes perfect sense. No wonder I was feeling odd.

  I’m so taken aback that I don’t hear the footsteps on the stairs and suddenly Dad is there in the doorway looking at me and neither of us knows what to say. I can’t explain what I’m doing and I don’t think he can understand what he’s seeing. I must have a look of utter horror on my face because he quickly says, ‘I’ll get your mother,’ and flees the scene.

  I am mortified. He’ll think I’m some sort of pervert. Then I start to cry. I am heaving with tears when Mum arrives and I can hardly string a sentence together.

  ‘Hush, darling,’ she says and kisses my head. ‘It’s all right.’

  And I believe her that it will be. She’s my mum and she loves me and she’ll look after me. We get some sanitary towels together and I climb into my big, faded knickers with the hearts on and my favourite cotton nightie‡ and she tucks me into bed. She pulls the curtains and my room has a lovely dusky light to it now. I close my eyes and let my body relax. Suddenly everything’s not quite so bad. After all, I’m sort of a woman now and I’m gonna kick some ass.

  ‘Oh, really,’ Mum says, ‘ass-kicking next, is it?’

  Argh, I said it aloud. And then we both start laughing till the tears come, and I think it’s not so bad being Jennifer Quinn.

  Love Hurts

  Following the Youth Club on Friday night, Dermot has a love bite on his neck! He said he’d kill me if I told anyone, or pointed it out in company, especially at Quinn HQ. He made this point v v strongly – in fact, I haven’t seen him that passionate in a long time.

  I don’t ‘get’ the love-bite thing at all. The Gang tried it out once. Not on one another! No, we each gave ourselves a love bite on the back of the hand one afternoon. I didn’t like it. Those suckers hurt. Why would Dermot want that sort of pain in the neck?

  If Stevie Lee Bolton ever has a love bite, I will DIE (unless it’s me who gives it to him … ). Here’s a song I made up about him. It’s to the tune of ‘My Favourite Things’ from The Sound of Music, which is a great favourite of mine and Mum’s. (I haven’t sung this for her because, well, it’s private … )

  His soft leather jacket is on Stevie Bolton,

  White cotton T-shirt, he plays Texas Hold Em,*

  He’s got brown eyes and a bright shiny smile.

  He is a favourite of mine by a mile.

  He might like a Slinky, which for me is no good,

  I’m only thirteen and they are all well old.

  He’s kind to me and that’s really well cool.

  I wish I could be his fav’rite girl at school

  When he’s laughing, when he’s talking,

  Then my heart might burst.

  Oh, Stevie Lee Bolton, I really do like you

  Although I don’t Stand a Chance!

  Attraction to another human being is a strange thing and it doesn’t seem to follow totally logical rules. For example, my mum is ‘well fit’ according to Gary, the dorkiest of Dermot’s friends. I should point out that he’s v v strange from the get-go. He likes to say ‘innit’ a lot at the end of his sentences too, cos he saw that on TV or something. Put it this way, he didn’t pick it up on his travels, as, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, he has never gone anywhere and probably doesn’t even have a passport.

  I once heard him say he was ‘biggin it up the massive, innit’ and I immediately realized that neither of us understood what he had just said. Also, he’s inclined to greet people with, ‘High five, blood,’ and then the other person has to do a high five with him and try not to laugh in his face or say something truthful like, ‘My name’s Marcus, not blood.’

  At least he’s not wearing a woolly beanie at the moment – presumably because the weather is too hot. And his jeans are up over the waistband of his underpants presently, which is an improvement. I am SO not interested in seeing his pants. My face burns again to think that he saw mine during the Kitchen Incident.† Ennyhoo, point is it’s a bit freaky that guys think Mum’s a fox in any way AT ALL – she’s ancient, so it just doesn’t apply. She’s forty-three. And she’s my MUM, for crying out loud!

  Mind you, it’s not just guys who go odd around my parents. Dix gets all giggly with my dad. She calls him ‘Doug’ in a funny, squeaky voice, the way the lads call Mum ‘Vic’ when they’re feeling all cool and brave, and they sound like they’ve swallowed helium and have become Smurfs. Cringe-making.

  And, while I’m at it, Uggs told me he was going to marry me once. He was only four at the time but it was a shock and I can only hope that he’s changed his mind, cos it would just be weird, a bit like marrying your own brother, which is so totally WRONG. He’d also like to be called Gene but, again, that would be a Saddo Thing and it’s never gonna happen on my watch, or Dixie’s. Just saying.

  Confession

  OK, time for a confession: I want to try out for Teen Factor X. Absolutely no one in the whole wide world knows this, not even Dixie or Uggs, and believe me that’s a BIG deal cos they know everything about me. Everyone says I have a great singing voice, so why not? I get goose bumps every time I think of it, just as bad as the Stevie Lee Bolton feeling, so it’s serious shizz.

  I watch Teen Factor X all the time on television and I KNOW I can sing better than most of the saddos who try out for it. But it’s one of those things that would bring mockery on me if I admitted I have an ambition to be on it. Most people would just be WAITING* for me to fall on my face … And I’m also kind of embarrassed about it, so it’s my secret obsession for now – it has to be
till I get through the preliminary rounds. Then everyone will surely be well impressed.

  The Dublin trials are not far off and I am practising hard at every opportunity but pretending it’s all for choir practice. I may have been overdoing things because Dad asked if I’d like to sing less loudly. According to him, he finds it hard to think when I’m warbling my numbers. Sheesh, can a girl not get a bit of encouragement round here? Would it KILL anyone to be positive about the fact that a teenager might want to sing rather than, oh, I don’t know, mug old ladies?

  Ennyhoo, sometimes I feel like I could burst with the tension of having such a big secret. It’s a heavy burden to conceal from your nearest and dearest, I can tell you that. I also read somewhere that chocolate makes your vocal cords fat = very controversial for Jenny Q, if true …

  Stationery

  Just one more sleep until the new school year starts. And that only means one thing to Jenny Q. Some people have a thing about collecting handbags, others have a shoe habit, for me it’s stationery. Going back to school means I have a bona fide* reason for adding to my collection. I love paper and pens, notebooks, cards, Post-its (all shapes and sizes). The latter are v v handy for leaving messages for other members of the Quinn family where they are CERTAIN to see them, especially those telling Dermot he is a total eejit.† I tried sticking them directly to Gypsy to send messages to Uggs. I said I was merely using her as one would a carrier pigeon but he was having none of it. He said it was demeaning to her, no less.

  My desk is arranged with many sorts of folders, binders and holders. Differently coloured and decorated cylinders hold my biros and pencils, and one is devoted to my knitting needles. Lots of the pens have quirky tops with sequins and feathers and even some with bells. One whole set of pens has lights which blink when you write with them = v v pretty and v distracting. I have lots of coloured paper clips in tiny dishes, erasers in others, tacks to pin notices to my cork board above the desk.