Jenny Q, Stitched Up Read online

  My room is an Aladdin’s cave of handy and beautiful items with which to make your mark or organize your life. If only this was as impressive to everyone as it is to me, Stevie Lee Bolton would be mine. Unfortunately, like most boys, I don’t think that he is that bothered about stationery. I’m sure I would have one over any of the Slinkies if he was, as they are probably too busy being gorgeous to use a nice biro.

  I’m so used to quality pens now that using a rubbish one would be like trying to write with a crayon. The only thing that has ever defeated me in this whole area is the fountain pen. I just could not get the hang of that at all, which is a shame. But it’s good to have something left to conquer later on when I am a geriatric like Gran.

  Monday, Monday

  I didn’t sleep so well last night. This happens to me a lot before a Big Day. Not like last year, though, when we were headed ‘up’ to Second Level and I didn’t sleep AT ALL I was so wound up and nervous. I can just imagine what the Newbies are going through right now. Dix has texted I h8 skwl already, though I sort of know she doesn’t really. I text back I heart skwl to wind her up. I follow it up with a smiley. She’ll kill me for goading her.

  Dad is talking to himself in the shower, asking himself questions, and this is not as unusual as you might expect. We are dealing with the Quinns, after all, so believe me when I say that strange is normal round here. I asked Dad once why he does it and he replied, ‘I am the only one who knows the correct answers to those questions,’ as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  There is a shard of light shining through a gap in my curtains and it has captured motes of dust and they’re floating lazily around. I get out of bed and busy myself making the best of the uniform we’re saddled with at Oakdale High. Who the heck thought up the colour maroon and then let the world have it – perhaps they were simply sharing the pain?

  I go into the kitchen and Mum asks how I slept, so I sing her a Sound of Music song, to the tune of ‘Edelweiss’:

  ‘Gypsy dog

  Some Nightingale!

  Every morning she barks lots.

  She’s a mutt

  She wrecks my nut

  She sounds happy to wake me!’

  Mum laughs as she puts stuff on the table for the family’s breakfast, then tucks into some gherkins and a Kit Kat for her and the Bump. Strangely, the only thing this baby doesn’t like is mushrooms,* which come right back up into the world as quick as you can say ‘get out’. And Mum doesn’t like the smell of coffee any more, or red wine, which is bad luck for Dad, as they’re two of his favourite things and he has to go and sit outside to have them now. Gran joins him, as she’s partial to red wine and coffee too, so they have an outcasts’ club going. When winter comes and it’s lashing rain or snowing there’ll be merry hell over the outdoor nature of the club, though they’ll probably just move it into Gran’s garage, or Connie’s Condo, as Dad likes to call it.

  Mum has managed to get the biggest jar ever (in the history of big jars) of her newly favourite pickles from the Polish shop in the shopping centre. The gherkins on her plate are all green and warty-looking. The ones in the jar are like science exhibits in a laboratory – they’re suspended, lolling from side to side whenever the jar is moved. The smell of the vinegar makes me queasy and I want to gag. I cannot give any seal of approval to matching a gherkin with a Kit Kat craving. At BREAKFAST! It’s just wrong!

  We hear a lot of yippedy barking and I know Uggs is coming to get me, with That Dog. Gyp actually sneaked into our Geography class last year and answered all the multiple-choice questions correctly by barking at the right one as Mr Laverty read them out. Obviously a fluke but scary all the same, especially as Mr Laverty let her stay for the rest of the session and seemed genuinely inclined to take her on as a pupil. NUTS.

  Gran is back from her latest painting trip,† so it’s like feeding time at the zoo. She doesn’t always join us for breakfast and often sleeps till lunchtime, as far as I can make out, but she has a sniff that today is a Big Day and so she’s here to join in the mayhem. She can’t resist the chance of drama and if it doesn’t happen she’ll make some. I remember Mum and Dad having a garden party once that was going very smoothly, everyone enjoying themselves with no problems, and Gran must have decided it was TOO smooth because she fainted into a bowl of honey-and-mustard marinade.

  ‘Second Year, Jen,’ she says now.

  I grunt in a teenagerly way that I’ve picked up from Dermot.

  ‘Neither here nor there.’ She sniffs at what she considers to be a fact. ‘Glad I’m not young any more.’ She likes to introduce a bit of gentle Age Rage into conversations.

  ‘Glad I’m not old,’ I say and bite my tongue. The WRONG thing is to engage with her, she loves a jostle.

  We’re off!

  ‘Old, you say.’ Another sniff, for dramatic purposes. ‘Oh, how wise, yet foolish,’ she says. ‘Am I to be disposable now too? Are the elderly to be got rid of?’

  Everyone is supposed to feel TERRIBLE at this idea. Mum knows this and in case anyone does feel awful‡ she steps in with, ‘Now easy, ladies, it’s a big day and we’ll not have all that nonsense so early.’

  Before Gran can pull a fast one Mum pushes her bump out and wonders aloud, ‘Will one Kit Kat be enough or should I go another gherkin?’

  No matter what the answer is, I’m a loser because there’s already one less Kit Kat in the house, but Gran can’t exactly cross a pregnant woman and make her upset. Instead we have to crunch our toast in silence, aside from the toasty-crunchy sounds and the equally crunchy sound of Mum demolishing the newly invented, gack-most gherkin ’n’ Kit Kat combo.

  Grandad Jack

  Dad appears in the kitchen with, ‘Morning, all.’

  ‘Douglas,’ Gran says, though we all know who it is. ‘What news from the shower?’

  ‘Very interesting set of ideas from all concerned,’ he tells us. ‘Thank you for asking, Constance.’

  They really do sit around pretending this is normal, commenting on the madness. And my gran really is called Constance.* They share a ‘studio’ at the end of the garden, where Gran paints her watercolours (flowery, herby and wispy landscapes, mostly) and Dad develops his hobby photographs (could be ANYTHING, and usually is). It’s a shed, really, but they insist we give it its grand title, so we say ‘studio’ to them, MOSTLY, and ‘shed’ when they’re not listening.

  ‘Dad, you were talking to yourself,’ I point out.

  ‘Well, yes, Jennifer, that is so, and thank you for that valid and, some might say, rather dull point, but allow me to assure you that Me, Myself and I were in top form this morning and have some splendid plans to put into action later.’

  The whole table groans at that, then laughs.

  Gypsy rushes through the door and dances around Gran. The two old ladies get on very well. Part of the reason is that Gran can indulge in long amounts of babbling on about nothing with the mutt and Gyp usually agrees with a bark or two, though that rarely interrupts Gran’s flow, which is basically a monologue. She can’t quite achieve that with the rest of us but it doesn’t stop her torturing us at all opportunities. I think it’s some sort of rule that the Oldsters have to do this, probably from age twenty-five onwards.

  Gypsy and Gran are growing old disgracefully together. Sometimes Gyp stays for a sleepover in Connie’s Condo. They were made for each other.

  Mum offers Uggs and the Hairy Creature a chocolate-and-gherkin-based ‘smackerel’ and we all assume she’s joking. Luckily for them they’ve eaten breakfast, so they’re spared the latest delicacy from Quinn Cuisine. And Mum may not have been joking … she is pregnant, after all, and therefore a bit nutty to boot.

  We all hear the front door closing and Mum asks, ‘Is Dermot gone? He didn’t say goodbye.’

  I don’t know why this surprises her – he’s sixteen, so he’s odd. He’s a teenager, for crying out loud, it’s practically his job to be moody. Yes, I know I’m one now too, but I’m new to it and it ma
y take me some time to develop total attitude like Dermo has, or proper bad habits† and all that.

  Mum phones his mobile and, sure enough, he’s on his way to school. When she hangs up, she just sighs and half-smiles. ‘Apparently the door closing tells us that he’s gone.’

  ‘That boy gets more like his grandfather Jack every day,’ Gran says.

  Grandad Jack went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up the following morning. Apparently it’s a ‘lovely way to go’. I’m not sure about that. Dixie claims that she was once haunted by the ghost of her dead grandmother, who was wafting about telling her to wash the dishes. I did ask if perhaps she had eaten too much cheese just before bed, or if her mum was going to elaborate measures to get her to do her chores. Dix has always preferred the haunting idea and insists that nothing but bribery with hard currency will be effective in getting her to do dishes.

  I hardly remember Grandad Jack, so he’d probably have to re-introduce himself if he chose to haunt me. I remember he smelled of pipe smoke and had a rusty kind of laugh. The main thing about him was that he was a man of few words and Dermot seems to be going in that direction. Dad sometimes mutters that Jack had the patience of a saint, usually when Gran is giving it socks at being an eccentric.

  Skwl

  ‘Oh. My. ACTUAL. Did we, like, actually look like that last year?’

  It really is a disturbing sight. Dixie has her right hand to her chest in horror at the hideousness of it.

  ‘Chances are we did,’ I say, more in sadness than anything else.

  We’re reviewing the Newbies at Oakdale High on their first day of Second Level education. Tragic. Truly tragic. Truly tragic.* They’re standing around the schoolyard trying to look cool in their new uniforms. Mum is forever saying a uniform is ‘a great leveller’ whenever I complain about it, but looking at these guys I’m not so sure.

  ‘Bless,’ I say, shaking my head smugly and feeling quite grown up.

  ‘This year is already so much better,’ says Dixie, ‘because we’re not them.’

  Uggs and I acknowledge this fact.

  ‘It’s such a relief,’ I say.

  ‘Mind you, our uniforms might fit a bit better but they’re still maroon and therefore the very actual colour of awful,’ Uggs says.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ I tell him.

  We still look pityingly on the First Years, like they came down in the last shower. Poor creatures in skirts way too long and too big for them because their parents think they’ll be good for them to grow into. What it is, though, is mortification and I can’t believe any parent could have forgotten that feeling, no matter how old they are.

  ‘Unless they’re boys, of course,’ Uggs says. ‘I wonder if it’s unfair that you girls have the choice between skirts or trousers but us guys only have the trouser option?’

  ‘Uggs, you guys have the skirt option too, I’m sure, it just hasn’t ever been taken up by your kind.’ I’m feeling all smug, having made this point, and probably have a very annoying, pleased face on me.

  Dix joins me. ‘Yeah, there’s no rule that you can’t wear a skirt if you really want to, Uggs, least not that I’ve ever heard of.’

  We don’t continue to torture him because right then the Slinkies go by and Samantha Slinky actually says, ‘Hi, Jen.’

  TO ME. You could knock me over with an exclamation mark made entirely of feathers. I have been spoken to, in public, at school, like I’m someone. It’s one thing for it to happen during the summer when we’re all on holiday and normal rules don’t apply, but here? I only manage a gurgle in return.

  Uggs and Dixie are turned away now, giggling.

  ‘Bit of dribble on your chin,’ Uggs says.

  ‘Thank you, Eugene. That is, of course, intentional,’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ they chorus.

  ‘I dislike you both,’ I say. ‘Equally.’

  Gary the Dork goes by, wearing a maroon beanie to match his uniform. Wherever he managed to get such a fashion faux-pas we may never know (or want to know). He goes, ‘Yo!’ and raises his hand and I think he may be attempting a high five with me. This all makes me gag and dribble in a very different way to the Slinky greeting. Then he does a kind of rolling walk to Uggs, like a ‘homie’ – in his own disturbed mind, that is – and goes, ‘Dude!’

  ‘DUD, more like,’ I mutter.

  ‘He is so getting worse, isn’t he?’ Dixie says.

  ‘No question.’

  Although Sam Slinky broke the Golden Rule of never bothering with younger people when she spoke to me, she could maybe be allowed off because she’s going out with my brother.† But the Dork should know better, even if he is an idiot. There is NO WAY he should be having anything to do with us ‘kids’.

  The Dork spots Tommy Cook (possibly the least cool kid in the whole wide world) and rolls on over to him with, ‘Tominator, ma man!’ and Tommy does actually high-five him and say, ‘GAZ!’ That’s how sad he is.

  ‘Beyond sad,’ Uggs says. ‘I can’t even laugh at it.’

  Weirdoid Central is added to by Dixie’s squeeze, Jason Fielding, who lurks into view. I see her eyes widen and take my opportunity to deflect attention as I’m still a bit sweaty from nearly having to greet the Dork and I don’t like it.

  ‘Would that be Jason the Tongue Fielding?’ I ask, as innocently as I can manage.

  She wrinkles her nose, dismissively. ‘That guy is so last Friday.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘He is,’ she squeals, then she hisses, ‘SHAAA-AAAP,’ as the Tongue approaches (without his trademark feature out in front of him, I’m glad to report).‡

  ‘If he calls me Babe, I’ll deck him,’ Dixie mutters.

  ‘BABE,’ he says, the silver-tongued devil.

  I wait for some violence but Dixie just, well, simpers a bit. Uggs nudges her, to provoke some action, but no go. It’s like she’s stuck to the spot and has lost her powers of speech – v v unusual for the Dix.

  Uggs and I try to make ourselves invisible, pretending not to listen in but we so are.

  ‘Wassup?’ the Tongue wants to know of Dixie. ‘You don’t call, you don’t text. I thought we had something, y’know?’

  He’s clearly been watching a lot of movies recently.

  ‘Oh, buzz off,’ she says, and he does.

  ‘Tough love,’ I tell Uggs and I get a thump from Dixie, with a little pinch added for good measure.

  ‘How am I the bad guy here?’ I ask, rubbing my injured arm.

  Day One

  The bell sounds and we file into the gymnasium for Assembly, lining up in our classes as our principal takes to the stage. We all call him Skinner, after The Simpsons character, but never to his face of course. His name is Mr Bradley. He’s wearing the same grey trousers that he wore all last year but thankfully there’s a dry-cleaning pin stuck to the hem of the left leg. Already there are sweat patches under the arms of his white(ish) shirt but the bit of unidentified crustiness that used to live on his striped tie is gone.

  I wonder what goes through his head every morning as he scans his kingdom, and what does he make of the new geeks here in Nerdopolis. As it is, I am scanning the class lines too, desperately hoping to catch sight of Stevie Lee B. I finally spot him, sandwiched between two Slinkies (Sam and EmmyLou) and my heart does one of those uncomfortable fillippy blips that make me feel like I’m going to hit the deck if I’m not careful. And then I sink a bit because that’s probably where he’ll be all year, between two or more Slinkies.*

  Mr Bradley smiles at us all and this will be the first and last of those we’ll get from him for the year. Bradley’s face doesn’t suit smiling; it suits cross, stern frowning. Everything is a disappointment to him, it seems. He welcomes us all. He gives us a little lecture on the benefits of education and points out how lucky we are to have it. It all becomes YADAYADAYADA until he warns us it’s best for us to see him from this angle, rather than face to face in his office. I guess he has a point.

  As we file ou
t I notice that the gym doesn’t smell like cheesy old socks or trainers yet because it’s our first day and it has had time over the summer to get properly aired. There’s even a chance that the normally work-shy cleaners gave it a once-over during the three-month break, though it’ll most likely have been only the once. I’d say they’re a bunch who believe in leaving plenty of germs around to make our immune systems stronger through the daily battle to combat disease.

  Also, the caterers who do lunch have only just arrived, so the pong de soup du jour hasn’t started to waft in yet, either, and that’s a help. The canteen is next to the gym and there are days when we’re vaulting the horse and the whiff of old cabbage and burger makes you want to gag. These caterers are new and they’ve put up a sign saying Red Rose Café and there are red-and-white plastic cloths on the tables now. Maybe the food will be an improvement on last year, which was gack beyond belief. It’s a wonder any of us got out alive, actually, with the poison that was served up and paid for.†

  Uggs was all for doing a science project on the nutritional values of what we were fed, because he was sure they were nil and we’d win a big prize at Young Scientist of the Year and also expose the villainy we had to put up with daily.

  ‘It’s a national disgrace and a threat to our youth,’ he said. ‘We’re bound to make the news.’

  As we mooch along the corridor to our new classroom I see someone has posted the details of the try-out for Teen Factor X on the school noticeboard and a crowd has gathered to read it. MEGA SHIZZOLA! My heart sinks, yet further than it already has.‡ I want to tear that poster down there and then – the last thing I need is to see anyone I know at the trials and, surely, this will encourage all sorts of delusionals in Oakdale High (of whom there are many; I just hope I’m not one).