Читать книгу By the Time You Read This - Lola Jaye - Страница 6

Kevin Trivia: I scored a magnificent hat trick to clinch the county cup for my school.

‘What you’re telling us is…’ began Corey as a huge pink bubble grew out of his mouth like a balloon. Pop! ‘Your old man left you a book?’

I’d finally revealed The Manual’s existence outside Lanes Fish Bar.

‘It’s a manual, actually.’

‘So, it’s a manual that follows your life?’ asked Carla.

‘Yep. Every birthday from age twelve until I’m an old lady of thirty.’

‘But you’re twelve already!’ said Carla.

‘You’re not listening. I only got it at my mum’s wedding, so I get to read that entry and then every year until I’m thirty!’

‘Oh, right,’ she replied with a yawn. I nodded my head as Carla scraped strands of silky hair around her perfect ear, which was decorated with a massive hoop earring.

‘Bummer, Lo Bag, another book to read,’ said Corey, chewing furiously on the gum.

‘Can you not call me that?’ I asked – although I knew it was pointless, considering he’d been referring to me as ‘Lo Bag’ since, like, forever. As I explained about The Manual AGAIN, Corey’s index finger disappeared almost whole into his left ear as Carla stifled yet another yawn.

‘He gives me advice and stuff…’

‘So, what you’re saying is, your dad tells you what to do even though he’s dead?’ asked Corey, eyes searching the street ahead for his mates who were meeting him in ten minutes.

‘No…not really…’ I replied defensively.

‘Bummer,’ he added again anyway as Carla shook her head in apparent agreement with her brother. I sighed inwardly, disappointed that my friends found it so difficult to understand my new situation. But then, I couldn’t really expect them to.

An offensive bang on the chip-shop window interrupted our conversation.

‘Hey you kids, buzz off if you ain’t buying anything! Bloody loiterers!’

‘Charming!’ I said.

‘Sod off!’ shouted my friends as Corey placed two middle fingers firmly against the smeared window. Feeling a little left out, I spat a weak, ‘No, you buzz off!’ in the proprietor’s direction as I followed my friends across the road. My weak attempt at rebellion before the usual indignity of school the next day.

So the countdown begins. Bet you can’t wait to officially become a teenager. If only you knew that one day you’ll realise turning your clock back every winter is not enough. You’ll want another five, ten, twenty years back soon. But I won’t bore you with that right now, I may come back to it later. For now, it’s my hope you’ll manage to do one thing this year you’ll remember for ever and ever.

Can you think of anything?

Dad will give you a clue.

When I was twelve, I remember my dad taking me kite-flying for the very first time. It was a great day. The sun was shining brightly and I had to really squint as my eyes chased the red and blue kite floating in the sky. I was exhausted by the end of it all – so much so that when I chased the ice-cream van, I found I couldn’t catch up. I was so angry, while my dad was in fits! But that was okay because I was out with my dad, being boys, being free… just me and him and away from Philomena, Ina and Mum. I’ve never forgotten that day – even now at my age – because it was one of the last times I really remember feeling like a kid.

I know we can’t have those days together, but I really hope you and your mum have taken time out to make some lovely lasting memories of your own. Even so, I want you to make one more lasting memory this year.

Promise?

*

I searched my brain, tackling the events of the past year: Mum getting serious with then marrying the Bingo Caller; her constantly having a go at me; being marched up to the local market and suffering the very public indignity of picking out a ‘training bra’. Frankly, it had been a rubbish year, but I owed it to Dad to do ‘something to remember’ before I hit thirteen.

I mentioned it to Carla that evening.

‘We could go ice skating,’ she offered unhelpfully. Since getting her hair cut even shorter last week she’d decided to switch identities and was now all sophisticated – and stupid. I wondered what would happen if I took the scissors to my own mass of frizz. Nevertheless, I loved being around her and the family, as without them I’d be stuck at home with Mr and Mrs Boring. Popping round for Sunday lunch reminded me what a normal family could be like. Her mum was not only as beautiful as any movie star, she knew about stuff I cared about and dressed really good. Even Carla’s dad was quite good-looking – if you liked geriatrics (he was at least thirty-five). And apart from Corey disappearing to the moon minus a return ticket, Carla mostly got everything she wished for – records, clothes, shoes. And, most importantly, I’d yet to witness a spat between her parents – unlike Mum and the Bingo Caller. I also wished to be as pretty as Carla – soft, spot-free skin with the slimmest waist, just like her mum – although possibly, all I had to look forward to in that department was ‘The Great Auntie Elizabeth Gene’, but fingers crossed.

‘How about ice skating?’ she reiterated.

‘We do that all the time!’ I protested as Corey barged into the room for the fourth time that evening, baggy trousers hanging way below the waist and almost exposing the crack of his skinny bum, rolled up at the ankles and held in place with elastic bands. I’d seen the look on some guys down at the rec, but on Corey it just looked stoopid.

‘What are you two girls talking about, then?’ he asked.

‘GET OUT OF MY ROOM, YOU CRETIN!’ spat Carla as I took in the familiar scene of brother and sister mid-squabble. Corey was responsible for most rows, as he seemed to enjoy teasing his younger sister and behaving like the biggest idiot that ever lived. He also reeked of cigarettes.

‘Lo Bag?’ he said for no particular reason, flashing a dimpled smile.

‘I said, get out of my room. I’m telling Mum!’ said Carla, looking for something to chuck. These days, Carla and I were becoming more consumed in our own secrecy as Corey spent more time with ‘the boys’. And since reading The Manual, I’d felt miles older than the two of them anyway. Things were changing between us.

Carla finally found one of her old teddies and launched it towards her brother.

‘Cow!’ he spat, reaching for the door.

That night, Carla and I swooned over a poster of Bobby Brown and practised vogueing in front of the mirror, but not once did she ask me about The Manual.

I slipped back next door and into my room as Mum lay on the couch cuddled against the Bingo Caller, whispering sweet nothings. I changed into my yellow pyjamas decorated with pink dots and pulled The Manual from its secret hiding place under the bed. The one-eyed teddy stared at me, like he had something to say, and I started to wonder if I was getting too old to have him on my bed.

You’re in secondary school now.

A place where all the curly-haired kids want straight hair, the tubby kids dream of looking like beanpoles, and everyone is des perate to latch on to someone resembling a best friend.

This is fine, but having a bunch of other mates is always a good idea. At least I thought so when I was at school. In the jun iors I had three good friends – one was good at Maths, one great at football, the other okay at English. This all helped considering Maths and English were my least favourite subjects!

When I got to secondary school, things were a little different. Just getting through the day without being called certain names was really important, and it didn’t hurt to be around a bunch of boys who were feared, but the rules remained the same. So, now, what was his name…? John or Johnny, I think? Now he was brilliant at both Maths AND English. And there was Nick, who everyone was scared of (which obviously brought the name-calling down to a minimum). And then there was Charlie (secretly, my favourite best mate) who was basically good at… well, mucking about mainly.

Look at it this way: some will be good at geography, others good for advice. Whatever their strengths, I’m sure they’ll make such a difference to your life. They’ll teach you loads – good and bad. Believe me on that one.

But hey, perhaps there’s someone you already muck about with and share secrets with. (Carla, maybe? You always seemed so close.) Whoever it is, never let her go. Best friends are a bit special and a bit rare – like sand made out of gold – and when you find a good one, keep her. Treat her the way you like to be treated. And always be loyal.

Admittedly, when you hit your teens, it may become difficult to keep up the loyalty bit as there’s always this urge to join cliques. To branch out and experiment with situations that may not include your original mates. And there’s nothing wrong with this (as long as it’s good stuff), just try not to abandon your best friend in the process – she’s the person who’ll ultimately be there for you.

I’m basically trying to share the type of advice my old dad would impart as he smoked on a long pipe (okay, I’m fibbing about the pipe bit). His sentences would always begin: ‘Son, listen to me…’ Most times I’d do so by rolling my eyes continuously around in my head until the onset of eye-ache. You see, he didn’t always make much sense with his man-to-man speeches, but sometimes he got it spot on.

I don’t doubt you’ll meet a few more friends as you get older, and that’s great, but the ones you can really, truly rely on, you’ll be able to count them on one hand.

I hugged the one-eyed teddy close.

Then there are the not- so- friendlies.

Remember, Lowey, bullies are just wimps in disguise. You may think they’re all brave when they confront you, shout a lot and basi cally frighten the socks off you. But with bullies, there’s something about THEMSELVES they’re trying to cover up by being horrible and mean to you. So, if you’ve inherited my gangliness, you’re probably taller than a lot of the other girls and boys in your class anyway, which can help, but can also bring on the teasing. Or if you’re anything like your mum’s side – Auntie Elizabeth case in point – you’re probably quite… generous around the middle and a little vertically challenged.

Actually, I was a cross between both sets of families: taller than all the boys in my class, not as slim as most of the girls…

The point I’m trying to make is, school can at times represent one big fat popularity contest, especially these days. I remember it well and it wasn’t easy. I have to admit, being good at football was a bonus (especially as I helped win the cup). But it’s just too early to see what you’ll be good at, to make you less of a target. All I do know is that you’ll be a beauty (inside and out) and this in itself might make you popular – or get you beaten up from time to time. Whatever you look like, there will be something that makes you stand out, and if a group of kids, or just one kid with a big gob, cottons on to this – you’re in trouble.

Okay, now for the ‘try not to be a wimp’ part.

LOWEY, DONT BE A WIMP!

If a real big bully has it in for you, never let her know you’re scared. If she starts calling you names about the way you look, the colour of your skin, the style of your clothes, just ignore her – this will hurt her more than you actually responding, as it will make her look and then feel a bit silly. If the situation calls for tougher action, then take it like a man and stand up to her (no, not by smacking her about the head with your satchel – however much she deserves it – and she might). Laugh her off or ignore her – she’ll soon get bored. Let her know she JUST ISN’T THAT IMPORTANT in the grand scheme of things. You see, that WILL shock the crap – sorry, heck – out of her for sure. If this doesn’t work, you can make a smart comment, just don’t make the comment too smart, or she’ll probably give you that beating after all. And if all else fails and she’s still coming at you, turn and walk away. You may feel like a wimp for doing so (when in fact you’re behaving like the BIGGER person), but it’s the best way in the long run and just shows how unwilling you are to stoop to her low-down level. I say HER because if it’s a boy then report him to a teacher straight away. No question about that.

I threw the one-eyed teddy across the room in frustration as I thought about Sharlene Rockingham waiting outside the school gates for me. Sharlene Rockingham, the thorn in my arse. She’d started her vendetta against me all because she found out I hadn’t cheered for her during sports day last summer. Admittedly, we’d never got on, but the constant snide remarks and dirty looks across the dinner hall were all leading up to something big.

Sharlene was the main reason I often fantasised about bad things. Like her death. Yes. I’d thought about her dying. Far from being a psycho, I’d never actually thought about HOW it would happen, or that I’d be the one to do it – only that when it did I’d be left to get on with things without wondering if she’d follow through with the promise of bashing my head against the science-block wall. I hated being a wimp about it, but not being part of the coolest crowd meant minimal back-up and a good chance of a kicking. Far from ignoring her, I made sure I put up a good-enough front by calmly telling her to ‘just buzz off’ while pushing past and almost swallowing my chest in the process. To be honest I was kind of doubtful this piece of advice would work in the real world.

I read on.

I loved PE.

PE’s one of those things you either love or hate. And yes, I was one of those morons who couldn’t wait for Wednesday afternoon and a good session, rain or shine. Don’t worry, Lowey, if sport isn’t for you. Just remember it’s rather pointless pulling a sicky each week as you will have to go through PE eventually, anyway. So – and you’re not going to like this – just get through it. Doing so will make you stronger, independent, a leader… or a shivering wreck. If, of course, you really are sick, that’s different. By the way, your dad’s not saying don’t pull the odd fake sicky, just be smart and spread them out a bit – like twice a term – because teachers aren’t that stupid.

I flicked back to the miscellaneous section of The Manual and soon arrived at a new and surprising heading. Why are boys such arses? I giggled at Dad’s use of the word ‘arse’ while hoping he’d have the power to at last shed some light on the opposite sex for me. An image of Corey in his big British Knight trainers sprang into my head, basically because he was the only boy I spent time with – as Mum had put me in a girls’ school.

Boys can be such arses, right? Idiots, cretins, morons, this list goes on, I hear you cry. But that age-old question has baffled scientists for centuries – and you want ME to explain this further?

At your age now, males are at their most arse-asistic (okay, that’s not actually a real word). They run around in packs, tease you for no good reason, they’re lazy, moany and their feet smell like slabs of mouldy cheese.

How do I know this?

Because I am one. A bloke, that is.

Okay, seriously, Lowey, males do get slightly better as they age – a bit like a fine wine – but you’ll have to wait until they receive that telegram from the queen (or, by your time, King Charles) to see any significant changes.

I giggled nervously at Dad’s sense of humour, never realising he could be so funny. In fact, Mum never mentioned anything about Dad these days, so obsessed was she with washing her new husband’s greying Y-fronts, laughing at his unfunny jokes, kissing him full on the mouth – and right in front of me, as if I enjoyed bringing up my dinner. My mood, as always, lifted with joy at the thought of getting to know my dad, but was quickly replaced by a stab of sadness at the thought of the following week. My thirteenth birthday, and I’d yet to think of anything memorable to do while I was twelve. I searched my memory bank for something and then it came to me…Dad’s manual. Hadn’t my life changed since it had appeared? I no longer had an excuse to feel like a kid any more. I was on the brink of becoming a woman, and Dad knew that too. But most of all I didn’t feel alone. And that had to be the best bit of all, no longer feeling lonely.

I reopened The Manual, pleased I hadn’t let my dad down and thankful a new memory had been planted.

One I’d never, ever forget.

* * *