Читать книгу The Number One Rule for Girls - Rachel McIntyre - Страница 7

‘I am soooo jealous,’ Ayesha said as she peered in my wardrobe.

‘Jealous clothes or jealous there’s no uniform at college?’ I asked, adding yet another cardigan to the pile on my bed.

‘Both.’ She sighed.

As some ancient Greek guy probably never said, no one gets a second chance to make a first impression and so choosing the perfect outfit for my induction at college required careful consideration and help in the form of Ayesha the Wise.

She was assessing the skirts now, taking each one out of the wardrobe and holding it up. ‘You’ve got so many lovely things, Daze. You’re so lucky.’

Yep, I totally got the clothes envy. My mum was a professional seamstress. Ayesha’s mum was a chiropodist. My house: piles of to-die-for clothes. Ayesha’s house: piles of manky foot bits.

‘Beth rang me in tears about whatshisname, Tattoo Tosser,’ I said, rattling coat hangers down the rail. ‘You know her dad’s locked her in the coal shed? Mouldy crusts for dinner, hourly spankings with the family Bible.’

‘It’s not funny,’ said Ayesha. ‘She’s been really upset all day.’

‘So what’s Shaney like then?’ I said. ‘Apart from dyslexic.’

‘Into leather.’

‘Kinky?’

She shook her head. ‘Motorbikes.’

‘No wonder Beth’s dad’s gone mental,’ I said.

‘I know. And we thought she’d scraped the barrel when she met Stinky Pete.’

I nodded slowly. Ah yes, Stinky Pete. Beth’s beardy, battle-re-enacting ex-boyf who dressed like a Viking at the weekends . . . and washed like a Viking at all other times. She finally hung up her horns after an unexpectedly warm spell in March, telling him he needed to spend less time in costume and more time with Mr Soap.

She was pulling dresses out of the wardrobe now and arranging them on top of my bed.

‘So what’s the deal?’ I asked.

‘Well, he does weightlifting so he’s got these massive muscles. She says he makes her feel girly.’

Girly. I flashed on a vision of Beth pinked up, giggly and fluffified. Scattering IQ points like confetti every time Shaney flexed a bicep because she’d fallen for the myth that fit guys never fancy clever girls.

‘Sounds like she scraped through the bottom of the barrel this time,’ I said.

‘Er, what happened to Rule number 2?’ said Ayesha. ‘You know – Always support your friends.’

Ah, yes. The Rules were how me, Beth and Ayesha first got to know each other. It was during one of those get-to-know-the-group things at the start of Year 7: come up with a list of rules of acceptable behaviour. I couldn’t remember anything else we did in English that year, but the Rules stuck.

They were our Ten Commandments; the girl code our friendship was founded on. Except there were only nine of them. And they weren’t so much carved in stone as totally rewritten in Year 9 when rules concerning boys became necessary. Still, the principle had stayed the same and, whenever I didn’t know what to do, the Rules could usually point me in the right direction.

It was actively depressing. Beth had the brains of a Nobel Prizewinner-in-waiting, but when it came to potential partners her man-nav was permanently set to ‘unworthy’. And when the latest Mr OK turned out to be just another Mr No Way, me and Ayesha were left mopping up the tears and chanting Rule #3: Never change to please someone else.

‘These?’ Ayesha the fashion fairy held out a grey-and-fuchsia tea dress in one hand, a purple patterned blazer dangling from the other.

‘Not too OTT?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You told me the best thing about college is that you can wear what you want . . . so, Rule number 6: Dress to make yourself happy.’

True. I had been poised to set fire to the Polyester Chains of Conformity the other day. Hardly a grand gesture then if I rose like a phoenix wearing tatty tracky bums and a band tee.

‘You are so right, Mistress of the Wardrobe,’ I said, getting out my nail polish collection. Hmmmm. Which to choose . . . Dirty Liar or Shattered Soul ?

‘Mock away.’ She hung the dress on the door. ‘But you are going to rock that college. Are you still dead excited?’

‘I. Cannot. Wait.’ I flicked through the Castlefields Sixth Form prospectus, stopping at a page stuffed with eye-wateringly pretty boys and girls. ‘Look at that lot. Fresh out of teen heaven, not like the geeks at St Mary’s. No offence.’

She squinted at the pictures. ‘You do realise they’re models?’

I waved the two nail-polish bottles at her. ‘Which one?’

‘The pink, to match your boots.’ She gestured with the brochure then stuck it right under my nose. ‘They’ve got to be models. Real people don’t have teeth that glow in the dark.’ She sighed. ‘You could’ve stayed on at school, even if Matt has moved to Spain. You’d still have me and Beth.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I really need a fresh start.’

‘I’m just worried you’re rushing into it because you’re cut up over Matt.’

I shook the bottle of Dirty Liar till it rattled. ‘I’m completely over him, I promise. You could still come with me, you know. Listen.’ I gazed down at the open brochure and read out loud. ‘Make exciting new friends in an environment where individuality is celebrated and students are treated as adults.’

‘Yeah, it sounds great, but what can I say?’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a St Mary’s geek. I love it there. And you going to college won’t change us being mates, will it? We’ll still see each other at footie training and go out at the weekends and stuff.’

‘That won’t ever change,’ I said passionately. ‘The mess I was in this summer after Matt dumped me . . . well, you kept me from total meltdown. I literally wouldn’t have coped without you.’

‘He didn’t dump you,’ she said gently. ‘You dumped him.’

‘Yeah, but it was his decision to go, so technically he did the breaking up,’ I reminded her. ‘I just put it into words: me or Spain. And it’s true, you mean the world to me.’ There was a catch in my voice as I continued. ‘If I thought it meant we wouldn’t see each other, there’s no way I’d have enrolled at Castlefields.’

‘Oh, Daisy,’ she said, putting her arms round me. ‘It doesn’t matter if we’re not at the same school, you’re not dumping me. I do understand why you want to start over, you know. And thick and thin, richer and poorer, and all that, I will always be there for you. I’m never going anywh–’ She lifted my wrist to check my watch. ‘Oh my God, look at the time! Sorry, Mum’s got a fungal nail infection coming round and she needs me to swab.’

And off she went, pulling her coat on as I followed her downstairs.

I shut the door then wandered to the kitchen where I was subjected to a hideous experience, courtesy of my beloved parents.

I’d have poured bleach down my ears if I’d thought it would work, but what’s heard cannot be unheard in the words of Lady Macbeth (possibly). It was only seven o’clock and Mum and Dad were already halfway through a bottle of El Vino Blabbio. Luckily my little brother, River, was safely tucked up in bed and thus spared the sight of his parents treading the merry path to total pixilation.

And their flimsy excuse?

Dad: ‘Cheers! (chinking glass with Mum’s) I can’t believe our baby girl’s all grown up and starting college. Seems like two minutes since she was – (gestures matchbox-sized infant).

Mum: (soppy smile at Dad) ‘We did a good job, didn’t we?’

Dad: (soppy smile; grabs Mum’s hand) ‘We certainly did, Susie. We proved them all wrong.’

Mum: ‘Your nana’s face when we told her we were expecting you, Daisy. I thought she was going to explode.’

Dad: ‘Everyone said we’d never make a go of it, but here we are.’

Mum: ‘And I wouldn’t change a single second.’ (They look at each other and the room melts away.)

Aww. Mum and Dad were the real love deal: school sweethearts to lifelong soulmates. Just like me and Matt in fact. (Minus the breaking up. And the moving to another country. And the never speaking to each other again.)

Dad: (sigh) ‘Just kids ourselves, when you came along, love.’

Yes, the same age as me now and with the life of a miniature human being in their hands. Even though I was the happy result, the idea freaked me out. A baby at sixteen? I couldn’t be trusted with a pot plant.

Mum: (with a tipsy giggle) ‘Up to all sorts of hanky-panky, weren’t we, Nick? Oooh, Daze, you wouldn’t believe –’

Avoid! I put my fingers in my ears and started belting out Singalonga Frozen to deflect the way-too-much information coming at me. But even so, odd phrases filtered through the noise. Such as ‘Harvey’s birthday party’, ‘on that pile of coats’, ‘nine months to the day’.

Practically hyperventilating with embarrassment, I fled back up to my room.

Let it gooooo.

Knowing my parents were the definition of true love was wonderful. Picturing them engaged in ‘hanky-panky’? Ugh.

My headphones helped to drown out the tipsy giggling floating up through the floorboards, but they couldn’t stop my brain flashing up very unwelcome images. Oh God, I was NEVER letting them within sniffing distance of a cork again.

(The very, very end of) Daisy Green’s To-do List

• Item 2,301: Lick inside of wheelie bin.

• Item 2,302: Nail foot to bedroom floor.

• Item 2,303: Visualise circumstances of own conception.

How come when I needed to remember important stuff (such as maths), my mind went blank. But when I was desperate to forget something (parental confessions; Matt breaking up with me), I had the memory of an elephant with a PhD in Photographic Recall.

Like now. Lying in bed with that awful moment playing like a Vine.

I’m sorry, Daisy, but I’m going to Spain. Loop. I’m sorry, Daisy, but I’m going to Spain. Loop. I’m sorry, Daisy, but I’m going to Spain. Loop.

That six-second conversation had been a constant background hum since the day we broke up. Every now and then, something would happen to turn the volume up. Maybe a song; or a whiff of aftershave; or a YouTube clip he’d almost wet his pants over; or River asking for the bazillionth time when Matt was coming home. And that’s when it hit me like the first time. My legs always shook, throat burned, stomach went all peculiar and I couldn’t quite trust my ears. You’re leaving me? You’re going to live in Spain ? To help your mum and stepdad open a bar ?

I’d have to sit down, take a few deep breaths. Maybe cry, maybe not, depending who was around. Wait until it faded into the background again. I’m sorry, Daisy, but I’m going to Spain endlessly looping.

OK. College had to be the answer. A new start. I could get up and put my happy mask on. Try to act as if my heart didn’t dissolve out of my tear ducts every night.

Queen of Pretend. Fake as a reality TV star. Tomorrow my post-Matt reboot would begin, my big chance to move on.

Rule #8: Think positive. I’d never needed it more.