Boy Trouble (11 page)

“Hi, Amy.” She looks up as I walk into the room. “How was your day? Sorry about earlier.”

“That’s OK.” I sit down on the arm of the sofa, willing her not to go on and on about the shouting and everything.

“What are you doing?” I ask her as she scribbles “V-neck tops, not round neck” in her notebook.

“I’ve decided to change my image,” she says. “A total makeover. I’m doing my research.”

I watch the large lady on the television screen. She’s wearing saggy black tracksuit bottoms and a dark purple vest top which is stretched over her huge droopy boobs. The outfit does her no favours. Trinny and Susannah have their work cut out for them.

“You’re much better looking than she is,” I say.

“I should hope so. She’s a dinner lady in her fifties. I’m not that old.” Mum runs her fingers through her long dark blonde hair. It reminds me of Seth combing out Billy’s fur.

“Mum, can you die from a virus?”

“A virus? Only if it’s a really bad one. Like that one you catch in hospitals. MRSA. But it’s very unusual. You should ask Dave about it, he’d know. Why do you ask?”

“Something I saw on the telly.”

“Oh, right.” She puts down her pen and pulls her hair back off her head into a loose ponytail with her hands. “Do you think I should get my hair cut short? Would it make me look younger? More trendy?” She lets a few wispy bits hang down. “Should I get layers? Or go super blonde like Clover? What do you think?”

I look at her. I don’t want to offend her but is she delusional? White blonde, at her age? She’s hardly Madonna. “Maybe a few highlights. I wouldn’t do any-thing drastic. Bleached hair can be very draining.”

“Clover gets away with it.” She twists the ponytail and then piles all the hair on top of her head. “Do I look more sophisticated with my hair up?”

I remember Dave telling Dad that she’s fragile at the moment so I don’t tell her: one, Clover is a lot younger than she is and, two, with her hair like that, she’s a dead ringer for Bellatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter. “Why don’t you just get a trim and some highlights?” I say instead. “Like normal.”

She blows the air out of her mouth and slumps down on the sofa. “That’s just it, I don’t want normal. I want something different. Something dramatic. You know, I think I’ll go to the hairdresser’s tomorrow.”

“Don’t get anything mental, Mum, like pink hair. It’d be so embarrassing.”

“They’re professionals, Amy. They’re not going to give me pink hair. I’ll leave it in their capable hands.”

“OK,” I say a little doubtfully. “But why don’t you ask Clover to go with you?”

“Clover?” Mum sniffs. “I’m sure she’s far too busy with her magazine work. Dave’s not working till seven tomorrow, so I’ll go shopping and get my hair done. Some
me
time.” Her eyes glisten with longing. “I can hardly wait.”

“Where is she?” Clover asks the following evening. I begged her to call over. Dave’s gone out to work and I don’t know what to do. Luckily I’ve managed to get Evie to sleep, but Alex won’t go to bed and is still crawling around the living room in his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. Mum’s shut herself in her bedroom and won’t come out. She was wearing one of Dave’s old baseball hats when she came into the house and I could tell she’d been crying as her mascara had spidered down her cheeks in black wavy lines.

“In her room,” I say.

“I’m going up, Beanie. Probably best if you stay down here.” Clover walks up the stairs in her bare feet, a neat yellow hoody and a tiny pair of white shorts. I wonder absently where she’s left her flip-flops. After she’s gone into Mum’s room I creep up the stairs and stand with my back against the wall, ready to leap into my own room if I’m caught. I’ve popped Alex into his playpen with a biscuit in each hand so hopefully he’ll stay quiet for a few minutes.

Mum’s door is ajar and peering in, I can see her slumped over the side of the bed, her face in her hands. At least I think it’s Mum. Her head is covered in maroon-coloured hedgehog spikes. The tips are picked out in lurid purple. If Sharon Osborne stuck her finger in a plug socket she’d look like Mum.

“Siúcra Duicra!” Clover’s hands jump to her mouth. “What have they done to you, Sylvie?” She sits down on the bed beside Mum and puts her arms round her. “Why didn’t you tell them to stop?”

“I was reading
25 Beautiful Homes
,” Mum says, tears flooding her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. “I never get to read magazines these days and it was such a treat. When I looked up she’d already done half my head, so I thought it was better to keep my mouth shut.”

Clover picks up a piece of Mum’s hair and studies it carefully. “But what about the colour? Did you ask for plum?”

“Nooooo,” Mum wails. “She said it would suit me.”

“Sylvie,” Clover says, getting all serious. “What exactly did you tell the hairdresser?”

“I told her I wanted something different, something trendy.”

Clover gasps. “You never say ‘different’ to a hairdresser, Sylvie. It’s like a red rag to a bull. They go all
loop da loop
if you say ‘different’. Remember the time I came home with petrol blue hair? That’s what happens if you say ‘different’ to a hairdresser.”

“But you liked your blue hair,” Mum says through her tears.

“I know, but that’s not the point.” Clover takes one of Mum’s hands and strokes it, the way you’d stroke a child’s hand or a pet rabbit. “You should have asked me to come with you. You know what you’re like with hairdressers. I have the same problem with the dentist. I’m terrified of her, especially when she starts pulling at my gums. We’re both scared of women in authority, that’s our problem.”

Mum laughs and snot comes out her nose. She dabs at it with a crumpled and wet-looking tissue. “You’re not scared of anyone, Clover. Even the dentist.”

Clover grins at her. “I’m just trying to make you feel better.” She looks at the floor, which is littered with shopping bags. “Hey, looks like you’ve been doing some serious credit card damage. Can I see?” She picks up a bag and pulls out a gold sequined dress. It sparkles in the light.

“Cool dress,” Clover says, holding it up against her chest.

“Dress?” Mum wrinkles her nose. “I thought it was a top. It’s a bit short for a dress.”

Clover laughs. “You could wear it over skinny jeans or tight black trousers. Do you have skinny jeans?”

Mum frowns and shakes her head. “You’d better have it. I won’t wear it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Clover pulls out two cardigans from a Topshop bag, one grass green, the other peacock blue. They have lots of pearl buttons the size of golf balls down the front. “Are these both the same?”

“Yes, but in different colours.”

“They’re not bad, but the buttons are a bit Bobo the Clown.”

Mum’s shoulders slump. “I thought everything in Topshop was cool and trendy.”

Clover says, “I think we need to return some of this, Sylvie. Listen, me and Beanie will go shopping with you. How about Thursday evening in Dundrum? I’m sure we’ll find something there.”

“Dave’s working,” Mum says glumly. “And I don’t know if I’d have the energy. I’m exhausted after six, I just want my bed.”

“Don’t be such a party pooper. I’ll ask Gramps to babysit, tell him it’s an emergency. And tomorrow morning we’re going straight back to the hairdresser’s. I’m going to give that girl a piece of my mind.”

Mum cringes. “Do we have to?”

Clover nods firmly. “Sylvie, you look mad. Even Meg from the White Stripes wouldn’t get away with that hair.”

“Who?” Mum isn’t all that well up on bands. She only discovered The Script last week, after hearing them on the radio. When it comes to music she’s stuck in the eighties.

Clover smiles. “Madonna, OK. Even Madonna wouldn’t get away with that hair.”

Mum starts to cry again. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“It happens to everyone. I’ll tell her exactly what to do and I’ll stay and watch so she doesn’t go getting any ideas.”

Clover is as good as her word. When I get home from school on Tuesday, Mum looks very, very different. But in a good way this time. Her hair is now a delicious honey colour and it’s layered round her face, with a wispy fringe. Very sophisticated. It looks a bit funny with her navy T-shirt with baby puke on the shoulder, jeans and flip-flops.

“Hey, I like the new hair.” I throw my bag on the floor beside the kitchen table. “I’m starving. Anything to eat?”

Mum tucks some stray bits of hair behind her ears. “You don’t think it’s a bit short?”

“No, it’s cool. Must have cost you.”

“Not a penny. Clover sorted all that out. She gave the manager a right earful, said she was in half a mind to write about it in her magazine, so they did it for free. She’s completely shameless. Luckily the original girl was off and I had someone different, a man called Freddie. At least I think it was a man. He was wearing make-up so it was hard to tell. Clover said he looked like the singer from the Scissor Sisters. Are they like Girls Aloud?”

“Kind of.” I smile at her. “I wouldn’t complain, it obviously worked.”

Mum nods. “Now all I need is my new cool and trendy wardrobe. And can you show me how to use the Internet again? I was thinking of buying a Bebo page. Making some new friends.”

I give a laugh. “You don’t buy them, Mum. It’s free.”

Her eyes light up. “Really? Even better.”

“Why do you want a Bebo page? It’s not really for olds.”

“Clover has one.”

“Mum, she’s seventeen. You’re nearly forty.”

“I’m thirty-seven, thank you very much.” Her fingers flutter up to the edges of her eyes. She reaches in her pocket and squeezes a little clear-coloured jelly on to her fingertips and begins to massage it into her crow’s feet. I read the yellow tube. P
REPARATION
H.

“What’s that?” I ask. It has a very pungent smell. Like cough medicine mixed with Dettol.

“Cream for piles. It’s supposed to be great for wrinkles.”

I happen to know piles or haemorrhoids are things old people get on their bums. It was on
Scrubs
once. “Yuck, gross. Put it away, Mum.” She’s seriously losing it.

On Wednesday, Mills calls over after school. Sophie is at the orthodontist’s, so I think she’s at a bit of a loose end.

“I saw you talking to Seth Stone today,” Mills says as I click the computer on. Mum is out walking Evie, and Alex is playing with his wooden train set at our feet. I said I’d keep an eye on him. I’m being extra nice to Mum in the hope that she’ll buy me some new gear in Dundrum tomorrow.

“Really?” I say. “It was probably something about art homework.”

“You looked pretty pally to me.” Her eyes narrow. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I ignore her, log on to my Bebo page and hope I’m not blushing.

Mills is watching me closely. “Amy! You don’t fancy him, do you? He’s such a freak.”

I spin round. “He’s not a freak. If you actually bothered to talk to him you’d find out he’s really nice.”

Mills stares at me. “Talk to him? Are you mad? Why would I want to do that? He’s an Emo, Amy, although he is quite cute I suppose.”

“He’s not an Emo. He’s just himself. People don’t have to
be
anything, Mills.”

Her eyes widen. “But if you’re not in with a crowd, who do you hang out with at lunch and after school?”

She’s such an innocent sometimes. And from the sound of things, Sophie has her practically brainwashed.

“Ah Mills, I’m sick of all this tribal stuff. Crombies, Emos, D4s. Why can’t we just talk to everyone? You know, you weren’t like this before you met Sophie.”

“I see.” She gives me a smug smile.

“What?”

“You’re jealous of Sophie.”

“I’m not jealous of Sophie. As if. Don’t be daft.”

Mills stares at my Bebo page. “What’s with the new skin? It’s a bit gloomy.”

I’ve used a red and black Rothko painting as my new skin. I suppose it is a bit dark, but I like it.

Alex starts to call. “Da, da, da, da.” He sticks out his little arms and looks up at me hopefully.

“What does he want?” Mills asks.

“To be picked up. Would you mind? He might need to be changed.”

Mills picks him up reluctantly. I stick my nose in his bottom and sniff.

“Gross!” Mills says. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing if his nappy’s full.”

“If it is, you’re on your own.”

“Don’t be such a wuss. Anyway, you’re in luck. No poop.”

Alex is wriggling around in Mills’s arms.

“What do I do with him?” she asks.

I sigh, standing up. “Here, I’ll take him.” He clings to me like a bush-baby.

Mills hops on to my chair and starts to read my Bebo site.

“Why is Seth one of your friends?”

I shrug. “He asked me.”

“And what’s this? ‘I hate D4s who hang out in herds in Dundrum and say “Oh My God” all the time. I call them Oh My Goddesses. All surface and no substance.’ What does that mean? ‘All surface and no substance’?”

“Exactly what it says. That they’re self-obsessed and shallow.”

She scowls at me. “Do you think I’m shallow?”

Before I have a chance to say no, she jumps up.

“I thought we were friends, Amy. You know, I spend most of my time defending you to the girls. Saying what fun you are, how they should give you a chance. But all the time you’ve been mouthing off about me behind my back. Well, thanks a lot, Amy. Thanks for nothing.” She runs out the room and the next thing I hear is the front door bang. I’d go after her but Alex is still on my hip.

I feel like crying. Great, now I’ve lost my best friend. And it’s all my own stupid fault. I was trying to be clever, and, if I’m honest, I was trying to impress Seth. I should have kept my mouth and my Bebo site firmly shut.

I get Alex a rusk and a beaker of orange and then I settle down to MSN Seth. At least he’s still talking to me.

“I’ve just had a huge fight with Mills,” I type. “Bummer.”

“Want some company?” he writes back immediately.

I think about it for a second. “Do you like babies?”

“Love them. Especially with ketchup.”