Boy Trouble (13 page)

“Yeah,” Sophie says. “Or are you going to dump him too when someone better comes along? How about Simon Debrett? You’d dump Seth for Si, wouldn’t you?”

She starts cackling, like a Disney wicked stepmother.

I stare at Mills. She’s not sticking up for me like she usually does. I must have really upset her yesterday. If only Sophie would just disappear so I could talk to her alone. I close my eyes for a second, willing it to happen, but it doesn’t.

Instead Sophie grins and says, “Speak of the devil, would you look who it is?” She points down the corridor. Three fifth-year boys are walking towards us.

Oh no. My stomach does a nervous flip. I look down at the bubble-lino floor and cup my hand round my eyes, willing her to shut up. “Shush, Sophie.”

But it’s no use, she’s on a roll. I have to hide, quick. I jump up and push open the door of the biology lab. Luckily it’s unlocked and I dash inside, closing it behind me. The room smells of formaldehyde – the last class must have been dissecting cow hearts or something. The acrid smell isn’t helping my already churning stomach.

I press my ear to the crack between the door and the wall.

“Hi, Si,” I hear Sophie say.

“Uh, hi,” he says. It’s clear he has no idea who Sophie is, but doesn’t want to be rude. I hear the two boys with him laugh.

“Who’s that, dude?” one asks.

“I’m a friend of Amy’s,” Sophie says. “You know Amy. The girl in first year who fancies you, Si. She’s goalie on the Minor As. In fact, she’s hiding in the biology lab.”

The boys start to laugh and nudge Simon in the side. “Woo-hoo,” they tease. “First-year crushville. You’re the man, Si. Go get her.”

I leap back from the door in fright and screw my eyes shut. Oh no, please don’t… I think I’m going to puke. I put my hands to my burning cheeks in an effort to cool them down.

I hear the door creak and when I open my eyes, Simon is standing in front of me. I’m so mortified I could cry. But he gives me a gentle smile and mouths hi and then walks back out again, closing the door behind him.

“Nice try,” he says to Sophie. “I think you’re hallucinating, there’s no one there. See you around.”

Hearing them leave, I open the door a smidge. Simon is walking away quickly, his friends following behind him.

“What was that about, Si?” one asks.

“Just some silly first-year messing,” he says. “Pay no attention.”

They look at him admiringly. “You’re such a ledge.”

I’m so relieved. After a few minutes I go back out and sit on the steps, my heart still pounding. Then I smile to myself. Simon lied to his friends for me.
For me.

I look up. Sophie is standing in front of me, her hands on her hips. The right-hand side of her skirt is tucked into her knickers at the back, showing off a dimpled white thigh. She must have only fake tanned the lower half of her legs. I open my mouth to warn her, but before I get a chance she says, “You think you’re so great, don’t you? He just felt sorry for you. You heard what he said, you’re just a silly first-year.”

I stand up and look her in the eye. “He was talking about you, Sophie, not me.”

“Yeah, right.” Her face is twisted and I’ve never seen her look so nasty, even when she’s picking on the Emo girls. “Look, Amy, I know you and Mills are neighbours, but she doesn’t want to hang around with you any more. Get it? She’s sick of you and your moaning.” She purses her lips and drops her chin. “Poor liddle me, my mummy can’t keep her knickers on so I have to babysit all the time.”

Mills gasps. “Sophie!”

“What?” Sophie demands. “It’s true. My mum says normal people don’t have sex for at least three months after they’ve had a baby. She says Amy’s mum should have taken precautions; it’s dangerous to have two babies so close together.”

I’ve met Sophie’s mum a few times and funnily enough I can imagine her saying just this through her pale wormy lips. She was probably fingering the pearls round her neck at the time. She’s always fiddling with her pearls; you’d think they were rosary beads the way she plays with them.

I want to say something, to defend Mum, but I can’t. I’m too shocked.

“That’s not Amy’s fault,” Mills says.

“Don’t you go sticking up for her.” Sophie glares at Mills and Mills backs off. “She was slagging you off on her Bebo site, remember? Saying you’re shallow.”

“I wasn’t talking about Mills,” I say. “You know that, don’t you?” I look at Mills. She holds my gaze for a moment and then looks down at the floor. “And would you stop going on about my mum, Sophie? At least she has a sex life. At least she’s not a withered old bag like your mum.”

Sophie’s mouth drops open, her braces glittering in the light. Oops, now I’ve done it. I step backwards and stumble into Mr Olen, my art teacher.

“Is everything all right, girls?” he asks suspiciously, looking from me to Sophie and Mills and then back again.

“Yeah,” we all mutter.

The bell rings and not one of us moves.

“Well, go on,” he says with a toss of his head. “Into class. Amy, you’re in art with me now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“
Mark
, Amy, it’s Mark. ‘Sir’ makes me sound so old. You can help me carry down some of the new canvases. They’re in a box at the back of the physics lab. We don’t have room for them in the prefab. Get a move on.” He’s not budging until I do.

I want to say something to Mills, but I know it’s useless. Sophie links her arm. “Have a nice
life
, Amy,” she says, and they walk away, together.

That
evening I don’t feel like doing anything, but Mum pokes her head round my door just after six.

“Ready, Amy?”

She has a big beam on her face and is wearing her good jeans, Sevens that Clover bought her on eBay for her last birthday. Clover said Mum’s old Levi 501s were probably as ancient as the original ones worn by the gold prospectors. Did you know American prospectors invented jeans? I certainly didn’t. Clover’s a mine of useless information like that.

Mum is also wearing green canvas platform sandals, a white V-neck T-shirt and a denim jacket. As she spends her life in tracksuits these days, on account of Evie’s puking, it’s quite a surprise. She actually looks quite nice for an old.

“I think I’ll stay here,” I say, my eyes a little bleary. I hope she doesn’t notice.

I’ve been lying on my bed, looking up at the stars that Mills gave me for my thirteenth birthday. They used to glow in the dark but they’ve faded a bit now. She snuck into my room when I was staying with Dad – Mum let her in and got her the stepladder – and stuck them on to the ceiling. Not in any old way either; she took a book out of the library especially. I now have my own mini-constellation up there: Taurus the bull. I was really touched. She must have got a crick in her neck sticking the stars up in the right order.

“It’s your star sign,” Mills said as we lay on my bed, side by side, with the curtains closed and the lights off, staring up at them. “To watch over you and keep you safe while you’re thirteen.”

I’m not really into star signs, but Mills is. If her “horror-scope” tells her to do something, she will. She even faked a sickie on Friday the thirteenth last month. She’d heard an American astrologist on the radio news, saying that it was the unluckiest day he’d ever come across in his whole career. Something to do with the stars lining up in a funny way. She stayed in bed all day, worrying. We had double Irish that day as the English teacher was out sick. Which was very, very bad luck because Mr Roley, our pointy-bearded Irish teacher who stinks of BO, is such a bore. So maybe Mills was on to something.

I used to laugh at her superstitions – saluting at single magpies, not walking under ladders, worrying about crossed sticks, jumping over cracks in the pavement – but now I figure, each to their own. If it makes her happy…

That’s why my eyes are a bit bleary. Mills. I don’t know how I’m going to cope in school without her.

“Don’t be daft. It’s all arranged,” Mum says. “Clover will be here in a second.” She hesitates. “Are you going in your uniform?”

“Course not.” I sit up too quickly and my head spins a little. I’ll go if it involves getting new gear, I decide. There’s an end of term party in a few weeks and I have nothing to wear. My Uggs look a bit sad. I got them last year and I’ve worn them to death. I chance my luck. “I really need new boots. The soles have nearly gone on my old ones.”

“I can get them re-soled for you,” Mum says.

She doesn’t get it. I roll my eyes. “Mum!”

She smiles at me. “We’ll see, OK?”

The doorbell rings. “That’ll be Clover,” Mum says. “See you downstairs in a few minutes.”

I scramble into my clothes and pull my Uggs over my feet. They’re looking saggier by the minute, like a Saint Bernard’s face. My boots, that is, not my feet.

As we pull into the brightly lit car park at Dundrum Shopping Centre, Clover asks, “Anything wrong, Beanie? You’re very quiet.”

“No. I’m just tired. And fed up with exam revision. We have the day off tomorrow and I’m going to spend the whole morning in bed.”

“Lucky you,” she says. “Right, look out for spaces, everyone.” Clover’s wheels make loud squeaking noises as she takes the car park bends too quickly. The noise makes my teeth feel all funny, like fingernails on a blackboard.

“Clover!” Mum says. “Slow down.”

“I see one,” Clover says, ignoring Mum and powering towards an empty space. A large black Lexus SUV speeds towards it from the opposite end of the car park. It’s further away than we are but it’s taking no prisoners. It tears into the space so close to Clover’s Mini it nearly clips her front light.

Clover mutters something rude and rests her arm on the horn.
PARP, PARP
. A blonde woman with a wrinkly brown neck winds down her window. Oversized designer sunglasses nestle in her perfectly ironed hair and she’s wearing a string of creamy pearls. She oozes money. She bellows, “What’s your problem?” Her facial muscles don’t even twitch.

“So sorry,” Clover says calmly. “I didn’t realize you were an OAP. Go ahead. Take my space.”

The woman’s pouty mouth drops and she gulps a few times, like a pelican swallowing down a fish. Before she has a chance to say anything, Clover drives off, giggling to herself.

“Hope she doesn’t come looking for you,” Mum says, sounding worried.

Clover just grins. “What can she do? Bash me over the head with her padded Chanel bag? Dig her false nails into me?”

“She could stab you with her botox syringes,” I say. “She probably has a stash of them in her handbag.”

Clover laughs. “Good one, Beanie. But she’s not going to waste them on me. She’s clearly addicted to the stuff. Did you know it comes from a cow’s bottom?”

“Really?” I say. “Yuck!”

Mum stares out her passenger window, shaking her head a little. I can tell she’s biting the inside of her cheek as her mouth looks all distorted. She reminds me of a disapproving teacher.

“Lighten up, Sylvie,” Clover says. “She deserved it. This place is full of women like that. I think they breed them in the air-conditioning system. You have to stick up for yourself.”

“I guess you’re right.” Mum looks down at her jeans. “I’m glad I dressed up in that case.”

“Dressed up?” Clover laughs. “Sis, we’re in Dundrum. Yummy Mummyville. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Mum drags us into the kids’ H&M first.

“Sylvie,” Clover complains, “we’re supposed to be getting clothes for you, not for the babies.”

Mum gives a sheepish smile. “I know, I know, but it just called to me as I was walking past.” She runs her hands over a tiny pair of denim dungarees. “Look at these. So cute.”

“They’re a bit small for Alex,” I say. “Listen, Mum. Have a quick look around and then you can come back later, while me and Clover grab a smoothie or something.”

But she’s in another world, walking through the rails of dinky baby clothes. From the spaced-out look on her face, you’d swear she was having a religious experience.

“Jeepers, Sylvie, you’re not preggers again, are you?” Clover says suddenly.

Mum swings round. “What? Pregnant? Of course not. Evie’s only three months old. I’m not mad.”

Sophie’s words ring in my ears. “You were pregnant when Alex was only two months, Mum, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Mum puts a pink and white cotton shirt back on the rail. “Yes, I was. But that was different.”

“Why was it different?” I ask her. She’s being a bit cagey and I really want to know. Was Sophie’s mum right? Is Mum irresponsible?

“Do we have to talk about this now, in the middle of H&M?” Mum says.

“Yes!” I say.

She grabs my arm and pulls me towards the back of the shop where it’s quieter. Clover follows closely behind us. I can tell she’s as curious as I am.

Mum says, “I suppose I should have told you this before now. But I wasn’t sure if you’d understand. Before Alex, I’d wanted a baby for ages, but nothing was happening. So I took some medicine to help things along.”

“Clomid?” Clover says.

“Yes,” says Mum, surprised.

Clover knows
everything
. We’re both staring at her.

She shrugs. “What? I read about it in
Grazia
. One of the stars was talking about it.”