Boy Trouble (4 page)

“Sure. This could all go horribly wrong. I could end up looking like a complete eejit.” Her eyes rest on mine and then bunny hop away. She
is
nervous. Clover Wildgust, the most confident person I know, is nervous. And if she’s nervous, what hope do I have? I may as well just curl up and die right now.

“Here’s the thing, Beanie,” she says, reading my mind. “Everyone gets nervous sometimes. It’s how you deal with it that matters. I can drive away from here right now and let that loser Brett Stokes win” – Brett is the boy from Wendy’s email – “or I can just swallow down the butterflies and get on with it. I have a choice.”

“But what if it all goes wrong?”

“Then at least I tried. Look, I used to be just like you when I was thirteen. Nervous and self-conscious, worried that everyone was staring at me, thinking, ‘Who’s that loser?’”

“Honestly?”

“Sure. I was a lot better dressed obviously—”

“Hey!”

She gives me a wide grin. “Only joking. I was a complete fashion victim. Some of the photos.” She shudders. “But, hey, thirteen’s a rubbish age. No one ever tells you that. First year’s a killer. It starts getting better in second year. And by third year you’ll be having a blast. And you have all those cute fifth- and sixth-year boys to ogle all day. That’s got to be worth something.”

I blush. I already have a big crush on one of the fifth-years. Simon Debrett. He’s editor of the school magazine,
St John’s News
– how original, even I could come up with a better name than that – and he’s also on the firsts soccer team and the seconds rugby team, although he’s no Crombie. He’s actually really clever and he doesn’t mind showing it.

He takes my hockey team, the Minor As, for fitness training. Often, he takes pity on me and lets me sit out some of the laps ’cos I have to do them in my goalie pads. Our coach, Miss Gibbons, is really tough, but we got into the semi-finals of the cup last season so she must be doing something right.

Simon held the changing-room door open for me once and I’ve never forgotten it. He’s dreamy. Sometimes I watch him at rugby or soccer training when I’m in art. The art prefab looks out on to the pitches and I just can’t help myself. If I’m having a really bad day just a tiny glimpse of his muscular thighs in his muddy shorts cheers me up no end.

I told Mills about my crush and she told Sophie. And now when he passes us in the corridor Sophie always elbows me and says, “There’s your boyfriend.” Once she even pushed me into him. I was so humiliated. He must think I’m such an idiot. I try to avoid him now. Funnily enough he still says hi to me sometimes. As I said, he’s a nice guy.

We sit in the car and watch dozens of boys walk into Monkstown Rugby Club. From Wendy’s careful description, none of them is Brett Stokes. She said he always arrives after nine, an hour late – he thinks it makes him look cool. It’s only just nine so we can’t have missed him. We study four new Crombie boys who are strutting towards the D4s.

“Hang on a sec,” Clover says. “Look at that guy with the blond highlights. That’s no Blue Peter job. And he’s the right height. Do you think it’s Brett?” The boys are all wearing hoodies or designer tops and Dubes, just like in Wendy’s notes. The tallest one – the one with the perfect highlights – is swaggering towards the girls.

I quickly buzz down the tinted window of Clover’s Mini Cooper convertible. It used to be Gran’s. She won it in a supermarket competition of all things. Clover did her driving test as soon as she hit seventeen, passed first time too.

“Hey, Brett,” one of the D4s calls out.

“Bingo,” Clover says. “I can smell bacon a mile away. Oink, oink.”

I shush her, trying to listen in.

Brett says, “Hey, Charlene, looking good.”

The girl called Charlene flicks her hair and simpers, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, for a dog.” He holds his hand up and does a high-five with one of his mates.

The other girls titter nervously and the boys walk off singing “Who Let the Dogs Out?” and barking at each other.

Charlene is left glaring at his back, lobster-faced. The other girls huddle around her, like a rugby team, commiserating, telling her what a sap he is. They’re probably thanking their lucky stars that they kept their mouths firmly shut.

“That’s our man.” Clover looks at me. “Ready, Beanie?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

As we walk past the D4s, who are now back kicking their legs on the wall as if Brett had never happened, they giggle.

“Nice boots,” one of them says and sniggers. “So last season.”

Clover swings round. “Are you talking to me?” She puts her hands on her hips and glares the girl down.

“Um, no,” the girl says timidly. Clover can look quite fierce when she narrows her eyes. In fact, she looks just like Mum.

“Good,” Clover says. “And you should exfoliate before you fake tan. Your legs are all blotchy. You’ll never get even coverage unless you have a smooth surface to work with.”

The girl looks confused.

Clover just walks off, tut-tutting to herself. “Those D4s, thick as tree trunks most of them. And do they have to use beach spades to trowel on their make-up? Yuck.”

I smile at her. Maybe this evening isn’t going to be quite so bad after all. But then I spy Sophie and Mills in the queue. Oops, they’ll kill me. I should have told them I was coming. I try ducking behind Clover, but it’s too late, they’ve seen me.

“You’re my friend, right,” I whisper to Clover. “Not my aunt.”

“Sure, Beanie. Whatever.” She shrugs. “But isn’t that Mills? She knows exactly who I am. And who’s that with her? It’s not the infamous Sophie?”

I nod. I’ve told Clover a little bit about Sophie, namely that she’s a wannabe D4 and her favourite hobbies are moaning about everything and picking on people, me and Mills included.

Clover squeezes my shoulder and leans in towards me. “I’m well able for a Sophie, Beanie. Bring it on.”

As we walk towards the queue I feel sick. If it wasn’t for Clover I’d run away. I don’t know what to do with my hands, they’re shaking like jelly, so I shove them into the pockets of my jeans.

Clover smooths down her tiny denim shorts and strides directly towards Mills and Sophie. She has amazingly toned legs; if I didn’t know better I’d say she spent hours in the gym every day. I follow behind her, feeling like Cinderella
before
her fairy godmother’s help.

Clover spins round and winks at me. Everyone in the queue is staring at her, especially the boys. Only then do I feel a bubble of excitement in my stomach. With Clover as wing man I feel safe, proud, and even a tiny bit confident. People probably think we’re best friends or something, how cool is that?

But we’re related, I think suddenly, not friends, and Clover is only here because of her
Goss
job. Then I sink back down to earth with a bump, all excitement gone. I begin to feel nervous and plain again.

“Smile, Beanie,” Clover says. “Pretend you’re feeling on top of the world. That’s what I always do. Breathe in positive energy. Radiate confidence from your solar plexus.” She grins. “I read that in the magazine last week. Good, isn’t it?”

“But what does it mean?”

She giggles. “No idea.”

Instead of breathing in positive energy I touch the back of Clover’s hair and say a little prayer. Whoever’s up there, if you’re listening, please give me just a smidgen of Clover’s confidence.

Then I plaster a grin on my face and pretend I’m having the time of my life.

“Amy!”
Mills waves at me, beaming. “You decided to come. Hi, Clover.” I hope Mills doesn’t spill the beans.

Sophie looks at me suspiciously. “Why are you grinning like that, Amy?” she snaps. “You look mental.”

Then her eyes linger on Clover as if she can’t quite place her. Sophie likes to place people. She’s very territorial.

“Who’s she?” she asks Mills, staring at Clover openly. “How do you know her?” Like Clover, Sophie can also be appallingly direct.

Mills opens her mouth to say something but Clover quickly cuts in, “I’m an old friend of Amy’s. From way back.”

Mills throws me a look and I touch my finger to my lips. She shrugs and stays quiet.

Clover says, “And who are
you
?” She looks Sophie up and down, taking in her Ugg boots, ironed and backcombed hair that stinks of almond-sweet hairspray, dark eyeliner and stripy vest top. Sophie’s baby pink bra straps are showing and the cups are pinching her breasts. I wonder if Clover’s noticed. Clover has a thing about badly fitting underwear.

“Sophie. Amy’s
best
friend.” Her voice is as prickly as a rose bush.

Clover’s having none of it. “Great,” she says smoothly. “Then you’ll let us bunk into the queue.” She turns to the boys directly behind Mills and Sophie. “I’m sure you won’t mind, lads, we’re just joining our friends.”

“No problemo, girls.” A spotty ginger-haired guy with a thin, weasel-like face gives us a gappy smile. “Be my guest.” He waves a hand in front of him. As we squeeze in beside Sophie and Mills I feel a sharp tweak on my bum and swing round.

“Did you just pinch me?” I demand, outraged.

He winks at me cheekily. “What if I did?”

Clover squares up her shoulders. She may be small, smaller than me in fact and I’m only five foot, but she has presence. She pokes his pigeon chest with a finger. “Have some respect. What are you,
two
? Only toddlers pinch.” She reaches up and grabs the top of one of his ears – which is fleshy and looks like a pink bat’s wing – between her thumb and forefinger. “See how you like this.” She pulls down.

He squeals. “
Ow!
Let me go ya crazy cow.”

“What’s going on here?” A beefy bouncer in a tight T-shirt and shiny black trousers marches over. He looks like a mountain gorilla, stooped with extra long arms and huge paddle-sized hands. You wouldn’t mess with him.

“This little rat pinched my friend’s bum,” Clover tells him, batting her eyelashes.

The bouncer looks the boy up and down. “Did he now? Do you think young ladies like that kind of thing, Sonny Jim?” He hitches his thumb towards the road. “Right, off with you, pal. Yer barred.”

“But they bunked into the queue,” the boy protests.

“I don’t care. Just get.” The bouncer moves his thumb again.

Clover gives the bouncer a winning smile and touches his forearm gently with her hand, her fingers lingering on his freckled skin. “Thank you so much.”

He blushes, clearly smitten. “Yer welcome. Sorry about that, ladies. Come with me.” We follow him to the front of the queue and then he waves us inside. “No charge for these girls,” he tells the woman at the door. “They’ve just been sexually harassed.”

Once inside, Sophie looks at Clover with new respect. “That was cool. Can I get you a drink?” she asks, fishing in her silver shoulder bag for her wallet.

Clover says, “Absolutely.” She’s not one to turn down a freebie.

We get drinks and then position ourselves against a wall, watching the action.

The rugby club smells sweet and musky, a mixture of smuggled-in alcopops, sweat and hormones. The floor is sticky from spilt drinks and the DJ loves his bass; my stomach is vibrating with every thud. I spy a few Emo kids from school, huddled in a corner, including the two Pippi Longstocking girls. One of them is nibbling at the skin round her thumb, the other is staring at the floor. Cheery little souls.

“Hey, girls,” Mills says. “What do you think?” She nods at Brett, who is throwing shapes around the dance floor to a remixed version of “Umbrella”. “He’s cute.”

“He looks full of himself.” Sophie sniffs. “And he’s about sixteen. Way out of your league, Mills.”

“You think?” Clover says. There’s a dangerous twinkle in her eye.

Sophie looks at her. “Boys like that don’t go out with normal girls. They go for D4s with modelling contracts.”

Clover just smiles at her a little smugly and gives a soft “Huh”. We exchange a look. We know better. Wendy. She’s no D4 model.

“What?” Sophie puts her hands on her hips.

Clover says, “Boys like that
deserve
D4 models. They’re not good enough for anyone else. They deserve brain-dead bimbos.”

Sophie’s lower lip drops and her mouth gapes open like a goldfish. As a wannabe D4, Clover has pushed the wrong button.

“D4s have brains,” she snaps. “They have everything. Brains, looks, cool clothes. The best-looking boyfriends. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just jealous because he” – she points at Brett – “wouldn’t go near someone like
you
.”

Clover’s back stiffens. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Sophie says firmly. “It is.”

Clover watches Brett for a moment. I have to admit, for a pig, he can dance. Then her gaze shifts to one of his friends, an olive-skinned boy with shoulder length surfer hair who’s all puppet arms and legs on the dance floor but he’s so good-looking it doesn’t really matter.

Without taking her eyes off him, Clover hands me her drink. She leans in. “Watch and learn, Beanie.”

“I bet she can’t even dance,” Sophie says snidely as Clover walks away from us.

Mills stares at Sophie. “Get over yourself.”