Boy Trouble (6 page)

I’m impressed. “Where did you get the idea for the sticky notes, Clover? That’s inspired.”

“My warped mind does come in useful sometimes,” she says with a grin. “And a guy in the office called Brains came up with the Mills & Boon one. His mum reads them. She put one in his school bag once by mistake; it got mixed up with his own books. He’s never forgotten it.”

“What does Brains do? Is he a journalist?”

“Nah. He’s supposed to be the designer and IT guy but he spends most of the time surfing weird sites and singing to himself. He sits beside me when I’m in the office.” Clover works from the
Goss
office two days a week, the other days she works from home.

“It’s brilliant! But mustard and cress and mackerel?” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Gross! Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

“Don’t get all pious on me. I took all the really bad suggestions out. Saffy took exception to the one about sending dead floral wreaths, or letters from Sheep Lovers Anonymous, or anything to do with ex-boyfriend voodoo dolls.

“Anyway, I’m glad you like it and thanks for all your help on Friday night. I’m taking a well-deserved break now. I was up all night finishing my agony aunt page and the revenge article, and I’m bushed.” She leans back against the sunlounger again and closes her eyes. “Go into my office and read Wendy’s email while I catch some rays.”

I sit down at Clover’s desk and turn on her laptop. Her office smells of the spray-on sun cream she uses. Vanilla. “Dear Clover,” I read on the laptop screen.

I sit back in the swivel chair and smile to myself. I’m so pleased it’s all worked out for Wendy. I hate to say it, but Clover’s right: maybe sometimes you do have to take action. Life moves pretty quickly and if you’re not careful it can whizz right by you while you’re waiting for something exciting to happen.

Spurred on by Clover’s success, I flex my fingers and quickly click into my Bebo page and start to update it before I change my mind. I’m tired of being anonymous. It’s time to take a leap of faith, to be myself, and see what happens. What have I got to lose?

On
Wednesday I’m on the train on the way home from school when Clover rings me on my mobile. She’s in a complete state yet again. She’s been overwhelmed by emails since the Frite Nite success – Wendy is obviously spreading the word – and she needs my help.

“Hey, Beanie, what am I supposed to tell a girl whose sister has nicked her boyfriend?” I can hear the shuffling of paper in the background. “And how should I know the true identity of the Mona Lisa.
Hello?
”

“Lisa Gherardini,” I murmur. It was in the news recently and we’d talked about it in history only last week.

“See, you’re so much smarter than I am. Help!” Another shuffling sound. “And I have one here about someone who’s in love with her art teacher. Yuck!” From the tightness of her voice, I can tell she’s about to explode.

“Hang in there, Clover,” I say. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

I stare out the window and think about my own art teacher, Mr Olen, or “Mark” as he likes us to call him. Mid-twenties, chocolate brown eyes, closely cropped dark hair, slim and muscular from marathon running. He’d actually be quite fanciable if he didn’t already love himself so much. He says he’s only teaching art until his own work is discovered, not that the galleries appreciate him, as he’s always telling us. Did you know that galleries take up to fifty per cent when they sell an artist’s painting? Sometimes more. Mark has very strong feelings on the subject.

Seth, who sits beside me in art, says Mark has a chip on his shoulder the size of a redwood tree and should do less complaining and more painting. Seth’s quiet. He mostly keeps himself to himself when he’s not banging on about trees (he has a thing about them) and how abstract art rules. Sophie and Mills think he’s a complete weirdo.

He used to have a pet iguana called Rothko before he died (the iguana I mean, not Seth. Although Rothko the artist’s dead too). Seth carved a special wooden headstone for him in art class. But at least he’s not a brain-dead Crombie. And he does have great taste in art. And cool hair, dark blond and floppy.

When I get home I walk into the kitchen to ask Mum if I can run over to Clover’s. But Mum’s upstairs having a nap and Dave’s holding the fort, so I have to ask him instead.

“I’m afraid it’s a no, Amy,” he says. “I’m sorry but your mum needs help this evening. I’m on nights this week, you know that. You can go to Clover’s tomorrow.” He’s standing at the sink, cradling a blue Yorkie mug in his two hands and watching Alex chase the neighbour’s cat around the garden. Alex is screaming at the top of his lungs. Evie’s asleep in her pram in the telly room. “You’re always over there,” he adds. “One night at home won’t do you any harm.”

I stick my tongue out at him when he isn’t looking. “But she needs me today.”

He throws the dregs of his coffee down the sink and then starts to wash out the mug under the tap, sticking his right hand into it and swirling his fingers about.

“She really needs me,” I repeat, my arms folded over my chest. What there is of it.

“Clover?” He gives a laugh which comes out like a snort. “She doesn’t need anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He puts the mug upside down on the draining board with a
clunk
and turns to look at me. “Look, your mum’s really tired. Evie will be up soon and Alex needs a bath.”

I groan. “I’m not bathing him. He always soaks me.”

“Amy, you’re part of this family and you have to pull your weight. And this Saturday—”

I interrupt him before he starts getting any more slave labour ideas. “I’m going to Dad’s. For the whole weekend.” I smile at him smugly.

That stops him in his tracks. I haven’t actually arranged anything, but Dad loves having me over. I’m not treated like some sort of Victorian skivvy at
his
house.

Dave’s forehead wrinkles deeply, like a character out of
Star Trek
. “Are you sure? Sylvie didn’t say anything about it. We’re supposed to be going out for pizza and a movie, remember? Gramps said he’d babysit.”

Oops, I’d forgotten all about Dave’s cinema trip, just the three of us, no babies. He’s been trying to organize it for weeks. I think quickly. “It must have slipped Mum’s mind, you know what she’s like at the moment. She’s Zombie Mom. We can do it some other time.”

He rubs his stubbly neck with his hands. He has really dark stubble that grows really quickly. If he doesn’t shave at least once a day he looks like a pirate or one of the Sopranos. “You’re right, I guess,” he says. “Are you staying over at your dad’s?”

“Yes, if it’s OK, I’d really like to go. I need to talk to him about something.”

He looks at me, a strange expression I can’t quite read on his face. “About what?”

“Just things.” I’m lying. I don’t really need to talk to Dad at all. It just came out.

Then he nods. “Fine,” he says, sounding a little cross. “If it’s that urgent I’ll drop you over on Saturday afternoon. I’m sure Art can drop you home on Sunday. As long as he doesn’t have an important golf match or something.”

“Thanks,” I say grudgingly. I only agree because Dad lives in Castleknock, which is miles away. It takes two bus rides to get there. I’ll take my iPod so I won’t have to talk to Dave in the car.

“It’s a date.” He winks at me.

Eeew
. I just ignore him and walk out of the kitchen. He’s such a nerd.

I run upstairs to ring Dad on my mobile from my bedroom. If Dave says something to Mum and she gets to Dad first, I won’t be popular. I don’t need any more grief than I’m already getting.

“How’s my favourite daughter?” Dad says. He sounds very cheerful. I can hear a whirring noise in the background.

“Your
only
daughter,” I point out. “Where are you?”

“In the garden. Cutting the grass. You know what Shelly’s like. Complete slave driver.” He gives a rattling laugh which turns into a cough. Dad gave up smoking recently after twenty years and his chest is still a bit funny from it. The cutting the grass thing is a first; Dad never used to cut the grass when he lived here. Mum was always giving out about it.

I don’t like Dad’s girlfriend, Shelly. In fact I rarely acknowledge her at all if I can help it. And I’ve never uttered her name, not once. It requires quite a lot of effort to remember to say “she” or “her” all the time, but it’s worth it. Mum doesn’t use her name either; she calls her “Little Miss Perky” or “The Secretary”.

Today I need to keep Dad on side so I laugh too. “Hey, can I stay over on Saturday?” I say, coming straight to the point. I hear a dog yapping and Dad turns off the lawnmower.

“That’s better,” he says. “I can hear you now. The pup-py hates the mower. What did you say about Saturday?”

“What puppy?” I say, my voice a little sharper than I intend.

There’s silence for a moment, then a sharp yelping followed by Dad saying, “Down, Justin, there’s a good boy. Can you take him, Shelly? I’m on the phone to Amy. Sorry about that, Amy love. We only got him yesterday and he’s a bit unsettled.”

I feel like someone’s just poured concrete into my stomach and is stirring it around with a great big stick. He promised, I think, my eyes starting to smart.

He continues, “I know you wanted to be with us when we went to the dog’s home, but Shelly thought—”

“Listen, I have to go. See you Saturday. Dave will drop me over in the afternoon. After lunch. Is that OK?”

“Great. You’re not upset are you? I’m sorry if you’re disappointed about the puppy, only—”

“Bye, Dad.” I click off my mobile and drop back against my bed. Tears spill from my eyes and wet the pillow beneath me. Why did Shelly have to go and spoil things yet again? Everything was fine until she came along.

“Amy?” Mum knocks on my bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

“No! I’m getting changed.” I hear her walk away. I lie very still as streams of hot, angry tears roll down my cheeks.

There’s a rap on my bedroom door. I look at my watch. It’s just after eight and apart from the nightmare that was Alex’s bath, and dinner, I’ve been up here all evening. Alex created a tidal wave by shifting his tubby pink bum from one end of the bath to the other, soaking the bathroom floor. Water dripped through the gap between the side of the bath and the lino, down through the ceiling and on to the hall floor. Of course I got blamed for not keeping a proper eye on him. I tried to explain I was too busy wiping the soapy water out of my eyes as he kept splashing me, but Mum was having none of it.

“Ah, Amy,” she said. “He’s only a toddler. You could have brought the whole ceiling down.” He may be small, but he’s pure evil sometimes and he knows exactly what he’s doing. He has Mum wrapped round his podgy little finger.

Clover bounds in the door without waiting for an answer to her knock, like Tigger after too much sugar. “Oi, Beanie, what’s up? I was worried; you never rang me back. And Sylvie says you’re in a stinker.” She sits on the side of my bed and lies back, her head pressing into my stomach.

I sit up and push her head away. “Get off,” I say. “You’re heavy.”

“Must be all the brains in there.” She smiles at me. She has pink lip gloss on her slightly gappy front teeth. “You look terrible. What’s wrong? Boy trouble?” She tilts her head. “Go on, you can tell me.”

I shake my head but say nothing.

“Beans. It’s me; your fave person in the whole world.” She scrunches up her nose, which makes her look like a rabbit. “Go on, tell me. It can’t be that bad. I brought some new letters to show you. You think your life is doggy-do, wait till you read these. Bound to cheer you up. You can help me answer them. But back to you first; what’s up, jelly tot?”

“It’s
her
, OK? Not a boy.” I’m dying to tell someone. Mills isn’t answering her mobile and Sophie would probably just laugh at me. I hope Clover will understand. “Little Miss Perky’s only gone and ruined everything again.”

Clover pulls a face. She doesn’t like Shelly either. “Go on,” she says.

“They’ve got a new puppy. Justin.”

“Justin?” Clover snorts. “What’s wrong with Rover or Shep?”

“I know, I know. She has this sad thing for Justin Timberlake. Anyway, Dad promised I could go to the dog’s home with him. Help choose a new puppy. And name him or her. We hadn’t decided on the sex. But they went yesterday, without me. It was her idea. She didn’t want me there.” I made the last bit up of course, but I’m sure it’s true.