Live and Fabulous! (33 page)

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Authors: Grace Dent

BOOK: Live and Fabulous!
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“I don't believe this!” I say. “You people are all over forty years old! Geriatrics! You should be tending your begonias and sipping chamomile tea. Not drinking rum and cavorting! This is all extremely wrong.”
“Oh, Ronnie, calm down,” laughs Mum. “You're such a stress-head! You'll end up at that anger management group before long, with all those guys we met at the party!”
“Oh yeah, I forgot that bit. The anger management group showed up too,” explains Dad, rolling his eyes. “They were all quite cool guys ... well, until the fight broke out.”
I stare at Magda and Loz with my mouth wide open for well over a minute.
“I'm going to go to my boudoir now,” I say. “I need to try to erase these shocking images from my brain.”
“But I haven't told you about when your mother fell over backward trying to limbo-dance yet!”
Aaaagggggh!
Parents having parties? It's a world gone mad, I tell you.
Upstairs, I change into fresh sweatpants and a baggy sweater and lie down on my fabulously soft bed.
Bliss.
What do I do now?
I pick up a copy
of Red Hot Celebs
and begin to leaf through, but I can't seem to concentrate on any of the features. Something else is playing on my mind.
So I switch on the radio, but every song reminds me of the problem I need to solve.
So I turn on my TV and try to engross myself in some cartoons, but all I'm doing is goggling the box while thinking about another more prevalent issue.
Eventually, I realize that I've just got to see him. I can't fight my feelings anymore.
I pick up my mobile phone from the bedside table, where I left it, draining the last remains of battery with the call I've got to make.
“Look, I've been thinking about what you said,” I blurt out when he answers. “How long will it take you to get here?”
“Ronnie! It's you! Excellent!” he says, sounding over the moon to hear from me. “Yeah, of course I can come over. I'll be right there.”
 
 
“Open it,” I say.
“What is it?” he says.
“You have to
open
it to find out,” I say. “That's the point of wrapping paper, bozo.”
“It's not wrapping paper,” he says, nitpicking. “It's newspaper.”
“Well, I didn't have much time!” I tut. “Look, do you want it or not?”
He unwraps the hastily wrapped item, then looks at me in utter shock.
“It's a skateboard!” he says. “It's ... like a brand-new version of Bess.”
“Yes, well done,” I say sarcastically, trying to conceal my delight.
“Ha ha!” Jimi hoots. “Ronnie, babe, I can't believe this! You are totally amazing!”
“Well, it's been said before,” I say mischievously.
“Ronnie, look, I can't accept this. It must have cost a bomb!”
“No, Jimi, you must accept it,” I say. “I can't live with the guilt. You know, you love skating; therefore you're a skater boy, therefore you're going to look pretty idiotic just running along the road beside Naz and Aaron making wheel sounds.”
Jimi picks up the skateboard with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Oh, and I want you to have it, of course,” I say. “I got paid cash in hand for some of those magazine interviews I did last night, so I can afford to be a bit spendy.”
Jimi puts the skateboard down on my bedroom floor, then stands on it.
“Gah!
Have a go, Ronnie! Just stand on it!” he says, hopping off. “It even feels expensive! It's amazing! Oh, I love you so much, Ron! What a woman!” he says, welling up a bit.
“Yeah, well, you've said that eighty-two times now,” I say, welling up a bit too.
“I'm making up for lost time!” he laughs, brushing away a singular eyelash on my cheek. “So, er, do you love me too?”
“Hmmm, s'pose so,” I smile. “Annoying though that is.”
Jimi looks at me, biting his lip a little. “You know, Fleur's not going to be happy about this,” he warns.
“Uggh ... let me worry about her. I'll talk her around ... and my mother,” I say, pausing to savor that lovely prospect.
“So ... like, are we, er, okay now?” he asks gingerly.
I stop to consider that option. “Well, I'm okay,” I say eventually. “Are you okay?”
“I'm okay,” he grins.
“Well, okay ... we're okay then,” I smile.
Jimi cups his hands around my cheeks and kisses me gently on the lips. It tastes all familiar and gorgeous.
“So ... cool, that's that sorted then ... ,” he beams, looking a lot more like his old scampish, confident self. “Hey! How's about sojourning to the beer garden for a game of ridiculous man-sized chess then?”
I look at him, letting out a small ecstatic snortle. “Oh, what the heck,” I say. “Go on.”
APPENDIX MAGDA RIPPERTON'S OBSERVATIONS ON BOYKIND
1.You can tell when a boy feels comfortable in any given space, as he'll begin leaving small piles of loose change around. This is an offering to the Great Small Change God. It's a girl's right to pocket this money and spend it on mascara.
2.Boys truly believe they become invisible once inside a car. That's why we girls totally cannot see them excavating their noses at traffic lights.
3.All boys secretly like the smell of their own flappy bum explosions. They pretend to look sheepish and shoo the smell away only when girls are present.
4.Important: When canoodling, boys will always go as far as YOU allow them to. Don't expect a boy to say, “Oh, noooo, I couldn't possibly feel your boobs—that's a bridge too far! Please button your top back up!” They're chancers, the lot of them. You've got to police your own body.
5.If you ask a boy to help you with something boring, e.g., washing the dishes, tidying your bedroom, etc., there's a strong possibility the crafty dog will do it very badly on purpose so you never ask him again.
6.If a boy you're dating suddenly springs the “I need some space” line on you, I suggest changing your phone number, burning all of his possessions that are at your house in a large bonfire and then inviting his best mate to the cinema. I usually find that's as much “space” as a boy requires.
7a.Never date boys who hate their mother. Mothers are fabulous; therefore he's quite clearly a serial killer and will have a collection of human heads in his freezer.
7b. On the other hand, if his mummy is still choosing his outfits in the morning and spooning boiled eggs to him in bed, get rid of him, as he's clearly a total sap. Avoid at all costs.
8.You won't believe this now, but no matter how much you cry when you're a teenager about being dumped by someone, there will be a time in distant years to come when you can't even remember his second name. Or why you split up. You'll definitely be relieved you split up though. Especially when you run into him, aged thirty-five, in Wal-Mart and he's got a receding “Temple of Doom” hairline and beige slip-on shoes. Believe me.
9.Boys will always get in the way of your friendships. The thing to remember is that boyfriends come and go, whereas great girlfriends last forever. Take your aunty Susan. I've been trying to get rid of her since kindergarten.
10.The recklessness of a boy's behavior and how badly he treats girls will always be in direct correlation with how unbelievably desirable womankind finds him. Somehow, any boy who mothers would detest on sight will always be the one girls will lose their marbles over. I have no idea why this is, but forsooth, it has been the law since the dawn of civilization.
11.Try to date boys with roughly the same size feet as you. Then if you get married someday, you can steal his socks.
Turn the page for a preview of the next book in this series,
LBD
Friends Forever
!
Chapter 1
she treats this house like a hotel
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three abrupt knocks on my bedroom door, then I'm invaded by the sleep police.
“Ronnie?
Ronnnnnnie?
Are you under there?” my mother quacks, lifting up a corner of the duvet, letting cold air surge over my limbs.
She knows how much that annoys me.
“Ronnie! Helllllloooo?! Earth calling Veronica Ripperton? Wake up!”
“Gnnnngnn! Go away!” I groan, whipping the quilt back from her and wrapping myself up like a sausage roll.
“Ugh! What do you do in this room?” she says sniffily, flinging back the curtains so the morning sunlight scorches my face. “How can you make a room so messy!”
I lie very still, praying for her to leave.
“You'll have rats in here before long,” continues Mum, picking up a half-eaten chocolate chip muffin discarded on my desk. “Rats, I tell you! With big tails and sharp teeth! Well, not that rats would put up with this mess,” she mutters under her breath.
“Uggghhh,” I groan, hiding my face in the pillow.
“Ronnie! Can you hear me? What's this? What's going on here?” Mum says.
I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes. Mum's peering at the front of my iMac like it's an extraterrestrial. “The front of this thing is flashing! Is it on? You'll start a fire in here! Why do you always leave things switched on?”
“Don't touch it,” I mumble, watching Mum jabbing the power button, probably crashing the computer and corrupting all the files. “It's in sleep mode.”
“Sleep mode! Pghhh!” she mutters. “You're in sleep mode, you lazy lump! Get up!”
“Gnngnn .. ,” I grumble, catching sight of myself in the mirror with pointy morning hair and a pillow crease down my face. “What is wrong with you? Are you a complete freak?”
I look at my bedside clock. It's 7:58 A.M.
“Ha!” Mum snorts. “What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you, more like?! You lie in your pit all day, then gawp at TV and play bass guitar all night long. Your body clock's upside down! You hardly see the sun. It's like living with a bat!”
“Ugh!” I groan, hiding my face under the covers again. “Look, you insane old goat! My last GCSE exam was on Wednesday. Two days ago! And I studied really hard for them too! And I'm not back at school till September. I've nothing to get up for!”
“Oh, there's
plenty
to get up for, young lady!” Mum hoots, clearly elated that I'm rising to her bait. “When I was sixteen years old, I'd be up with the lark on a glorious June morning like this. I'd be making breakfast and doing housework, really helping my mother out!”
“Oh, pur-lease,” I groan.
“And you can start by minding Seth for me while I go to the wholesalers. I'll be gone two hours,” Mum twitters, poking me a bit. “Oh, c'mon, Ronnie, please? He's dying for you to play with him. He's been so miserable since he caught that tummy bug.”
“Is he still projectile pooing?” I frown.
“Mmm ... no, that seems to have cleared up,” Mum sniggers. “But, y'know, best wear something wipeable, just to be safe.”
“Euuuh!” I grimace, swinging my legs out of bed.
Mother has won again.
She always wins.
“Hey, and when I get home .. ,” Mum says, “I'll help you fill out that waitressing application form for the Wacky Warehouse.”
“Er, pardon?” I splutter. “I'm not working at a Wac ...”
“It'll teach you the value of money!” Mum snaps back. “You're not freeloading off me and your dad until September.”
“Huh! I know the value of money, thank you!” I say, beginning to raise my voice. “Listen, Mother, I am not working in a Wacky Warehouse! I'm not mopping up the ice cream and vomit at children's birthday parties! Cynthia Morris from Blackwell School had a Saturday job there, and they made her dress up in a squirrel costume and jump up and down on a mini trampoline playing the bongos for six hours a day. I'm not that wacky!”
Mum just rolls her eyes at me, then heads for the door. “Well, you better start feeling wacky soon, Lady Muck,” she snaps crossly. “Or you're working downstairs with me as the Fantastic Voyage's dishwasher. I'm not paying an extra body while you laze about up here!”
“What? Aaaagh!” I howl, imagining the prospect of nine weeks trapped in the basement of our family pub, unblocking hair from the waste disposal and gutting fish. “That is so unfair!”
“Veronica, life isn't fair,” clips my mother. “Now, I want you up, dressed and in the den, frolicking with an incontinent toddler in ten minutes. Or else! Oh, and if you're bored, I've left notes about other chores on the fridge.”

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