One More Little Problem (9 page)

I went puce with embarrassment.

Dad’s not great at being tactful.

Fran got her revenge straight away. She looked him right in the eye – she’s a fabulous liar – and said, ‘Yeah, but I’ve forgiven Zelah now. After all, she does have a lot to put up with.’

I felt like murdering her when she said this.

Her forgive ME?

It wasn’t me who confessed that rituals
made her feel ill.

Or me who said that everyone at school thought I was a weirdo.

But Dad seemed to swallow the lie so I bit my tongue and said nothing.

Fran sits me in front of the mirror and plugs in her portable hair straighteners.

‘There,’ she says, smoothing my strands of black frizz into something sleeker and less wiry.

I look at her reflection. She’s biting her lip with concentration as she coaxes and twists my black locks.

‘Fran,’ I say. ‘Why are you doing this? I mean – you made it really clear at Forest Hill what you thought about my rituals and everything.’

Fran continues her careful straightening of my hair but her eye catches mine for a moment in the mirror.

She finishes what she’s doing and unplugs the straighteners.

‘Well, actually,’ she says, running a brush through my new smooth hair, ‘I’ve kind of – missed you. A bit.’

We both turn the colour of purple grapes and Fran turns round and begins to sort through my flip-flop collection.

‘I’ve missed you too,’ I say. I busy myself applying lipgloss with a small sticky brush. ‘In fact, I’ve got a brand new word for you.’

I always used to come up with a ‘word of the day’ for Fran when we were friends before.

Fran turns round from the wardrobe.

‘Yeah?’ she says. ‘What is it?’

‘Renaissance,’ I say. ‘It means you can do loads of different creative things.’

We exchange cautious smiles.

It’s a start.

*

By the time I’ve finished getting ready it’s nearly time to leave for the tube.

I stand in front of the mirror.

‘Not bad,’ I say. In fact I look pretty good.

I’m wearing a white vest top, the long red skirt, brown boots, and Fran has lent me her cut-off denim jacket to put over the top.

I hook a pair of long red sparkly earrings through my ears and spray a nice new clean can of shine spray all over my sleek hair.

‘You look really nice, Zelah,’ says Fran in a soft voice.

I smile, although I’m a bit worried about my red cheeks.

Maybe scrubbing my face wasn’t such a good idea. Like I have any control over it.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

We shout goodbye to Caro and Dad and head off to the bus stop.

This Marky boy better be good.

‘H
e’s not coming,’ says Fran.

We’ve been standing under her pink sparkly umbrella outside the Central Line tube station for about fifteen minutes and there’s no sign of Marky.

‘Hmm?’ I say in a distracted fashion.

I’ve drifted off into a sort of sad dream where I’m back with Sol.

Sol.

My scowling, olive-skinned First Love.

So far, anyway. I realise that life is quite long and I might have other boyfriends one day.

But I miss him. He made me feel small
and girlie and quite normal, like I didn’t really have OCD.

How is it possible to miss someone you only knew for a few weeks?

The rain plops all over my feet and my denim jacket is damp at the sleeves.

People stream out of the tube station and huddle under umbrellas and deep inside coats.

It’s not even like a real summer.

‘Let’s just go home,’ I say to Fran. ‘I think I’d rather watch Caro slice up her arms than stand here waiting for some bloke with a stupid “y” on the end of his name to turn up. Bet that wasn’t even his real photo.’

There’s a sort of coughing muttering noise behind me and I turn around to find a tall, handsome fair-haired boy gazing down at Fran.

‘Zelah?’ he says. ‘Hi! I’m Marky.’

Fran stares up at this vision of gorgeousness with a smile beginning to spread over her face.

‘She’s not Zelah,’ I say. ‘I am. And feel free to look really disappointed.’

Marky has fantastic manners.

He turns away from Fran and holds out a hand to me.

Yikes. Major
Germ Alert
.

‘She doesn’t do handshaking,’ says Fran, helpful as ever. ‘She’s got OCD.’

Nice one, Fran. Why not just get a huge flaming bomb and throw it into the middle of where we’re standing?

Marky’s grin fades just a little bit but he continues to smile down at me.

‘OC what?’ he says. ‘Sorry. Don’t know what that means.’

I want to say a lot of things at that moment.

I want to say, ‘It means that my life is rubbish. It means that I can’t even hug my own dad. It means that Heather, my next best thing to a mum, has to air-kiss me. It means that I
have to put sheets of paper on my chairs before my bottom touches their germ-encrusted cushions. It means that I spend a lot of time at the day care centre in the hospital. It means that I ended up in a weird home in Dorset where I met a bloke I really like but who’s vanished off the face of the planet.’

But of course I don’t say that ’cos Marky is still looking at me with that puzzled look in his blue eyes and Fran is still gazing at him with a faint flush on her smooth cheeks.

‘Fran,’ I say. ‘Thanks for coming with. I’ll be OK now. I’ll text you later. OK?’

Fran gives Marky one last, lingering look and then backs away to the bus stop.

‘Kebab?’ I say. I don’t even like kebabs but the area where we’re standing has about fifteen kebab shops all in a line and I don’t want to go too far – I just want to get this horrid moment over as soon as possible so that I can go home
and ‘amuse’ myself with Dad and Caro.

Marky glances up at the sign creaking back and forth over our head.

There’s a faded drawing of a big brown kebab on it and a long streak of pigeon shit splattered across the front.

It says
Ali’s Kebabs. Hot, tasty food while you wait
.

I don’t understand how you’d get the food
without
waiting, but somehow it’s just another confusing part of my crazy life.

‘Lovely,’ Marky says, opening the door for me.

A blast of hot, greasy, animal-entrails air sucks us both inside.

We sit in the corner next to two bald old men in leather waistcoats who are smoking something dodgy from a large glass bowl with a winding red tube coming out of it.

‘I thought Shepherd’s Bush was all full of television people and trendy clothes markets?’ I say before I can stop myself.

‘This bit isn’t,’ says Marky. ‘But I live in the other bit. I’ve only come here because this is where you suggested that we meet.’

Fair enough.

‘So,’ says Marky when we’re settled with two slimy kebabs flopping out of some limp pitta bread along with tiny shreds of wilted lettuce and watery tomato.

‘Tell me what this OC thing is, then.’

I wrap my hand in a tissue so that I can pick up the horrid meat and to give myself a few extra seconds to work out a reply.

I don’t know how to put it. The face opposite me isn’t a face that will understand scrubbing and jumping and blood and counting and grease phobias and ducking to avoid bonfires.

The face opposite me kind of goes with healthy outdoor pursuits like tennis and swimming and sailing and horse riding.

Marky is VERY handsome. So handsome in fact that he doesn’t look real.

I don’t feel anything when I stare at him. Nothing at all. Well – perhaps a vague curiosity to know what product he uses on his skin ’cos it’s amazing. But other than that, nothing.

I pick at my vile food for a moment and then I look him straight in the eye.

‘It’s kind of a control thing,’ I say. ‘Like if I don’t do certain things, then other bad things might happen.’

‘What sort of things?’ says Marky, squirting what looks like the thick dark blood of a wild boar into his kebab and eating it with a pained expression on his ultra-tanned face.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘Scrubbing is one of the things. I scrub my face thirty-one times on each cheek
in the morning and at bedtime and sometimes in the middle of the day if I’m stressed.’

‘OK . . .’ says Marky in a calm, polite sort of way but a hint of doubt has crept into his posh voice. ‘So like it’s an obsession thing?’

Now we’re getting somewhere.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It stands for “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder”.’

Marky lights up like Oxford Street at Christmas when I say this.

‘Hey, David Beckham’s got that!’ he says. He looks around in amazement as if expecting to see his football hero skulking in the corner of a kebab shop and dissecting a rank piece of dead meat into neat pieces. ‘That’s really cool, Zelah!’ he says, biting with vigour into his kebab and ignoring the squirt of red ketchup that flies across the table and lands by my plate.

‘Could you, like, mop that up, please?’ I say.
‘Or else I’m going to have to leave the table. That’s another part of OCD. I don’t like dirt.’

‘Sure,’ says Marky. He leans over and swipes the offending sauce away with a tissue and lobs it into a bin that’s about half the shop away. ‘Goal!’ he shouts.

Honestly.

‘So do you do that thing with the labels?’ he continues. ‘Only I was reading about how David Beckham has to line up all the cans in his cupboard so that they’re facing the same way.’

‘No, I’m not THAT bad,’ I say, before I can stop myself. Actually I AM that bad – one glimpse into my ordered wardrobe would tell you that – but I don’t line up the cans in our cupboard.

And even if I wanted to I couldn’t.

Dad never buys any groceries so the only things in our food cupboard are stale Pot Noodles, some ancient orange-coloured stock
cubes and a jar of revolting poo-smelling gravy granules.

I couldn’t touch them for fear of
Germ Alert
anyway so I’m never going to get to arrange all the labels to face forward.

Marky has finished his kebab and is staring at me with new fascination.

I’m trying to see my wristwatch under the table but it’s too dark and poky in the kebab shop. All I can see is a bit of Marky’s bony brown leg contrasting against his white tennis shorts.

He’s still staring at me like I’m a rare hothouse plant stuck under a glass dome.

It’s making me all fidgety and restless.

I don’t want to go out with this boy so that he can show off to all his mates that he knows somebody who suffers from David Beckham Disease.

I want somebody to love me for being me.
Like Sol did. Or at least, if he didn’t love me, he really, really liked me.

I want to be home with Dad and his vegetable patch.

Or even Caro. Gawd.

But at least Caro accepts me for who I am, OCD and all.

Marky is making a show of paying the bill for us both and sharing a hearty laugh with the kebab shop owner.

‘Thanks, that was lovely,’ I lie. I can already feel chewed-up bits of rancid lamb coming up into my mouth again.

‘So – good luck with the dating,’ I add as I make a rush for the door.

Marky pants along behind me as I leg it to the bus stop.

‘Don’t you want to see me again?’ he says.

I can tell by this that he’s not used to girls turning him down.

‘I’m sure my friend Fran would love to,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think that you and I are destined to be together.’

‘Well, I’ll wait with you until the bus comes,’ he says, gallant to the last.

I roll my eyes when he can’t see.

There’s really no reason for him to hang about waiting with me.

‘Marky’ I say, all innocent. ‘Why’ve you got a “y” on the end of your name?’

Marky smiles.

‘It’s just a nickname,’ he says. ‘When I was little my mother used to call me that. It kind of stuck.’

‘Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ I say. ‘But I find it really annoying. What’s wrong with just “Mark”?’

At that moment the bus sails into view and nearly knocks us off the kerb.

‘I guess I just like to be a bit different,’
says Marky as I join the queue. ‘Like you, Zelah. Your name’s unusual. And you’re certainly a bit different to most girls. But that’s good, isn’t it? I mean – being a bit different to everyone else.’

I reflect on this as I take my seat and wave Marky goodbye.

No
, I think as the bus weaves its way back towards Acton.

I want to be just the same as everyone else.

A
fter the date with Marky I get several more emails in the
mysortaspace.com
inbox but most of them seem to be from nutters and I’m considering closing down the account just to protect myself from further dating torture.

There’s one from a boy called Stephen who sounds quite nice but then sends me his photo on email and he looks as if he might be about six so I bin that one straight away.

Then there’s another one from a boy called Sim who sounds really keen and likes all the same bands I do, only then he sends through
his photograph and he looks about twenty-eight so I email back and mention that I’m training to be a policewoman when I leave school and it goes dead quiet after that.

And then there’s someone who’s obviously got a bit confused ’cos they turn out to be a GIRL.

‘Hi,’ it says. ‘Boys are so dull. Fancy getting together for some Girl Action?’

I take action right away.

I press the ‘delete’ button. Hard.

Caro thinks that my dating adventures are hilarious.

‘These dudes all sound shit,’ she says, sparse as ever. ‘Except maybe that guy with the Italian name. He sounds OK. If you don’t want him, chuck him my way and I’ll eat him with gravy for dinner.’

‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘How do you know about
the guy with the Italian name?’

Caro tries to look ashamed but then she ruins it by smirking.

‘Your password isn’t exactly difficult to crack,’ she says. ‘ I mean – “Zelah”. Not very original, is it?’

I give her a faint smile. I’m getting used to having Caro around now. I’ve realised that much of what she says sounds rude and insulting but actually hides a shy and unhappy little person underneath.