The Bex Factor (3 page)

‘Sorry, matey,’ says Dad, spotting Matthew and frantically rearranging Mum’s bathrobe. ‘Didn’t realise we had visitors. What’s your name, son?’

If he wasn’t weirded out when he saw Kyle, he certainly is now. ‘It’s Matthew, Matthew Layton.’

‘You look soaked,’ says Dad. ‘Tell you what – why don’t you nip upstairs and borrow some dry clothes from my wardrobe?’

‘
No!
I mean, er, no thanks, Mr McCrory, I’m fine.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Dad. ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

Matthew reaches guiltily for his hair. ‘I don’t think so, Mr McCrory.’

‘
You
’
re
the lad who played that belting guitar solo at the school concert.’ Dad grabs his hand and tries to shake it off. ‘Talk about
The Tingle
Factor
! The hairs on the back of my neck were doing the Charleston. ‘’Course Bex is the musical one in our family, but you probably know that.’

If he gets started on the baby photos, I’ll have to shoot myself. ‘Sorry, Dad, we need to go upstairs. Matthew’s helping me with some homework.’

‘That’s what they call it now,’ says Dad. ‘All right, love, I can see you’re in a hurry. But before you go, I want a quick word with Matthew here.’

Matthew looks terrified.

Dad looks dead serious for once. ‘Bex’s mum is working late again, but if you’re brave enough to risk my toad-in-the-hole, you’re welcome to stay for your tea.’

‘Thanks, but I can’t,’ says Matthew, hurriedly. ‘I’ve got to be home by quarter to six.’

Which means I’ve got about forty minutes to get it over with. Is that long enough? I wonder. I mean, it’s not like I can ask him the moment we get up there. ‘Then we’d
better get a move on. Come on, Matthew, I’ll show you my room.’

‘Yes, good idea.’

He looks if he’s nearly as desperate to escape as I am. I just hope he doesn’t see me blushing when my stupid brother shouts, ‘Here, Geez; don’t do anything I
wouldn’t do.’

Matthew

Her bedroom is so tiny it feels like a prison cell.

‘Wait here,’ she says, taking some jeans and a T-shirt from a white chest of drawers. ‘I’m going to the bathroom to get changed, yeah?’

This is all Mum’s fault. If she hadn’t been desperate for me to hook up with Dad, I would never have done anything so totally out of character. Because this isn’t me, you know.
I don’t do girls, and I certainly don’t do spontaneity. And, trust me, there’s no such thing as destiny. Bad stuff just happens.

What does she want, anyway? I thought she was just some random girl I could spend a random hour with. I even thought it might be a nice break from the same old same old. But that was before I
knew she was Kyle McCrory’s sister.

The main thing is not to panic. I mean, just because her brother’s a certified psycho who needed five policemen to drag him down from the science block roof, doesn’t mean she has to
be a complete headcase. But I’d feel a whole lot happier if I knew what she was playing at. So I search the room for clues.

It’s got that girlie smell of fresh towels and apple shampoo, and the floor is so tidy you could actually walk across it. If you ask me, you’d have to be out of your mind to want
Rihanna looking down on you 24/7, but I guess that’s pretty normal too. So’s her CD collection: a couple of OK albums and a whole load of what Curtis Morgan calls ‘R&B
lite’.

Even so, I’m quietly shitting myself when the door bursts open, and I have my second near heart attack in under ten minutes. ‘I haven’t touched anything, promise.’

‘Hold her, will you?’ barks a voice I don’t recognise. ‘I’m desperate.’

She’s what Curtis Morgan would probably still describe as a ‘hot chick’ in baggy sweat pants and a stain-splattered hoodie. She practically rugby passes me a pink blanket with
a warm squidgy thing inside, before rushing back into the hall screaming, ‘Oi, Bex, get a bloody move on. I’m gagging for a poo.’

Suddenly there’s this rank smell in here, and even though my head is telling me to get the hell out, my legs won’t seem to budge.

Which makes it all the more chilling when the warm squidgy thing starts moving. And making this noise, like a cartoon duck in a liquidiser. And . . . OH MY GOD. IT’S A BABY.

I don’t do babies. They can’t talk, they stink of puke and they wouldn’t know an Xbox if it bit them on the bottom and whistled the theme tune from
Family Guy
. At least
my legs seem to have rediscovered the art of motion. But only in circles. So I stagger round the room, vainly hoping for someone to rugby pass the smelly thing back to.

‘What are you doing?’

I can’t believe I’m actually pleased to see her. ‘It’s a . . . baby.’

‘You don’t say,’ says Bex. ‘Here, give her to me.’

I hand over the wailing stink-bomb. The wailing stops. ‘I don’t understand. What’s it . . . ?’

‘She’s my sister’s lurve child,’ says Bex, taking the baby’s hand and waving it at me like a puppet. ‘Her name’s Yasmin. Gorgeous, isn’t
she?’

‘Yes . . . I s’pose.’

Bex looks much better in jeans than her school uniform. I can’t help noticing some new curvy bits. ‘How about a smile for your Auntie Bex?’ she coos.

I’m just wondering why the female of the species gets so gooey about this sort of thing when I remember what Dad said about girls off council estates who get pregnant on purpose so they
can claim more benefits. ‘I think I’d better go.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Bex, holding the baby above her head and whizzing it towards me like an aeroplane. ‘I want to ask you a big favour.’

Suddenly it all clicks. Tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m putting two and two together and making a fish. I mean, first she tells me what a great guitarist I am, and then she lures me
back to the Dogberry Estate and bounces a baby in my face. Maths isn’t really my subject, but it all adds up.

‘What kind of a favour?’ I ask, trying not to sound like I’ve figured it out.

‘It’s OK if you don’t want to, yeah? Look, I know it probably feels a bit weird . . . considering we’ve only just met and everything, but I was just wondering if
—’

‘Cheers, mate, you’re a lifesaver.’ Jogging Pants Girl is leaning in the doorway looking a bit like a model from one of Mum’s catalogues.

Bex looks furious. ‘Do you mind, Natalie? We’re trying to have a private conversation here.’

‘I bet you are.’

‘And do something about Yazz’s nappy,’ snaps Bex, handing her the burbling bundle. ‘If I had a beautiful daughter like that, I’d make sure I looked after her
properly.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ says the girl with the baby. ‘Anyway, who’s your boyfriend?’

‘His name’s Matthew . . . and he’s not my boyfriend. Now, could you just get out, please?’

The girl with the baby rolls her puffy eyes. ‘You want to watch her, Matthew, she’s evil.’

‘Sorry about my sister,’ says Bex, slamming the door behind her. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure she won’t come back.’ She takes a piece of paper from under her
pillow, sits down on the edge of the bed and gives me her serial-killer smile. ‘Now about that favour. You see what it is . . .’

Her mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Time stands still as we size each other up, like boxers at a weigh in. I was right about her eyes – they are brown. The rest of her’s
not bad either. She looks quite pretty with her hair tied back.

You see, when I said I don’t do girls, I didn’t mean I don’t want to. But it would be pretty embarrassing bringing anyone home with Mum the way she is. Which is probably part
of the reason I haven’t even kissed a girl, not properly, let alone . . . you know.

It’s the only thing they ever talk about at school. The other kids are always bragging about the latest girls they’ve got off with. According to Mr Catchpole, it’s probably
just a ‘crude display of adolescent bravado’, but even Curtis went out with Demi Corcoran a few times.

I’m pretty hot on the theory. It’s practically all we’ve done in PSHE for the last four years. (Apart from drugs and bullying, of course.) What if this is my only chance to put
it into practice?

OK, supposing I just kiss her? I mean, it’s what she wants, isn’t it? If I don’t do something soon she’ll probably jump on me anyway. I’m kind of thinking that a
pre-emptive strike is the only way to go. So I sit down next to her and make a grab for one of her curves.

Bex

‘What are you playing at?’ I yell.

‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘Get off me, you idiot.’

‘What’s the matter, aren’t I doing it right?’

‘Look, stop it, will you or I’ll call my dad.’

He flies off the bed, like a human cannonball. ‘But I thought . . .’

‘You thought what exactly?’

This time he’s the one having trouble getting his words out. ‘I thought you . . . I thought you wanted me to . . . you know . . .’

I’m not sure whether to laugh or smack him in the mouth. ‘Why would you think
that
?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, grabbing his face and hiding behind his hands. ‘You seemed pretty keen that’s all. What else was I supposed to think?’

Now I’m
sure
I want to smack him in the mouth. ‘Don’t worry, I get it, OK? You took one look at where I came from and thought I must be gagging for it.’

‘No, I . . .’ He peeps out from between his fingertips. ‘You mean you don’t want to . . . you know?’

‘In your dreams, sad boy.’

‘Oh right,’ he says, letting out a rather insulting sigh of relief. ‘So what
do
you want?’

‘Forget it, it’s not important.’

‘Come on. You might as well tell me now.’

If it wasn’t the most important thing in my life, I’d be telling the geek with the guitar where to get off. If I didn’t want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything, I
wouldn’t be handing him this piece of paper. ‘I got the music off the internet. Do you think you could play it?’

He takes one look and smiles smugly.

‘On the guitar, I mean. You could play it, yeah?’

‘You’re really into this stuff, aren’t you?’

‘What, so you’re not then?’

‘It’s an OK song, I suppose. If you like that kind of thing.’

‘I don’t care what you think of it. Can you play it?’

‘It’s got six chords,’ he sneers. ‘Of course I can play it.’

I reach under the bed and pull out the mini guitar that Dad bought me in Alicante. ‘Go on then.’

‘On this old thing?’ he says, twanging a very out of tune string.

‘You said you could do it.’

‘I
could
.’ He shrugs. ‘But what would be the point?’

And now for the
really
embarrassing part. ‘I want you to, like, accompany me. While I . . . sing.’

‘So you’re a soloist now, are you?’

‘What, so you reckon kids from round here can only be in the chorus, is that it?’

‘No . . . no, it wasn’t that, I just . . .’

‘It was a stupid idea anyway.’ Lucky I didn’t tell him the whole story. Lucky I didn’t blurt out what I really wanted him for. Now that
would
have been
embarrassing. ‘Go on, get out, you know you want to.’

‘I’ll give you a couple of bars intro,’ he says, finishing tuning and then strumming a chord.

‘Eh?’

‘I thought you wanted to sing.’

‘I do but . . .’

‘Go for it. I’ll give you a note if you like.’

The first time I try to come in, I sound like an alien off
Doctor Who
. ‘Sorry, can we start again?’

‘Sure. Maybe we should take it a bit slower.’

This time he hums the first line with me. And once I’ve got going, it sounds all right. More than all right. ‘Umbrella’ is my favourite song. I must have played it like, about
a million times. OK, so I’ll never be as good as Rihanna, but it’s way better than when I did it yesterday.

Matthew actually looks like he might be enjoying himself. When we get to the chorus, he closes his eyes and sings along. And even though he does that funny thing with his mouth, I still get this
tingly feeling all the way up my spine. If that’s not a good omen, what is?

‘Not bad,’ he says, opening his eyes and flashing me a non-smug smile. ‘You’ve got an OK voice.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, deciding that he’s probably trying to be nice. ‘So have you.’