My Family and Other Freaks (9 page)

I'm more worried about what Treasure will say when she finds out. The Clampetts have really done it this time.

Phoebe now seems pleased about the baby and has given Mom all her Baby Annabel clothes. This made Mom cry like a banshee and rock Phoebe on her knee, saying, “Mommy's lovely little baby.”

Enjoy it while it lasts, Pheebs. Soon you'll be joining the ignored-middle-children club.

Unbelievable. Mom is actually looking quite happy about being pregnant now. She literally has no shame. And Dad keeps singing “Isn't She Lovely?” and kissing her in front of her disgusted children. “What would I do without you, Dave?” she says to my dad.

“Dunno,” says Rick. “Not get knocked up at the age of 44?” Dad didn't laugh at that.

Text Amber and say I need an emergency summit meeting.

Amber stares at me with her mouth in one of the shapes in the Face Workout book when I tell her. I make her swear not to tell anyone, not even Megan, who can be very gossipy, to be honest. I was hoping Amber would join in agreeing what selfish, embarrassing parents they are, but she went all nerdy scientist on me, saying, “Well, that's interesting actually, because it shows how incredible human biology is.”

“WHAT?” I said.

“Well, women's fertility drops quite sharply in their thirties, as does men's,” she said. “Both your mom and dad must be quite—”

“All right, all riiiiiight,” I say, covering my ears and feeling that I really might be sick at any
moment. Too much information—unless you want vommed Monster Munch all over your shoes.

Still, I must get home. I need to wash my hair with Mom's expensive shampoo and get my beauty sleep to look nice for Damian. I am going to start putting ME first in this family.

Can't sleep. Am half appalled about the baby, half demented with excitement about seeing Damian again. Am going to wear my “telescopic lashes” mascara so that when he looks into my eyes he realizes where his heart really lies.

Still can't sleep. Because I'm panicking about not sleeping I can't sleep even more. Plus Deirdre
is on her squeaky wheel. Shove her cage in the bathroom.

Why, why, why did I lay awake for three hours? I now have huge black shadows under my eyes like a drug addict and my hair is a big mad crow's nest. I look like that batty old woman down the precinct who talks to herself and wears all her clothes at the same time.

A piercing scream from the bathroom. Deirdre has escaped from her cage and nibbled Mom's feet while she was having a wee. Well, at least Deirdre's got one experience up on Dad who, as we know, has NEVER seen Mom have a wee.

Lying on my stomach in the bathroom trying to coax Deirdre out from under the bath with a box of raisins. I so don't need this. I need to be getting SEXY.

Deirdre now caught. I am now late.

Time for damage limitation. Sneak into the bathroom and squirt myself with Mom's Sarah Jessica Parker perfume. It is called Lovely. What a totally rubbish name. And not strictly true. They'd have been better off calling it “Not Bad But A Bit Claggy.” I squirt tons of it on. It's not as though Mom will be needing it again, since she won't be going out for the next 100 years.

Apply my telescopic mascara. You're supposed to let it dry between each coat but it won't matter.
Not bad actually. Apart from the red eyes, which look like raw liver.

Phoebe is dressed in her nurse's uniform and is holding up an old stained bib to Mom's tummy saying, “Hello, baby—you have dis.” She has also offered the fetus a tin opener and a dishwasher tablet.

Meet Amber and Megan at the bus stop. Megan has been to Sardinia. Is anymore evidence required that I am a disadvantaged child?

New form teacher for Year 9, Mr. Clough. He is into bodybuilding and is wearing a short-sleeved shirt
so that we can all see his biceps. How very sad. He must be nearly 40. Talk about midlife crisis. He'll be growing a ponytail next. He also calls us all by our last names as if we are in the army. Somebody should tell him it's not 1953, probably the year he was born.

Treasure is in the corner surrounded by people. She's handing out holiday presents to her coterie of sucky-uppy friends.

It's worse than I feared. She's still wearing the bracelet but also has a) a tan to die for, b) brand-new highlights in her hair, c) her ears pierced twice. Why aren't I allowed to have my ears pierced even once? Mom says it looks trollopy, but she's got three holes in each of hers, so what does that make her? An old trollop, that's what. Treasure says, so that I can hear, that her dad has bought her real diamond studs. “Think how many starving African children you could feed with that,” I say to Amber as loud as I can.

Still haven't seen Damian.

Chemistry. My legs are literally wobbling. They're like Bendaroos. We're lining up in the corridor outside the chemistry lab. Any minute now I will see him. Amber digs me in the ribs with her skinny elbow. “Ow!” I say. “There he is,” she hisses. If it's possible, he's even more gorgeous than I remembered. He's got a fading tan and his nose is peeling in a really attractive way. Alongside him is Sean—no tan, and no attractively peeling nose—but at least he's let his hair grow a bit so he looks older than seven.

“All right, Danni?” says Damian.

What? He said “All right?” to me! And he said my name! Was it in a polite way or in an I'd-like-to-get-to-know-you-better way?

Amber, who always rains on my parade, says, “No, it was a you're-blocking-the-classroom-doorway-and-grinning-like-a-hyena-into-my-face-so-I-can't-exactly-pretend-you're-not-there way.”

Sean said hello too but I barely noticed. Trailing behind him is new boy Nerdy Neil. Amber is friendly to him, which is nice of her.

Damian is still wearing the bracelet. That is against school rules, actually.

I open my big pencil case and find that half my felt-tips have been stolen and been replaced by a Toilet Duck. Everyone is killing themselves laughing. Phoebe will pay for this.

Ugh, PE. A chance for Treasure to show off her long tanned legs. At least I'm well better at games than her. Bet she doesn't like catching all those rounders balls in case she breaks a nail. I am bowling. Can't wait till it's her turn to bat. Would it be wrong to accidentally break her nose?

Oh, surprise, surprise. Treasure is trying to get out of games. She's telling Miss Jeffer that she feels ill.

“Maybe those holes in your ears are infected,” I suggest helpfully.

Treasure flashes me a dirty look and says sarcastically, “Oh Danni, you seem to have a pair of tarantulas sitting on your eyelids.”

Miss Jeffer is staring at me. “Danni, how many times do you need to be told that girls are not allowed to wear mascara for school. How much have you put on—a whole tube??” Damn, damn, damn. Now I'll be sent to scrub it off.

What do you think happens when you try to remove mascara with those rubbish, tiny little cheap soaps they have in school? I'll tell you—it smears the black all over your face and makes your eyes sting. I now look like something out of the “Thriller” video (God rest Michael Jackson's soul). Five hours in and I hate school already.

Sean, Nerdy Neil, Damian and another boy, Matt, are at the school gates waiting to walk home. I'm a woman who needs to take charge of her life. I'm going to walk out with them. Grab Amber, who for once seems fine to go along with it.

“Hi—good holidays?” I say with the winning smile I've practiced in the mirror but that Rick says makes me look constipated. Damian grunts a yes, Matt says nothing, but Nerdy Neil pipes up enthusiastically, saying, “Hello, Danni. Great to see you in the park the other day. Let's all get together again soon with the dogs.”

Oh nooooo. He's making it sound like we're going out together or something. Damian will think I'm spoken for.

Sean looks embarrassed, as usual, so I say with a nervous laugh, “As long as you don't bore on all day about saving the planet.” Neil's face kind of crumples like an old jumper. Oh dear
God, he does fancy me. Sean flashes me a dirty look—oh, for goodness sake, it was only a joke. Why does everyone I know have zero sense of humor?

Then I see Treasure wiggling out of the front entrance. She comes up and links her arm into Damian's like a cat spraying its territory.

“Ooh, Danni, you've got black rings around your eyes where you've tried to rub your mascara off!” she says in her high-pitched, girlie voice. “You look like a panda. A pasty little panda!”

Damn, I meant to go back to the toilet and get some more paper towels but I forgot. Damn, damn.

Keep your cool, Danni. “Oh well, we're all individuals, Treasure,” I say. “For instance, if I wanted to look like you, I'd simply slather my face in the creosote my dad uses for the garden fence.”

Treasure flashes me a look of pure hatred. Then she does her really annoying twittery laugh. “Oh, that tiny thing at the front of your house is
a GARDEN, is it? I thought it was a junkyard. A very SMALL junkyard.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Why does she always attack my family? And why can't Dad move that rusty bike? I never slag off her mom even though she looks like a WAG. Wait until she hears about my mom. I'll have to change schools.

“Come on, she's just vile,” says Amber, pulling me away and giving Treasure one of her baddest stares. Damian trots behind Treasure like an adoring Labrador.

There is a new school craze called “Strike.” You creep up behind someone and put one hand on either side of their mouth, then pull their lips back into a horizontal stripe while shouting, “Strike!” It's a blow to your dignity, to be honest, looking like a giant salamander. Obviously about five people have already done it to me, but NO ONE's done
it to precious Treasure. I whisper to porky Laura Birkdale that she can have a stick of my Twirl if she'll “strike” Treasure. She does! For two precious seconds Treasure looks like a trout! I now love Laura Birkdale even though she breathes really noisily through her mouth.

“Watch it, Laura,” I say. “You'll need a trowel to get all that lip gloss off your hands.”

Damn, blast and pig poo. There's a geography field trip on Monday and the teachers say that as a special “treat” we can wear our own clothes. Gee, thanks teachies. Treasure will wear something stunning while I, as usual, will look like a scarecrow modeling last season's [email protected] I've only got three days to come up with a practical yet glamorous and back-to-nature outfit—sort of Angelina Jolie—so that Damian will see that I am the woman of his dreams.

Mission this weekend: make Mom buy me new clothes. It's the least she can do, seeing as she's ruined my life. I approach her in the kitchen as she's giving Phoebe scrambled egg. The minute Mom's back's turned Phoebe is shoving it into Simon's mouth with her Dora the Explorer spoon, then licking it. Sigh. What would Treasure make of this Clampett cameo?

This is how the conversation goes:

Me: “Mu-u-u-u-m, there's a geography field trip on Monday. I need something new to wear.”

Mom: “Like hell you do. Old cords and a pair of rubber boots. That's what we always wore. Wear those blue ones from Primark.”

Dad (ever the joker): “And I'm sure your Gran's got some Crimplene slacks she can lend you.”

Phoebe, smearing Simon-infested egg across her face: “Not Iggle Piggle boots. Dey mine!”

Me (panic rising/whiny voice): “But, Mom, NO ONE'S wearing rubber boots. It's not 1978. Everyone else will be getting new outfits. I've needed new jeans for ages anyway. Can we go to Urban Outfitters, pleeeeese?”

Rick, walking in scratching his crotch, having just got out of bed: “She'd better not be getting new clothes when you said I can't have new soccer cleats. It's not fair.” (Is Rick six?)

Mom: “Nobody's getting new anything! I'm not buying clothes for you to tramp around a field in, Danni. There's no spare money at the moment, now the new baby's coming.”

Me (even higher whiny voice): “But why not? It's not OUR fault you're having a baby. And anyway—since when do babies eat caviar and champagne?”

Mom, looking guilty: “Subject closed.”

I run out of the kitchen shrieking, “I hate
you!” as Simon begins to lick egg directly off Phoebe's face. In my room I look through the collection of rags in my wardrobe and vow that no daughter of mine will never be so badly treated.

Me and Rick are watching repeats of
Waterloo Road
. Rick can be all right when he's not with his friends. He says Liam, Damian's brother, thinks Treasure looks like a Bratz doll. Hahhahaha! I am LIKING this boy.

Dad comes in to ask if we want to go ten-pin bowling. Aha. They are creeping around us!

“No, ta,” says Rick.

“Why not?” says Dad.

“Because I'm not eight years old. I like soccer but I have no CLEATS.” He turns back to the TV.

Dad looks chinned. Ha. That will teach him to neglect his first-born children.

Field-trip-outfit crisis deepens. Can't find my vintage Blondie T-shirt, which was my fall-back option. Will now have to wear leggings and a stupid gypsy top, which gaps because my boobs aren't big enough.

Text Amber to ask what she's wearing tomorrow. “Old cords and rubber boots, obviously,” she replies.

Is Amber a pensioner in a 13-year-old's body? Discuss.

My gypsy top is a shamer. Shove a pair of Phoebe's Tinkerbell socks down my bra to fill the gap. Have a horrible feeling they're not clean.