Don't Even Think About It Page 6

And of course we won’t have Granny Daly either. She’s been coming to us every Christmas for years, since Grandad Daly died. Surely Mam would want to see her mother at Christmas.

  I wish I could pluck up the courage to ask her if she’s coming home, but I can’t. It’s the only thing I can’t talk to her about.

  Well, that and Marjorie, of course.

  And the shoplifting.

  And all the visits to Smelly Nelly’s office.

  And the fact that Dad didn’t know I was e-mailing her.

  Gee, I didn’t realise there were so many things that I don’t talk to Mam about.

  Anyway, back to Christmas. Dad’s parents live in Australia. They emigrated years ago, before I was born, and they’ve only been back twice, both times in the spring. They never fly home at Christmas because it’s too crowded, and the fares are too high.

  So it looks like it’ll be just Dad and me for Christmas dinner. I wonder which one of us will cook the turkey – or should I say burn the turkey. We’ll probably do it together, so we can blame each other when it’s a disaster.

  It might surprise you to hear that I’ve got quite friendly with Chloe Nelligan at school. She’s actually not bad, I’ve discovered. Once you get used to the garlic breath, she’s quite funny and clever.

  We’re in the same group for a science project, and she’s come up with some really good ideas. Imagine I was in her class for eight years and I never really noticed her. And I suppose she can’t help it if her mother or father, or whoever cooks the dinner in that house, puts garlic into everything.

  I actually went over to her house the other night to work on the science project, and it was really weird to have Smelly Nelly bringing us milk and biscuits, like she was just a normal mother. I mean, of course she is a normal mother to Chloe, but I couldn’t help still thinking of her as a principal, and remembering all my visits to her office. Not that she mentioned them of course – she just treated me like any friend of Chloe’s and said she loved my hair, and told me that she’d always wanted curly hair when she was a girl.

  It was a bit creepy really – and you know what else? I didn’t get any smell of garlic in the house, which was very weird, considering that they must use it by the bucketful. But Chloe’s OK.

  Oh, and guess who I saw in town today – Chris Thompson. Remember him, cutest guy in sixth class? He looks just as nice as ever. I didn’t talk to him – he was across the road, so we just waved at each other. I’d forgotten what a gorgeous smile he has.

  Well, time for some homework, I suppose. Can’t put it off forever. Only two weeks to the mid term break – not that I’m counting.

  Twenty-five past five, Wednesday, middle of October.

  Poor Bumble didn’t get the part in Grease. He’s just one of Danny’s pals now, with no lines. Maybe if he’d let me help him rehearse for the audition, he might have done better, but of course I didn’t say that. I haven’t seen him for ages, and talking on the phone is just not the same. I miss him.

  I’m really glad I’ve got Chloe now though.

  And wouldn’t you know – Catherine Eggleston got the part of Sandy, with her blonde hair and her boobs. Naturally, she was the first girl to get boobs in our class. I’m still as flat as a pancake, which I’m sure is perfectly normal for most thirteen-year-olds. Chloe wears a bra, but as far as I can see it’s really just for show.

  Oh, and guess what else? Bumble told me it’s all finished between Catherine and Terry McNamara. I’m glad Terry came to his senses at last. And guess who got the part of Danny? Cute Chris Thompson, which I suppose means that his voice has finally broken – they could hardly have a Danny with a high voice, could they? The songs would sound all wrong.

  And more news – Pizza Palace, which Dad and I use all the time, has a new delivery boy, and he really does look Italian, not like Santa – remember my old teacher?

  This guy has dark brown eyes and long black hair that he wears in a really cool ponytail, and he calls me ‘doll’. He must be at least seventeen, because he rides one of the Pizza Palace motorbikes. I would give ANYTHING to go out with him.

  Oh, and I almost forgot – I was at Dad’s office last week. We were going to have an early bird dinner at the Chinese, so I got the bus to his place from school and did my homework while I waited for him – and guess what was on his desk? The silver frame that Marjorie gave him for his birthday.

  When I saw it, I was half afraid to look at what he’d put into it, in case it was a photo of her and him, but it turned out to be one of me and Bumble from that day on the beach when I burnt my nose, with Bumble making rabbit ears behind my head.

  I thought it was nice of Dad to put that photo in, although it made me sad to think we’ll never have any new ones of Mam and us.

  Ruth Wallace told me my new platforms made me walk like a duck. She’s such an idiot.

  Two days to mid-term – hurrah! Not that I’m planning anything very exciting, but it’ll be great to have a week off. I can stay in bed till – well, till bedtime, if I like, ha ha.

  Half eleven, Monday, around the start of November.

  What a horrible day. It started out OK, but it got horrible very quickly.

  Here’s what happened. I got to school as usual, and I was catching up with Chloe’s news, because we were just back after mid-term, and her family had gone to their holiday cottage in Kerry for the week.

  Then, right in the middle of her telling me about this gorgeous guy in the next cottage, I got this awful pain, down low in my stomach. It was like something twisting around the wrong way, and it made me double up, it was so bad.

  I never felt anything like it before. I thought it was my appendix bursting, and if I hadn’t been in such pain I would have been imagining Dad rushing to the hospital where I was undergoing emergency surgery, and maybe even Mam flying home to be at my bedside.

  Anyway, Chloe left me curled up in the yard and ran to get a teacher because she was sure I was dying, and by the time she came back with Mrs O’Keefe who teaches maths and geography I was able to stand up a bit, but I still felt pretty gross, and my back was starting to hurt too.

  Mrs O’Keefe said I looked very pale, and wondered if it was something I’d eaten, and asked me what I’d had for dinner the night before. I told her bacon and cabbage, because I was too embarrassed to say lamb korma with potato bhajis and naan bread.

  Then the pain in my stomach got bad again, and Mrs O’Keefe sent Chloe in to the secretary’s office to get her to phone Dad at work and tell him to come and get me. I was doubled up again like an old woman. Everyone around me was staring. I would have been mortified, if I wasn’t too busy trying not to die.

  When I could move a bit, Mrs O’Keefe helped me into the lobby and sat me on a couch to wait for Dad. I had to sit crouched over with my arms wrapped around my middle, and my face was cold and felt sweaty, and that awful twisting feeling kept coming and going in my stomach.

  The secretary made me a cup of tea, which I tried really hard to drink so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings, but it was weak and milky and not half sweet enough, and the most I could manage was two or three sips.

  You’ll get an idea of how rotten I felt, when I tell you that the thought of missing double history, which was first thing after break on Monday, did nothing to cheer me up.

  By the time Dad arrived I was feeling a tiny bit better, so we decided that he’d bring me home and we’d wait a while to see if I needed the doctor. It was only when I got home and went to the bathroom that I discovered what was wrong. At least I was glad it wasn’t my appendix about to burst all over the place.

  I knew all about periods since fifth class. A woman came to the school one day and took the girls and boys off in separate groups, and showed us some seriously embarrassing posters, and packs of sanitary towels and stuff.

  And the boys sure were quiet when they came back from their talk, which made a pleasant change.

  So I understood what was happening, but now I had a pretty big problem, becaus
e I had no stuff. I hadn’t bought any sanitary towels, and of course Dad hadn’t either. That was definitely the kind of thing mams did. So I managed the best I could with some toilet paper and then I went downstairs, still holding on to my stomach, which was twisting away like mad again, and I told Dad that I needed him to go and get me some sanitary towels.

  I was totally mortified – could hardly look at him – but I had to tell someone, and he was all I had. And I’m sure he was just as mortified.

  He swallowed a bit and sort of mumbled, ‘OK, go and lie down and I’ll sort it out.’ So I hobbled back upstairs and just waited, curled up with my arms wrapped around my legs because that was the only position that I could bear. I was sorry I hadn’t filled a hot water bottle when I was downstairs, but it seemed like too much trouble to go down again.

  And about twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door, and when I said, ‘Come in,’ the door opened and in walked Marjorie Baloney.

  And I have to be totally honest here and say that I was kind of glad to see her.

  Only because she was female, of course, and because this was the kind of thing that really needed a female.

  She looked at me with a kind of worried smile on her face, and said, ‘You poor thing,’ and then she pulled a packet of sanitary towels out of a bag she was carrying. I just took them and legged it to the bathroom, and when I came back to my room a few minutes later she was gone.

  But there was a hot water bottle in my bed, and in the bag she left behind I found a bunch of magazines, a big bar of Dairy Milk, a packet of Tylenol and two cans of ginger ale. Oh, and a bar of White Musk soap. How did she know I liked White Musk?

  So now I’m sitting in bed with the hot water bottle pressed to my stomach, which has calmed down a lot. I do feel a bit sick, but that’s probably because I’ve eaten three-quarters of the bar of Dairy Milk and drunk all the ginger ale.

  When I’ve finished reading the magazines, I’ll be able to trade them at school.

  Maybe I won’t call her Marjorie Baloney any more. That was kind of nice, what she did today. And I suppose I’ll have to stop pretending not to see her across the road.

  But she is still not getting my Dad – no way. The parent-teacher meetings are on next week, and I’m pretty sure Dad and Miss Purtill will like each other.

  Not that I want him to end up with her either, though – I just don’t want him to get stuck with the same friend all the time. It’s good for him to get out of the house now and again, and if he took turns with Marjorie and Miss Purtill, then neither of them could get the wrong idea.

  My stomach has just started cramping again. Being a woman sucks. Maybe if I finish off the chocolate it’ll help.

  Bet Ruth Wallace hasn’t started her period yet. She’s such a baby.

  Five past seven, Tuesday, beginning of December.

  OK, first the good news. I got great reports from all the teachers at the parent-teacher meetings. Even Mr O’Connor who teaches history, and who keeps telling me that I’ll never make a historian, said I was a very likeable and outgoing girl, which I thought was really nice of him, since that was probably the only positive thing he could think of to say about me. I’m really going to try harder at history now.

  The not-so-good news is that I don’t think Dad took much notice of Miss Purtill. He didn’t look as if he had anything to hide when he got home; he didn’t look particularly excited or anything. I asked him what he thought of all the teachers, and he just said they were OK, and I seemed to be doing fine, and then he gave me ten euros. He was probably relieved that I’m not getting hauled into the principal’s office any more.

  And Miss Purtill didn’t treat me any differently the next day at school, didn’t mention Dad to me at all, even though I hung around after her class especially to give her a chance.

  So I suppose that’s that – my big plan failed.

  Marjorie Maloney’s hair is now light brown. It’s certainly an improvement on the black. Actually, I think it makes her look a lot younger. Not that I’d ever mention that to Dad, of course. They’re still going out every weekend, which makes it almost six months now. It looks like I’ll just have to live with it, as long as they don’t try to change anything.

  I say ‘hello’ now if I meet her on the street, but that’s as far as it goes. No chatting, absolutely not. There is no need to give her any ideas about becoming friends with me, just because she helped me out once.

  Chloe usually comes around to my house on the nights Dad goes out, not Bumble any more. They both came once, after I started hanging around with Chloe at school, and it was a disaster. Bumble said he nearly passed out, stuck on the couch between the garlic and the White Musk.

  And Chloe went all quiet, like she used to when we were in primary school. Maybe she was remembering what it was like when no one really hung around with her. I wonder if she thought it was because she was the principal’s daughter. Maybe I should tell her it was just the garlic breath.

  Although the funny thing is, I hardly notice it any more.

  I haven’t seen too much of Bumble at all since the summer. It sure makes me feel sad. I thought we’d never stop being friends.

  I’ll meet him next week though, when Chloe and I go to the show, and I’m looking forward to meeting up with some of our old classmates too, although I get the impression that Chloe isn’t that pushed really – I mean, she wants to see the show, but I don’t think there’s anyone from our old class that she’s dying to meet again.

  Funny, how you can miss some things completely. There was me, feeling so lonely when Mam left, and there was Chloe, probably feeling lonely all the time. And remember it was Chloe who made an effort to cheer me up, when she offered me her Penguin bar at break – was that because she was the only one who understood how I felt?

  Dad asked me what I want for Christmas, and I told him a mobile phone, and he said, ‘We’ll see,’ which probably means yes, so I left the brochure open on the kitchen table with a ring around the one I want. I’m sure I’m the only one in the class without one – apart from Chloe – which is truly embarrassing.

  Still no sign from Mam that she’s coming home. I really think she will though – I’m trying not to think about it too much, but I have a feeling she will.

  The gorgeous pizza delivery boy’s name is Henry, which I think is so cute. He told me we had the same taste in pizza, the last time he came round. I wonder if he noticed how fabulous I smelt. Probably not, with the pepperoni nearly knocking the two of us out.

  Henry and Elizabeth – sounds like a royal couple. Wonder what his second name is. He never wears gloves, even when it’s really freezing. He has a thin silver ring on his first finger, a bit like the one that Mam used to wear. And there’s a tiny hole in the knee of his jeans that just makes me melt.

  By the way, my nails are growing out nicely since I stopped biting them. It was pretty easy in the end. I got some pearly pink nail varnish like Miss Purtill, but I don’t think it’s me really. It’s not loud enough, if you know what I mean. (Not that I’m loud, of course – I’m a real lady, ha ha.)

  Last Saturday Ruth Wallace told me she could smell my breath a mile away, and it was like mouldy cheese. I’m getting very tired of her stupid comments. One of these days, I might just have to think up some of my own, wheelchair or no wheelchair.

  A quarter to eight, Friday, middle of December.

  The show at the Comp was on last night, and it was brilliant. Chloe and I had to sit about halfway down the hall, but there was nobody tall sitting in front of us, so we could see the stage quite well.

  I spent a lot of the first half looking for Bumble. He was quite hard to find, since he was just one of the gang, but I finally spotted him. He was wearing a bomber jacket and drainpipe jeans, and his hair was greased back. He looked older – and quite sexy, actually.

  Wonder if anyone fancies him.

  Catherine Eggleston wasn’t bad as Sandy, but her singing was nothing special, except that it sure
was LOUD – boy, could she belt out those songs. And she didn’t forget any of her lines, which was probably a good thing.

  Chris Thompson was excellent as Danny. He totally got the American accent, and he was brilliant at singing and dancing, much better probably than poor Bumble would have been, I have to say. Oh, and Chris’s voice has well and truly broken – he sounds great now.

  At the interval, Chloe and I got warmish bottles of orange and chatted to a few of our old classmates who were in the audience, or helping out around the place.

  And guess what – Trudy Higgins, Catherine Eggleston’s best friend (the one who got the dead beetle in her lunchbox, remember?) told us that Terry McNamara, who played Kenickie, was heartbroken when Catherine Eggleston finished with him, and that it was really awkward while they were rehearsing.

  Funny, I assumed it was Terry who had broken up with Catherine, not the other way around. But I suppose it makes sense really – Catherine Eggleston is just the type who’d break people’s hearts.

  After the show, Chloe and I were hanging around the door waiting for my dad to pick us up, and I was keeping an eye out for Bumble, when who should come over to us but Chris. He said ‘hi’ and the three of us chatted for a while.

  He asked us how we liked our school, and he seemed really interested, you know? Not just as if he was being polite. I’d never really had a proper conversation with him before.

  And wouldn’t you know it, just then Dad drove up and we had to say goodbye. But as we were walking towards the car, Chris called after us to say that a gang of them were going to Nosh on the first day of the Christmas holidays for lunch, if we wanted to meet up. Nosh is a really cool burger bar with loads of cartoon characters painted on the walls, and paper tablecloths that you’re allowed to draw on with crayons.

  I think we’ll go. Chloe says she doesn’t know if she will, but she always says that, and I always manage to persuade her.