All About Mia

  ‘But Yorkshire puddings are my favourite bit.’

  ‘Mia …’ Dad says, his eyes narrowing.

  Translation: Stop being a brat in front of our guest.

  ‘Oh, forget it,’ I mutter. I open the microwave, shove my plate in and slam the door.

  By the time I turn round everyone’s in stitches over something Frankie just said. It looks like a scene from a TV commercial – one big happy family. They’re just missing the dog.

  I eject my lukewarm food from the microwave and take it outside, even though it’s still drizzling and all the garden furniture is wet through, heaving the patio door shut behind me. I can still hear them all through the glass though, their muffled chatter punctuated with frequent explosions of laugher.

  ‘Do you not want pudding?’ Dad asks as I return inside and dump my dirty dishes in the sink. ‘I made an apple pie.’

  I hesitate. Dad’s apple pie is really, really good.

  ‘With custard,’ he adds, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say, blocking out the sight and smell of the fresh-out-of-the-oven pie cooling on the top of the hob. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Stella’s.’

  ‘Don’t you two ever get bored of each other?’ Grace pipes up.

  ‘No. Don’t you ever get bored of being permanently attached to Sam?’ I ask, looking pointedly at their entwined fingers.

  ‘It’s not quite the same thing,’ she replies.

  ‘Of course it isn’t. It never is, is it?’

  She sits up straight. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  But I can’t be bothered to explain. That’s half the problem; whenever I try to describe how I’m feeling, I always come off sounding petty and childish by bringing up stuff that happened years ago.

  I sigh. ‘Just forget I said anything.’

  It’s only once I’ve left the house I remember that Stella isn’t around today. It’s her dad’s birthday so she’s out for lunch with him, Stu and her stepmum. I know for a fact Mikey’s out of action today too because he’s stuck looking after The Accident while his parents go to a wedding, so I text Kimmie on the off-chance she’s around. A reply pings back a few minutes later.

  Yes! Come over anytime. K xoxo

  I ring the doorbell. Unlike ours, Kimmie’s actually works. A few seconds later, her older sister Sophie opens the door with her elbow. She’s wearing a pair of red-stained plastic gloves, a purple hoodie I recognize as Kimmie’s and star print leggings. I wouldn’t dream of helping myself to anything from Grace’s wardrobe: a) It wouldn’t probably fit anyway; and b) Grace’s clothes are dull with a big fat capital D.

  ‘Come on up,’ Sophie says, skidding across the wooden floor in her socks. ‘I’m in the middle of dying Kimmie’s hair.’

  I follow her, pausing to wave ‘hello’ to Mr and Mrs Chu, who are sitting at the humungous kitchen table, reading the Sunday newspapers, classical music playing in the background. They smile serenely and wave back. Although we generally hang out at Stella’s place because of the lack of parental supervision, Kimmie’s house is actually the nicest of all my friends – all soft white walls and glass, and cupboards and drawers that shut themselves without making a sound. It’s also massive; the ground floor alone is probably bigger than my entire house.

  We head upstairs to the bathroom Kimmie and Sophie share. It’s jammed full of products, every available surface littered with bottles and tubs and tubes. Sophie and Kimmie share pretty much everything, from shampoo and tampons, to each other’s sentences.

  Kimmie is sitting on the lowered toilet seat, her hair slick with dye. ‘Hey, Mia,’ she says. ‘Sorry, won’t be long.’

  ‘No worries,’ I reply, sitting down on the edge of the bath. ‘What kind of dye are you using?’

  Sophie tosses me the empty box. A glossy redhead pouts back at me. ‘It won’t go as red as that on KimKim,’ she explains. ‘It’ll be more of a reddish glow.’

  She squeezes the last of the contents from the dye bottle on the top of Kimmie’s head and carefully massages it in. Sixties music is leaking in from Sophie’s bedroom. She and Kimmie automatically begin to harmonize, swaying their shoulders in unison and giggling over the same lyric.

  Sophie pauses singing. ‘I’m just gonna make sure I haven’t got any on your skin,’ she says, wetting a cotton wool pad and dabbing at Kimmie’s hairline. She’s working on the back of Kimmie’s neck when she stands back and gasps.

  ‘What?’ Kimmie cries, her eyes wide with alarm. Sophie winks at me over the top of Kimmie’s head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kimkim, but there’s a massive red splodge on your neck and it won’t come off!’ she says.

  ‘What? Where?’ Kimmie asks, twisting her body awkwardly as she attempts to look in the mirror.

  Sophie lets Kimmie sweat for at least ten seconds before gleefully yelling, ‘Psych!’ and creasing up laughing.

  ‘Oi!’ Kimmie says, grabbing a flannel and chucking it at her sister. ‘That’s so mean!’

  She’s laughing though, the same squawking laugh as her sister. I can’t help but feel a bit left out as they shriek and lob cotton wool balls at each other, totally in sync. Kimmie chucks me a couple of cotton wool balls so I can join in but my heart’s not really in it. I try to imagine the same scene with me and Grace, but it feels forced, two fakers just playing at being sisters.

  ‘OK, twenty minutes, then we rinse,’ Sophie says, once she and Kimmie have exhausted their supply of things to throw at each other. ‘I’m going to get a drink. Want anything?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Kimmie and I reply.

  Sophie leaves the room, singing the song from earlier, Kimmie unable to resist joining in until Sophie’s voice has faded away.

  We head into Kimmie’s room where we clamber onto her king-size bed, sitting opposite each other with our legs crossed.

  ‘How was the dress fitting?’ she asks.

  I fill her in.

  ‘It sounds really nice,’ she says when I describe the lilac dress.

  I pull a face.

  ‘It does!’ she insists. ‘And even if it’s not, it won’t matter because you’ll make it look nice anyway.’

  Even though it’s a totally soppy thing to say, I can’t help but smile. You can always rely on Kimmie for a compliment. She’s nice that way.

  Her phone beeps. She reaches for it, her eyes widening as she reads what’s on the screen.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  She passes me the phone, her lips pursed tightly together.

  Hey Kimmie. Hope ur having gr8 wkd. Coffee sometime? Daniel x

  ‘Daniel?’ I say. ‘Who’s Daniel?’

  ‘Daniel Clark,’ she says.

  I continue to look at her blankly.

  ‘Mia, he’s in our sociology class!’

  ‘Is he?’

  As a rule, I don’t really pay attention to the boys at school. Since breaking up with Jordan, I’ve sworn off guys my own age.

  Kimmie sighs and takes back her phone, tapping at the screen a few times before handing it back to me. ‘This is his Facebook profile picture,’ she says.

  The screen is filled with a photo of a vaguely familiar boy with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks, playing a guitar.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘He sits next to Amir, right?’

  Amir and I snogged a few times back in Year 10.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘He’s not bad,’ I say, passing back the phone.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. You’d look good together.’

  He’s not my type at all, but I can definitely see Kimmie with him. They both have that sweet, wholesome thing going on.

  ‘Text him back then,’ I say. ‘Actually, don’t. Leave it a few hours, let him sweat it out a bit.’

  ‘You think I should say yes then?’

  ‘Of course. Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kimmie says, tracing the floral pattern on the
duvet with her fingertips. ‘I mean, he’s nice and everything but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Promise you won’t make fun of me?’

  I narrow my eyes. I’m not very good at promises.

  ‘Please, Mia.’

  ‘Fine, I promise. Just tell me what the problem is.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Aaron.’

  ‘Aaron?’ I splutter. ‘Are you serious, Kimmie? But he doesn’t even know you exist!’

  Her face crumples. ‘You promised not to make fun of me!’

  ‘I’m not making fun of you, I’m pointing out a fact.’

  ‘What about the other day? At the lido? We totally had a moment.’

  I wince, remembering the way Aaron stared at me as I sunbathed. I’d caught him at it later too, as I walked to the vending machine and back, his eyes on me the entire time.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she continues. ‘I just feel like something could actually happen between us this summer.’

  ‘And you’re worried if you do anything with Daniel, it’ll rule that out?’

  ‘I guess so. Does that sound mad?’

  ‘Kind of, yeah. I just don’t get why you can’t see how stuff goes with Daniel in the meantime.’

  Kimmie looks horrified.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘You’re seventeen. It’s not like you’ve got to marry either of them.’

  ‘It’s just that if I’m going to have a boyfriend, I want to commit one hundred per cent and I can’t commit to Daniel while I feel the way I do about Aaron. I’ve always said I want my first time to be with someone I really care about.’

  ‘Er, slow down a bit, Kimmie, he’s only asked you out for a coffee.’

  ‘I know that. I’m just trying to think ahead.’

  ‘Well, you’re totally overthinking it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she replies, chewing on her fingernail.

  ‘Like, aren’t you glad you lost yours to Jordan?’ she says. ‘Instead of some random guy?’

  I try not to stiffen at the mention of Jordan’s name.

  ‘What was it like?’ Kimmie asks. ‘The first time you did it, I mean? Did it hurt or anything?’

  ‘I don’t really remember,’ I say, shrugging.

  ‘It was nice, then?’ she asks hopefully.

  ‘Look, Kimmie, like I just said, you’re overthinking it. Trust me, once you’ve actually done it, you’ll realize sex isn’t the big deal people make it out to be.’

  She continues to look unconvinced. Poor Kimmie. Sometimes I reckon she’d be happier living in the olden days, back when couples didn’t kiss until after they were engaged.

  ‘And for the record, I think you should go for that coffee with Daniel,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe in September,’ Kimmie replies. ‘I just want to see what happens this summer first, to find out if Aaron and I have something or not.’

  ‘But what if Daniel meets someone else and you miss your chance?’

  Kimmie lifts her chin determinedly. ‘Aaron’s worth the risk.’

  I frown and wonder if I’ll ever feel that way about someone, the way Kimmie feels about Aaron. No matter how hard I try though, I just can’t quite imagine it.

  15

  The swimming pool is massive, ‘Olympic-sized’ according to Dad. My eyes attempt to seek Audrey out amongst the dozens of swimmers standing about in their different-coloured tracksuits, huddled around their individual coaches. I spot Steph first. Six feet tall with ice-white hair, she’s pretty easy to pick out in a crowd. She’s doing her usual super-intense thing, talking to each of the kids in turn with her hands on their shoulders. The whole time, Audrey stares up at her, her eyes wide and focused, her left hand tapping her thigh the way it always does when she’s gearing up to race.

  I rub my eyes, dislodging crispy bits of sleep from them. We had to leave the house at 5.30 a.m. to make it to Newcastle in time for Audrey’s slot at the British Junior Championships. I totally forgot we were going until Mum rang last night and summoned me home from Stella’s in the middle of an episode of The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.

  ‘It’s been in the family calendar for months,’ she scolded.

  ‘But how are we all going to fit in the car?’ I asked.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Mum replied. ‘Sam’s bringing his car.’

  Grace and Sam have been in Cambridge staying with Sam’s mum most of the week. They returned on Thursday in Sam’s shiny red car, looking all grown-up and smug.

  They’re next to me now, unfurling the banner Sam had made up at the print shop on the high street. It has ‘AUDREY FOR GOLD!’ printed on it in bright blue lettering. It must have cost him a fortune. I can’t help thinking he might as well just tattoo ‘Please like meeeeeeee!’ across his forehead instead; it’d probably be cheaper in the long run.

  Audrey isn’t in the first few races and it’s hard to get very excited with no one in particular to cheer for so I go to the loo and re-do my eyeliner, then to the vending machine, where I dither for ages deciding which chocolate bar I want. By the time I return to my seat with my Double Decker, it’s finally time for Audrey’s first event – the 500-metres butterfly. Out of her tracksuit, she’s easy to spot. One of only two non-white swimmers in the pool, her smooth brown legs gleam as she strides purposefully towards her starting block. She looks different in her swimsuit – strong and confident, a million miles away from the awkward girl trying on bridesmaid dresses last weekend.

  She puts on her goggles, climbs onto her starting block and gets into position, knees bent, head tucked down low, eyes already fixed on the black line on the surface of the pool.

  There’s a moment of stillness before the gun fires and she chucks herself into the water.

  As I leap to my feet to cheer her on, it dawns on me just how long it’s been since I last saw Audrey swim. In the gap, everything has gone up a notch. She’s not only noticeably faster as she slices through the water, but stronger too, powering down the lane and taking the lead quickly. By her ninth length, she’s almost a full stroke ahead of the swimmer in second place. The whole time we’re on our feet, Grace and Sam waving their banner madly over their heads and chanting Audrey’s name. As I join in, I wonder if she can hear us, or if it’s all just one big wall of noise. The racket builds to a crescendo as her fingers graze the wall, safely winning the race. She looks up at the scoreboard, pushing her goggles up onto her forehead, blinking, as if genuinely surprised by the result.

  She goes on to win six of her seven events. In the seventh – backstroke, her weakest – she takes third place but still gets a personal best. As she’s presented with her medals, shyly bowing her head so the adjudicator can hang them around her neck, my heart practically bursts with pride.

  Afterwards we gather in the foyer to wait for her. When she finally appears, an angry red stripe across her forehead from where she’s been wearing her swimming cap, I break free from the group, picking her up and twirling her round.

  ‘Put me down, Mia,’ she begs.

  She’s laughing, though.

  I spin her once more, then set her down on the ground and give her a hug, as always bowled over at the realization the powerhouse in the water was actually my little sister.

  ‘You were insane out there,’ I croak in her ear, my voice hoarse from all the yelling.

  ‘Thanks, Mia,’ she replies, her Lucozade breath sweet and warm on my neck.

  We go for a meal at Pizza Express to celebrate. All the sitting down has made Grace’s feet swell up. As she plonks her foot on Sam’s knee, I realize what her pregnancy toes remind me of – cocktail sausages. Fat porky cocktail sausages. I get the weird urge to impale each of them on sticks.

  ‘Look!’ she wails as we wait for the bill. ‘I’ve got the feet of a seventy-year-old woman!’

  As usual though, there’s pleasure in her predicament.

  ‘You should keep them raised,’ Mum says. ‘Why don’t you swap with Mia for the return journey and come in our car? Then you can spread out on
the back seat.’

  I make a face. Four hours stuck in a car with chatty man? No thank you. But it’s too late to protest; the decision has already been made – Grace will travel with Mum and Dad, and Audrey and I will go with Sam.

  Sam’s car is boiling and the metal clip of my seatbelt burns my thigh as I pull it on. Grace’s pregnancy book is sitting in the footwell. I had another nose at it the other day. It’s literally obsessed with fruit and vegetables. This week the baby is the size of a butternut squash, next week a cabbage. I’m struggling to remind myself that Grace is going to give birth to an actual baby in a couple of months’ time and not a giant marrow.

  ‘Can I move this?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ Sam replies. ‘Stick it in the back.’

  ‘I don’t know why Grace brought it with her, to be honest,’ he adds, grinning. ‘She knows every word by heart.’

  I chuck it onto the back seat along with a jumbo box of Grace’s pregnancy vitamins and a stack of well-thumbed Mother and Baby magazines.

  Audrey is asleep before we even leave the car park, her head resting against the window.

  ‘She was incredible today,’ Sam says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree softly.

  Because he’s right, she was. Cue the sting of jealousy at the reminder no one will ever be able to talk about me in the same way.

  Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t given up swimming lessons when I was eight. Would I be a champion by now too? Deep down though, I know I never had what it took.

  I stare out of the window. Up ahead, a little kid has let go of a Pokémon balloon, wailing as it floats away.

  ‘You know, fifty-two per cent of American presidents were middle children,’ Sam says.

  ‘Huh?’ I say, turning to look at him.

  ‘Yep. Also Bill Gates, Madonna, J-Lo. Um, let’s see, who else? Er, Britney Spears, Anne Hathaway, Kim Kardashian …’

  ‘And you’re telling me this why?’

  ‘I don’t know, just making conversation. Interesting though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Unless any of them grew up with a do-gooding genius and a swimming champion. Which I somehow doubt. That’s the thing; there’s usually only space for one remarkable child in any family. Trust me to get sandwiched between two.