Jas said, “Why?” and I said, “I don’t know but it’s very bad, you’d have to have about fifty goldfish to make it OK again. . . . Have you seen her alarm clock? It’s got a sleepy face on it.”
Lindsay emerged from the bathroom with her hair all scraped back from her face and wearing a bra and a thong. I don’t understand thongs—what is the point of them? I tried one of Mum’s that she uses for aerobics . . . well, she is supposed to use it for aerobics but she only went once. She said that she nearly knocked herself out during the running in one place because her breasts got out of hand. Anyway, I tried her thong on and it felt ridiculous . . . they just go up your bum as far as I can tell. Then I saw something even more grotesque. Lindsay didn’t have any hair on her womanly parts! What had she done with it? She couldn’t have shaved it off, could she? I thought of the state of my legs the time I had shaved them. I felt quite faint.
Lindsay was so skinny!! At least I filled my bra. Then, before our eyes, the stalkee did two things that were very significant:
(1) She took off her ring and kissed it!!
(2) She got some sort of pink rubber things and put them in her bra
underneath her “breasts.” The rubber things pushed up her “breasts” and made it look like she had a cleavage. What a swiz. I said to Jas, “I bet you Robbie doesn’t know about that....”
But I noticed that I did not have Jas’s full attention. She was looking over my shoulder at Mr. Baldy-man, who had reappeared, peering at us over his fence. What is it with neighbors, don’t they have lives of their own? He seemed a bit suspicious. So I said as naturally as I could, “She’s certainly playing her music very loudly—she hasn’t heard us tapping on her window. Do it again, Jas.” Jas looked a bit stunned but fortunately had the presence of mind to do some mime. She mimed tapping on the window, then she mimed waving at Lindsay (who fortunately had gone back into the en suite) and then she mimed hysterical laughter.
It’s very tiring, this stalking business, but we seemed to satisfy Mr. Baldy-man because he disappeared again and we crept round to the front of the house and along to the big hedge next door. We hid just inside next door’s driveway to wait for Lindsay to come out.
7:40 p.m.
Brrrr . . . bit chilly. At last the front door opened and Lindsay came out with her hair up (mistake) and in a black midi (mistake for long-streak- of-water type person). We huddled back into the shadows of the hedge as she passed and gave her a few minutes before we followed. When she got to the main street she stood under a streetlamp and got out a compact to look at herself. Instead of running screaming home, she snapped the compact shut and walked on.
Suddenly I had the feeling that we were doing something wrong. Up until now I had been caught up in my French Resistance fantasy, but what if I found out something I didn’t want to know? What if she met Robbie and it was quite obvious that he really liked her? Could I stand it? Did I want to see him kissing her? I said to Jas, “Maybe we should go now,” and Jas said, “What, after all this? No way. I want to see what happens next.”
7:50 p.m.
Outside the Odeon Robbie was waiting. My heart went all wobbly, he looked so cool. Why wasn’t he mine? Lindsay went up to him. The moment of truth. I wanted to yell out, “She has bits of pink rubber down her bra . . . and she wears a thong!!!”
I held my breath and Jas’s hand. She whispered, “Get off, you lezzer.” Then . . . Lindsay put her face forward and Robbie kissed her.
8:00 p.m.
Walking home, eating more chips, I said, “What sort of kiss do you think it was? Was there actual lip contact? Or was it lip to cheek, or lip to corner of mouth?”
“I think it was lip to corner of mouth, but maybe it was lip to cheek?”
“It wasn’t full-frontal snogging though, was it?”
“No.”
“I think she went for full-frontal and he converted it into lip to corner of mouth.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t seem keen though, did he?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you think so either?”
“No.”
“No, neither did I.”
outside jas’s gate
8:40 p.m.
I said, “The facts are a) she doesn’t wear her ring when she’s out with him, so that makes it clear that she says they’re engaged but they aren’t, and b) he doesn’t really like her because he didn’t do full-frontal with her.”
Jas undid her gate. “Yes. Right, see you tomorrow. Don’t forget about the sleepover.”
midnight
So . . . the plot thickens. All I have to do is get rid of Lindsay, convince Robbie I am the woman of his dreams, stop Mum splitting up the home, grow bigger breasts and have plastic surgery on my nose and I have cracked it. . . .
thursday april 29th
6:30 p.m.
Phone rang and I answered it. A strange voice said, “G’day, is that Georgie?” I was a bit formal—it might be a dirty phone call. (I had had one of those from a phone box in Glasgow. This bloke with a Scottish accent kept saying, “What color pa—. . . ?” and then the pips would go and I’d say, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” and then he’d start again, “What color panties . . . ?” pip pip pip. Eventually he managed to say, “What color panties have you got on?” and then the line went dead. So you can’t be too careful.)
This strange, echoey voice said, “It’s your dad, I’m calling from Whangamata.”
I was a bit surprised and I said, “Oh-er-hello-Dad.”
He was all enthusiastic and keen. “How’s school?”
“Oh, you know . . . school.”
“Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, Angus got next door’s guinea pig.”
“Did he give it back?”
“He did when I hit him with my tennis racket.”
“And Libby?”
“She can say ‘tosser’ now.”
“Who the hell taught her that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you should take better care of her.”
“She’s not my bloody daughter.”
‘‘Don’t swear at me.”
“I only said bloody.”
“That’s swear— . . . look, look, get your mum on the phone, this is costing me one pound a minute.”
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“Oh, I don’t know, she’s always out.”
“Well, tell her I called.”
“OK.”
There was a bit of silence then. His voice sounded even weirder when he spoke again. “I wish you were all here. I miss you.”
I just went, “Hmmmpgh.”
I wish parents wouldn’t do that, you know, make you feel like crying and hitting them at the same time.
may
i use it to
keep my balls still
tuesday may 4th
8:10 a.m.
Felt a bit sort of down in the dumps when I woke up. I’d had a dream that my dad had grown a Rolf Harris beard but it wasn’t a beard really, it was Angus clinging to his chin.
Assembly, math, physics . . . there is not one part of today that is worth being alive for.
4:30 p.m.
Home, exhausted from laughing. My ribs hurt. Slim has made me be on cloakroom duty for the next term but I don’t care—it was worth it.
Well . . . here is what happened. It was during double physics and it was just one of those afternoons when you can’t stop laughing and you feel a bit hysterical. For most of the lesson I had been yelling, “Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!” and clicking my heels together every time Herr Kamyer asked if we understood what he had been explaining. We were doing the molecular structure of atoms and how they vibrate.
Herr Kamyer was illustrating his point with the aid of some billiard balls on a tea towel on his desk. It was giving me the giggles anyway, and then I put my hand up because I had thought of a good joke. I put my hand up with the finger pointin
g forward, like in “Who ate all the pies?” and when Herr Kamyer said, ‘Yes?” I said, “Herr Kamyer, what part does the tea towel play in the molecular structure?”
That is when Herr Kamyer made his fateful mistake—he said, “Ach, no, I merely use the tea towel to keep my balls still.” It was pandemonium. I could not stop Iaughing. You know when you really, really should stop laughing because you will get into dreadful trouble if you don’t? But you still can’t stop? Well, I had that. I had to be practically carried to Slim’s office. Outside her office I did my best to get a grip, and I thought I had just about stopped and was under control when I knocked on the door and she said, “Come.”
In my head I was thinking, Please, please don’t ask me anything about it. Just let it go. Please talk about something else, just don’t ask me about it. Please please.
Slim was all trembly and jelloid. “Can you tell me, Georgia, what is quite so amusing about Herr Kamyer’s experiment on the vibration of atoms?”
I tried. God knows, I tried. “Well, Miss Simpson, it’s just that he used a tea towel . . . he used a tea towel. . .”
“Yes?”
“He used a tea towel to . . . keep his balls still.” And then I was off again.
midnight
Bloody funny, though.
thursday may 27th
tennis tournament
2:30 p.m.
Through to the semifinals. Beautiful sunny day. I think I will be a Wimbledon champion after all. White suits me. All the gang are cheering me on and this is very freaky deaky and karmic and weird but . . . if I win my semi against Kirsty Walsh (upper fifth) I will play Lindsay in the final. How weird is that? Pretty weird, that’s what. Lindsay is such a boring player, I’m sure I could beat her. She plays by the book . . . baseline follow through to the net, but she hasn’t met Mighty Lob (me) yet.
OK, if I beat her that must mean I am meant to have Robbie. Lindsay has white frilly knickers on under her tennis skirt. (Not the thong, thank goodness, otherwise Miss Stamp might have had an outburst of lesbian lust and put me off my game.) I think my shorts are much more stylish. They look like I’ve just remembered I’m playing in a tennis final and I’ve just grabbed something and thrown it on in an attractive way.
3:30 p.m.
I won the first set and now I’m serving for the second and the match.
I feel pretty good. I’m a bit hot but I feel confident about my serve. Rosie and Ellen and Jools and Jas and all of my year are going mental. Chanting my name and “Easy, easy.” Hawkeye keeps telling them to be quiet. (She is the umpire, worse luck.)
But even she can’t make me lose. Hahahaha. I am ruler of the universe. Robbie is mine for the plucking.
First serve—an ACE!!! Yes! Yes! Yesssss!! Hawkeye says, “Fifteen-love.”
Second serve—a brief rally and then a cunning, slicing cross-court forehand from me. Hawkeye says, “Thirty-love.”
Third service. Whizzzz. Oh yes, another ace!! Kirsty was nowhere. What a slacker.
Hawkeye says, “Forty-love.”
The whole court is hushed as I serve for the match. I take my place behind the baseline. Jas is playing nervously with her fringe. I look at her. She stops.
I throw the ball up and bring my racket down, putting a bit of top spin on it. Kirsty doesn’t even try to get it. ACE!!!!
Hawkeye announces through tight lips, “Game, set and match to Georgia Nicolson.” Yesss!!!!! Victory!!!!!!
I fall to my knees like McEnroe and the crowd is going mad. Full of euphoria I fling my racket high up into the air.
It curves and falls down and hits Hawkeye right on the head. She is knocked off her umpire chair, unconscious.
in bed
8:00 p.m.
I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. Hawkeye was only unconscious for about a minute but I was made to forfeit the match. Kirsty played Lindsay. I couldn’t bear to watch—more to the point, I wasn’t allowed to watch—I had to go and tidy all the gym mats.
Lindsay won the cup.
I don’t know what this means karmically. I don’t think I believe in God anymore.
11:00 p.m.
The only way I will believe in God is if something really bloody great happens to me soon.
june
pajama party
friday june 4th
the pajama party sleepover
5:00 p.m.
Mum will not get going. Why is she so slow? Libby still has not got any knickers on. I offered to put them on her and Mum said, ‘Oh, would you, love? Thanks. I cannot find my eyebrow tweezers anywhere. You haven’t seen them, have you?”
(I remembered they were in my pencil case.) “Er . . . no, but I think I saw Libby with them.”
“Damn, they could be anywhere.”
Libby decided that “knickers on” was a game, and I chased her around for ages before I could get hold of her. Then when I was putting her knickknacks on she was stroking my hair, going, “Prrr prr. Nice pussycat. Do you want some milk, tosser?” I think she thinks “tosser” is like a name.
Once I got her dressed I raced upstairs and got the tweezers, then put them in Angus’s basket. (Fortunately he was out murdering birds or he would have eaten them.) Then I shouted to Mum, “Hey, Mum, guess where your tweezers are? Come and see!”
Mum came out of the bedroom and I pointed to the cat basket. She said, “Honestly!! Thanks, love. Right now, I think that’s everything. We can get off now, Libby.”
She grabbed Libby, who was struggling and licking her face. Libby said, “Bad, bad Mummy, stealing Libby.”
As they went through the door Mum said, “You’ll be OK, won’t you? I’ll be back late tomorrow—eat something sensible and don’t stay up too late.”
She went through the door and then came back a moment later. “Don’t even think about doing anything to your hair.”
6:00 p.m.
Rosie was the first to arrive. She said, “Sven is going to come at about eleven thirty, after his restaurant shift finishes.”
I said, “What have you got up to with him?”
She said, “Er . . . six and a bit of seven . . .”
We had this scoring system for kissing and so on, from one to ten:
(1) holding hands;
(2) arm around;
(3) good-night kiss;
(4) kiss lasting over three minutes without a breath;
(5) open mouth kissing;
(6) tongues;
(7) upper body fondling—outdoors;
(8) upper body fondling—indoors (in bed);
(9) below waist activity; and
(10) the full monty.
I said, “What is he like at it?”
Rosie said, “He’s good, I think Danish boys are better at it than English ones. They change rhythm more.”
I said, “What do you mean?”
“You know English boys get really excited and just sort of kiss with the same pressure? Well, he varies the pressure: sometimes it’s gentle and sometimes hard and then middley.”
I said, “Oh, I like that.”
Rosie said, “I know, I do too. Apparently all girls do. We like variety whereas boys like the same.”
I said, “How do you know that?” and she looked a bit smug. “It’s in Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.”
Jools, Ellen, Jas, Patty, Sarah and Mabs all turned up and we got out our jimjams. We watched Grease and kept stopping it and doing bits from it. I did “You’re the One That I Want” on the sofa.
Then, at about eleven o’clock, the phone rang. I answered and it was Tom wanting to speak to Jas. So Jas went off into the hall and shut the door so we couldn’t hear. When she came back her face was a bit pink. She sort of croaked, “He’s coming round with his mate Leo . . . ohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!”
11:30 p.m.
Eating toast and Pop-Tarts when Leo and Tom arrived. They brought their pajamas too and put them on. What a good laugh. Then Sven turned up—I’d forgotten how big he is. . . . Rosie and he disappeared off a
nd the rest of us watched Grease again. This time the boys joined in. Tom is quite a laugh. I desperately tried not to mention Robbie.
1:00 a.m.
Still up and chatting about EVERYTHING!!!! Haven’t seen Rosie and Sven for hours. Surely they must have got past seven by now???
1:30 a.m.
Tom and Jas disappeared off and Leo and Ellen went off “to get some air.” Why they think there is no air in the living room I don’t know. The rest of us decided to dare each other. It started off with taking your knickers off and putting them on your head, and so on, and then I dared Sarah to go and stand on the garden wall and drop her pajama trousers and knickers.
She did.
2:00 a.m.
Patty and Mabs dared me to streak down to the bottom of the street. They said they would buy me a new lipstick if I did. The “couples” were still away so I thought I’d do it. We went outside, all in our jimjams. It was a nice summer night, and there were no houselights on in the streets except for ours. So I took my jimjams off and ran like mad in my nuddy-pants down to the bottom of the street and back. It made us die laughing—the others couldn’t believe that I had done it!!!
We were all collapsed on the front doorstep when the “couples” came back. I hid behind the others while I scrambled into my pajamas. Tom winked at me. “I should tell my brother what he’s missing.”
I went purple. “Don’t you dare, Tom. Promise, promise me you won’t!!”
Tom said, “Do you think that me and Jas should go out with each other again?”
I said, “Oh yes!! I think you’re perfect for each other.”