MONDAY 
Today is the first day of the new school year, and it’s been raining non-stop since I woke up. Which is just typical, as Cass said this morning on the way to school. She had to keep taking her glasses off as we walked, because it was raining and she couldn’t see through them. She says that being basically blinded by rain is just one more reason why she absolutely has to get contact lenses for her birthday, even though her parents think she should wait another year.
‘But when you think about it,’ said Alice, as Cass wiped her glasses on her school jumper for the fiftieth time, ‘it’s a good thing that it’s raining today. Because if it was sunny, it’d be even worse having to go to school. You’ve got to count your blessings, Cass.’
And then she stood in a puddle that was more like a lake, and after that she stopped saying how great the rain was.
So here I am, Rebecca Rafferty, now the wonderful age of fourteen and back in horrible St Dominic’s again, writing in my diary in the middle of geography. Miss Kelly won’t care because she’s wittering on about the hideous effects of global warming, her favourite subject. All our classes were about it last year. It’s quite handy, really – Miss Kelly always gets so excited by the thought of our impending hideous deaths that she doesn’t care what we’re doing in class as long as we’re quiet. Alice and I have been having a conversation in note form, but now Alice’s pen has run out so I’m writing this. Miss Kelly is in full flow now, so she’ll never notice. I don’t know why she’s still telling us about melting ice caps and the forthcoming ice age; she terrified us into submission months ago. We have all vowed never to own cars. Lisa O’Hara even refused to go in her parents’ car for a while, but she gave up when they said they’d drive off on holiday to France without her.
Anyway! School hasn’t changed in the three months since I last saw it. It’s the same hideous old kip it was last year. Everyone in our class is the same, although Jessie McCabe has dyed her hair blonde (she says her parents went mad when they saw it, not least because she paid for it with the money she’d been given to get new school shoes) and Vanessa Finn is possibly even more annoying than she was last year. Vanessa’s parents are very rich and apparently her dad really wanted her to go to a private school because he didn’t want her to attend the same school as, and I actually quote, ‘girls who would grow up to be hairdressers’. Because according to him that is a fate worse than death. But of course there are no private schools anywhere near here so she would have had to go to town to find one, and giving her a lift there would take too long what with the deadly-fume-exuding traffic, so she’s stuck at St Dominic’s with the rest of us commoners.
So anyway, school is more or less the same as ever. In fact, the only difference is that we are no longer the youngest girls in the school. Hurrah! Cass and Alice agree with me that the first years all look about five. We can’t have looked like that last year, can we? This lot don’t look old enough to be allowed walk to school on their own.
I wonder if they’ve heard the rumours that first years get their heads flushed down the loos by evil sixth-year bullies. Alice and I were obsessed with those stories before we started at St Dominic’s, even though Rachel told us they were rubbish. We thought she was just lulling us into a false sense of security, because that’s what mean big sisters do, but it turned out she was actually right. Sixth years didn’t flush first years down the loos. Although we wouldn’t accept this until Christmas. Wenever went to the loo on our own in case a sixth year pounced on us from behind a cubicle door and shoved our heads down the toilet.
Oops, Miss Kelly seems to be winding down. She’s got to what we’ll do if we survive the ice age, which means that the class is nearly at an end. Better go.
LATER
I’m writing this at home, far away from the hell of St Dominic’s School for Girls. Not that it’s much better around here. I was just on the phone to Cass and my mother came into my room and STOOD OVER ME UNTIL I GOT OFF THE PHONE! What sort of mother is she? She doesn’t want me to be able to talk to anyone. She and Dad only give me a tiny amount of credit for my phone so I have to use the landline if I want to have a proper conversation. And of course that means she hovers over me, telling me to hang up after about five minutes. This evening she said that I’d been on the phone for over an hour and it was costing her and Dad money and when I was paying my own bills I could stay on the phone for as long as I liked but until then blah, blah, blah.
I said, in a very dignified voice, ‘Mother, Cassandra and I have important scholastic matters to discuss. Please go away.’
She said, ‘Oh, come off it, Bex, you were talking about that ridiculous programme about rich kids in Los Angeles, I could hear you from the kitchen.’
I said, ‘American television drama is an important scholastic matter, mother dear. We’re doing media studies this term.’
And she just laughed at me and said, ‘Well, I’m sure your teacher will be very interested in hearing your thoughts on – what was it? The “incredible cuteness of Jack Rosenberg”.’
I glared at her and said, ‘The only attractive boys we ever see are on the telly, seeing as we’re stuck in an all-girl school. Please don’t deny us our only pleasure. Jack Rosenberg is the only romantic outlet we have.’
And she laughed again and said, ‘One more minute, Bex. I’m warning you.’ She went off to the kitchen to laugh about me some more with Dad, but I knew she’d be listening to make sure I didn’t stay on the phone for longer than sixty seconds. So I had to get off the phone. If all the women who read her stupid books knew what a terrible mother she was, they’d never buy another one of them again. Mum’s books are all full of feisty old mothers who are the heart of their happy homes. They never force their innocent daughters to get off the phone when they are in the middle of discussing whether Jack Rosenberg is still as cute as he was in the first series of Laurel Canyon. (I say he’s not; Cass says he only gets better with age).
Someday I will write an exposé on what my mother is really like. I said this to Rachel once and she just sniggered and said, ‘Oh yeah, what’ll you say? That she didn’t let you rack up another 300 Euro phone bill? Boo hoo, you’re so deprived.’
‘She’s your mother too, Rache,’ I said. ‘You should write one as well.’
And then Rachel got all serious and stern and told me to count my blessings because our parents are great (which is not what she thought a few months ago when they wouldn’t let her go to Glastonbury with her boyfriend) and that some girls have real problems with their parents which are a lot bigger than just being shoved off the phone after an hour.
She’s right, I suppose. But still.
TUESDAY 
Still raining! I wonder is this one of the many dreadful results of global warming? I said this at the breakfast table this morning and Rachel said, ‘Yeah, Rebecca, it’s raining for two days in a row. In Ireland. How amazing. It must be the end of the world.’
She wouldn’t joke about it if she had to sit in Miss Kelly’s class. At least when the second ice age starts I will be prepared. Dad backed me up and said that global warming was something everyone should take seriously, and that it’s up to all of us to do our bit to protect our green heritage. And then he went off to work in his petrol-eating, environment-wrecking car! He could just get the bus, seeing as the college is in the middle of town. Or he could walk, if he was feeling energetic. I mean, I have to walk to school every day, even when it rains. He’d only have an extra two miles to go. I’d walk three miles a day if it meant putting off the second ice age.
Although I wish I hadn’t bothered walking to school at all today (not that I had a choice in the matter), because it was terrible. I mean, it’s not usually a barrel of laughs, but it was particularly terrible today. I now have a new enemy. Well, actually, she’s my first ever enemy, but whatever. She’s our new English teacher, Mrs Harrington. We had our first English class today, and I was quite looking forward to it because I like English and I liked our old teacher Miss Ardagh (and not just because she always gave me good marks for essays). But she’s gone off to write a book (which is pretty cool, I suppose, for an English teacher) and the new one is … well.
It started when she was calling the roll. I was gazing out the window thinking about what I’d wear if we got another No Uniform Day this term when I heard my name. I said ‘here’ and looked out the window again, assuming she’d go straight on to Clare Reading who comes after me in the roll. But she didn’t. She paused, and then she said, Rebecca Rafferty … are you Rosie Carberry’s daughter?’
I stared at her and said, ‘Um, yeah.’ And then I looked back down at my desk. Everyone knows that my mum is a writer, of course, and some girls in the class used to joke about it last year, but they all got sick of it pretty quickly and I certainly never mention it. The teachers all know too, but none of them have ever mentioned it either, apart from when Mrs Quinn asked me to get Mum to sign a book for her mother who was sick (Mrs Quinn’s mother, of course, not my gran).
Anyway, I assumed that Mrs Harrington would just go on with the roll. But she didn’t. She grinned at me in a mad way and said, ‘I just love your mammy’s books! I’m a big fan. That’s how I recognised your name – I’d read about you in her interviews. She’s very proud of you and your sister, isn’t she? Now, what’s your sister’s name … Rachel, isn’t it?’
I just looked at her in horror. But she didn’t care, because she is a scary stalker who probably has a special secret room covered in pictures of my mother. She just kept waffling on about my ‘mammy’s wonderful stories’ and how The Country Garden was her favourite book of all time. And then she said, ‘And I’m sure little Katie and Róisín are based on you and your big sister.’
Well, I’d been too horrified to speak until now, but I couldn’t let that one go by.
‘No,’ I said. ‘My mother never uses us in her books. Ever.’ Besides, little Katie and Róisín were Irish-dancing champions and had ringlets. Urgh. Even the thought of having anything to do with those revolting freaks made me shudder.
Mrs Harrington, on the other hand, laughed.
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s a bit of you in that little Katie! You look very light on your feet.’
And I was so appalled by this that I literally couldn’t speak.
I didn’t want to have to say anything else to Mrs Harrington, but I did want to tell her that we never call Mum ‘Mammy’. (I call her ‘Mother’ or ‘Mother dear’ when I’m annoyed with her.) Anyway, Mrs Harrington kept going on about how she hoped I’d inherited my mother’s literary gifts while my so-called friends all sniggered behind their brand new copies of Great Expectations, which we are doing for our Junior Cert. Thank God no teacher went on like this last year when I was brand new to the school and didn’t know anyone but Alice or I’d probably have no friends at all by now (apart from Alice. I hope). Mrs Harrington eventually remembered that this was meant to be an English class rather than a Rosie Carberry book-club meeting, but when the class was over, and I was trying to escape from the classroom as fast as I could, she pounced on me and said she had high hopes of getting some ‘lovely essays from your mammy’s daughter!’
I can’t take a whole year (or five – oh God, we could have her every year until we leave!) of references to ‘mammy’s lovely books’. She wouldn’t think they were so lovely if she’d heard the way my mum swears every time she realises she has to rewrite something.
WEDNESDAY 
Went to Cass’s after school today. I love going over there; they always have nicer bread than we do. And Cass’s room is much cooler than mine. I really, really want to redecorate my room but Mum and Dad say that I can’t because I only got it done two years ago. As I was twelve then, it is hideous and pink and purple and not cool in any way, shape or form. Cass did her room up this year and it’s brilliant. She has a cool sort of sixties’ lamp and bedside rug from Urban Outfitters. I can’t begrudge her the nice room, though, because she is my friend and she deserves a nice lamp (although so do I, and I don’t have one.). We lay on the rug and had a very deep conversation about Life and What We Want to Do When We Grow Up (Me: Famous artist/actress. Cass: Theatre-set designer. This is a bit mysterious because it’s not like Cass even goes to the theatre very often so I’m not sure why she feels so strongly about designing sets, but there you go) which gradually turned into a conversation about which teachers were the maddest, during which I announced that I hated Mrs Harrington with all my heart. She is getting worse by the day.
Cass said, ‘I hate her too. I wish she’d stop going on about your “mammy”.’
‘Did you hear what she said today?’ I said. “Oooh, you can tell you’re your mammy’s daughter, can’t you? Such a way with words!”.’
Cass said, ‘She’s sickening.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘She’s my enemy. I think she’s turning the class against me!’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Cass. ‘She can’t do that. It’s not like anyone even likes her, and people like you.’
‘She can,’ I said. ‘Ellie O’Mahony made some stupid joke about me being a ‘mammy’s girl’ at lunch today. I mean, Ellie! What has she got against me all of a sudden? I thought we were friends. And anyway, she’s a fine one to talk about mammies.’ Ellie’s mother is a total hippie. She became a hippie in the eighties, when being a hippie was not very fashionable. But Ellie’s mum doesn’t care. She has kept on with her hippiness. Some of it has now become accepted by the rest of the world – recycling, making stuff, growing veggies – so it seems that she was right all along. In some things. But not in others. She wears a lot of paisley and fabrics that she has handwoven herself (that wouldn’t be quite as bad if she was any good at weaving, but she isn’t), and she plays the lute, and she holds rituals to praise the Earth goddess every spring in their back garden. And Ellie’s name is actually Galadriel, after the elf queen in The Lord of the Rings (only a few people at school know this), and she spent most of her childhood dressed like someone from Middle Earth. So as you can see, her mocking me for having an embarrassing mother is a bit much.
‘Aw, I know it’s bad, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it,’ said Cass. ‘Ellie was only joking. I think it’ll blow over. The novelty will have to wear off. And no one will really blame you for the way that stupid loon goes on.’
But I’m not so sure. They might think I’m encouraging her. They might think I actually like the attention. They might think I’ve always wanted people to make a fuss of me because of what Mum does. They might think I really am like the horrible children in her books.
I came home from Cass’s and found my mother (source of all my woes) sitting at the kitchen table with a book and a glass of red wine. That’s the second time she’s been drinking wine this week. I hope she isn’t turning into an alcoholic. Lots of writers are, I believe. Anyway, she shouldn’t be carousing in the kitchen, she should be working on her next book. Her new one, The Girl from Braddon Hall, has been out for months and her agent Jocasta always says that she should start her next book before the new book comes out, because once the new book is out there’ll be so much fuss and interviews and stuff it’ll be harder to get started on a new story. And usually Mum starts writing the next book practically the day after she’s finished the last one. But I don’t think my mum has started a new project yet, because whenever she starts something new she always goes on and on about her new plot ideas and sometimes she tests them out on me and Rachel by telling us about them while we’re making the dinner. But she hasn’t mentioned any new story ideas since she finished going through the Braddon Hall proofs months and months ago. I pointed this out to her and she just laughed and said there was nothing to worry about.
‘I hope that wasn’t a drunken laugh,’ I said, and left her to her lonely alcoholic revels. I met Dad on my way out of the kitchen. He was brandishing a wine glass of his own. Drinking on a Thursday night! At their age! Sometimes I think I’m the only sensible person in this house.
FRIDAY 
Brilliant day! First of all, school was okay – Mrs Harrington only mentioned my ‘mammy’ once, and only briefly. We were hanging around with Ellie and Emma at lunch and Ellie was saying how much she hated Mrs Harrington, and it wasn’t just because she’d found Ellie and Emma having a nice quiet game of Hangman when they were meant to be listening to the worst teacher ever waffle on about Wordsworth and his crazed daffodil obsession. It was also because Mrs Harrington was making my life a misery with her constant ‘mammy’-ing. So I suppose Ellie isn’t my enemy after all.
Then after school Alice and Cass came over to eat Chinese food from the De-Luxe takeaway and then stay the night. Mum and Dad left the house really early because they were going out for dinner somewhere in Meath, so we had the house to ourselves. Well, except for Rachel, who was there until seven and was then going out with Tom, the boyfriend she nearly went to Glastonbury with until my parents put their foot down and said she was far too young to go off to a festival in another country with just her eighteen-year-old boyfriend for company. For someone who nearly did all that, Rachel is very straightlaced when it comes to my welfare. She gave us this big lecture on ‘not taking advantage of the free gaff’ and how we weren’t ‘to throw a big party and drain Mum and Dad’s drinks’ cabinet’.
I said, ‘Come on, Rachel, they’re coming back at midnight, we’re hardly going to have a big party.’
‘Then why are you all dressed up, then?’ said Rachel. She’s so suspicious. She’s worse than our parents, and she’s only sixteen.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I suppose we should wear our school uniforms even when we’re not in school, should we? Or sacks?’
Rachel sighed, in an annoying way. ‘Don’t break anything,’ she said, and then she went off to meet Tom.
She’s such a cow. We weren’t dressed up at all. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and my favourite pink Converse, which is hardly fancy. Although I had put on some mascara and nicked some of Rachel’s nice new lipgloss before she put her make-up bag in her handbag. . And it’s not as if we could have had a proper party anyway, we don’t know any boys and I can’t imagine any of our school friends would be able to just come round to my house at the last minute. Anyway, we ordered a lovely feast from the takeaway and when the doorbell rang about twenty minutes later we were sure it was the food so I ran out to get it.
And standing on our doorstep was the best-looking boy I HAVE EVER SEEN IN REAL LIFE. I was so astounded I couldn’t even speak. I just stared at him for what seemed like about ten years. The poor boy seemed slightly unsettled by this and we kind of stared at each other for a bit longer, until he said, ‘Um, I’m from Smyth’s the newsagent – I’m here to collect the paper money …’
He was the new paperboy! We get the papers delivered at the weekends and the paperboy always comes around on Friday evenings to collect the money for them. But the paperboy didn’t usually look like this. The usual paperboy is all squat and blotchy and wears a tracksuit. Paperboy II is tall and skinny with short, sort of curly dark brown hair and green eyes. Instead of a tracksuit, he was wearing really cool battered jeans and a nice band t-shirt. A gorgeous boy! On my doorstep!
Anyway, once he said who he was, I regained the power of speech and said, ‘Oh, right, um, the money’s round here somewhere ….’ And while I was trying to think of something snappy and witty to follow that profound statement Cass and Alice came out to the door, all ‘where’s our food?!’ and ‘come on, Bex, hand it over!’ And then they too saw Paperboy and, like me, were STRUCK DUMB by his radiant beauty. I wonder does this happen to Paperboy all the time? It must make life rather awkward, if so. Anyway, luckily I noticed a fiver on the hall table next to a note from Mumwhich said ‘MONEY FOR PAPERS’ in large letters. So I gave the fiver to Paperboy and the three of us stared at him like love-struck loons as he counted out the change and gave it to me. I said, ‘Thanks!’ and he said, ‘See you next week’ (!!!!!) and I smiled and closed the door and then we ran into the sitting room and went ‘squeeeeeeee!’ And Alice said, in a very grand voice, ‘I am in love.’ Which was quite unexpected, because Alice is supposedly already in love with this bloke from St Anthony’s Boys’ School who goes past us on a bike every morning on Calderwood Road. She has fancied him for a year now, which is a long time to love someone you’ve never spoken to. But just one glimpse of the handsome paperboy was enough to make her forget the boy she has yearned for all year! Such is his power.
Anyway, I think Alice will have many rivals for Paperboy’s affections. Me and Cass, for example. And we have a big advantage, because we live around here, and Alice lives off near Kinsealy, far from Paperboy’s paper round. In fact, Alice basically lives in the countryside. She used to live down the road from me on Glandore Road, but her family moved out to the wilds a few years ago. Her mum drops her near the top of my road on her way to work every morning and she walks to school with me and Cass, when we reach her road. So she will never see Paperboy unless she’s in my house on a Friday evening. But neither Cass nor I pointed this out to her, because it might look like gloating.
Then the doorbell rang and for a split second I thought Paperboy might have come back because he was so smitten by our (or preferably just my) charms, but it was the Chinese food. Which was no substitute for Paperboy, but still, not bad. So we had a feast and we all kind of ate too much and felt a bit sick. But we recovered in time to watch our favourite old film, Ten Things I Hate About You, on DVD, which was brilliant even though none of the boys in it are vaguely as cute as Paperboy, our new love. Then we put on Beyoncé and danced on the couch, which was fun until Cass fell off. Her glasses fell off in a different direction from the rest of her, and we couldn’t find them for ages.
Now it’s about one o’clock and the others have fallen asleep. Usually when we stay over in someone’s house we stay up all night, but we’re all exhausted tonight. I suppose it is the stress and strain of being back in school. And talking about Paperboy.
I wonder what his name is?
SUNDAY 
Went out to Alice’s house. I wouldn’t like to live so far away from town, but it’s really gorgeous out there. We went for a walk (a proper country walk) and saw a fox and some rabbits, which was cool. The fox just ran out of a clump of bushes, stared at us, and ran back in again.
It was a lovely sunny day – no rain, hurrah – and it almost made me wish that I lived out among the wonders of nature instead of among three- and four-bedroom semi-detatcheds. We walked through this little bit of wood and it was all very pretty and peaceful. Alice isn’t very observant, though. I kept seeing rabbits and squirrels and things, but every time Alice turned to look at them they had disappeared. Eventually she got cross (for Alice) and told me that she’d seen plenty of rabbits before and I didn’t have to shriek like a banshee every time I saw one. I think she’s just jealous because she lives out there right among the rural wildlife and keeps missing them when they emerge from their burrows, whereas I, the city slicker, could see them straight away. Maybe I will be a famous zoologist instead of a famous artist. I can present programmes on TV like David Attenborough, except younger. And a girl.
LATER
It just dawned on me now (because my mind is addled with love) that Paperboy must have actually delivered the papers to my house yesterday and this morning! How could we have been so stupid as to forget that important part of his job?! The very essence of his job, really. I can’t believe he was actually on my doorstep again and I didn’t … well, actually, I suppose I couldn’t have done anything. It would have been a bit weird if I’d, like, suddenly opened the door as he was putting the papers in the letter box. Or even looked out at him through the letter box. Also, the papers are usually delivered before I wake up. But still. I could have looked out of Rachel’s bedroom window.
MONDAY
I am worried about my mother. I really, really don’t think she’s followed Jocasta’s advice about starting a new book before the previous one is published. I mean, it’s been months and months since the last one came out and every time I ask her whether she’s started the new one she just gets a funny look on her face and says that ‘everything’s fine’. Which could mean anything! It could mean that she has writer’s block and will never write again, which would make my life easier but not hers, and really, although Mum being a famous writer has a detrimental effect on my life (Mrs Harrington was in fine form today, I must say. She was ‘mammy’-ing all over the place), she really does love writing and I don’t want her to stop doing it. I know it sounds like I’m making a big deal over nothing but normally she likes going on about whatever she’s writing at the moment. I’ve read that most writers hate this, but she doesn’t. She says talking about her stories helps her work out any problems she has with them. So for her to be so secretive is very strange. I asked Dad what he thought, but he just laughed and said, ‘Rebecca, your mum knows what she’s doing. Don’t worry.’ I’m not sure she does, though. I think I have to keep an eye on her.
She does have this book party thing coming up soon, though, and her editor Lucy is coming over from London for it, so maybe she’ll (Lucy, not Mum) be able to do something. This party is going to be very fancy. Mum’s publishers are throwing it for her, to celebrate twenty years since her first book came out (and possibly to persuade her to actually write another one – surely Lucy and co must have realised this whole not-starting-a-new-book thing is a bit weird). Rachel and I will of course have to go – we always have to go to these things. They sound much more exciting than they actually are. We’re usually the only people there under the age of thirty and if anyone bothers to talk to us at all they treat us as if we were about five. We end up hanging around the canapés (at the last book launch Rachel ate too many mini-burgers out of sheer boredom and Dad had to run to a chemist and get her some Gaviscon). So obviously I can’t wait for this party. On the plus side, I might be able to emotionally blackmail Mum into letting me get some new clothes for it. But I wouldn’t bet on it. She’ll probably make me wear one of Rachel’s old rags.
TUESDAY
Spent most of lunchtime with Cass and Alice, sitting in the corner of the junior cloakroom, talking about Paperboy. Well, actually, we mostly talked about whether we will ever get to take part in spontaneous synchronised dance routines. You know in films where one person starts doing a dance somewhere and then everyone joins in and before you know it there’s a whole room full of people all doing the same dance? Both Cass and I dream of this happening to us but Alice says it would never happen in Ireland because everyone here is far too repressed. She reminded us that the last time Mary’s (the school down the road with the ridiculous stripey blazers) had one of their boring under-sixteens’ discos back in May, it took about two hours before anyone plucked up the courage to move out onto the dance floor. You’d think we were all attached to the walls with magnets. By the time two brave Mary’s girls got out on the dance floor and got the whole thing going, there was less than an hour of disco to go. We barely got to dance at all, let alone take part in a spontaneous synchronised dance session. And the music wasn’t very good anyway. But Cass and I weren’t in the mood for this sort of argument.
‘Don’t rain on our parade, Alice,’ said Cass.
‘Don’t rain on our spontaneous dance routine, you mean,’ I said. And we did a bit of spontaneous sitting-down-dancing just to annoy her. Sitting-down dancing can be quite fun. You just move the top half of yourself. We have worked out a few quite complex routines (we have to be prepared in case we ever get to start a spontaneous dance session) and we used to do it quite a lot last year, to liven up boring geography classes when Kelly had her back to the class. I think it helped relieve the tension caused by her terrifying accounts of floods and ice ages and stuff.
Alice got all cross. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘suppose you did start a stupid dance. How would you feel if Paperboy came in and saw you doing it?’
‘Delighted,’ I said proudly. And I would. And surely so would he. Who wouldn’t be impressed by a big spontaneous dance routine? Well, apart from Alice the killjoy, of course. And how cool would it be if Paperboy joined in the dancing? That would be the greatest thing ever, as I pointed out. Alice reluctantly agreed that that would indeed be pretty cool. Then we talked about Paperboy a bit more seriously. We can’t figure a way of talking to him properly or even finding out his name without acting like pyschos. Why, why, why do we have to go to a poxy all-girls school? We wouldn’t be plotting ways to follow paperboys around if we actually got to talk to any boys about anything other than the price of the Irish Times.
WEDNESDAY
Mrs Harrington was awful at school today. We have to do an essay for our English homework, and after she wrote the choice of titles on the blackboard she looked at me in a mad way and said, ‘Now Miss Rafferty, I can’t wait to see what you come up with! Something from you is the next best thing to a new Rosie Carberry book!’ Maybe she thinks I am, like, the second coming of my mother? That is a terrifying thought on many different levels. And obviously my school essay will not be anything like my mother’s awful books.
At home, I asked my mum again if she’d started her new book yet. She just laughed and went off to hide in her study. I am worried. I think she could be losing her mind. She’s usually so hard-working. I asked Rachel if she thought Mum was going mad and she laughed for about twenty-five minutes. When she was able to speak, she said, ‘No, Bex, I don’t think she’s going mad. Just because she didn’t tell you exactly what she’s writing doesn’t mean she’s insane. Actually, I’m pretty sure she has started something new, she just doesn’t want to tell us about it.’
I didn’t know what to think of that, so I went in to surprise Mum in her study, to see if I could catch her writing. But, to my amazement, she was just sitting back in her chair reading Kiss and Sugar!!! She never reads my magazines. In fact, every time she sees them she goes on about how they’re a waste of money and end up in the recycling the day I get them (just like her newspapers and grown-up magazines, as I have pointed out a million times, though of course she never seems to see any similarities). I asked her what she was doing and she jumped about ten feet in the air and told me not to sneak in like that. And she wouldn’t answer my question about why she was reading the magazines. She just told me to go and do my homework and stop annoying her.
What can this mean?!?
LATER
I just realised that Mum was reading the new issues of those magazines. I’d seen them in the shops but I hadn’t even bought either of them yet. Which means SHE BOUGHT THEM HERSELF! What is going on?!
TUESDAY 
Told Cass and Alice about Mum’s strange behaviour. They were very sympathetic, but I don’t feel very comforted. Alice said it sounded like Mum was going through some sort of mid-life crisis and was trying to recapture her lost youth. I don’t like the sound of that. Maybe she’s going to start wearing ‘cool’ clothes and going out to clubs till the small hours of the morning. She might bring Dad along with her! Oh, God, I really, really hope she isn’t having a crisis. I don’t think I could bear the shame. She went over to her friend Gemma’s house tonight but she was dressed pretty normally (for a forty-five-year-old) so I don’t think she was going out grooving. Although it’s eleven o’clock and she’s not back yet. So you never know. Maybe she’s dancing on a table as I write.
LATER
Also, you’d think that if she wanted to recapture her lost youth she wouldn’t want to recapture being fourteen. We can’t even get into clubs. She should be trying to be about twenty and start reading, like, Cosmo and stuff.
SUNDAY 
Saw Paperboy again last night! And he spoke to me about something other than papers! I am very happy, even though Rachel is being really, really annoying. She kept asking me why I’d changed out of my school uniform so quickly and why I was wearing the pink bead necklace Alice got me in Berlin for my birthday. I wasn’t dressed up or anything, I was just wearing my little Sleater-Kinney t-shirt with a cat on it and my nice dark jeans, so I don’t know why she had to make such a big deal out of it. Anyway, we had just finished dinner when the doorbell rang and I practically knocked my chair over getting out to the hall first. And then I opened the door and there he was! Paperboy! And he was just as gorgeous as ever! I smiled at him and said, ‘Hi,’ and he smiled back and said, ‘Hi, I’m here for the paper money.’ He’s got a lovely voice; it’s all sort of scratchy. I wonder how old he is? He doesn’t look much older than me. Anyway, I said I’d get the money and went in to the kitchen to get it off Mum, and Rachel was standing there with this horrible grin on her face. She kept smirking at me while Mum got the money out of her wallet, until finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and shouted, ‘What?!’ and she was all, ‘Nothing, nothing.’ I hate her.
So I got the money off Mum and went back to the hall (Rachel followed me out just to annoy me more) and gave it to Paperboy and he said, ‘Thanks’ and I said, ‘You’re welcome’, and he turned to go. He’d taken a few steps down the drive and I was just closing the door when he turned around and said, ‘Cool t-shirt, by the way.’ And I was so astonished I didn’t know what to say so I just gawped at him and finally said, ‘Um, I got it on the Internet’ which was a very boring thing to say. I should have thought of some witty retort, or at least said something cool like, ‘Oh, I just picked it up in New York last month.’ Although that would have been a lie, and he might have started talking to me about New York, and I would have to admit that I’d never been there and he’d think I was mad. Anyway, he sort of went ‘oh, right’ and then he waved and went off to his bike and the rest of his paper round. I closed the door in a state of bliss which vanished when I turned around and saw Rachel standing there with a very, very irritating expression on her stupid face.
‘Oh my God, you so fancy him,’ she said.
‘No I don’t,’ I said. ‘He has excellent taste in t-shirts, that’s all.’
‘Huh,’ said Rachel. ‘No wonder you’re all dressed up.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I said. ‘You’re just jealous because he said something nice to me and ignored you.’
‘He couldn’t see me!’ said Rachel, before she remembered that she was too old and snotty to take her little sister seriously and said in this very patronising voice, ‘I think it’s great, anyway. It’s nice for you to have a boy who isn’t a fictional character to think about for a change.’
And then she ran up the stairs before I could leap on her in a fit of rage and kill her, which is what I wanted to do. But my rage quickly subsided because PAPERBOY TOLD ME HE LIKES MY T-SHIRT! I rang Cass and told her what had happened.
I felt a bit guilty telling her what Paperboy said about my t-shirt in case she thought I was gloating. She was a bit quiet when I told her about it. I hope our love for Paperboy doesn’t come between us. I don’t think it will because we’re not stupid and we know what friends are more important than boys (even very, very cute boys in olive-green Converse), but passionate love makes people do strange things.
SUNDAY
Rachel is driving me mad. She’s acting like she’s a twenty-five-year-old woman of the world who knows everything about love, not a sixteen-year-old who’s been going out with her very first boyfriend for six months. She keeps following me around the house and asking me do I want to talk to her about anything. Which I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t, because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of watching me come to her for advice. Which is something I will never, ever do.
Except when I went to her about Mum last week. But that was different. I will never, ever go to her for love advice.
LATER
Although she really is more experienced in the ways of love than any of my friends.
LATER
But she is also much more annoying.
MONDAY
I’m writing this in history. It is very, very boring. We are doing the Reformation and have to write about what it would have been like to hear Martin Luther preach in the 1520s. I can only imagine that listening to him going on about reading the Bible in German was just as boring as this class. To amuse myself I have drawn a picture of Cass as a turnip-eating sixteenth-century peasant at the back of my copy book. I just showed it to her and she has written a note on it saying ‘Why is your self-portrait wearing my glasses?’ Huh.
Anyway. Me and Cass and Alice were a bit late for class so we couldn’t sit together. I am sitting next to Vanessa Finn. She is very annoying. I mean, she’s not particularly annoying at the moment, because she’s just sitting there staring blankly at pictures of popes in the history book, but in general she is annoying. So is her best friend Caroline. Vanessa never shuts up about how terrible it is for her having to go to a state school and Caroline just nods sympathetically. They never do any spontaneous dancing; they just talk about hair and about all the things Vanessa buys when she makes her weekly trek over to the Dundrum shopping centre and pretends she’s from the southside. Alice, Cass and I never talk about hair, partly because our own hair is just too depressing to talk about. Well, mine and Cass’s is. Mine is boring, brown and wavy. That sounds okay, but it always looks a bit mad. It doesn’t respond well to damp weather so most of the time I have to tie it back or it just gets bigger and bigger as the day goes on. Cass’s hair is also wavy and sort of golden brown and would be okay if it wasn’t taking about ten years to grow out her fringe. She has had a sort of fringe for as long as I’ve known her (a year), but apparently she got it cut when she was about eleven and has been trying to grow it out ever since. But every time she goes to the hairdresser the hairdresser trims the end bits ‘to frame her face’ so she can never get rid of it. In fact, the only one who has nice hair is Alice. She has shiny, well-behaved proper golden blonde hair, the sort of hair no one really has in Ireland unless they dye it. This is because her mum is German and incredibly blonde. Alice’s mum came over here in the eighties when she was a student and for some weird reason she loved Ireland so much she couldn’t bear to leave. She says she thought Ireland was a magical place and by the time she realised it wasn’t she had made lots of friends here and had got together with Alice’s dad so she liked it anyway. Alice can speak German perfectly. The first time I heard her talking to her mum ‘auf Deutsch’ (as they say) it was really weird – it sounded so strange to hear perfect German coming out of ordinary old Alice. But there you are.
Alice doesn’t do German at school, even though she would get all As if she did, because as far as I can tell her German is better than our teacher’s. She certainly sounds properly German, whereas Frau O’Hara sounds like someone from Cork who just happens to be speaking German, which is basically what she is. But anyway, Alice thought doing German with a bunch of halfwits like me, who take two weeks to learn how to ask for directions to a youth hostel, would give her an unfair advantage so she did French instead. This is because she is a good person (or possibly mad). I, of course, am not good at all and if my mother was German there is absolutely no way I’d have done French. This is why Alice is a better person than me. Every so often she offers to help me practise German conversation. I always say no, mostly because I know it’s because she’s heard me speaking German and knows how bad my German is. She just feels sorry for me. Cass (who does Spanish) says I’m being silly and should take advantage of having a special tutor but it’s actually embarrassing talking so badly in a language to someone who speaks it properly (I don’t think Frau O’Hara notices, her own German is pretty awful. According to Alice, of course. I’m hardly one to judge).
TUESDAY
Today for the first time this term Miss Kelly actually did proper normal geography instead of telling us about the end of the world. I never thought I’d say this, but it was kind of a relief just to listen to her waffle on about the Ruhrgebiet and the sorry state of German industry in general. All those long descriptions of tidal waves crashing over Dublin and killing us all were freaking me out. Also, I was secretly getting afraid that she was never going to teach us anything on the course and we would all fail our Junior Cert. I mean, I always welcome anything that can distract a teacher from the actual class (which is why we always try to get Mrs O’Reilly to tell us about the time she was visiting an ancient amphitheatre and her husband fell down the steps and into a lion pit). But Kelly hasn’t actually done anything on the course since January. Our summer tests were all about greenhouse gasses (we all got As). But sadly, the end of the world is not going to be on our Junior Cert exam. I mean, I don’t care about geography, but I don’t actually want to fail it or anything. It was even too much for Cass, who always manages to get As without doing any work at all and who is always the first to get O’Reilly onto the subject of Roman steps and how very, very slippy they were.
WEDNESDAY
Kelly told us about French rivers today. I started falling asleep until Cass kicked me.
TUESDAY
Oh my God, I would give anything for Miss Kelly to tell us about mile-high tidal waves. Anything! She’s been talking about EU livestock quotas for forty minutes.
LATER
I have decided that Mum needs my help to get over this terrible writer’s block. I mentioned this to Rachel this evening and she laughed. I’m glad she finds me so amusing. When I’ve single-handedly saved our mother’s career she’ll be sorry. Of course, I’m just not sure how I’m going to do it yet. But I’ll come with something. God knows my life is so boring I have plenty of time to use my imagination. It seems as though all bestselling books for grown-ups include three women who are meant to be very different but are all the same really (their hair is usually different colours, but that’s about it) and how their friendship supports them through the hard times. And as it is a book by my mum, then there will have to be a devoted mammy who dispenses wisdom to her daughters (very unlike my own mother, I must say). I could even write it myself, actually. How hard could writing a book be?
FRIDAY
Miss Kelly seems to have reached a compromise. She did boring geography for about half an hour and then gave us a passionate lecture on the evils of not washing everything we put into the green recycling bin. It’s nice to have her back. Well, not nice, exactly, because she’s always a bit scary and sometimes when she’s been particularly extreme I have nightmares about the end of the world, but it’s better than learning about the GDP of Belgium.
Called in to Cass’s after school. Alice couldn’t come because her guitar teacher was sick on Tuesday, when she normally has classes, and she had to switch days. Alice is quite good at the guitar, but she’s learning classical guitar so she doesn’t have an electric one, just an acoustic one with big plastic strings. She can play some cool stuff on it anyway. Apparently her dad has an electric one somewhere but it doesn’t have an amplifier so it’s no use. Anyway, Cass’s brother is so annoying. We were in her room trying to have a serious conversation (well, sort of. Actually, Cass was telling me about her recurring dream in which Miss Kelly has challenged her to a duel like in days of old, and Cass only has twenty-four hours to learn how to use a sword. She doesn’t know what on earth this means. Neither do I, although I did have a few theories, mostly about global warming). But Nick kept coming in saying stupid and usually disgusting things like, ‘Did you know the human body is 90% snot?’ (which isn’t even true THANK GOD). He is so irritating. He actually makes me grateful for Rachel, and I never thought I’d say that.
MONDAY
My plan to inspire my poor, suffering mother has begun. I spent today thinking of excellent plots for her (it was a nice distraction from my classes, which were very, very boring) and have begun to work them casually into conversation in the hope that it will inspire Mum’s creative powers. Although frankly I think I have done nearly all the creating myself already. I’ve practically written four books today (in my head). I began putting the plan into action when I was helping Mum make the dinner, peeling potatoes like a slave (what would Mrs Harrington say if she knew her beloved Rosie Carberry used child labour in the home?). Mum was messing around with a big orange casserole dish and saying something boring about not cutting off half the potato when I got rid of the purply bits when I said, ‘You know, Mum, I heard a very interesting thing at school today.’
‘Oh really?’ said Mum. ‘Was it more interesting than peeling those potatoes properly?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A girl in my class was telling us about her aunt. Apparently she had two really good friends, right, and they all went to school together but when they got older one of them became a teacher, and she was really bored and frustrated because she had to teach girls about tidal waves all day, and then another of them ran a fancy hotel, and she met all these glamorous men who were staying in the hotel, and the last one was a nurse and she was very saintly.’
‘Really,’ said my mother. ‘Which one was your friend’s aunt?’
‘Um,’ I said. ‘The nurse. No, sorry, the teacher. Anyway, over the years they all went their separate ways, and then they met up again and shared their stories. Oh, and they went on holiday together and the nurse found love for the first time. And the teacher learned to follow her dreams and see all the places she’d taught classes about.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Mum. ‘What about the hotel manager?’
‘She decided she liked just, like, flirting with all the men in the hotel. So she was pretty happy.’
‘Wow,’ said Mum. ‘That’s quite a story.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Just thought you’d be interested.’ And I gave her a meaningful look. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was sort of looking off into the distance with a funny expression on her face. Could I have inspired her already?
TUESDAY
I don’t think I have inspired Mum. I heard her on the phone to Joscasta this evening. First of all she was laughing in a sort of mad sniggering way. Why doesn’t she ever laugh like a normal person when she’s on the phone? She sounds like a horse. Maybe she has a special phone laugh like some people have a special posh phone voice. Although you’d think if she went to the trouble of coming up with a phone laugh she wouldn’t sound like a farm animal. Then she was saying ‘no, Jocasta, they don’t know. It’s not a big deal!’ Then she saw the door into the sitting room was open and went upstairs to her and Dad’s room so I couldn’t hear anything else. What is she going on about now?
I am a bit worried.
WEDNESDAY
This evening I sort of cornered Dad when he was making the risotto and hissed, ‘Dad, do you know what’s wrong with Mum? Why isn’t she writing her new book?’
Dad sort of looked at me and then he said, ‘Bex, are you really, seriously worried about this?’
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I’m worried she won’t be able to write any more and then she’ll be miserable and …’
And then, to my shame, I burst into tears. Dad was very nice and even though normally these days whenever either of my parents try to hug me I just go ‘gerrof’ and escape from their annoying clutches as fast as I can, I didn’t actually mind being hugged this time. He told me seriously not to worry and that Mum didn’t have writer’s block and that soon she would have a nice surprise for all of us. ‘Especially nice for you,’ he said, which cheered me up a bit. Maybe Mum is writing a film, and maybe there will be a part for me! Or maybe one of her books is being made into a film, and someone really famous and cool is going to be in it. I’m quite looking forward to the stupid book party now.
THURSDAY
It’s Mum’s book party tomorrow and she still hasn’t started a new book. At least, if she has, she’s not telling us about it, which just isn’t like her at all. She’s off at the shops now, looking for a bag to go with her book-launch dress. I really am worried about her, although Rachel pointed out (in quite a kind way, really, not her usual horrible, patronising way) that if Mum really was suffering from writer’s block, she wouldn’t be so cheerful. She’d be sobbing and wailing in frustration, according to Rachel. I couldn’t imagine Mum wailing, and it wasn’t a very nice thought, but I suppose Rachel is right about the writer’s block thing.
‘But then what do you think is wrong?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think anything’s wrong,’ said Rachel. ‘Seriously, I think she’s working on something. She’s in her study every morning, as usual. And she seems fine.’
‘But if she’s working on something, why won’t she tell us?’ I said.
‘Maybe it’s something she doesn’t want to tell us about,’ said Rachel. ‘Maybe she’s changing direction.’ She stopped, and suddenly looked a bit sick. ‘Oh, God, Bex, maybe she’s writing, like, really sexy stuff.’ She stared at me in horror, and I stared back. ‘Maybe she’s writing a big sexy blockbuster. Like Louise Bagshawe, Jilly Cooper or Jackie Collins or something. That’s … that’s practically porn!’
‘What?!’ I said. What a horrible thought! It’s bad enough having a mother who writes about feisty Irish mammies and their roguish children, but having a mother who wrote porn would be a zillion times worse. I could never, ever live it down.
‘Oh God,’ said Rachel. ‘The shame. And we can’t ever read it. We’d keep imagining … urrrrrrgh. It’ll traumatise us for life.’
‘No wonder she hasn’t told us anything,’ I said, sitting on the couch. ‘Oh, God, I feel sick.’
‘I feel sicker,’ said Rachel. She sat down next to me.
‘Should we ask her about it again?’ I said.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Bex, we’ve both tried that,’ said Rachel in an exasperated way. So she had asked Mum about her new project! I knew she thought the whole thing was freaky! And there she was telling me I was over-reacting. ‘She’s not going to suddenly tell us anything now.’
Then the phone rang. We both jumped about ten feet in the air – I think we both thought it was Mum ringing to remind us to put the casserole in the oven for dinner. But it was Tom for Rachel. She’s on the phone to him now, talking in her Tom-phone-voice, which is absolutely sickening. At least she has a boyfriend to comfort her about having a pornographer for a mother. I don’t even have a Cass and an Alice because they’re both out at the cinema tonight (I didn’t go because they’re going to see a scary film and I can’t watch scary films in the cinema. In fact, I can’t really watch scary films at all unless I’m watching them from the sitting-room door so I can leap back into the hall if anything gross happens). At least I’ll get to see my future love, Paperboy, tomorrow, though.
FIVE MINUTES LATER
Except I won’t, because I’ll be at that stupid book party! My mother is wrecking my entire life!
SATURDAY
BESTSELLER DISCOVERS NEW DIRECTION
Rosie Carberry is set to win a whole new generation of fans with the publication of her first book for teenagers. May the Best Girl Win is flagged to become a Christmas bestseller. Rosie is the mother of two teenage daughters, 16-year-old Rachel and 14-year-old Rebecca, and says the story was inspired by their antics.
Antics. ANTICS! I don’t have antics! Or make antics. Whatever. I hate my mother. I can’t believe I was trying to help break her writer’s block. I’d rather she had writer’s block forever and ever if this is what she’s going to come out with. A teen novel! Officially inspired by my ‘antics’!!! I can’t believe she has done this to me. I will never, ever live this down. I thought Mrs Harrington was bad enough, comparing me with those horrible little ringleted loons.But now my evil mother has admitted to the world that she has based a character on me! And Rachel too, but it turns out that Ruthie O’Reilly (that’s the heroine of this hideous monstrosity of a book) is fourteen, which means everyone will just think it’s me anyway.
Anyway. As you can tell from that newspaper report, which I have stuck in this diary just to prove that last night wasn’t all a hideous dream, Mum had a lovely surprise for us at the book party. In fact, it turned out that the party wasn’t just to celebrate her twenty years as a published writer. It was also to celebrate her ‘new venture into the exciting world of young adult literature’. At least, that’s what it said in today’s Irish Times.
Last night was the worst night of my entire life. And today is looking like being the worst day. It started with me opening the door in my pyjamas to find Paperboy standing just outside it (the door, that is, not my ’jamas). I was letting out our cat Bumpers, who hates going to the toilet in his litter tray like a normal cat and always demands to leave the house first thing in the morning, and I was still in such a daze after last night that I forgot it was Saturday, the only day we get the papers delivered. So when I saw Paperboy standing about six inches away from me with some papers in his hand I actually shrieked. And then I stepped back and stood on Bumpers, and Bumpers shrieked too and ran out the door and between Paperboy’s ankles. It was like something out of a very, very crap circus.
And of course the door suddenly opening and me shrieking (with my hair sticking up all over the place, I might add) and a cat wailing and practically running him over gave Paperboy a hideous fright, so he yelled and fell off the step. And he dropped a whole pile of papers and bits of them fell all over the place and on one of the pages was a huge colour photo of me. Well, me with Mum and Rachel anyway. On the third page of the Irish Times. We were sort of grimacing at the camera and Mum was beaming from ear to ear like a lunatic. I was so horrified by this I forgot to say sorry to Paperboy for scaring him. In fact, I nearly shrieked again. Unfortunately Paperboy, who was picking up the papers and putting them back in his bag, noticed what I was staring at and said, ‘Hey … sorry for giving you a fright. Is, um, is that you?’
‘Is that me where?’ I said, idiotically.
‘On this paper,’ said Paperboy, helpfully picking it up and holding it out to me so I could see myself and my evil traitorous mother in glorious technicolour. ‘And … this one.’ He held up a copy of the Irish Independent which had fallen to bits. On one of the pages that had dropped out was a huge photo of me and Mum. I can’t describe the freakish expression on my face in that photo. It was too hideous for words.
‘Oh God,’ I said.
‘I thought I recognised you,’ said Paperboy, sticking the last of his papers into the bag. And he grinned at me. ‘See you!’ he said. Then he went off. And I was left, standing there, staring after him like a pyjama-wearing freak. And now I am hiding in my room. I am never coming out again. Mum keeps knocking at my door and saying, ‘Oh come on, Bex, you’ve got to eat some time’. She’s right, actually, I’m starving, but I’m not going to eat any of her horrible food. I’ll go out and buy my own.
FIVE MINUTES LATER
Except all my money (such as it is) was given to me by her and Dad (who is just as bad as her, I might add, because of course it turns out he knew about her evil book all the time!). So technically it would still be their food. Huh.
To distract myself from my agonising hunger, I will finally write about what happened last night, aka the worst night of my life. Mum was all flustered and frantic beforehand, which isn’t like her at all really, although of course now I know that it was her GUILTY CONSCIENCE because she knew what was coming. Rachel and I got dressed up, and the gorgeous Topshop dress I got for my birthday and haven’t had the chance to wear much yet actually looked really nice and my hair was behaving itself for some miraculous reason (probably because when I was washing my hair yesterday I nicked Mum’s expensive Bumble and Bumble conditioner that she keeps hidden under her bed). So I actually felt quite good when we left the house. But little did I know the hideous nightmare that awaited me. We arrived at the hotel (oh yeah, the publishers had rented a really gorgeous room in a posh hotel) and there was Lucy who edits Mum’s books at the publisher and Mum’s agent Jocasta and lots of journalists and friends of Mum. In other words, it was the usual rubbish. There were photographers and we had to pose for a few photos with Mum (we didn’t know then where they would end up). Rachel and I had to be polite and say hello to people, and a waiter was handing around champagne and Rachel asked if she could have a glass and Mum said no, maybe later if there were toasts, and then Rachel asked if she could have a glass of wine and Mum said no again, so me and Rachel sort of skulked off and hid behind a pillar where hopefully no one would notice us and start talking to us about Mum’s books.
‘God, this is boring,’ said Rachel, looking at her watch. ‘I wonder how soon we can leave.’
‘Not for hours and hours,’ I said gloomily. ‘Are there any mini-burgers left?’ Mini-burgers are the only good thing about these launches. For some reason they are nicer than ordinary-sized burgers. Why? Who knows? I thought eating a few of them would ease my pain, but even that pleasure was denied me.
‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I just saw Dad eat the last one. Oh, look, I think Lucy’s going to say something now.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Speeches. My favourite things.’
Little did I know how bad this particular speech was going to be.
It started in the usual way – Lucy went on about Mum’s brilliant career and the contribution she’d made to Irish writing, and how she was one of the first international Irish bestselling authors (a slight exaggeration – if she was really such an international bestseller, we wouldn’t live in a three-bedroom semi in Drumcondra; we’d live in some sort of palace in Killiney. Not that I’d want to live in Killiney, but I wouldn’t mind having a bigger house. And a view of the sea would be nice. Although I suppose I could get that in, like, Clontarf or somewhere. Anyway.). So this went on for a while, and I sort of drifted off and was gazing longingly at a tray of mini-burgers that had suddenly appeared on the other side of the room when Lucy said, ‘But of course, the real reason we’re here tonight is to launch a new stage in Rosie’s career. As most of you know, her new book will be aimed at a whole new audience – teenagers!’
I wish I could say that everyone gasped in horror, but that was just me and Rachel. In fact, everyone else seemed to know all about it and nodded sagely while Rachel and I stared at each other.
‘As you know, Rosie has two lovely teenage daughters and she thought it would be a good idea to write something that they and their friends could enjoy.’ (FYI, I can safely say that I – and my friends, for that matter – will never enjoy anything written by my mother.) ‘All of us at Peregrine have heard a lot about Rachel and Rebecca over the years, and about a year ago we were delighted when Rosie told us she wanted to write something inspired by their adventures. And we weren’t disappointed. May the Best Girl Win will be the highlight of our children’s list this season!’ And she held up a copy of a stupid-looking book with a horrible drawing of a pouty girl in Ugg boots on the cover. I thought I was going to be sick.
Then Mum took the microphone. She carefully avoided looking at us, probably because even she wouldn’t have the cheek to waffle on about her awful book while Rachel and I glowered at her. She thanked Lucy and then she thanked her publishers and her editor and her agent and everyone for coming to the event and just when I thought I was going to faint from a combination of boredom and rage she said, ‘And of course, thanks most of all to my family – my husband Ed and my lovely daughters, Rachel and Rebecca. Those girls drive me mad sometimes,’ (and of course everyone laughed like this was funny) ‘but I don’t know what Ed and I would do without them. They make us laugh a lot.’
Everyone sort of went ‘awww’ and of course turned around to gawp at us and see how we were taking this touching speech. I think they thought we’d be wiping away tears of emotion and mouthing ‘we love you!’ at our awful horrible sneaking mother. But we weren’t, we were just standing there glaring at her.
Mum cleared her throat and went on. ‘The girls aren’t really fans of my books – I think it was Rebecca who described the last one as ‘nice if you like that sort of thing’ – so I decided to write a book they would really like, about their world.’
Oh my God, that’s what it’s all about! Punishment for mocking those evil Irish dancing children! The unfairness!
Mum kept waffling on. ‘It’s been a long time since I was a teenager,’ (everyone laughed again as if this was a joke, when of course it is simply THE TRUTH) ‘but I can remember what it was like, and of course I have Rachel and Rebecca around to remind me all the time. Their antics inspired me to write this book, although I had a little help from teen magazines. I think the girls wondered what I was doing with some of them!’
Yeah, I did. I can’t believe I was worried about her having a mid-life crisis when she was really just getting ready to embarrass me in front of the world. I can’t believe I actually CRIED the other night because I thought there was something wrong with her. I am never going to be nice to her again.
‘But I really enjoyed writing the book,’ she said. ‘And I’m already working on the sequel. So, well, I hope you enjoy it!’
And everyone clapped. The fools. Soon they all started moving around chatting and eating canapés, but Rachel and I were still pretty much frozen to the spot.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Rachel. ‘I can’t believe I never guessed.’
‘I can’t believe she’s been spying on us and planning to write a book without telling us!’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Rachel. ‘Bex, I think this is worse than the porn thing.’
Just then, my dad came up to us, beaming from ear to ear.
‘Hi girls!’ he said, as if his wife hadn’t just DESTROYED OUR LIVES. ‘What do you think?’
‘You knew?’ shrieked Rachel.
Dad looked confused. ‘Of course I knew,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited? I thought you’d be excited!’
‘Of course we’re not excited!’ I said. ‘Is this what you were talking about when you said Mum had a surprise and that I’d like it?
‘Um, yes,’ said Dad.
‘Well I don’t!’ I cried.
‘But why?’ said Dad. He looked very confused, but then, he often does. It’s what happens when you lock yourself away and teach history for twenty years.
‘Because she’s written a book and she’s just told the world it’s about us,’ said Rachel. ‘I mean, it’s bad enough having that awful teacher going on about how we must love Mum’s books every time I bump into her in the corridor, even though she isn’t even my English teacher …’ (Ha! I knew Mrs Harrington wouldn’t leave Rachel alone.) ‘but now Mum’s actually officially said that she’s written about us. How do you expect us to be happy about that? It’s humiliating!’
‘It’s worse for me,’ I said. ‘She’s just said that this girl in the book is fourteen. So everyone will think it’s about me.’
‘Well, I was fourteen once too,’ said Rachel. ‘So that doesn’t help much.’
‘Girls!’ said Dad. ‘You’re being very silly. I’m sorry you’re upset, but I really don’t see what the problem is. Your mum’s very excited about this book and she’s already working on the sequel. Last week you were convinced she had writer’s block! You were crying, Bex!’
‘I’d PREFER writer’s block to an awful book about a girl in stupid hideous boots who everyone will think is me!’
‘Oh God,’ said Rachel. ‘Everyone we know is going to read it if they think it’s about us. It’s going to be so embarrassing.’
And then our enemy, aka our mother, came over. She had a sort of stupid smile on her face.
‘Well, girls,’ she said. ‘How did you like my surprise?’
‘If by “how did you like my surprise?”, you mean, ‘How do you like being embarrassed in front of the whole world?’ Well, the answer is “not at all”!’ shouted Rachel, and can I just say how nice it was to see Rachel being all snotty to Mum in front of me. Normally if she gets annoyed by Mum when I’m in the room, she tries to be all grown up and sophisticated, but as we don’t live in a vast mansion and I am not deaf, I know perfectly well she can be just as tantrum-ish as me when she thinks I can’t hear her. Which I always can.
Mum seemed genuinely confused.
‘What’s so embarrassing about this?’ she said.
Rachel and I stared at her.
‘Mother,’ I said, very slowly, ‘you have written a book that you have just admitted is inspired by us. And people we know will read it. HOW IS THAT NOT EMBARRASSING?’
‘I hate to say this, Mum, but Bex is right,’ said Rachel. ‘Seriously, we are going to look like complete fools. I can’t believe you’ve done this to us!’
‘I thought you’d like it!’ said Mum. ‘You never want to read my books, so I thought you’d like this one.’
Against my will, I found myself feeling a bit sorry for her.
‘And how do you know you’ll be embarrassed?’ she went on. ‘You haven’t even read it yet! It’s fun! Your friends will like it!’
‘I don’t need to read it,’ I said, ‘to know that it will be embarrassing.’ She looked genuinely confused and I started feeling a bit bad.
‘But I thought …’ she started to say, but then one of her writing pals ran up.
‘Rosie!’ she cried. ‘I can’t believe it – I never thought you’d start writing for kids!’ She looked at us in a patronising sort of way. ‘Although I should have known you’d want to write something for your little ones.’
I stopped feeling bad for Mum then. And she must have realised that the looks on my and Rachel’s faces meant we couldn’t hold in our rage much longer.
‘Hmm, yes,’ she said. ‘Hey, have you met Conor Hamilton? He’s over there, come on …’ And she sort of moved the annoying friend away.
‘I’m going home,’ I said. ‘Coming, Rachel?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rachel. Then we both kind of paused. ‘Um,’ said Rachel. ‘Can we have bus fare, please? I didn’t bring my wallet.’
‘No you can’t,’ said Dad, sounding genuinely cross, which is rare for him. He hardly ever loses his temper. ‘And I can’t believe you’re acting like such silly babies. You’re too old for this. Now, all your mother’s friends and colleagues are here and I don’t want you making a show of yourselves in front of them, it’s not fair to her.’
‘It’s not fair to us, more like,’ I muttered.
Dad glared at me. He’s surprisingly good at glaring when he wants to. ‘I understand you’re a bit surprised,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to act like a pair of five-year-olds. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Rachel, but she rolled her eyes so he would know she didn’t mean it. ‘Can I at least have a glass of wine?’
‘No,’ said Dad. ‘Oh, all right. Just one. And NOT you,’ he said, looking at me. Not that I wanted wine anyway. I’d probably start trying to drown my sorrows straight away and then I’d become an alcoholic. That’d give Mum something to write about, I suppose. A waiter came along with a tray of drinks, so Rachel took her wine and I took an orange juice and then we went and sat in a corner and ate canapés.
‘Just look at her,’ said Rachel. ‘Look at her talking to her ridiculously dressed mates (seriously, what is that man wearing? Is that a velvet bow tie?) like she hasn’t a care in the world.’
‘She hasn’t,’ I said. ‘She’s not the one who’s going to be publicly humiliated as soon as everyone she knows reads that stupid book.’
‘I can’t BELIEVE I was feeling sorry for her,’ said Rachel. And we sat and glowered at her and tried to eat the canapés without getting bits of diced tomato all over ourselves (all the little tarts and things are surprisingly messy) until at LAST Dad took us home (Mum was staying on, probably so she didn’t have to face us). And then I went to bed and woke up hoping it was all a horrible dream and … well, you know the rest. So that’s it.
I just rang Alice to tell her my troubles but she was at her mad auntie Fran’s house and her mobile went straight to voicemail so I couldn’t talk to her. And Cass was at her piano lesson so I couldn’t get through to her either. I am both enraged and bored. What a terrible life I have. Also, I am still really, really hungry. But I don’t want to go downstairs.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
Mum just came to the door.
‘Rebecca?’
‘Go away,’ I said. Was that toast I could smell? Does she have toast? Is she trying to lure me out with food?
‘Look, I’m going to leave the book outside the door. I think you’ll really like it. It’s not really about you, seriously. No one will think it is.’
‘Huh!’ I said. I wish I could have come up with a more witty riposte, but in fairness I was practically dying of starvation.
I heard her go downstairs and then, I’ll admit it, I opened the door. There was a copy of the stupid book with a plate of scrambled eggs on toast sitting on the top.
I took the whole lot inside and ate the eggs on toast in about two seconds. I felt a bit better after that. It seemed like I’d been starving for ages so I thought it must be about two o’clock at least but when I looked at the clock it was only half eleven. It just feels like this day has been going on forever. Anyway, the stupid book is now sitting on my head. I have read the blurb and it looks awful. Apparently it is about a girl called Ruthie (oh my God, my mother is pathologically obsessed with the letter ‘r’ – she can’t even call a fictional child by a name starting with another letter. What does it mean? A psychologist would have a field day with her). Anyway, Ruthie really wants a boyfriend and comes up with all sorts of schemes to meet a boy. And then she meets one on holiday. Yawn. I’m going to start reading it now.
LATER
Oh my God. I have read nearly the entire book and unless it improves dramatically in the last thirty pages I am never talking to my mother again. Well, actually, I’m not talking to her again anyway. But still. Ruthie is horrible. She and her equally horrible friends are obsessed with boys. Now despite what Rachel may say about my pure and holy love for Paperboy, I am not obsessed with boys. I may be slightly obsessed with Paperboy, and a few very good-looking guitarists, and a couple of actors, but I’m not obsessed with boys in general. But Ruthie just thinks about boys and nothing else. She doesn’t, like, read anything, or listen to music apart from boy bands. She would never take part in a spontaneous synchronised dance session. Also, she and her friends are really annoying. They say things like ‘you go, girl!’ and are really sassy. Sassy people are always obnoxious in real life. Ruthie and her friends never laugh about anything. They just give each other makeovers and go shopping. Where do they get the money to go shopping? It’s not like Mum hands over loads of cash to me. Far from it, in fact.
Anyway. Basically the book is all about how Ruthie and her friends have a competition to see who will get a boyfriend first. Also, they are in a girl band together and sing drippy songs into their hairbrushes. They do all sorts of stupid sad things like pretending to like football so random boys will like them. And at one stage Ruthie follows a boy into a toilet! That sounds kind of filthy but THANK GOD there are no sexy goings-on in the book. I’d have to emigrate if there were. Anyway, they are all really competitive and their crappy girl band breaks up because they play lots of tricks on each other and I actually can’t understand why they’re friends at all as they all secretly seem to hate each other. In the end they all go and eat pizza together and realise the virtues of friendship and how it’s more important than boys, but frankly if I had managed to escape from the society of these horrible cows for five minutes it would take a lot more than a pizza to make me see any of them ever again.
LATER
Just after I wrote that last line there was a knock on the door. I shouted, ‘Go away!’, but it turned out to be Rachel so I let her in. We are no longer enemies. We are fellow sufferers. Rachel has also read the book. She is almost angrier than me, which I didn’t believe was possible, but she really really is because there is something in the book which actually did happen to her. She won’t tell me what it is, but she says it is pretty tragic (of course, she said that this mysterious INCIDENT took place when she was ‘your age’, as if girls my age are automatically stupider than sixteen-year-olds, which is obviously rubbish, as one look at Rachel and her friends will prove). Anyway, she also said that she never told Mum about it, but she did, of course, tell Jenny about it on the phone, and as there is sadly no privacy in our house Mum must have overheard her. She says there’s no chance that this is a coincidence because of ‘certain details’ (I have to admit that this all makes this book a lot more interesting – I must figure out what this story is).
‘So not only is she embarrassing us, she’s SPYING on us. Or she was in the past,’ said Rachel. The last time I saw her so angry was when Bumpers did a poo in Tom’s bag when he was in our house (Tom, of course, not Bumpers, who is always here). ‘And the worst thing is that this … incident doesn’t just involve me, it was Jenny as well. So she’s going to think I’ve been telling Mum about stuff and she’ll kill me.’
‘Surely she won’t,’ I said. ‘She’ll understand that our mother is an evil spy.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope so,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m going round to her house now to warn her in advance. What are you doing?’
I told her I was planning on hiding myself away and that I needed something good to read to remind myself that all literature is not totally evil and life-destroying, but I didn’t know what I was in the mood for.
‘I know,’ said Rachel, and she went to her room and came back with a copy of Pride and Prejudice. ‘There you go,’ she said, ‘read that.’
I told her I didn’t know if I was in the mood for something old-fashioned right now, but she said, ‘Trust me, Bex. The heroine has a very, very embarrassing mother. Jane Austen understands our pain.’
LATER
Oh my God, Jane Austen DOES understand my pain! Well, the pain of having a mother you kind of want to shoot, anyway. At least Mum isn’t trying to marry off me and Rachel. Unless that’s what happens in the next Ruthie book. Pride and Prejudice is about a girl called Lizzie with lots of sisters whose mother wants them all to get married and embarrasses them every time they leave the house, especially in front of Mr Darcy, who is this annoying rude but hunky man who’s just turned up in the neighbourhood.
LATER
I am imagining Mr Darcy looking a bit like Paperboy.
LATER
Although I can’t imagine Paperboy on a horse. But who knows what he gets up to when he’s not delivering papers? He could be quite the horseman for all I know.
LATER
Finally got through to Cass, but I wish I hadn’t now. Some friend she is. I told her about what Rachel said about Mum putting something from her own life in it. Cass seemed more worried that there’ll be something about her in the book rather than about my public humiliation. She was so annoying I told her that there’s a bit in the book about that time she took off her glasses when we were in Tower Records so she’d look better in front of a very cute boy who was looking at some music magazines. She was posing away by the magazine racks until she realised she was staring straight at the porn section. I let her rave on for a while before I told her it wasn’t true (although I will have to be careful what I say on the phone from now on as apparently the walls have ears in this house of spies. Well, one spy. Unless she’s got Dad doing her dirty work and reporting to her on our conversations. You never know). Anyway, she calmed down a bit then and was a bit more sympathetic. For about five seconds. She said the photo of me in the paper was nice.
‘Your hair looks very shiny,’ she said.
‘That’s because I stole Mum’s conditioner,’ I said.
Cass said, ‘So she’s good for something, then.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ I said. ‘But anyway, I’m making a stupid face in the photo.’
And then Cass who, lest we forget, is meant to be comforting me in my hour of sorrow, said, ‘But you always look a little bit funny in photos.’
And she is supposedly my friend! She says she meant it as a compliment because I look much better (or as she kindly puts it ‘quite normal’) in real life. But it is not what I want to hear right now when that hideous photo is in newspapers all over the country. So I said, ‘Well, thanks a million’ and hung up. She texted back straight away and begged for my forgiveness (as well she might) so I texted her and said she was forgiven and I suppose she is, but I’m still very annoyed with her.
LATER
I rang Alice, who was much more understanding than selfish Cass. I feel a bit better now I’ve talked to her. She said that no one at school will care that much about the book, and no one reads the paper anyway. She said I amworrying about something that MIGHT happen rather than something that has already happened. She sounded so wise that for a while I actually forgot all about the hideously embarrassing Paperboy incident from this morning, which definitely did happen. But still. I don’t feel quite as bad as I did earlier. I am going to have to leave my room now. I want to have a shower and I’m starving again. But I’m still not talking to my horrible evil mother.
Sunday
I am still not talking to Mum. Neither is Rachel. Well, we kind of grunt when spoken to, but that’s about it. I made my own dinner last night (scrambled eggs and sossies, which I suppose is quite a lot of eggs in one day. Unfortunately it turns out that everything nice I can cook is somehow egg-related) and took it up to eat in my room. Rachel just went off to Jenny’s house. Dad gave us a lecture this afternoon about acting like babies but he doesn’t understand our shame. I feel sick to my stomach whenever I think of Paperboy seeing that photo of me. And seeing me looking like a lunatic in my pyjamas. Oh, the whole thing is too awful to think about. I’m going to go to bed, to read more Pride and Prejudice.
Monday
I was going to write ‘today was the worst day of my life’, but the way things are going around here at the moment I’ll end up writing that every day, so I’ll just say that today was as terrible as I thought it would be and it’s all my mother’s fault. As usual. At first I thought that it was actually going to be quite a good day: first of all, I was a bit late but not too late – I arrived just as the second bell was going so I was able to sneak into the classroom with Alice and Cass and not talk to anyone. Then we had English first class (which I had been totally dreading, for obvious reasons) and it turned out that Mrs Harrington wasn’t in so we all had to go the library. We always pray that we’ll have a free class, but our teachers are apparently immune to all germs as they are hardly ever out sick. Us girls will be wheezing and coughing and puking away and not a single germ do those teachers catch. So anyway, we had a free class, and I thought I could just sit there and read something entertaining, but Karen Rodgers was sitting behind me. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned Karen Rodgers before. One day during the summer Cass and Alice and I were in a strangely hippyish mood, talking about how cool it is that our class actually all get on pretty well with each other and how there’s a genuinely friendly atmosphere, and then Cass remembered Karen Rodgers and Alice and I both went ‘oh, yeah’ in exactly the same depressed tone. Karen Rodgers isn’t a bully, but it’s not for want of trying. She’s just kind of mean and sarky and she’s always making unfunny jokes at other people’s expense. Her best (and only) friend is Alison Smith, who is actually okay, if a bit annoying, when she’s on her own, but when Karen is around she turns into a sniggering sidekick.
So anyway. No sooner had I taken Pride and Prejudice out of my bag than something poked me in the back. I turned around and Karen was smirking at me and waving a pencil.
‘What?’ I said, in my rudest voice. Well, rudest whisper.
‘I saw you in the paper,’ said Karen. ‘Were you making that face on purpose?’
I felt myself go red with rage, but I couldn’t think of anything clever to say so I just turned around and ignored Karen’s hideous sniggering (I should have said, ‘Yeah, I was doing an impersonation of you.’ Damn. I just thought of that now. Why didn’t I think of that this morning?). She poked me in the back again. but luckily Miss Brady, the school librarian, noticed and told her to stop. Miss Brady is a bit scary so Karen did stop and as soon as the free class was over I marched out before she could poke me again with her revolting pencil. It really is disgusting. She chews the end so it’s all gross and falling to bits. Why is she eating wood anyway? Perhaps she is part beaver.
But worse was to come. When the free class was over we were walking to the next class and on the way a few girls from other years pointed at me and whispered to each other. I heard a senior girl going ‘yeah, she was in the paper at the weekend. Her mum wrote a book about her or something!’ And then things got even worse. The next class was in Room 7, which is our class 2:2’s form room (which means we have lunch there and our lockers are there) and when we went in, we saw that someone had got the awful photo of me and Mum and put it up on the noticeboard. And they’d blown it up on a photocopier so it was huge. That was all bad enough. But someone had written ‘2:2’s OWN PAGE THREE GIRL’ above the photo. Everyone stared at the photo and then at me and lots of them were laughing. I wanted to die. But then, without saying a word, Alice marched straight over, tore it down, crumpled it up, and without missing a beat she threw it all the way across the room into the bin. A perfect shot! Who knew she had such good aim? She should join the second-year basketball team. Everyone was so surprised by this that they shut up and then our maths teacher Miss Condren came in so that was the end of that. But the feeling that everyone was laughing at me behind my back went on all day. Alice and Cass said I’m just being paranoid but I know I’m not.
In fact, the world seems to have gone mad. Vanessa Finn was nice to me at lunch today. It was very weird. She usually just ignores me, which is fine by me. In fact she ignores almost all of us because she thinks we’re common. But not today. Me and Cass and Alice and Ellie and Emma Donnelly were lurking in the cloakroom and they were all being very kind and telling me that everything will blow over, and I was actually feeling okay as long as I could hide there forever. But I had to go to the loo (I shouldn’t have drunk that smoothie so quickly) and on the way back Vanessa just leaped out in front of me (well, she didn’t quite leap, she just walked round a corner, but it felt like being leaped out on) and said, ‘Hi, Rebecca!’ in a strangely friendly voice.
‘Hi,’ I said, and tried to walk past her, but she moved in front of me (she is surprisingly nimble for someone who spends most of her time wearing ginormous fluffy boots).
‘So, how are you?’ she said.
‘Grand,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I’m just …’
‘I just wanted to say that I thought that photo of you in the paper was so cool,’ she said.
‘What?!’ I said.
‘Yeah, you looked great,’ she said.
‘Um, thanks,’ I said. And then the bell rang for class, so I sort of smiled and went back to the others to get my bag. I have to admit, I was genuinely touched. Maybe she is not such a snooty cow after all? She is obviously not telling the truth, as I did not look great in that photo, but it is quite kind of her to lie to me. Although she is still a bit odd.
Anyway, the afternoon went past in a sort of blur apart from the bits between classes where it felt like everyone was staring at me until (AT LAST) the final bell rang. I went back to my locker to dump some stuff while Cass and Alice got their blazers and Karen bloody Rodgers was there. She was smirking at me (it seems to be her default expression) and when I was leaving she said, ‘Watch out for the paparazzi!’ And her horrible sidekick Alison laughed like this was the funniest thing anyone has ever said in the history of the world. I hate both of them.
At least I’m home now. You can take it for granted, by the way, that I’m still not talking to Mum, but I had to give in and eat her food. I couldn’t take any more eggs. Or sausages. So I grudgingly shovelled in some lentil and chicken casserole this evening. Lentils sound disgusting but actually they are delicious when they’re mixed up with chicken and bacon and mushrooms and stuff, and that casserole is one of my favourite things – I think Mum might be trying to win me round with food. I can’t be bought that easily, though. Not after a day like today. When will this nightmare end?!
Tuesday
What is up with Vanessa Finn? She was being weird again today. I was getting stuff out of my locker this morning and when I closed the door she was standing behind it smiling. I would have shrieked if I hadn’t given up shrieking forever after the Paperboy incident.
‘So!’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘Um … okay,’ I said. ‘Fine.’ Her sudden friendliness is making me nervous.
‘How are you finding being a celebrity?’ She was still smiling in a slightly mad way.
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘A celebrity, I mean.’
‘Oh, come on, you’re like, completely famous now,’ she said.
‘Well, not really,’ I said. ‘I mean, it was just one …’ But Vanessa interrupted me.
‘You were in two papers,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know you paid so much attention to papers,’ I said, trying to edge around her.
‘Of course I don’t,’ said Vanessa (sounding like more like her usual snooty self). ‘My mum was reading it and I saw the photo of you and said, ‘God, that’s that girl from my class at school’. And my mum was, like, so impressed and said that your mum is some super-famous celebrity writer, or something. My mum’s, like, obsessed with your mum’s books.’
Oh God, not another one.
‘So yeah,’ said Vanessa, ‘I didn’t know your mum was a famous writer, or whatever.’ Well, at least someone hasn’t been paying any attention to Mrs Harrington all term. That’s kind of good to know. ‘You don’t have the same surname, do you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Rafferty’s my dad’s surname. My mum didn’t change her name when she got married.’ I’d done it! I’d squeezed around her. ‘Um, I’ll see you later, Vanessa.’ And I ran out of the room down the corridor before she could say anything else. But why is she being so weirdly friendly to me in the first place? I don’t think it’s really kindness. She’s up to something. Although maybe she has just taken a good look at the state of my hair and realised that at least one of her classmates is definitely not going to be a hairdresser. Anyway, it is starting to get annoying.
And it was not the only annoying part of today. Karen Rodgers, whose life is apparently so boring she has to look to me for entertainment, had great fun with her stupid little pal at lunch today talking very loudly about SOME PEOPLE who supposedly think they’re SO COOL because their MOTHER wrote a BOOK about them. This is particularly irritating because of course I don’t think it’s cool my mother wrote a book that possibly has some connection to me (I refuse to acknowledge that Ruthie O’Reilly’s life could actually be mine). I hope that everyone in the class remembers this and that Karen doesn’t brainwash them into thinking I love it.
However, today was not all bad. Mrs Harrington is still sick. Maybe she’ll die? At least that would solve one problem.
Later
I feel a bit guilty about wishing Mrs Harrington would die. I didn’t mean it really. Obviously. But what if she does? Die, I mean. I’ll have cursed her!
I am sort of talking to Mum. She asked me whether I would prefer roast chicken or spaghetti carbonara for dinner tomorrow. I had to answer. After all, we don’t get to have roast chicken that often. Who knew food was my weak spot? I can only cook eggs! I’m hardly a gourmet.
Wednesday
Mrs Harrington still not in. I can’t pretend I’m not glad, but I’m starting to get a bit worried about the whole possibly-cursing-her thing. I’m also getting a bit worried about Vanessa. She was being all friendly again today. She asked me if I wanted to go out to her house after school and look at her designs for her giant birthday party (yes, designs. She is designing decorations for some sort of giant tent marquee thing). I didn’t, obviously, and it was a completely weird thing to ask someone you’ve barely spoken to for a year, but I was polite and said I had to go straight home. I would like to think that she has just realised how wonderful I am after sharing a class with me for a year, but I’m afraid that’s probably not true. What is she up to?
But anyway, I don’t care about her so much at the moment, because this evening when we were eating our dinner (roast chicken, yum yum) Rachel said something that has given me a brilliant idea.
‘Hey,’ she said, pouring nearly all the gravy on to her plate before I’d even got near the gravy jug. ‘Tom’s friend Sam is moving to America for a year and he has to find someone to look after his drum kit. I’m sure you lot won’t know anyone who could take it in, but I said I’d ask.’
That’s when I had my idea.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said.
‘No you won’t,’ said Mum. ‘I’m not having noisy drums in this house.’
‘Ha!’ said Rachel. ‘Like you could play the drums.’
‘First of all, for our information,’ I said haughtily, ‘I have always wanted to play the drums. Well, sort of. I like tapping along to music on my desk with pencils.’
‘Yeah, I know, and it’s really annoying,’ said Rachel.
‘No it’s not. Anyway, I think I’d be able to play the drums really well. And second of all, I’d keep them at Alice’s house. They’ve got a million big stables and barns and stuff out there. Well, they’ve got those stables next to the house, and that garage, and the barn at the other side of the yard. And there’s nothing in any of them except a few old lawnmowers and rakes and things. Me and Alice used to joke about starting a band and using one as our rehearsal room. And now we can actually do it!’
Mum looked at me. She’s trying to be nice since she wrecked my life with her stupid book. ‘Well, if Alice’s parents don’t mind, maybe that’s a good idea.’
‘It’s a ridiculous idea!’ said Rachel. ‘You can’t just sit there playing drums on your own! You don’t have a band!’
‘I’ll start one,’ I said. Well, why shouldn’t I? Alice can play the classical guitar, after all, and Cass, well, Cass can play the piano. She’s been having lessons for years, she’s on grade 4 or something. Guitar, keyboard and drums are enough to start a band. We wouldn’t have a bass player but they’re not that important anyway. And we can all sing. Well, sort of. Well, Alice can. Although do I want Alice to be, like, the frontwoman and band leader? I kind of want to do that myself. But I can’t sing and play drums at the same time, can I? Anyway, we can sort all that out later. After dinner I rushed straight up to my room to phone Alice and told her my idea. I thought she’d be a bit hard to persuade, especially as I was suggesting we take over her place as our practising room, but she was actually really enthusiastic.
‘I’ve always wanted to start a band!’ she said. ‘And we can use my dad’s old electric guitar! Well, we can use it once I get an amp.’
‘I know, we should have done this ages ago,’ I said.
‘Well, you didn’t have the drums,’ said Alice.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Well, I have them now! Or I will soon. Rachel rang Tom and he rang Sam and I can get the drums on Saturday! Mum said she’ll take me to get them and then we can go straight out to your house if it’s okay with your mum and dad.’
‘They’ll love it,’ said Alice. ‘They’ll probably want to join in. Don’t worry, I won’t let them.’ We talked about where exactly we would have our practice room. I thought the barn would be quite cool, because we could pretend it was a big music venue, but Alice said, ‘We can put the drums in the garage, because it’s the only one of those old buildings with electricity.’
I hadn’t even thought of that. Alice’s sensibleness is very useful. It probably comes from living in the countryside. She is full of practical rural wisdom. And of course if she was still living around here, she wouldn’t have all those barns and things.
‘That garage is very basic, you know,’ she said. ‘If all those buildings had been, like, done up, we’d never have been able to afford the house. Remember what the house was like when we moved in?’
I did, it practically had no walls. They’d had to live in two rooms for about six months. Luckily it was in summer so it was quite fun (well, we were only eleven at the time) and I used to come out here and stay over – it was like camping.
‘I’m not expecting a luxurious studio!’ I said. That will come later, of course. When we’re famous, as we inevitably will be.
After talking to Alice, I rang Cass, but to my amazement she wasn’t quite as excited.
‘I can’t exactly take our piano out there,’ she said.
‘You can use Alice’s mum’s keyboard!’ Alice’s mum decided a few years ago that she wanted to learn the piano and got a keyboard instead. It’s quite big but not as big as a piano and we can get it out to the garage pretty easily. Anyway, that wasn’t enough for Princess Cass.
‘I can’t play indie music,’ she said. ‘I can only play, like, Mozart and Debussy. Not the sort of stuff we’d want to play in our band.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Cass,’ I said. ‘You won’t have to play big keyboard solos. You can use the cool electric sound on your keyboard and play bass lines and things.’
‘Oh,’ said Cass. She didn’t say anything for a few moments.
‘What are you doing?’ I said. I wasn’t used to her being so silent.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Cass.
‘Oh,’ I said.
Then Cass sighed and said, ‘Oh, okay, I’ll do it. As long as you don’t expect me to be particularly good.’
‘Hurray!’
‘But don’t get too excited,’ she said. I promised her I wouldn’t. But I am excited! I’m excited about the whole thing, and it seems like ages since I was excited about anything. Mum’s horrible book doesn’t count, because that didn’t make me excited in a good way; it just made me angry. But the band will be loads of fun. We can write songs and play gigs and make t-shirts and it will be brilliant. And it will be the sort of thing stupid Ruthie O’Reilly would hate. Ha!
Thursday
Mrs Harrington was back today. I no longer feel guilty for possibly cursing her. She had the flu, and as she told the entire class, it wasn’t so bad ‘because I was able to read Rebecca’s mammy’s new book!’
Everyone, even my own friends, turned around and stared at me. Some of them, like Alice and Cass and Ellie, were looking at me with sympathy and pity. Others, and I think you can guess who, were sniggering away like stupid pencil-eating fools.
‘And it was brilliant, of course!’ said Mrs Harrington. ‘Now I know all about what you and your friends get up to, Rebecca!’
As soon as she said that, my friends stopped looking sympathetic and started looking appalled. Ha! Now they know how I feel.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I mean. It’s not like it’s actually about us. I’m nothing like Ruthie whatserface.’
‘She’s really not,’ said Cass.
Mrs Harrington laughed like this was the funniest thing in the world. ‘You can’t fool me, girls! I read that report in the paper where Rebecca’s mammy said she based it on her and her sister’s antics. I’m not going to ask who won the competition, though!’
I thought I was going to get sick. And then, as if this wasn’t bad enough, Karen Rodgers said, ‘What competition?’
Now, my friends haven’t read the evil book yet, but they know what it’s about because I told them just how awful it was. So when Karen Rodgers said this, Alice and Cass and Ellie and Emma all stared at Mrs Harrington like they were trying to hypnotise her into shutting up.
It didn’t work, of course.
‘Haven’t you read it yet?’ said Mrs Harrington in a surprised voice, like she couldn’t understand why everyone in the world wasn’t queuing up to read Mum’s stupid books. ‘It’s great fun. It’s all about girls who have a competition to see who will get a boyfriend first – not a good idea, girls!’
Of course, everyone in the class started laughing, not just Karen Bitchface Rodgers. ‘But Ruth and her friends learn a valuable lesson in the book – and what’s that, Rebecca?’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Um, I don’t know. How to be complete idiots who are always horrible to each other?’
Mrs Harrington laughed as though this were a joke. ‘Oh, I can see you’ve inherited your mother’s wicked sense of humour! No, the girls learn that the most important thing is friendship. And that nothing is worth losing your friends over, not even a perfect boyfriend. Isn’t that right, Rebecca?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said nervously.
‘So I know all you girls are going to enjoy this book,’ Harrington went on. For a dreadful moment I thought she was going to announce that we were going to be studying it in class instead of Great Expectations. I wouldn’t put it past her. But she just said, ‘It certainly made having the flu more entertaining!’ and then actually started talking about ordinary English class things.
After class, of course, everyone found it hilarious to talk about the book. It wasn’t like they were being mean about it (apart from Karen, of course), but it was very annoying.
‘You didn’t really have a competition, did you?’ said Jessie McCabe.
‘Of course we didn’t!’ said Cass.
‘She’s just saying that because in real life none of them actually won,’ said Karen Rodgers. ‘I haven’t seen them with any gorgeous boyfriends, have you?’
‘I haven’t seen you with one either,’ said Cass. ‘You’re obviously too busy spying on us.’
Karen snorted through her nose at this like a baby pig, but she went off with Alison. Alison looked back at us slightly apologetically. I bet she’s a bit embarrassed by Karen’s rudeness sometimes. She’s not that bad, really. But I’d like her a bit more if she ever actually stood up to her so-called best friend.
Luckily, there are more exciting things in my life to distract me from all this rubbish. We spent all of lunchtime talking about the band. We haven’t come up with a good name yet. The good thing is that Cass is much more enthusiastic about it now.
‘You just put me on the spot,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you two relying on me to be really good, because I mightn’t be. But I’ll give it a shot.’
‘I bet you’re much better than you think you are,’ said Alice. ‘I mean, Rebecca’s never even played the drums at all, so you’re bound to be better than her. No offence, Bex.’
‘I’ve played the pencils,’ I said. ‘I know how to keep a beat.’
‘You are quite good at the pencils,’ said Cass.
This evening I got two wooden spoons and tried playing the drums on the sofa cushions. It was pretty easy, really. I was playing along to the songs on Phantom FM when Rachel came in and burst out laughing.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she said. ‘You do realize that playing the drums isn’t the same as playing a… a couch, don’t you?’ And she started laughing again.
‘It won’t be that much different,’ I said.
‘Yes it will! You’ve got to use your feet!’
‘What? No I don’t!’
‘Of course you do! How do you think they play that big bass drum? The big drum facing the audience, with the band logo on it? You have to play it with a foot pedal. Oh my God, I can’t wait to see you try the real thing, it’ll be hilarious.’ And she went off, sniggering. She’s so superior and annoying.
Later
She does have a point, though. I didn’t know about the feet thing. Perhaps playing the drums is harder than it looks.
Later
Oh, it can’t be though, look at some of the people who do it.
Friday
I had an actual conversation with Paperboy! Well, sort of. He looked particularly good this evening. I think he gets better every time I see him. I ran out to answer the door when the bell rang but unfortunately just as I reached the hall I tripped over the straps of Rachel’s stupid bag which of course she had left in the middle of the floor. She is so careless. But I had regained my composure by the time I opened the door. I think. I have a horrible feeling my hair was all over the place. Anyway, Paperboy sort of smiled and said, ‘So, you weren’t in the paper again this week. I thought this was going to be a regular thing.’ I tried to think of something really funny and smart to say so he would go away thinking what a witty, attractive girl I was but all I could think of was ‘um, no, my mum decided to stop embarrassing me for a while.’ And he laughed and said, ‘Good for you,’ and then he asked for the paper money and I gave it to him and he said, ‘Cheers, see you’ and went off, and, to be honest, I was quite relieved because, although of course it is brilliant actually having a conversation with Paperboy, it is also a bit stressful.
Drums tomorrow!
Saturday
I HAVE DRUMS!
Well, not in my actual possession. They’re in Alice’s garage. But they’re mine (for the moment) and I played them and I hate to admit it, but Rachel was right and they are a bit harder than the cushions. But I wasn’t that bad (even Sam said so, so HA! to Rachel).
Mum and Rachel (she had to come because she knows Sam) and I all went out to Sam’s house at about ten o’clock. Sam was really nice. He is one of Tom’s best friends. The drums were in the dining room and he had left them up so he could tell me what each drum was called and give me a quick lesson while Mum and Rachel had a cup of tea with his parents in the kitchen. So I had my first drumming session, and it was actually pretty hard – I could play a beat for a couple of minutes but then I’d get a bit confused about which of the drums I was meant to be hitting. And the cymbals were quite tricky too. Working the pedal was the hardest, though – every time I concentrated on getting the pedal beat right, I’d forget what I was meant to be doing with my hands.
But Sam said I’d get the hang of it soon enough. Then he showed me how to take the drum kit apart (you’ve got to unscrew lots of weird little keys and things) and put it back together again (I’m glad he did that because I wouldn’t have been able to do it properly on my own). He even did a little diagram for me! He is quite good looking too (although not as good looking as Paperboy). I asked him if he was looking forward to going to America and he said not really because he’ll have to come back next year and do sixth year again (well, sort of again, he’s just started sixth year now), but he’s looking forward to seeing New York (his mum’s job has something to do with the U.N.). And when I told him about my plans to start a band with Cass and Alice and about how Alice had an electric guitar but no amp he lent me a little amp and some microphones and their stands as well. ‘Someone might as well put them to good use,’ he said. He is brilliant. I sort of wish he wasn’t going to America at all. I would like to see him again. Even though he is (a) too old and (b) my heart belongs to Paperboy.
Anyway! We got the drum kit and the amp and the microphones and stuff into the car and took it out to Alice’s. Mum went off to chat to Alice’s parents, who were all excited about her stupid new book. They both love Mum’s books, God help them. Alice says Germans love sloppy books about Ireland, and that’s why her mum first came over here in the eighties, because she’d read loads about the beauty of the countryside and how friendly and magical the people supposedly were. That is why she loves Mum’s books so much. Although Alice’s dad is from Clontarf, so he doesn’t have any excuse. Anyway, I put the kit back together again (the diagram helped, and so did Alice and even Rachel). And then there it was. Our band room (well, band garage). Alice’s guitar was there already, and it was propped up against the bass drum and it really looked like a proper band rehearsal room.
‘Except you can’t play the drums and you don’t have any songs,’ said Rachel. She is so annoying. She and Mum went home (Mum came back later to collect me – she is still feeling guilty about destroying my life so she is being very good about lifts) and Alice and I sort of looked at the drums and then at each other and then we got very excited and jumped up and down and cheered.
‘Let’s play something!’ said Alice, and I said she should start playing something and I’d try playing along. Alice has been learning classical guitar but of course she can play chords and stuff too, so she plugged in her dad’s guitar. But we couldn’t start rocking straight away because she had to tune it first which took about five years. Then she did a big chord. Even though the amp is tiny it sounded pretty good. It sounded very rock and roll.
‘Wow,’ said Alice. And we both looked at each other and started laughing. Then she started playing a song by that sixties band the Kinks – the one that goes ‘all day and all of the night’. It only has three chords in it so she could just about manage it. I started drumming along and it was a bit wonky and I couldn’t work out the foot pedal thing but it worked! Well, I was more or less in time with the music. I am a drummer! We tried a few more songs and Alice sang a bit (she says it’s hard to play and sing at the same time but she did quite well) and I was surprised at how tiring it was, bashing away. But it was brilliant. It was the most fun I’ve had in ages and ages. We’re going to have another practice tomorrow – Cass is coming out too.
Sunday
First proper band practice today! It went really well, to my surprise. I say surprise, because the way Cass was going on I thought we’d have to spend the entire time helping her turn on the keyboard. She was acting like she barely knew how to play the piano even though she’s done her grade 4 exams, which apparently means she should be able to play fairly complicated stuff. When we got off the bus at the end of Alice’s road (or rather, country lane, because it’s not really what you’d call a road. There’s grass growing in the middle of it and only two other houses apart from theirs. Also, it’s about 20 metres long) she was still moaning on about how crap she was going to be which was weird because Cass is hardly ever nervous. On the worrying scale, Alice is probably the most neurotic, then me, and then, a long way away, Cass. But today she was all over the place. It was very surprising. However, when she saw the practice room (as we are now calling the garage) she cheered up a bit.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It does look very … official.’
‘Will we try that Kinks’ song?’ said Alice. Cass thought she didn’t know it and started dithering again but then she realised she did know it after all and we got going. And it sounded … well, not good, exactly, but it sounded like music. Cass realised that playing bass lines on the keyboards is actually pretty easy if you have any sense of rhythm at all (which she does, thank God) and she figured one out pretty quickly. In fact, I hate to say it, but I think I myself might be the weakest link at the moment. I can’t quite get the hang of the cymbals yet. Or the whole playing-the-bass-drum-with-my-feet thing. I wish I could take the drums home so I could practise during the week but that’s not very practical. I’d never get them on the bus, for one. And there’s no way Mum would help me lug them around the place. Anyway, I can practise playing the drums on cushions, even though Rachel tells me to stop every time I start, because apparently the faint noise of drumsticks hitting cushions ‘drives her mad’. She should count herself lucky I can’t take the drums home, you can barely hear those cushions.
Anyway, we are all very excited about the band. But we’re not going to tell anybody about it. It was Cass’s idea, and she’s probably right.
‘They might want to hear us. Or they’ll want to know the names of songs and stuff,’ she said. ‘And we won’t have anything to tell them so we’ll look mad. We should wait until we can actually, you know, play more than one song.’
I think this might be a good idea.
MONDAY
Ugh. I hate my school. I spent the entire day wishing I was practising my lovely drums instead of sitting in that stupid place. Apparently my mother doesn’t even bother telling me when she’s going to humiliate me now. It seems there was an article yesterday in some newspaper we don’t get at home all about Mum and her stupid new book. And as well as a ginormous picture of Mum (which, sadly, is the sort of thing I’m used to by now), there were photos of me and Rachel as small kids! Dancing around on a beach in stupid pink shorts! I remember that photo being taken – it was when we were on holiday in Kerry when we were little. We were working out a dance routine to a Destiny’s Child song. One of these photos was on the noticeboard in our classroom when I got into school today.
No prizes for guessing who was sniggering away next to it.
‘Hey, Rafferty,’ said Karen. ‘I see you were in the paper again. Looking good!’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll lend you my lovely shorts if you like.’
And I just sat down at my desk. Luckily that was when Miss Kelly came in and started talking about polar bears dying horribly. I’ve never been so glad to be terrified. After the class Ellie pulled down the picture and tore it up. Thank God she did, because our next class was in the same room and it was Mrs Harrington. Imagine if she’d been going on about those shorts! She was awful as it was. We are meant to be doing Romeo and Juliet, but Mrs Harrington keeps going on about the importance of romantic love. The thought of her getting romantic with anyone is too much.
Then after the class was over, Vanessa Finn proved she really has lost her mind by saying ‘Hey, Rebecca, I thought you looked really cool in that photo’ as she passed by me and Cass. She is definitely insane. There is no way on earth she can possibly think that is true.
Anyway, at lunchtime I went to find Rachel to warn her about Mum’s latest betrayal. I never usually look for her at school, as we generally pretend we don’t know each other while on school grounds, but recent events have made us realise we need to stick together. I stuck my head in the door of her form room and one of her classmates said, ‘Oh God, Rache, is that your sister? I didn’t recognise her without her lovely shorts.’
So obviously Rachel already knew about the disaster. But she came out to me anyway. She was all red and cross-looking.
‘What is it?’ she said snappishly.
‘Oh, charming,’ I said. ‘I came over here to warn you about that stupid article and this is the thanks I get.’
Rachel looked slightly ashamed of herself, for once.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Oh God, I can’t believe she gave them that photo.’
‘Rafferty!’ came a voice from inside Rachel’s classroom. ‘Are you and Rebecca practising your dance routine again?’ It was her friend Jenny, so I knew she was only joking, but Rachel looked like she was going to explode.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is the final straw.’
‘We hope it is,’ I said. ‘Who knows what Mum has planned next?’
Who indeed? When I got home I politely asked Mum about that terrible article.
‘Where did they get that horrible, horrible photo of me and Rachel?’ I bellowed.
Mum looked uncomfortable.
‘I gave it to them, of course. And before you start shouting and roaring, it was a few weeks ago, before I realised how upset you’d be about the whole thing. I thought you’d think it was funny.’
‘FUNNY?’ I shrieked. Then Rachel came in and started shouting too. EventuallyMumstopped looking apologetic and started looking cross.
‘Look girls,’ she said. ‘I have to give interviews to promote the book. I do this for all my books. It’s part of my job, which is selling books, so that your dad and I can pay the mortgage and look after you two. We need this money and this is part of how I earn it. So unless you’d like to have no new clothes or nice holidays in France or dancing classes …’
‘We haven’t gone to dancing classes since I was ten,’ said Rachel grumpily.
‘Oh for God’s sake! Well, no pocket money or new shoes or iPods or new music. That is what my job and your dad’s job pays for, as well as the food on the table and the clothes on your backs and the roof over your head, and it would be nice if you ever appreciated it!’ And she looked very cross and walked out of the room.
Rachel and I looked at each other.
‘She has a point,’ said Rachel.
‘Well, she would if she hadn’t given them that photo. I mean, no one made her do it,’ I said.
‘True,’ said Rachel. We tried not to speak to Mum for the rest of the evening, but I don’t think she even noticed. Some mother she is.
Dad is, of course, on her side. ‘I know it was embarrassing,’ he said. ‘But your mother really did think you’d find it funny. So did I. I mean, it’s a lovely photo of the two of you.’
‘It might be lovely in a family photo album,’ said Rachel. ‘Although that’s a matter of opinion. It’s not lovely in a newspaper that somehow everyone in school managed to see. I don’t even know how they did it. It’s not like that paper puts every article online.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, all this publicity stuff will be over soon,’ said Dad. ‘And then everyone will forget about it.’
He seemed very confident about this, but I bet they won’t. I’m going to get compared to that awful Ruthie O’Reilly for the rest of my life. I know I will.
TUESDAY
We can’t decide what to call the band. We spent most of lunchtime hiding under the coats in the cloakroom having a discussion about it. I think some of the others wondered what on earth we were being so secretive about. Anyway, we all had lots of ideas but none of them seemed quite right.
‘Should it be a “The” name?’ said Cass. ‘You know, like The Beatles.’
‘The Girls with Evil Mothers,’ I said.
‘My mother’s okay,’ said Alice.
‘Mine’s about a medium,’ said Cass. ‘Not perfect but not totally evil either. So no.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean it really. Ummm … the Does.’
‘The what?’ said Cass.
‘The Does,’ I said. ‘Like the dear. Doe, a dear, a female deer …’
‘We’d have to explain it to everyone,’ said Alice. ‘Otherwise they’d think it was d’oh, like Homer Simpson.’
‘Oh yeah, good point,’ I said.
‘Maybe it should be a Someone and the Somethings name,’ said Alice. ‘Like Florence and the Machine.’
‘But then whose name would we use?’ I said. ‘You, me or Cass?’
‘Alice and the … Antidotes,’ said Alice, dreamily.
‘We’re not your backing band, Alice,’ said Cass.
‘And all of us sing anyway,’ I said.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Alice. ‘It was only an idea.’
We lay on the ground of the cloakroom and thought. We came up with a few more names (Daisychain, Kitten Attack, The Antidote), but they just weren’t very good. None of them seemed right. I never realised finding the right band name could be so difficult.
‘We’ll know the right one when we see it,’ said sage-like Alice.
‘But what if we don’t see it?’ said Cass. ‘We’ve got to pick a name at some stage. Imagine if you had a baby and let it go this long without a name. Everyone would say it was child abuse.’
‘I’m not sure our band is quite as important as a baby,’ said Alice.
She’s probably right. I suppose. It’s quite important to us, though. So we really have to come up with a name.
WEDNESDAY
Well, we’ve come up with a name now, but I wish we hadn’t. Not because of the name, but how it happened.
Today was awful. First of all, everyone in the class knows about the band now. We didn’t really plan on telling anyone until we were actually, you know, able to play properly, but I couldn’t help it. It happened at lunchtime. We’d just sat through Mrs O’Reilly blathering on about Christopher Columbus and his ridiculously-named ships for forty-five minutes and another Miss Kelly geography class (she spent about twenty minutes telling us about what we’ll have to do to survive once all the water runs out. I will have nightmares for weeks). This was all traumatic enough, and I was not in the mood for Karen Rodgers and her nonsense. But Karen has somehow managed to get her paws on Mum’s book AND she’s read it. I can’t believe she got through it so quickly. I didn’t even know she could read.
Anyway, I knew someone would read the book eventually, and I knew it would probably be someone like Karen who doesn’t like me, but it didn’t make it any more fun. We had a free class in the library and when we arrived the librarian wasn’t there and there were no teachers around. Alice and I were having a look at the fiction shelves when Karen suddenly produced a copy of May the Best Girl Win from God knows where (probably her pants).
‘Hey, everyone!’ she cried. ‘Look what I’ve got!’
And of course everyone laughed. Not Cass or Alice or even Ellie, of course, but other people who I thought were my friends or at least liked me. This whole experience is making me lose my faith in human nature.
‘Listen to this,’ said Karen. She turned to me. ‘I bet your mum didn’t even have to make any of this up. She just had to steal your diary.’ And she started to read from the book.
‘“Dear Diary,’ she said, in a stupid squeaky voice. ‘The competition is hotting up! I’ve got to work harder. Today Caoimhe chose her victim – I mean, future boyfriend. At least, that what she hopes! He’s a guy who goes to St Joseph’s and I’ve got to admit, he’s not bad. In fact, I wish I’d seen him first! But I’m still determined to find the perfect boy for me.”’
Karen put down the book for a moment and flicked through the pages, while everyone sniggered along. ‘It gets better, everyone. Listen to this. “I know this sounds crazy, but I have a funny feeling about …” She paused dramatically. ‘“Wildfire. I really think our group is going to be famous someday. I know I’m not the prettiest girl in the world. I’m not very tall and my eyes are a boring grey colour and my hair’s a kind of ordinary wavy brown.”’ Karen paused again and gestured towards me. And PEOPLE LAUGHED. I hate my class. And my mother. Why couldn’t stupid Ruthie have been 5 foot 11 and had black or blonde or red hair? Anything but a wavy brownhaired midget! Anyway, Karen wasn’t finished reading aloud. ‘“But when we’re all together and we’re all dressed up, I feel gorgeous! I know I can sing too. It’s not boasting; it’s just something I’ve always known. And when we’re singing and dancing together, I feel like there’s nothing stopping us being pop stars. We just need to get discovered. I wonder if we should enter one of those TV talent shows? After all, it worked for Girls Aloud.”’
Karen laughed again. She is very easily amused. ‘So, Rebecca,’ she sniggered. ‘You think you’re going to be the next Cheryl Cole, do you?’
I gritted my teeth. ‘I know you find this hard to believe, Karen,’ I said. ‘But that book is actually MADE UP. It’s not true.’
‘Huh,’ said Karen. ‘Well, I can’t wait to see you and your little chums singing and dancing with, heh heh, Wildfire. Do you get to do a solo?’
‘Oh my God, Karen!’ I shrieked. ‘I am not Ruthie Whatserface!’
Karen looked at me and smirked. I’ve never hated anyone so much in my life. Not even Mum. Not even Rachel when she read my diary when I was twelve (there wasn’t anything particularly scandalous in it, but it was the thought that counts). ‘Well, yeah,’ she said. ‘I suppose I can’t imagine you actually doing anything as cool as starting a band. Even a sad girl band.’
And I was so angry that I spoke without thinking properly. Or thinking at all, really.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I am in a band. And it’s nothing like the ridiculous one in the book. We’re an indie band. And I’m the drummer.’
Next to me, Alice and Cass froze. I could almost hear them thinking ‘oh no …’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Karen Rodgers. ‘You’re the drummer in an indie band. Of course you are. God, you’re sad.’
‘I’m sad?’ I said. ‘You’re the one who went to the trouble of getting my mum’s book and reading it just to annoy me. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. And yes, I am in a band. With Alice and Cass.’
Karen gave a fake sort of laugh.
‘Oh yeah?’ she said. ‘So what are you called?’
Of course, I didn’t know what to say, so I stared at the shelf next to me. And the first thing that caught my eye was a battered old paperback by an author called Deborah something or other called Hey, Dollface.
‘Hey Dollface!’ I said suddenly.
‘What?’ said Karen.
‘What?’ said Alice and Cass, but luckily no one seemed to notice that they’d said anything because Karen was doing another stupid loud fake laugh which probably drowned out any other sound in a five-mile radius.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s the name of our band. Not,’ I forced a laugh which sounded almost as fake as Karen’s, ‘Wildfire. I’m sure you’ll get to see us at some stage. We’ll be playing some gigs eventually.’
I could almost feel Alice and Cass glaring at me. Karen opened her mouth to say something, but then the librarian came in so we all had to hurry into our seats. As I was passing Karen I whispered, ‘Thanks for buying Mum’s book, by the way. That money will buy me a new set of drumsticks!’
It won’t, of course, because writers only get a tiny amount of money for every book they sell, but Karen doesn’t know that. And she looked as sick as a pig. Ha!
My triumph was shortlived, of course, because at lunchtime everyone started asking about the band. We sort of acted like we’d been doing it for ages, because we didn’t want to admit we’ve only had one practice.
‘Yeah, I got the drums a while ago,’ I said, taking my lunch out of my bag. ‘And Alice and Cass have been playing the guitar and the piano for ages.’ Well, that’s all technically true.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’ said Ellie.
‘Well, we were going to keep it quiet for a while,’ said Cass, giving me a meaningful look. Cass is very good at giving meaningful looks. Maybe it’s because they are intensified by her glasses. ‘We wanted to wait until we were ready to play gigs.’
‘So who do you sound like?’ asked Jessie McCabe.
Of course, we don’t really sound like anyone yet. We’ve only really played one song, and that was by the Kinks.
‘Um, we’re still working on our general sound,’ I said. Then, of course, Karen, who was sitting at the next desk, had to stick her oar in.
‘Well, at least we know you can sing,’ she said. ‘At least, your alter-ego can. She was boasting about it in this ridiculous book.’
I ignored her and started eating my sandwich.
‘Are you going to play any concerts?’ asked Ellie. ‘You have to tell us if you do.’
‘Well, we really want to play gigs,’ said Alice, although to be honest I’m not sure Cass actually does. ‘But, um, we’re not sure how. I think we’re too young to play most places.’
‘You should ask Rebecca,’ said Karen. ‘After all, Wildfire played a concert.’
I rolled my eyes as if I was just mildly amused by Karen’s ravings, as opposed to wanting to kill her. This seemed to annoy her because she shut up for a while. And then we went out to sit in the playing field and eat crisps, and I managed to avoid her for the rest of the day.
Alice doesn’t really care all that much about everyone knowing about the band, but Cass does. She says she didn’t want anyone to know about it until we were amazing musicians and had written loads of songs, rather than three girls who had only had one practice. ‘And only two of us can play our instruments properly,’ she said. ‘No offence.’
‘I’m not that bad,’ I said.
‘Sorry,’ said Cass. ‘But you know what I mean. It’s not that you’re bad, you just haven’t had much chance to practise.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Fair enough.’
Anyway, it’s done now, and there’s nothing we can do to change it, as Alice very sensibly pointed out. She also said everyone will forget about it soon, although that wasn’t quite as sensible. No one in our class seems to forget anything. They’re like elephants in hideous wine-coloured uniforms. Some of them still go on about the time Jessie accidentally called Frau O’Hara ‘Mum’ in class and that happened nearly a year ago.
THURSDAY
Have been practising the drums on the sofa cushions. I think I am getting better. In fact, I know I’m getting better. You just have to learn to relax your wrists. Of course, the pedal thing still freaks me out a bit, but I’ll figure it out. And I don’t really need to play a big bass drum very often (I hope). I’m kind of avoiding playing the cymbals for the same reason. Also, it turns out that playing the drums (or cushions) is very good way of letting out your rage. Obviously I have had lots of things to be angry about recently (Mum, Mrs Harrington, Karen Rodgers, Vanessa Finn) and after a good bash I do feel much better.
To my amazement, I am not the only person who thinks I am getting better. Dad came in today while I was drumming away on the sofa and said, ‘Wow, Bex, you sound like a real drummer!’
Maybe I really have found my calling.
After reading Pride and Prejudice (which was very good. Especially as Elizabeth escaped her embarrassing mother in the end), I am in the mood for more old-fashioned books about people with horrible parents. Rachel gave me Jane Eyre, which was also written in the olden days. It is okay so far. Jane Eyre is an orphan which frankly doesn’t sound so bad to me right now. Although I suppose Dad isn’t that bad. Some of the time.
FRIDAY
Vanessa Finn is being so nice to me I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for her friend Caroline. Today she asked me if I wanted to sit with her for lunch, ignoring poor old Caroline. In our class we don’t go around asking people to join us for lunch, and I was already eating my sandwiches (wholemeal bread, cheese, ham and lettuce) and drinking a carton of juice (apple) with Cass and Alice, as usual. So that was weird anyway. Caroline just sat there, looking hurt. I politely said that I was having lunch with Cass and Alice, and Vanessa gave me a sugary smile and offered me some of her chocolate brownie. But I didn’t want to take any of it. I’m afraid she has ulterior motives. I just wish I knew what they were.
And I had another conversation with Paperboy this evening. But I’m not sure if that was a good thing or not. I was at home practising the drums, as is my wont these days, and when the door rang I shouted ‘I’ll get it!’ and walked very calmly into the kitchen, got the paper money from the counter, and walked slowly out to the door (I ignored Rachel sniggering and saying, ‘Oh, Bex is answering the door at this time on a Friday, what a surprise’). Then I took a deep breath, smiled, and opened the door. And there he was, looking as lovely as ever. Oh, he’s so tall. I have to lean my head back to look up at him, even when he’s standing a step lower than me.
‘Hi,’ I said. I held out the cash. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, in a friendly way. ‘Did you manage to stay out of the papers this week?’
Without thinking, I said, ‘Well, no, not exactly.’ As soon as I said it I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Or rather, lied. If he hadn’t seen the shorts photo, what on earth was I doing telling him about it? It was better if he never knew anything about it But it was too late now. And then it was like I was possessed. I couldn’t stop talking. ‘My mother did an interview with a newspaper and gave them a photo of me and my sister when we were little,’ I said. ‘We were wearing ridiculous shorts. It was pretty embarrassing.’ Which is why, of course, I am telling you. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
But Paperboy laughed in quite a nice way. ‘Wow, you really are famous,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure that I, a humble paperboy, should be allowed talk to you.’
I should have thought of something clever or funny to say to that, but of course I didn’t, so I just laughed like a crazy person and he grinned and went off.
I wonder if he thinks I actually am a crazy person? Or at least a sad idiot who appears in the paper by accident all the time.
He was quite friendly though. And he was joking with me in a nice way, not a sniggering way. That was pretty cool.
Hmmm.
SATURDAY
I don’t want to write about this but I suppose I have to. Something horrible happened today. We had an early band practice because Alice had to go and visit some relatives, and afterwards Cass and I went into town on the bus. Cass had to buy a birthday present for her brother in some stupid sports shop and she said she knew it wasn’t fair to make me go there, so we split up and said we’d meet in half an hour. I went off to potter around the shops, even though I couldn’t really afford to buy anything, and when I was coming out of Tower Records, Paperboy was coming in. We almost walked into each other in the doorway and when I realized it was him my stomach turned over with excitement and happiness. We just stared at each other and I was starting to say hello when I realised there was someone with him. A girl. She was tall-ish (taller than me, anyway) with brown hair and she was wearing a really nice coat and had a cool bag. She was quite pretty, I suppose.
I froze for a split second and then said, ‘Oh, hi!’ I hope I sounded casual. I have a horrible feeling I didn’t. He looked a bit awkward and said smiled and said, ‘Hey.’ And the girl sort of looked at me funny. If we’d been in the street, I’d have just kept walking but we were still in the doorway so there was a stupid awkward bit where we all moved out of each other’s way in the same direction until finally I broke free and sort of bounded out into Wicklow Street. I said, ‘Um, bye then,’ and he waved and said, ‘See ya,’ and the girl just looked at me blankly, and then I walked down the street as fast as I could and I wanted to die. I wished I didn’t have to meet Cass at all because I just wanted to be on my own. I sort of wandered around the streets near the George’s Street Arcade until it was time to meet her, trying not to cry. We went for a hot chocolate and I told her what had happened. I tried not to show how awful I felt. Cass was all ‘oh no, he’s taken!’ but she didn’t seem to really care. And I do care. And I feel really embarrassed for caring.
I keep running it over and over in my head. I wish I knew whether they were holding hands or not. I mean I wish I knew that they weren’t – right now I think they weren’t but I can’t be sure. Not that it makes any difference. I’m clutching at straws. I wish I could tell myself that she was his sister or his cousin or just his friend but I don’t want to give myself false hope. I feel so, so, so stupid. I’ve spent the last few weeks thinking about him so much, I really thought there was at least a possibility that there was something in it. I can’t believe I was all happy and hopeful about him last night. I can’t believe we were practically engaged in my dreams. I wish he liked me. I wish I knew him.
SUNDAY
Here’s something really shameful – I keep wondering whether Paperboy looked awkward when we met because he didn’t want me to know that he had a girlfriend. Because he likes me. But probably he just looked awkward because he thinks I’m just a silly little girl he bumps into every week when he’s doing his job and he doesn’t want to have to see me in public. I hope he doesn’t know I like him. If he did and felt sorry for me I would die. It’s the worst thing I can possibly imagine. Although he probably feels sorry for me anyway, with my unwanted fame. God, I’m so pathetic.
LATER
I rang Alice and told her everything, including how crappy I felt (I didn’t tell her about my shameful hope that Paperboy secretly loves me). I don’t know why it was easier than talking to Cass. I suppose it was partly because, after the first excitement, I don’t think Alice really cared about Paperboy. She preferred the boy who (still) goes past us on his bike on Calderwood Road. He actually sort of smiled at us the other day so perhaps she’s on the right track. But also it was because we have been friends for much longer than me and Cass, and although I do get on really well with Cass and she is very funny and I probably have more in common with her than I do with Alice, sometimes I feel that perhaps Alice understands me better, in a more serious way, not just about liking the same books and music and TV programmes and stuff like that. So yeah, I told her, and she was really nice about it, and said she understood, and told me about how once she saw Bike Boy exchanging waves with a girl in a St Mary’s uniform when we were on our way into school, and I hadn’t seen anything so she acted normally until we got there and then she went into the toilets and cried. Anyway, I felt a bit better after I talked to her.
MONDAY
I keep forgetting about Paperboy and his stupid girlfriend (it actually gives me a horrible pain in my stomach to write that) and then I remember and feel sick in my tummy. School is so boring, I have plenty of time to think about it. I was in such a daze in maths that I didn’t even notice that Ellie and Jessie were having a competition to see who could tip their seat back the furthest without falling over until Jessie actually did fall over and Mrs Condren spent the rest of the class telling us how we were meant to be grown-up now and it was disgraceful to see fourteen-year-old girls acting like babies.
TUESDAY
As if I didn’t have enough to annoy me at the moment, Vanessa Finn kept going on at me again today. What is up with her recently? I ended up having to sit next to her in German because Cass and I were late for class and there weren’t two free seats beside each other so Frau O’Hara ordered me to sit next to Vanessa. Anyway, we were meant to be practising talking about our favourite TV programmes ‘auf Deutsch’ but Vanessa kept talking about this ginormous birthday party she’s planning and asking me what I thought about it.
‘I haven’t decided whether to arrive on a big pink tank or a pink horse. What do you think?’
What I thought was that she was a total lunatic but I just said, ‘Um, where are you going to get a pink horse?’
‘Oh, we’re just going to dye a white one,’ she said, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to do. Perhaps it is, for her. Perhaps she has a whole stable of horses of every colour.
‘And, well, where are you going to get a tank? Isn’t that, like, illegal?’
‘Dad has a friend who’s an army officer,’ said Vanessa. ‘He said we could just borrow one for the day.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yah. And we can paint it pink as long as we paint it grey or green or whatever boring colour it’s meant to be afterwards.’
It was so mad I have to admit I was kind of fascinated.
‘Are you going to, like, ride through the streets in it? In a tank?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ll be, you know, looking out in the top in my new outfit. Waving at people.’
I always knew Vanessa was a bit peculiar and annoying, but I thought she was basically harmless. Now it sounds like she wants to be Hitler. Only more pink. Anyway, Frau O’Hara came along then so she had to shut up (in English at least). But she kept going in German. She was of course meant to be talking about telly programmes but I’m pretty sure she was still talking about the party (it is hard to tell as her German is even worse than mine). I heard the word ‘Pferd’ which means horse so maybe she is just obsessed with horses in general? Although she also said something about a ‘Fest’. As soon as the class ended she started talking about the tank as well (or Panzer, as I believe they are called ‘auf Deutsch’), but I said I had to go to the loo urgently and ran away (it was the only excuse I could think of). To be honest Vanessa’s mad party should be a distraction, but at the moment I can’t think about anything but Paperboy and that horrible girl. Why did I go in to Tower on Saturday? If I hadn’t seen them I wouldn’t feel so awful now. I mean, I know that it doesn’t change the fact that he’s going out with her (IF he is) but at least then I wouldn’t know about it. Every time I think about it I feel sick. And very, very sad.
THURSDAY
We had an extra band practice after school today. Alice asked her mum to let us do it, to cheer me up, which was very kind of her. I’m not sure it actually worked, because now I’m back home again and I feel miserable, but I have to admit that when we were actually practising it did distract me from my misery for a while.
Maybe I should start writing poetry. I could turn my sadness into great literature.
LATER
Nothing rhymes with Paperboy.
EVEN LATER
If only I knew his real name. Although it’s probably something unrhymable, like Jonathan. Not that he looks like a Jonathan. I actually can’t imagine what his name might be. He doesn’t look like an anything, if you know what I mean. I mean, you wouldn’t look at him and think, ‘There’s a Dave,’ or ‘There’s a Rory.’
Anyway, there isn’t any point in finding out what his name is. I’ll probably never talk to him about anything but newspapers. And I’m not sure I even want to do that anymore.