Today I’m in the kitchen with Harry, in charge of babysitting for a while because Mum is having a well-earned snooze. She has to breastfeed Harry every two hours and he can take his own sweet time if he has a mind to, dawdling while enjoying his surroundings. I still get a leeetle bit wobbly seeing my mum’s chesticles every so often and I’m totes MORTO if anyone outside of the family espies them. Dad says Harry’s a clever little chap because he won’t get a proper ‘go’ at boobies again till he’s ancient – EUW, DAD! Way, way too much information right there.
Don’t worry, Gran is lurking and keeping an eye on me, supervising my babysitting, so there’s no need to call Social Services just yet. And I would NEVER let ANY harm come to Harry on my watch, no WAY, not EVER. As I think of it, Gran is around a lot right now. OK, it is the Yuletide season, which is big time family time, and she does live in what used to be our garage (!), but even so she’s everywhere since Harry arrived. I should probs wonder Why? more but I am distracto in the head.
Reason? I can hear Dermot and some of his friends strumming their guitars in the lounge and it makes my heart do funny jumps. Stevie Lee Bolton is in there. He’s one of the Guitars. He is the fittest guy in Oakdale, where we live, and he’s sixteen and probably thinks I’m a squirt – well, of course he does, how could he not? I’m thirteen and he’s an older generation – they always see the youngsters as eejits and nuisances if they even truly notice us at all. It is the way of things and always has been since the dawn of time, I’d say.
Steve Bolton has deep brown eyes and floppy, curly hair and I can’t really get past that now as I imagine him in my mind – in other words the kind of looks that can mesmerize a gal (me!). He is seriously, meltingly gorgeous. My chest hurts a bit thinking about him. Dixie once remarked that I might be bewitched.*
Ennyhoo, we recently celebrated the New Year so I’m thinking of my annual Things To Do List. I love lists. I have a pen with a red feather on top that writes in turquoise sparkly ink and it’s lined up on the kitchen table beside a totes cute notebook that Dixie gave me for Christmas, ready to take my instructions to myself for the next twelve months. I don’t want to call them ‘resolutions’ because those always seem doomed to failure in the world of Jenny Q: ‘Just asking for trouble,’ as Gran would say. So it’s a list of Things To Do or suggestions, as Dixie has proposed we call them this year.
‘We’ is the Gang = me (Jennifer Margaret Anne Quinn), Dorothy ‘Dixie’ Purvis and Eugene ‘Uggs’ Nightingale.
Uggs’s dog, Gypsy Nightingale, is NOT one of the Gang, though she tries to muscle (her wiry, pongy self) in at every turn.
Harry has just been changed and he’s got a sleepy look on his face, so I’ll put him in his cradle for a snooze. He needs a lot of sleep because he’s busy growing and eating and so on. I can’t resist giving him a little volley of kisses on his lovely little face. I hear someone clearing his throat and, when I look, it’s Stevie Lee Bolton. EEP! I hope my hair† isn’t sticking out too much and that my face isn’t too red from my baby duties.
‘I’m in charge of making coffee for the Guitars,’‡ he says and goes to fill the kettle.
My legs are feeling tingly and I think I’d probably best sit down before I fall over.
‘You know where everything is, don’t you?’ My voice sounds thin and squeaky. My behind is clenched up with embarrassment.
‘How’s the little guy?’
‘Great. Time for his snooze,’ I say and put the baby down.
My hand immediately goes to my hair to check on what kind of thatch is rockin’ a look up there. I can’t decide if I can feel product or grease. There’s a bit of an awkward silence in the kitchen now because I don’t know what to say next. It doesn’t seem to bother Stevie Lee, but then again he is older and way cool, so nothing really gets to him. My heart is thundering in my chest and I have a weird ringing in my ears. Surely he can hear all that? I want the floor to open and swallow me.
The kettle rumbles to a boil and clicks off.
SLB is looking at me in a strange way.
‘Err, Jen,’ б he says.
‘Yes?’
‘Is there a reason why Harry is in the recycling box?’
WHAT??!!!
I look and, sure enough, my tiny baby brother is sleeping soundly on top of a pile of newspapers in the box next to his cradle. He looks v v comfortable but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I, his one and only sister, put him in the trash. Harry might have been thrown out into the green bin!
If this is discovered I’ll never be allowed to look after the baby ever again.§
