It’s lunchtime before I investigate the fan mail in the postbox. And I suppose I should have expected that not everyone would be pleased with the band’s success. There is hate mail. The ‘you think you’re great but you are NOT’ stuff and worse. Not much, but enough for me to look around and wonder who in the school is so jealous or so full of bile that they have to write this hateful stuff.* I decide never to show it to the lads.
What I don’t understand is why anyone would want to put this sort of stuff into words. Then again, maybe their life is so awful they want to lash out at someone who seems to be doing well? It’s a bit of a waste of time (or at least it will be if I hide this stuff), but maybe it makes them feel better to have vented their frustration or whatever. Ennyhoo, it is not nice reading. And of course it’s anonymous, so that’s a bit cowardly too, as if they can’t let themselves be named (and shamed?) and can’t even take responsibility for their words.
Delia’s box has a lot of ‘You’re great’ and so on† and then one that just states, ‘You’re not funny, you’re adopted.’ Well, OK, this is getting on my (quite wheezy) chest at this stage. I am fed up of negativity. And the idea that someone might not be funny simply because they’re adopted is laughable and impossible, and Delia IS funny, v v funny! I am going to watch the boxes and find out who these teens with v v bad attitudes are and give them a piece of my mind.‡
Dixie appears at my side. ‘Business is booming and we’re going to have to buy more yarn and make more bracelets toot sweet.’
Uggs confirms that we are running out of stock. ‘Product is low,’ he tells me, and winks as he uses Dixie’s terms. She doesn’t see him, which is lucky for Uggs, because Dixie can be fierce if she thinks she’s being teased unfairly.б
‘Supply and demand,’ she says. ‘We should tell Poor Mr Mulhall we understand that now.’
Poor Mr Mulhall teaches Economics and everyone has spent so long calling him Poor Mr Mulhall that it has stuck and that’s his full name now. For the record, I think he’s fairly well off, it’s just his unfortunately miserable look and tinny voice that got him his title. When you get a nickname in Oakdale High you keep it.§
We get some lunch in the canteen and review the day so far.
‘How is this stew?’ I ask Uggs, because I can’t taste it.
‘Quite edible,’ he tells me.
‘Good enough. I’ll tell myself I’m enjoying it, so.’
‘My Facebook romance is moving on,’ Dixie says.
‘Oh?’ I try to sound v casual.
‘Kev wants me to send more photos.’
‘There are already lots of photos of you up there,’ Uggs points out.
‘Yes, but they’re for everyone to see. These would be just between us, special.’
‘Has he sent you a pic of him?’ I ask.
‘He says he will today, after school.’
I so don’t like the sound of this Kev and I think this photo business is all a bit sneaky … and suspect …
‘We’ll have a look at him then,’ Uggs says, quite firmly. ‘And you shouldn’t send him anything until he does.’
‘Motion carried,’ I say, even though strictly speaking we weren’t having a Gang powwow.
Gary O’Brien rocks up and sits at the table with us – well, beside me, to be more exact. Dixie quickly scans the canteen to see if Jason the Tongue Fielding is around and available to notice. He is nowhere to be seen so we are spared my Bestie flinging herself across the table at one of the newest Rock Gods in town. She doesn’t even need to talk loudly to gain an audience for this event, because it is a non-event. All of which is a relief.
‘How goes it?’ GOB wants to know.
We murmur that things are fine.
‘Poor old Jen caught the show sneeze, didn’t you?’ he says.
‘Yup.’ Sounds like I’ve said ‘YUB’, though.
‘She was great looking after us on Saturday,’ he continues and then (ARGH) he only goes and puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. I am boiled with embarrassment as well as my high temperature from the TFX fever = not good.
Dixie’s right eyebrow is raised and I know her mind is doing all sorts of somersaults as she works out what she’s seeing here. Uggs is trying not to laugh.
‘Right, best keep on keepin’ on,’ he says and lets go of me.** ‘Laters.’ He strolls over to another table.
‘Interesting,’ Dixie says, and waits for me to explain myself.
I shrug. ‘He’s one of the group, they’re all glad I’m doing the fan mail.’
The eyebrow is still arched.
‘Oh, come ON, Dixie! The Dork? Me? I think not.’
‘True enough,’ she says and I can breathe again.††
As we make our way back to class Uggs sidles up and whispers, ‘That guy likes you.’ I thump him on the arm and threaten (no, promise) to kill him if he ever says, or even thinks, such a thing again.
I may have become a hypersensitard about this situation, but it’s good to be on my guard lest‡‡ it escalate.
