The new week brings good and bad all at once. Dad gets the teen make-up gig as a one-off project, but the new agency love SASS so much that they also give him two days a week work on top of that. This is v brill for me because I have:
a) helped my dad get a job and
b) I have sort of been offered a job myself too, but I don’t actually have to do the work*
= v satisfactory all round.
I have a stroke of luck when I get to school on Monday morning. I’m a bit early for Assembly, so I decide to put some stuff in my locker. Just as I am climbing the stairs I see a lad from the year above me putting a letter in the Ten Guitars fan mailbox and I decide to get it out as I’m passing. It is the only letter in there so far because we’re after the weekend and I was my super-efficient self last week and got to the bottom of the correspondence pile. It is a letter from the troll! And I now know who that troll is.
I think I might know his reasons too. This guy plays guitar and must have tried out for the band. They only took ten – well, Eleven Guitars just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? – so this lad didn’t make the cut and he’s obvs not dealing well with the rejection. I do have to act on it now, though, because this latest letter has a much more threatening tone than the rest.
I ponder my Plan of Action throughout the morning, thereby missing some French and Irish verbs and a chunk of the reproductive cycle of the frog. I know where to find the troll’s classroom and then all I have to do is leave him a note and hopefully that will sort this out. Here’s what I write:
We at Ten Guitars know that you are the one leaving us hate mail. You have been seen and identified by a trusted source. Stop this activity immediately or we will report you to the principal and we will name and shame you throughout the school. We have all the evidence we need.
At lunch, I deliver the letter. I hope that’s the end of it. If not, I really will give the letters to the principal and testify that I saw who put them in the box.
NEXT!
Gran texts: Your mum has gone out with Harry to join the local mother-and-child group
I reply: TOP NEWS!
It is.
NEXT!
Dixie …
This is a more complex problem. It’s a matter of the heart. And Dixie is a cussed sort. I love her to bits but she can be stubborn and untalkable to. I’m not sure plain reasoning with her will do.
In the afternoon I miss a Maths equation, the geography of China and the conquest of the South Pole, wondering about the Dixie Dilemma.
We have a Knit ’n’ Knatter in my room that afternoon as we serio need to get the hearts made for Valentine’s Day.
‘I hope our customers like a bit of dog hair in their love gifts,’ I say as I try† to push Gypsy off the yarn.
‘Kev wants to meet this weekend,’ Dixie announces.
‘Has he actually sent you a proper photo yet?’ Uggs wants to know.
Dixie hesitates before answering = most unusual for her.
‘I’ll take that as a “no”, shall I?’
‘He’s shy about how he looks,’ she says.
‘I’ll bet.’ Uggs is looking v grim. ‘Is he as shy about how you look?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is he still looking for pics that only you and him will have?’
Her silence tells us that he is.
‘He gave me his mobile number,’ she offers.
‘Show us, then.’
She does and we make a note of it, as proof that he is out there somewhere.
‘I don’t like the feel of this, Dixie,’ I say, as gently as I can. ‘It’s hinky. Something’s not quite right.’
We knit on in silence. Then she says, ‘The way things are going round here, we might not sell any of these. I’m not feeling a great Valentine spirit welling up within Oakdale.’
We knit on none the less.
We don’t return to the subject of next weekend as it will only lead to a row within the Gang. It will have to be dealt with some other way.
When the others are gone, it comes to me what it is that I can do. I realize this is pretty much the same problem as the school troll, but bigger, so I need to go higher with this one. I draft another letter, this time to the police.
I write it on my computer, so it is clear and legible – besides, my hand is shaking so much with nerves that my writing would be totes rubbish. I give as much detail as I have. I voice my worries. The only thing that grieves me about it is that I will have to remain anonymous. This seems cowardly to me, like the school troll who hadn’t the guts to sign up to his horrid comments, but the truth is that Dixie would never speak to me again if I got her into a big exposé and one which could only lead to trouble at home. I don’t want to lose her. If that’s selfish of me, then so be it. I must protect her, though – I have no choice there: it’s part of my responsibility as a friend. I need to remove her from danger.
I email a copy to Uggs and text to alert him to it. I want, I need, his approval and backup for my plan. After a few minutes I get: go for it! I print out the letter and put it in a plain brown envelope. Uggs and Gypsy collect me and we walk to the cop shop, where we post it through the main door and hope for the best. It’s up to the big boys to deal with it now.
Back at home, Mum has returned from a meeting of the mother-and-child group. She’s wearing a satisfied smile that has us all as worried as the sad face she used to wear until recently.
‘Anything we should know about?’ Gran asks.
‘Oh, you’ll see,’ is all we get in return.
Uh-oh. There is, officially, trouble in the air.
