traumatIC faCe INCIDeNts

My friend Goose McKenzie is an extremely cool individual. Like Elvis Presley, she is also capable of random moments of startling wisdom. Goose once told me that everybody in the entire world can be neatly slotted into one of the following three style categories:

Type A people are masters of fashion.

Type B people are slaves to fashion.

Type C people are actually from another planet and have no idea what the word ‘fashion’ actually means. René Descartes was probably one of these.

Goose said that she is definitely a Type A person. At the time she told me this, I could only agree with her. We were sitting inside Pat’s Plaice sharing a plate of chips, and Goose was wearing some crazy new leg-wear and a hand-knitted Peruvian poncho. She’d also given herself a massive comb-over and blow-dried her hair until it was so huge that she looked like a Woolly Mammoth in wet-look leggings. In comparison, everyone else in the chip shop looked rather bland.

When I asked her which type of person she thought I was, Goose had paused for a fraction too long before deciding that I’m probably on the cusp of Types B and C. After she’d told me this, I’d called her a crusty hedgepig and sprinkled vinegar in her hair and then Goose had stood up, yanked wide the neck of my school jumper and shaken half a tonne of salt down my back – and then Pat had shouted at us from behind his fish counter and told us both to get out. If I’m really honest though, it’s hard to totally disagree with her. Whichever way you look at it, Goose is a very fashionable individual. And a free thinker. And a Kool-with-a-K-Coolio-who-is-cooltastically-cool-for-cats-and-way-too-cool-for-school. She is even an Existentialist Absurdist. Which basically means that her outlook on life can be summed up like this:

In my experience, not many fifteen-year-olds even know what an Existentialist Absurdist is, but Goose does because she blatantly is one. That’s how clever and cool and A-Type fashionable my friend Goose actually is.

But I have to say that even Goose has shown that she is unable to appreciate the finer aspects of philosophy. This morning, as I walked to school with her, I told her about my conversation with Elvis Presley and how he’d introduced me to the fascinating theories of René Descartes. I was feeling quite bright and energized because it was a Friday and I was feeling that funky Friday fever. Also, I’d just eaten a piece of chocolate in the shape of a shooting star I’d found behind door two of my Advent calendar. It’s possible that I was a bit over-emotional about Descartes. I talked about him almost all the way to school and then, finally, as we neared the school gates, I summed up my thoughts by saying, ‘I mean . . . can you imagine it, Goose? One day, René just decided that the only thing he had to believe was that he existed – and everything else was potentially a load of hogwash. Can you imagine writing something like that over all your exam papers? That would be well funny!’

I don’t think Goose was as interested as I was. She said, ‘René who?’ and then she said, ‘I’m not being funny, Lotts, but are you aware that you’re having a Traumatic Face Incident?’

‘Huh?’ I said.

‘An unidentified facial object has landed on you – just here,’ she said, tapping the end of her own nose as if she were my mirror. ‘It looks helluva angry. Honestly, it’s like a panic button. Do you want to borrow my concealer stick?’

I said, ‘What? No way!’ And then I touched my nose and experienced that upsetting bruise-like sensation that could only mean one thing – a freshly emerged evil red zombie had taken root on my face.

So I wailed, ‘Oh my God, how the heck did that get there? It wasn’t there when I washed my face this morning.’

Spots are like that. Like toothache and timed essays, they spring up on you from out of nowhere and you just have to keep calm and deal with them. Taking a few quick deep breaths to dispel any possible panic attack, I patted all my pockets until I found my own concealer stick and then I dealt with it. And if that sounds like I’ve got some weird issue about using Goose’s make-up, I should just point out that I was, in fact, thoughtfully avoiding any awkwardness which might arise in the event of my facial deformity exploding on concealer contact.

When we reached the main building, Goose said, ‘See you soon, big baboon,’ and I said, ‘I doubt it, dimwit,’ and then we hugged and parted to go our separate ways. I’m in hardly any classes with Goose. Only English and science. I’m not even in the same registration group. Personally, I think my school has a deliberate and sneaky policy of keeping close personal friends isolated at opposite ends of the building. I have no idea why. It’s a commonly accepted truth that all teenagers produce superior work when they’re in a relaxed and friendly environment and can sit next to whoever they like and chat. It also helps if we can chew gum. Anyone with half a head knows this.

Giving Goose a final wave, I made my way to the tuck shop where I guessed I’d find my future husband and life partner, Gareth Stingecombe, somewhere near the front of the queue. Sure enough, he was being served just as I arrived. When he saw me, he said, ‘Biggsy babes!’ and winked in a way that made my knees go wonky. After paying his money to Mr Doughnut,3 he hurried towards me with two steaming paper bags in his hands.

‘Biggsy babes,’ he said again and pushed one of the paper bags into my hands. ‘I’ve bought you a December Special. You can tell Chrimbo’s just around the corner cos Doughnut’s started selling turkey baguettes.’

I peered into the bag and inspected the sandwich inside. The bread was already turning soggy from the hot filling and gloopy cranberry sauce. Turkey-smelling steam rose up through the cold air and hit my nostrils. It made me feel a bit sick to be honest. Politely, I took a small nibble and then I carefully re-wrapped the sandwich and put it into the pocket of my coat. Usually, I don’t bother wearing a coat because coats have a tendency to make me look utterly unhip like a straighty one-eighty. Which is not symmetrically square but definitely slightly squircle, if you know what I mean. Even so, there are some occasions when refusing to wear a coat just for the sake of fashion would be utterly stupid. A freezing December day in Cardiff is precisely one of them. Also, I need a coat which has reasonably deep pockets because I’ve recently stopped using a school bag. In my opinion, school bags make you look like you’re a Type B person who is desperately trying to be a Type A.

‘Don’t you want it?’ asked Gareth anxiously.

‘Of course I do, Gazzy,’ I said, ‘But I’ll eat it later when it’s not burning my fingerprints off.’

Gareth is a very hunky and chunky individual who requires a lot of fuel to get him through the day. Even though we’ve officially been an item for practically five months, he often forgets that I only eat about one-twelfth of the amount of food that he does and that I can’t cope with turkey and cranberry sauce baguettes at five past eight in the morning. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by appearing ungrateful though because it was, after all, sweet of him to be thinking about my dietary requirements.

‘Ta, Gaz,’ I said and turned to give him a turkey-flavoured kiss. But then, before I even had a chance to shut up my big mouth, I stopped and said, ‘Oh my God! Did you know that you’re having a totally intense Traumatic Face Incident?’

He was as well. The most humongous zombie I’ve ever seen was growing on his chin. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. For half a second, I thought it was quite sweet that we’d both been blighted by spots at the same time but then I thought about it a bit more and decided that it was actually quite disgusting.

Gareth said, ‘Huh?’

‘You’ve got a whopping great zit, Gaz,’ I said. And, helpfully, I tapped my own chin as if I were his mirror and said, ‘Right here.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Gareth, his face turning the same colour as his cranberry sauce – and then he touched his chin and frowned.

‘I told you so!’ I said triumphantly.

Gareth’s frown deepened and in a slightly snappy voice, he said, ‘All right, Biggs, there’s no need to sound so flipping chuffed!’ And then he shook his head at me and bit sulkily on his sandwich.

I felt bad then. I can be a heartless wench sometimes, I honestly can. Sometimes, stuff just comes out of my mouth without having passed through a Stupid Filter first. In an effort to put things right, I said, ‘Do you want to borrow my concealer stick?’ And then, to be extra nice, I added, ‘I’ll do it for you if you like. I could get that bad boy sorted out for you in a matter of seconds.’

Instead of answering me, Gareth spluttered on his turkey baguette. I thumped him on the back and said, ‘Do you want me to go and get Mr Doughnut?’ This isn’t as random as it sounds. As well as being in charge of the tuck shop, Mr Doughnut is also a First Aider and he’s highly trained in dealing with minor medical emergencies. He even knew what to do when Goose twisted her neck during a music lesson once. To be honest, it had been completely her own fault because Mr Howells had already told her off twice for playing the guitar behind the back of her head.

Gareth stopped spluttering and muttered, ‘Nah, I’m all right.’

I breathed a big sigh of relief and then I said, ‘So do you want to borrow my concealer stick or what?’

Instantly, Gareth turned purple and started spluttering again.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, Gareth leaned back against the wall of the schoolyard, and then, after a shifty glance around to check that he couldn’t be overheard, he said, ‘Stop going on about that blinking . . .’ He paused and dropped his voice even further, before adding uncomfortably, ‘. . . concealer thingy.’

‘What’s wrong with wearing a bit of cover-up?’ I said. ‘I’ve got some on now. It’s heaps better than walking around with a snooker ball stuck to your chin.’

Gareth shot another edgy look around the schoolyard and said, ‘Nothing’s wrong with it if you’re a girl. But you’re not putting any of that stuff near my face because I’m blatantly a bloke. And blokes DON’T wear make-up.’

At this point I started laughing. Gareth is undeniably sweet and hunky and gorgeous but he’s also ridiculously old-fashioned. During last year’s unit on sexual reproduction, Mr Thomas, my double-science teacher, told us that all male mammals are made up of equal numbers of X and Y chromosomes. The X chromosome is the girly pleasant part and the Y chromosome is the magic ingredient which makes them grow extra dangly bits and causes their bedrooms to smell of woodland fust. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult to believe that Gareth has got any of the X factor in him. He’s definitely not in tune with his feminine side. If he was, he’d be begging to borrow my concealer stick.

‘Why not?’ I said, hurrying after Gareth who was stropping off in the direction of our form room with his hands in his pockets.

‘Because . . .’ said Gareth, with increasing annoyance, ‘. . . girls only wear it to impress boys anyway and—’

‘NO WE DON’T,’ I said, outraged. ‘We wear it to please ourselves.’ And then I added, ‘Well, I do, because I’m a Type A person. All the women in my family are Type A people actually!’ To be honest, I’m not sure if this is strictly true. My older sister Ruthie is away at university studying archaeology and I hardly ever see her wearing anything other than jeans and a muddy old parka. And my mum is a frumpy police woman.

Gareth stopped walking and looked confused. ‘What the heck are you on about?’ Before I could explain, he threw yet another shifty glance around the schoolyard, lowered his voice and added, ‘Well, anyway, I don’t wanna catch the Frillies!’

‘The Frillies?’ I said. ‘What on earth is that?’

Just then, Gareth’s friend, Spud, spun out from nowhere, jumped on top of Gareth’s back and said, ‘Someone giving you an attack of the Frillies, Stingey?’

‘YUCK NO!’ said Gareth and threw Spud to the ground before punching him playfully in the head.

Spud returned the punch with a low biff to Gareth’s stomach. He then swiped the remainder of Gareth’s turkey sandwich from right out of Gareth’s hand and ran off laughing. Until very recently, Spud and my friend Goose were in a relationship together. They are currently on a break because Goose has concerns that Spud might be too immature for her. She may have a point.

‘Muppet!’ grinned Gareth happily.

‘What’s the Frillies?’ I demanded.

Gareth sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s this weird girl disease we get if we hang around with girls too much. It’s disgusting. It makes us become part girl.’ Gareth shuddered. ‘And it was a lot worse when we were little. We could get it then just from sitting next to a girl.’ He shuddered again. ‘And kissing one was a definite no-no.’

My mouth fell open in utter astonishment. ‘Are you having a laugh?’

Gareth turned redder than the reddest red thing which has ever existed on the whole of the surface of Mars. For a second, I couldn’t even see where his spot was any more because it had completely blended in with its red surroundings. With another embarrassed sigh, he said, ‘I suppose we were being a bit childish back then. I can assure you that I’m completely OK about sitting next to girls now.’

‘Well, hooray for that!’ I said.

‘But I still draw the line at make-up,’ said Gareth firmly. And then he winked at me and said, ‘I don’t want to start an epidemic of the Frillies, do I?’

Before I could answer such a stupid question, he leaned in and gave me a great big Frilly-defying kiss, right there in the middle of the schoolyard. And, on instinct, I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms around him and instantly stopped worrying about anything as pointless and pathetic as a few random spots. To be honest, you don’t even notice them when you’ve got your eyes closed.

When we’d finished kissing, Gareth’s eyes lingered on mine and for a moment I was helplessly captivated in a highly romantic eye-lock. Without really knowing why, I held my breath – and when Gareth opened his mouth to speak, I just knew he’d say something that would perfectly capture the moment. In a weirdly wobbly voice, Gareth said, ‘I love U2.’ And then he coughed and started frowning down at his K-Swiss trainers and the romantic spell was broken.

‘What?’ I said.

‘U2,’ said Gareth, coughing again and clearing his throat. ‘The rock band. I love their musical energy on stage and their commitment to serious world issues.’

‘Oh,’ I said, slightly confused. ‘Thanks for sharing that fact with me.’

‘No worries,’ said Gareth, and then he took hold of my hand and we walked off to registration together.

Gareth is slightly odd sometimes. Gorgeous with it though.