A couple of weeks later Dixie and I are lying in the sun in my back garden and she’s still working on me to change my mind about not going to the Youth Club tonight, though she’s wasting her breath.
Besides anything else, I have sprouted a crop of zits on my face, most of them congregating on my greasy chin, although there is also one on my forehead that would be the envy of any unicorn. I also feel a bit odd today. I can’t quite pin it down but it’s kind of like being poorly except that I’m not actually sick, I don’t think. I ache. And I’m cranky, no doubt about that.
Sunshine will help clear the spots up, according to the Oracle beside me, but it has really got its work cut out with me today. I am Zitsville, U S of A (Unhappiest Sight of All).
I am resolved not to back down on my self-imposed exile. I am still burning with shame after my public spill at the hands of That Dog. The only comforting detail of the whole debacle is that none of the lads’ girlfriends was there to witness the awful occasion.
Dermot goes out with Samantha Cooper and she’s got legs that go on forever, blonde hair, blue eyes and a tan – it’s like she chose all of the right ingredients out of a catalogue and, hey presto, she’s gorgeous. Sam is slinky and scary. So are her friends, Danielle and Emma Louise. Together they’re SamDanandEmmyLou. We call them the Slinkies. They terrify me. In fact, anyone who’s not afraid of that lot is a fool.
EmmyLou definitely has the hots for Stevie Lee Bolton and makes a beeline for him anytime she can. EmmyLou and Stevie Lee … the sound of it makes me shake with anxiety, but, hey, it’s not a million miles away from Jenny Q and Stevie Lee, although it is really.* I haven’t a hope. I’m like plain Jane Eyre in love with Mr Rochester but keeping her feelings in check because they’re not appropriate for someone of her station. Stevie Lee Bolton is sixteen and I am only thirteen and it’s a well-known fact that older people are not interested in younger ones in their teenage years: an awful fact, but a fact none the less.
What do I have to offer him that she might not? Eh, nothing, barring some youthful enthusiasm (unwanted, see just above). Sure, I’m good with words, which is only great if you know what it is you want to say! I can sing too, but I don’t picture myself serenading Stevie Lee, as that would be the act of a totes crazy person.
EmmyLou is also a true slinky – a bona fide† one. She’s got long legs, perfect teeth and skin, and highlights in her hair. She also has an annoying, tinkly laugh and wears her cardigan sleeves down over her knuckles in winter and for some reason that makes everyone she meets want to do stuff for her. The Slinkies have feminine wiles. I wonder if this happens to all females as a matter of course. Perhaps Dixie and I will get wiles eventually, as we grow older.
The Slinkies say, ‘Oh. Mo. Dhia,’‡ all the time and clasp their French-manicured hands (no colour for them this season) to their chests. Incidentally, colour is allowed in the bra department and they always, BUT ALWAYS, show a bra strap from under their tops, which are usually cropped. Sam has a bellybutton piercing and it’s only a matter of time before the others go there too. And they wear matching pants,б I just know it.
‘The reason they have longer legs than us is that they’re older,’ Dixie says after I complain yet again about the unfairness of the Quinn family genes. ‘They’ve had more time to grow them.’
There’s a rumour doing the rounds that Samantha also has a tattoo of a heart with her name written in it on her butt. Dixie says this is in case anything happens to her and that it’s nothing more than having your dog or cat microchipped, which is funny, but there’s no denying that we’re both really jealous. We had dreamed of getting one each for our recent birthdays but that would have caused war and groundings at home. And the school has banned long earrings and even the eating of cheese ’n’ onion crisps, so there’s no way it would allow tattoos.
