On Friday evening, Clover arrives at my house at twenty past eight.
“You’re late.” I scowl at her, but I don’t know why I bother. Clover’s always late. I think I’m just nervous.
She ignores me. “Got the Ugly boots?”
I nod and hand over my pride and joys. She takes one off me gingerly and sniffs it. She’d instructed me to spray their lining with deodorant and leave them outside the back door all day to freshen up.
“They’ll do,” she says. She takes off her flip-flops, pulls a pair of navy sports socks out of her bag, sits down on the bottom stair and edges them carefully over her newly French-manicured toes. “I’m not taking any chances,” she says. “You might have a verruca or athlete’s foot or something.”
I give a disgusted snort. “I don’t have any fungal infections, thanks very much.”
Clover just grins. She follows the socks with my Ugg boots, stands up and takes a few steps. “I suppose they are quite comfy,” she concedes. She looks me up and down, wrinkling her nose. “You look like an Emo. Are all your clothes black?”
“No,” I say defensively. I thought I looked all right. I’m wearing a black scoop neck top, my best Diesel skinny jeans, a wide gold sparkly belt and gold ballet pumps. OK, the jeans are black too but, hey, it’s my favourite colour.
She must have noticed my face drop because she says, “You look great, Beanie. And that belt really shows off your teeny waist. I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just nervous. You know what I’m like when I’m under pressure.”
I certainly do. Since starting at The Goss, Clover seems to be living in a state of semi-permanent stress. She says it comes with the job and that all journos live on the edge. Mum says Clover is a total drama queen and isn’t happy unless something terrible is happening to her. For once, Mum might be on to something.
Mum walks into the hall, Evie snoozing in her arms. “Amy, back by ten-thirty, OK? And make Clover drop you to the door. Do you have your keys? Try not to wake the baby when you come in.” She says all this to the top of Clover’s head. She’s clearly in one of her sleep-deprived dazes.
“I’m behind you,” I say. “That’s Clover on the stairs.”
Mum jumps, making Evie cry. “Jeepers, my heart,” she says, patting her chest with one hand. “I nearly dropped the baby.” She croons at Evie, who gurgles a little and then goes back to sleep. “And why are you wearing Ugg boots, Clover? I thought you hated them.” Mum’s eyes narrow.
“Changed my mind,” Clover says breezily. “Ready, Beanie? And don’t worry, Sylvie, I’ll drop her to the door.”
“And back by half ten, mind,” Mum says.
Clover gives her a wide smile. “We’re only going for pizza, sis. Stop worrying.”
Dave walks through the kitchen door. I glare at him and back towards the wall. The hall’s getting a bit too crowded for my liking. He rubs his stubbly chin and yawns. “Did someone say pizza? Any chance of bringing me back a few slices?”
The man is obsessed with food. My heart sinks. Clover looks at me, her mouth distorted from biting the inside of her lip.
Luckily Mum says, “You’ve already had dinner, pet. Do you really need pizza too?”
“Maybe not.” He gives a laugh and then puts his head on Mum’s shoulder. “Must get my pre-baby figure back.” He winks at her.
Mum kisses the top of his head and I cringe. I do wish they wouldn’t be so lovey-dovey in front of people (me in particular); it’s embarrassing.
“Love to stay and chat, but we have to run,” Clover says, brushing past Mum and Dave and opening the front door. “Our reservation’s for eight. And just look at the time. Come on, Beanie. Mush, you slowcoach.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later we park beside a Sinister FM jeep, a few metres down the road from Monkstown Rugby Club. A flock of D4 girls are sitting on the low wall opposite us, swinging their orange legs, hitting the heels of their Ugg boots against the pebbledash and flicking their GHDed hair for Ireland. D4s spend most of the time hanging out in town or in Dundrum Shopping Centre, when they aren’t stuck in front of their mirrors, or slapping on fake tan. Sophie and Mills, my best friends, fancy themselves as D4s but it’s pure aspiration.
“Ready?” Clover asks me. She gloops on red lip gloss like war paint.
My stomach churns. Lots of people from my school go to the Sinister Frite Nites. Sophie tried to get me to come along tonight but I said no, I was busy.
“Doing what?” Sophie asked, giving me a twisted smile. “Changing the skin on your Bebo page again?”
I bristled. I like my Bebo page. It’s a whole heap better than either of their pages. They just use the same boring old skins and video clips and songs as everyone else. I try to be more original. But sometimes when you’re thirteen being original isn’t appreciated.
“I think we should wait for a while.” I stare at the D4s. They throw their heads back and hoot loudly with laughter when two Emo girls walk past in stripy Pippi Longstocking tights. “We don’t want to look too eager.”
To be honest, I’m terrified of hardcore D4s. If you look at them wrong or they spot a weakness, they’ll bare their fangs and rip you to pieces with their bitchy comments, like a preppy wolf pack. And their verbal wounds can take a long time to heal. I should know; I still have the mental scars to prove it.
The first time they swooped was after Mum had trimmed my fringe. She’d pulled down on it when it was damp and had cut it far too short. The D4s followed me around, calling me “Freak Fringe” for a week. The second time was even worse. I wore Mum’s padded navy raincoat to school one day – big mistake, but Mum had insisted. It was lashing, I couldn’t find my own jacket and she said I’d catch pneumonia. They christened me “Amy Anorak”. It lasted a whole month.
Clover nods at me. “You’re right. I’m being too impatient. I guess I’m kinda nervous.”
“Really?”
“Sure. This could all go horribly wrong. I could end up looking like a complete eejit.” Her eyes rest on mine and then bunny hop away. She is nervous. Clover Wildgust, the most confident person I know, is nervous. And if she’s nervous, what hope do I have? I may as well just curl up and die right now.
“Here’s the thing, Beanie,” she says, reading my mind. “Everyone gets nervous sometimes. It’s how you deal with it that matters. I can drive away from here right now and let that loser Brett Stokes win” – Brett is the boy from Wendy’s email – “or I can just swallow down the butterflies and get on with it. I have a choice.”
“But what if it all goes wrong?”
“Then at least I tried. Look, I used to be just like you when I was thirteen. Nervous and self-conscious, worried that everyone was staring at me, thinking, ‘Who’s that loser?’”
“Honestly?”
“Sure. I was a lot better dressed obviously—”
“Hey!”
She gives me a wide grin. “Only joking. I was a complete fashion victim. Some of the photos.” She shudders. “But, hey, thirteen’s a rubbish age. No one ever tells you that. First year’s a killer. It starts getting better in second year. And by third year you’ll be having a blast. And you have all those cute fifth- and sixth-year boys to ogle all day. That’s got to be worth something.”
I blush. I already have a big crush on one of the fifth-years. Simon Debrett. He’s editor of the school magazine, St John’s News – how original, even I could come up with a better name than that – and he’s also on the firsts soccer team and the seconds rugby team, although he’s no Crombie. He’s actually really clever and he doesn’t mind showing it.
He takes my hockey team, the Minor As, for fitness training. Often, he takes pity on me and lets me sit out some of the laps ’cos I have to do them in my goalie pads. Our coach, Miss Gibbons, is really tough, but we got into the semi-finals of the cup last season so she must be doing something right.
Simon held the changing-room door open for me once and I’ve never forgotten it. He’s dreamy. Sometimes I watch him at rugby or soccer training when I’m in art. The art prefab looks out on to the pitches and I just can’t help myself. If I’m having a really bad day just a tiny glimpse of his muscular thighs in his muddy shorts cheers me up no end.
I told Mills about my crush and she told Sophie. And now when he passes us in the corridor Sophie always elbows me and says, “There’s your boyfriend.” Once she even pushed me into him. I was so humiliated. He must think I’m such an idiot. I try to avoid him now. Funnily enough he still says hi to me sometimes. As I said, he’s a nice guy.
We sit in the car and watch dozens of boys walk into Monkstown Rugby Club. From Wendy’s careful description, none of them is Brett Stokes. She said he always arrives after nine, an hour late – he thinks it makes him look cool. It’s only just nine so we can’t have missed him. We study four new Crombie boys who are strutting towards the D4s.
“Hang on a sec,” Clover says. “Look at that guy with the blond highlights. That’s no Blue Peter job. And he’s the right height. Do you think it’s Brett?” The boys are all wearing hoodies or designer tops and Dubes, just like in Wendy’s notes. The tallest one – the one with the perfect highlights – is swaggering towards the girls.
I quickly buzz down the tinted window of Clover’s Mini Cooper convertible. It used to be Gran’s. She won it in a supermarket competition of all things. Clover did her driving test as soon as she hit seventeen, passed first time too.
“Hey, Brett,” one of the D4s calls out.
“Bingo,” Clover says. “I can smell bacon a mile away. Oink, oink.”
I shush her, trying to listen in.
Brett says, “Hey, Charlene, looking good.”
The girl called Charlene flicks her hair and simpers, “Thanks.”
“Yeah, for a dog.” He holds his hand up and does a high-five with one of his mates.
The other girls titter nervously and the boys walk off singing “Who Let the Dogs Out?” and barking at each other.
Charlene is left glaring at his back, lobster-faced. The other girls huddle around her, like a rugby team, commiserating, telling her what a sap he is. They’re probably thanking their lucky stars that they kept their mouths firmly shut.
“That’s our man.” Clover looks at me. “Ready, Beanie?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
As we walk past the D4s, who are now back kicking their legs on the wall as if Brett had never happened, they giggle.
“Nice boots,” one of them says and sniggers. “So last season.”
Clover swings round. “Are you talking to me?” She puts her hands on her hips and glares the girl down.
“Um, no,” the girl says timidly. Clover can look quite fierce when she narrows her eyes. In fact, she looks just like Mum.
“Good,” Clover says. “And you should exfoliate before you fake tan. Your legs are all blotchy. You’ll never get even coverage unless you have a smooth surface to work with.”
The girl looks confused.
Clover just walks off, tut-tutting to herself. “Those D4s, thick as tree trunks most of them. And do they have to use beach spades to trowel on their make-up? Yuck.”
I smile at her. Maybe this evening isn’t going to be quite so bad after all. But then I spy Sophie and Mills in the queue. Oops, they’ll kill me. I should have told them I was coming. I try ducking behind Clover, but it’s too late, they’ve seen me.
“You’re my friend, right,” I whisper to Clover. “Not my aunt.”
“Sure, Beanie. Whatever.” She shrugs. “But isn’t that Mills? She knows exactly who I am. And who’s that with her? It’s not the infamous Sophie?”
I nod. I’ve told Clover a little bit about Sophie, namely that she’s a wannabe D4 and her favourite hobbies are moaning about everything and picking on people, me and Mills included.
Clover squeezes my shoulder and leans in towards me. “I’m well able for a Sophie, Beanie. Bring it on.”
As we walk towards the queue I feel sick. If it wasn’t for Clover I’d run away. I don’t know what to do with my hands, they’re shaking like jelly, so I shove them into the pockets of my jeans.
Clover smooths down her tiny denim shorts and strides directly towards Mills and Sophie. She has amazingly toned legs; if I didn’t know better I’d say she spent hours in the gym every day. I follow behind her, feeling like Cinderella before her fairy godmother’s help.
Clover spins round and winks at me. Everyone in the queue is staring at her, especially the boys. Only then do I feel a bubble of excitement in my stomach. With Clover as wing man I feel safe, proud, and even a tiny bit confident. People probably think we’re best friends or something, how cool is that?
But we’re related, I think suddenly, not friends, and Clover is only here because of her Goss job. Then I sink back down to earth with a bump, all excitement gone. I begin to feel nervous and plain again.
“Smile, Beanie,” Clover says. “Pretend you’re feeling on top of the world. That’s what I always do. Breathe in positive energy. Radiate confidence from your solar plexus.” She grins. “I read that in the magazine last week. Good, isn’t it?”
“But what does it mean?”
She giggles. “No idea.”
Instead of breathing in positive energy I touch the back of Clover’s hair and say a little prayer. Whoever’s up there, if you’re listening, please give me just a smidgen of Clover’s confidence.
Then I plaster a grin on my face and pretend I’m having the time of my life.