To: agonyaunt@gossmagazine.com
Sunday
Dear Clover,
I really like this guy, and I think he likes me too. Last weekend at a party we kissed for the first time. It was terrible, our teeth clashed and then we both pretended it had never happened. I’m morto. Am I horribly abnormal?
Was I doing it all wrong? Can you give me some tips on how to kiss? Properly, I mean. I’d be so grateful.
From Samantha, 14, in Dundalk
PS If you don’t want to answer my letter on your agony aunt page, maybe you could reply to me privately, or if you don’t have the time, how about an article on kissing. You could call it “Kissing with Confidence”.
I click on send. I know setting up a fake email address is kind of sneaky, but I’m too embarrassed to ask Clover directly. This way I hope I’ll get the information I des-perately need, and fast!
When I get home on Sunday, Mum is in my room, practically naked. She’s standing in front of my mirror in her red and white checked bikini. She’s holding a fold of tummy skin in one hand and pushing up her breasts with the other.
“What on earth are you doing?” I ask.
She gives a shriek. “Amy, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” Her cheeks and chest are burning and there are still red marks on the pale skin of her stomach where her hands have been. She whips her head round, looking for something to cover her up. I hand her a T-shirt.
“Thanks,” she says, pulling it over her head. It just about fits. She still looks very flustered. “If you must know, I was trying on my bikini. But I think my bikini days are over.” She gives a long, drawn out sigh. “Don’t have children, Amy. It ruins your figure.”
“Mum, I’m thirteen! I’m not exactly planning on it any time soon.”
“Of course not, sorry, it’s just all a bit depressing. I used to have such lovely boobs and now they’re heading south. If I wasn’t so scared of hospitals, I’d probably have a tummy tuck.”
“Surgery?” I sit down on my bed and stare at her. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
She shrugs. “There’s this wobbly bit that I can’t seem to shift.” She lifts up the T-shirt and grabs her stomach again. She’s right, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.
“You look great in your new clothes,” I say. The president herself would be proud of my diplomacy. “That’s what matters. And you can always wear a tankini instead.”
“A tankini?”
“You know, like a bikini but with a vest top that covers your stomach. They’re cool. Clover has one.”
“If Clover has one they must be way cool,” Mum snaps. “Not that she needs to hide her stomach.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“I’m sorry, pet. Ignore me. How’s Mills?”
“Fine.” I was actually at Seth’s place, watching a movie this afternoon, but I told her I was hanging out with Mills. It meant less explaining.
“Good, I’m glad you two are getting on all right. She hasn’t been here for a while and I was beginning to wonder.”
“Everything’s fine. So stop worrying.”
“I’m your mum. That’s my job.” She ruffles my hair and I swat her hand away.
* * *
Mum hogs the Internet all night so I don’t get a chance to MSN Seth, like we’d arranged. At ten he texts me: SLEEP WELL, AMY. SEE U IN PRISON TOMORROW. SETH X
A kiss, he sent me a kiss. I know it’s not a huge deal, but it’s the first x he’s sent me. I save the message immediately and hold my mobile to my chest. He xs me. Seth xs me!
It’s now Wednesday and I (well, technically “Samantha”) still haven’t heard back from Clover. What if Seth wants to kiss me? I’ve been worrying about it all day. When I walk in the door from school Dave is standing in the hall, Evie in his arms and Alex clinging on to his legs.
“Can you take Evie?” he says, thrusting her towards me.
“Hang on, I haven’t even put my bag down yet,” I say, slightly miffed. No “Hello, Amy, lovely to see you. How was school?” Not in this house.
I dump my bag under the coat hooks. “Where’s Mum?”
“In there.” He points to the living room. “She’s playing with her new toy. It was delivered this morning. But don’t open the—”
It’s too late. I push the door and Alex darts in. He’s faster than a jaguar.
Dave says, “Grab him!” and I run after him but stop dead in amazement when I see Mum. She’s pounding away on a huge running machine. Her cheeks are deep tomato red and her forehead is glistening.
Alex is trying to get up on the treadmill behind her. I grab his waist and swing him away.
“No you don’t, buster,” I say. “That’s dangerous.” He squeals and kicks my shins. His heels are surprisingly sharp.
“Thanks,” Mum says breathlessly. “Can’t stop. Have to finish my miles.”
I’m impressed. “How many miles have you done?” I ask her.
“Nearly one.”
It doesn’t sound much, but I don’t want to discourage her. “It looks fun. Can I have a go later?”
“It’s not a toy, Amy.” She winces. “Ow, ow, ow, my side, I’ve got a stitch. Aagh!” She stops running and the treadmill powers her backwards and spits her off the end. She falls in a heap, her bottom landing with quite a thump on the wooden floor.
I wince. Poor Mum.
“Are you OK, Sylvie?” Dave asks from the doorway.
“No, I’m not OK.” She puffs and pants for a few seconds and then says, “I was fine until Alex and Amy distracted me” – more puffing and panting – “I asked you to do one simple thing for me, Dave” – puff puff – “to keep Alex out of my hair for half an hour” – puff puff – “I’ll never get my figure back at this rate. Aagh!” She gives such a loud groan that Evie starts to howl.
Dave says in a slightly clipped voice, “I’ll just take Evie for her walk. Amy, can you play with Alex in the garden so your mum can finish her marathon running?”
“It’s too late now,” Mum says, using the sofa to get up. She pushes her sweaty hair back off her forehead. “I’m going to have a shower.” She hobbles out of the room, her body bent in two like a pretzel.
Dave shakes his head. “I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with getting her figure back. She’s fine the way she is.”
“Maybe you should try telling her that,” I say.
He looks at me in surprise. “Maybe you’re right.” Evie gives an almighty squawk, like a parrot. “But first I’d better walk this madam.”
Thursday and still not a peep from Clover. I decide to ring her.
“Hi, Beanie,” she says. “I’m sorry I haven’t rung, it’s been mad all week. I’ve been helping out on the summer fashion spreads. Running around the shops and collecting clothes, assisting the photographer – he’s pretty cute too, has a model girlfriend though, bummer.”
“How was your date with Brains?”
Silence for a moment.
“Clover, are you still there?”
“Actually he’s kind of growing on me,” she admits eventually.
“I told you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you were right. Stop gloating. We went to this karaoke bar with some of his mates from the band. It was hilarious. And he’s a brilliant singer.”
“He’s in a band?”
“Yep, The Golden Lions. They’re kind of indie but with a sixties edge. Lots of jingly guitars and poppy bits. He’s going to write a song for me.”
“Swoon. A rock star boyfriend. Clover, you’re so lucky.”
She tells me more about her date and when I click my mobile off I realize I’ve forgotten to ask her about work. And most importantly about any letters she may have received. Siúcra, as Clover would say!