Watching You, Watching Me

The black bits are aubergine and there’s no such word as ‘wibbly’,’ said Mum.

An argument broke out as to whether or not ‘wibbly’ was in the dictionary and Gemma insisted on finding it to check. So the subject was dropped for the time being.

Post-dinner Gemma was on drying-up duty, so I headed back upstairs as fast as I could.

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

Mum’s voice floated up from the kitchen.

‘No … what?’

‘Your turn to empty the green bucket.’

The green bucket — the yukk-bucket, or ‘yucket’ for short as we’d renamed it — was Mum’s big bid to save the world. Absolutely everything that didn’t get eaten went into it — the more disgusting the better. Every day it had to be emptied into her compost-maker. This stood in the front garden like a great green dalek. Other people had bay trees or statuettes or nice tubs of flowers in their front gardens. But we didn’t. We had to be different. We had a green plastic dalek standing on guard outside our house — announcing to the whole world that this family was basically peculiar.

‘I’ve got my slippers on. Can’t Jamie do it?’

‘Jamie’s on cat duty this week.’

‘Gemma then.’

‘I’m drying up.’

I tried a new tactic. ‘I’ve got to do my oboe practice.’

Mum was standing at the sink with the yucket in her hand.

‘Well that won’t take all night. What precisely is the problem?’

‘Nothing,’ I muttered and went and collected the beastly thing from her.

I shot out of the front door as fast as I could, praying that our squatter wasn’t looking out of his window at the time. I just knew he was, though. I could feel his gaze positively boring into the back of my neck. It was so mortifying.

Chapter Four (#ufbc92d8e-ce70-57ff-8971-011421628926)

Three whole days went by and I didn’t get a single sighting of him. School was one big yawn once the novelty of starting a new year had worn off. Teachers were starting to put the pressure on. A year to go before GCSEs — now was the time to panic early — big deal. Every day I trudged home with a massive bag full of books. I reckoned I was going to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame by the time GCSEs had come and gone.

And on Thursdays — the day I had my music lesson — I had to carry my oboe and my music as well. I’d been really keen on the oboe to start with. I’d begun learning on the school oboe years ago, and I’d begged and begged my parents to buy me one of my own. I’d even saved up part of the cost myself. At the time the idea of getting into the school orchestra had seemed the ultimate in achievement. I’d really worked hard and got through loads of grades. Miriam my music teacher had started talking about applying to a music school.

But recently I was beginning to have second thoughts. The orchestra wasn’t such great shakes anyway. Nearly all the girls wanted to play woodwind — we always had loads too many flutes — and the strings were dreadful. Now I was in Year Eleven everyone was really dismissive about the orchestra. You didn’t need to be clairvoyant to realise that playing in it labelled you as a nerd. So I’d taken to carrying my oboe disguised in a big sports bag. Weighed down like this, that I was approaching the shops.

I dropped into the shops every day on my way home from school. I’d devised this plan to survive the week by punctuating it with comfort treats. Sad but true, these pathetic little gestures gave me something to look forward to every day. Monday — first day of the week — generally left me weak from exhaustion, so I’d treat myself to a Creme Egg on the way home. Tuesday it was Pastrami Flavour Bagel Chips to eat in front of Heartbreak High. Wednesday — more than halfway through the week, so cause for body-pampering — a luxury face pack or an intensive hair treatment. Thursday — that was the day I treated myself to a magazine.

Hang on — it was Thursday today.

Rosie was reading a Hello from the racks while she waited for me.

It had become a kind of ritual that Rosie and I would meet in the newsagents every Thursday. If Rosie, say, bought Mizz, I’d buy a J17. and that way we could do a swop when we’d read them. I also had another reason for the ritual. Mum and Dad would have had an absolute fit if they knew I was spending my pocket money on magazines. Sounds pretty innocent doesn’t it? I mean, magazines — it’s not as if I was buying cigarettes or booze or hash or anything. Just think what I could be into at my age.

But it’s not what’s printed in the magazines they fuss about. It’s what they’re printed on. I said we were a pretty peculiar family, didn’t I? Well, Mum and Dad are absolutely paranoid about using paper. They reckon magazines are a total waste of the world’s resources - and as for junk mail …! Don’t start them on that. I mean its virtually a criminal act in our house to blow your nose on a paper tissue. They go on as if you’d been caught chopping down a prime sapling in the rainforest or something.

Anyway, I’d decided to keep the older generation happy with this convenient little fiction that it was Rosie who bought the magazines and I borrowed them from her. We were coming back from Mr Patel’s that evening and exchanging vital chunks of media gossip when Rosie paused and nudged me.

‘Guess who’s right behind us?’

I knew immediately without turning round.

‘Keep walking,’ I muttered to her. I’d made a big plan about how I was going to look when we met. A plan that included a major make-over, newly washed hair, sophisticated-but-subtle make-up and my latest stack-heeled sandals. Not as I was at present, in my standard gross school uniform. I even had my hair up to keep it out of the way for my music lesson. It was in ludicrous childish bunches that bounced like spaniel’s ears every time I moved my head.

‘No,’ insisted Rosie. This is our chance to get to know him.’

I could have killed her. I mean, she was looking OK — she’d been home and changed and had her new mini skirt and skimpy T-shirt on. Before I could protest further she’d stopped at the corner. She was loitering really obviously.

‘Hi …’ I heard her say.

I stood, pretending not to be there. I was just praying he’d ignore us and go past. But, no. Thanks a lot, Rosie. He had to stop, didn’t he?

Rosie was going on about how we’d noticed he’d moved into the street, as if we’d been spying on him or something — which we had of course.

‘You read that kind of stuff?’ He was staring at my magazine. I glanced down. It had the most embarrassing headline on the front. The things I’d like to do with boys’ — the kind of headline that’s designed to get you to buy the magazine but turns out to be really tame inside. It would probably be things like roller blading and scuba diving — but it didn’t imply that on the front. I flipped the magazine over.

But he’d seen it already. I could tell he thought it was really, really naff. You could see it written all over his face. I mean, I don’t take these mags seriously — they’re entertainment for God’s sake — a little light relief in my dreary week. But it was just my luck. Not only was I standing there looking like a dog’s breakfast, but I’d come across as a total airbrain as well.

‘Want to borrow it?’ said Rosie, flirting with him like mad. I stared fixedly into the distance. Somehow, ignoring him made me feel less visible.

‘Hardly — its like girls’ stuff, isn’t it?’ I heard him say.

‘So how would you know?’ asked Rosie. She was trying to be witty but the comment fell painfully flat.

‘I wouldn’t know — I mean, obviously,’ he said. And he walked off down the street.

‘Egotist,’ Rosie muttered, watching him as he turned off into number twenty-five.

‘We really made a good impression. I don’t think.’

‘Well, you didn’t have to be so off with him.’

‘If I’d had my way we wouldn’t have spoken to him.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘Honestly Rosie, sometimes you can be such a prat.’ I guess I was pretty fed up and I was taking it out on her.

‘So you’re the world’s expert on how to talk to boys, are you?’ she retorted.

‘At least I wouldn’t have offered to lend him a stupid girls’ magazine.’

‘That was meant to be a joke.’