An Amicabubble Breakup Read online

An Amicabubble Breakup

  It was the last night before we had to hand in our forms, and Andy had been over to help Charlie with his. They’d cheerfully announced over dinner the “obvious” choices of Double Award Music Tech, Drama and Resistant Materials. Obvious my foot! Charlie’s last woodwork project had come in unintentionally handy as a base for Harry’s weekly document burn in the garden. It had been a toast rack, which was surprisingly apt.

  I suppose I could’ve asked Devon for help, but her final words on the matter had been along the lines of “You’re taking Drama with me and the guys or else!” Before letting her terrify me about Art or any other subject I might somewhat consider, it made much more sense to start with the things I knew I was no cop at…

  An Amicabubble Breakup

  Dillie Dorian

  Copyright 2007-2013 Dillie Dorian

  Oops! Did I Forget I Don’t Know You?

  Double Dates (& Single Raisins)

  A Bended Family

  While Shepherds Washed My Socks

  Sitting Down Star Jumps

  Now, Maybe, Probably…

  Was He The Queen?!

  Not Zebedee!

  Angry Coral Week

  And many more…

  https://www.dilliedorian.co.uk

  Contents:

  #0 Preambling Note To Shells

  #1 Severely Disfigured Wardrobes

  #2 High! School! …Work Experience

  #3 Presents, Parents & Pretendy Playgroups

  #4 Not-So-Sunny Sunday

  #5 Fern Ella Firth: Otherwise Engaged

  #6 My Generation

  #7 Un-Smiley Brothers

  #8 Wandering & Wondering

  #9 Thirteen Minutes

  #10 Elephant Grey / Whale Blue / Lardarse

  #11 The Mad Hatter's End-Of-Term Party

  #12 Uncompanionable Company

  #13 An Amicabubble Breakup

  #14 Silence & No Swings

  #15 Crush Mats

  #16 Recycling, Innit!

  #17 Most Certainly One Of Those Sometimes

  #0 Preambling Note To Shells

  Dear Shelley + Assorted Prying Aussies

  I’d always sort of dreaded Work Shadowing. It’s one of those things most people are worked up for, like a first bra or a first car. And yeah, that’s probably because you get three days away from ordinary school to bug some grownup you know at work.

  I am not the bugging type; I’m the bugged type – so let me tell you about how stressful those few days “off” turned out to be for me.

  M.E.H – that’s “Meh” with pointless full stops*.

  Harley.

  *Did you know that the Americans call full stops “periods”? That makes this funnier to me.

  #1 Severely Disfigured Wardrobes

  “…so, in short, that’s why you should take Working Outdoors,” Mr Burrows finished.

  Short? Well, I certainly couldn’t stick a whole lesson with him, wellies and a bunch of seeds. And the stuff we’re meant to grow, too.

  I could hear Charlie and Andy next to me, frantically hissing about the pros and cons of Music to Music Tech. What was the difference again? All I knew was that there was one similarity: I wasn’t interested in either of them.

  Keisha snorted. “Like you’d catch me in wellie boots! Getting covered in mud for a stupid certificate? Fu-”

  “Shut up, Keish,” muttered Rachel with a roll of the eyes. “I’m taking that.”

  “How could you, though? Mud and dirt and ew! In anoraks, in bad weather? Nasty!”

  “You could wear a Fred Perry,” said Rachel, sarcastically.

  “Shut up! I do not have a Fred Perry!”

  “I have a Fred Perry,” Danielle mumbled, nowhere near assertively enough to pull off what she added next. “So what?”

  “Hang on!” Chan gasped. “Rach, I saw these cute pink wellies with plastic ribbons at the top and white flowery outlines in that shoe shop down town! I couldn’t, ’course, ’cause they’d clash with my hair, but-”

  “I couldn’t either,” Rachel replied, hastily.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause they sound demented. I have a pair of Hunters anyway.”

  Oh, Rachel. She’d never be convincingly working class all the while she was getting £80 gumboots for a minor birthday present. But too right, Chan’s suggestion sounded perfectly horrible. Kitty has pink wellies with strawberries on, and she is in Year 2. What with now taking fashion advice from Devon, there’s every chance she’ll be wearing similar at twenty two.

  Devon herself was plaiting my hair and muttering things to herself about Art, Textiles, Drama, Dance, History and stuff. Wait, was I supposed to be listening? I myself had no idea what I was filling three empty slots with – the problem either lay with the subjects, the teachers, or the people I knew would take those classes. When you’re crap at cookery, terrible at textiles and not so hot at sitting there and looking pretty, you already aren’t in the running for Best Traditional Housewife. Which is fine in today’s world, but only if you can service a car or understand physics. I’m stuffed!

  I told Devon that, and she said it was a defeatist attitude, and that I was probably amazing at sombrero-weaving or Bollywood dance choreography or something else obscure and exotic, and that that was the point of taking GCSEs. Because the borderline scarrimgly limited curriculum at Constantly High had so much to offer!

  Thing is, everyone else knew what they were doing with their lives months ago. Keisha was on about being a model and Rachel wanted to be a marine biologist. I had decided on the spot to be a writer, and I still hadn’t worked out if that was going to be for kids or adults. In fact, I really hadn’t given it any thought.

  What subjects do you need to be a writer?

  Devon said you probably need a degree in English Language or English Literature or whatever, but I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I mean, I speak English! I don’t need a certificate to prove that. Yeah, I understand that it’s about furthering knowledge and improving technique, but to start on that you actually need to have a technique. It was definitely too soon to be making plans…

  #2 High! School! …Work Experience

  Charlie was dancing around the living room, singing along to his new favourite DVD. Again.

  I kinda wanted to watch some TV, but not that sort of TV. Fair enough, we don’t have TVs in our bedrooms (well, actually, the boys do, but Zak was busy playing on the Wii) –nevertheless, that didn’t mean that my twin needed to spin that disc again already. He’d had it on yesterday. And the day before. And the one before that. Several times. And he knew all the lines, and the names of the characters, and it was irritating because all the time he wasn’t watching it (slim as that opening was) he was still singing the songs or talking about it. Honestly, Zak’s Infant school Star Wars phase had been less annoying, and that at one point had meant A&E when he tried picking his nose with a mini lightsaber.

  What I didn’t understand was this: the DVD had been out forever, and Charlie had suddenly decided it was the best thing since… um, what was that thing he used to bore us silly about? Oh yes, Avenged Sevenfold, the Californian metallers currently sharing bedroom wall space with Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens. The untrained observer would think that Mum’s fraternal twin teenagers shared a room.

  It was Emily’s fault. She’d brought the film over to show Kitty (who thought it was pants) – Charlie had walked in and fallen so hard for the entire premise that he’d only just managed to keep it to himself to avoid ridicule. And then last month, during the SATs, Devon had thought it was a fantabby idea to buy him a copy. Things had been downhill from there…

  Yes, Kitty, seven years old and in Primary, who spent pretty much all day every day glued t
o old-school Disney, had said it was “pants”, yet my thirteen-year-old baby-goth brother was on a constant squeal about it. I could swear that if I heard one more song, one more in or out of an over-acted relationship, I would kill. And I’m a pacifist.

  “Charlie,” I begged. “Please will you give it a rest?”

  “No,” he grunted, before going back to his caterwauling.

  “Please! It’s doing my head in!”

  “How can it? It’s amazing.”

  “Well the first time it was OK, in a whinily American, little-girly film way, but after three weeks, don’t you think it would be nice to plug yourself back into some of that dreadful metal stuff you have a bedroom full of?”

  “I only got it the other day! It has NOT been three weeks!”

  Time flies when you’re having fun… I rolled my eyes at him and went to leave. “Sod it; I don’t care. I have more important stuff to think about.”

  “Like?”

  “Like anything but this, to begin with. Have you seen your friends this week?”

  “At school, yeah.”

  “What do they think?”

  “Andy says I’m gay, and Jordy says I’m a moron. They love me really; I know.”

  “What about Devon? Surely she’s regretting this by now.”

  “Nuh-uh. She thinks it’s cute.”

  “But she refuses to watch it with you?”

  “Exactly,” he sighed, in time to leap into the next childishly optimistic pop song.

  Oh, dear God.

  The major problem with it was that he’s actually not that bad of a singer – but make the mistake of telling him that, and he’ll never stop. It didn’t matter that the songs had no deeper meaning than S Club 7 – he was enjoying himself. Why couldn’t I enjoy something that much?

  “CHARLIE!! I CAN HEAR YOU FROM OUR ROOM!!” Zak yelled, thundering down the stairs. He slid in from the kitchen on his knees. “Turn it off!”

  “No.”

  “Please! I swear to God, you’re a freaking weirdo, you are!”

  I don’t even think Charlie was listening.

  “Argh! I’m off out then. And crikey if Mum brings Lemmy down you’ll be in trouble. Think what he’ll grow up like, being exposed to this?”

  That was a factor. If you could hear the TV and Charlie from our attic bedrooms like me and Zak had done, Mum on the floor inbetween must’ve been being driven mad.

  I went up to Mum and Harry’s room where she was lying on her back with Lemmy on her chest. “Mum,” I said, gently. “Is the telly disturbing you?”

  “It’s alright. I was more worried about Kitty hearing about all that Marilyn Monsoon stuff.”

  “Well, me and Zak think it’s becoming a bit annoying, and I’m trying to get Charlie out of the house.”

  She passed me the zizzing baby and stood up. “Leave him be. I know Charlie, and he does get bored with things eventually. Anyway, he can’t carry on like that on Work Shadowing, so he’ll just have to get a grip.”

  I looked down at Lemmy. He wasn’t capable of annoying anybody, and right now he was my favourite brother. If only I could zap Charlie and Zak back to babyhood for a little peace and quiet. With all great luck, Devon would adopt Charlie and go to live in Peru.

  Something in my brain jerked. Work Shadowing. It hadn’t registered when Mum had said it a minute ago, but mentally running back I realised something dreadful: me and my twin were on final warning to get the details in about our “job” placements, and neither of us had any idea what we were doing with who.

  I remembered my mates having that discussion once or twice in the last couple of months, but it, like the on-the-spot career choice and the wholly Omigod GCSE options, had floated over my head in the pursuit of sanity in a household soon to contain not one but two newborns.

  Keisha didn’t like the idea of working at all really, so she’d decided to go with her mum who sells storage solutions, whatever those are. She had been going to a nail bar, but didn’t fancy getting up close to people’s fingernails.

  Chan, however, loved the idea of working in a salon, even though she’s not a huge fan of touching people’s hair. She figured that if it had to be washed first anyway it’d be bearable. So she’d be on three days of cut’n’blow-dry next week, or making cups of coffee more like.

  Dani was going to work at the Estate Agent with her mum, photocopying and displaying photos of other people’s nice houses and sneaking on the internet.

  Rindi had spent a month and a half refusing to do any of her parents’ suggestions (tech support and health shop assistant being the ones I remember), and plumped for a likely coffee-fetching role at the local rag.

  Fern had tired of working for her dad, so we went down the library to get her an “interview” of sorts to help out there.

  Rachel had decided to work at the Travel Agency – chief stop-’em-in-the-street-to-survey-about-a-week’s-trip-to-the-Canary Islands girl, and one step down from Charity Mugger.

  After dillying and dallying and dithering over it for ages, Devon had decided on the local counselling service. In preparation, she’d blathered on forever about Charlie and his High School Musical obsession, and my GCSE dilemma.

  I knew we didn’t even have time to wait for our next Wacky Macky PSHE session (Tuesday, the day before Work Shadowing), so I decided to ask Charlie’s friends for inspiration. (And no, it wasn’t a dumb excuse to find out what Jordy was going to do and imagine him doing it all week.)

  As luck would have it, Charlie had taken my advice and invited his friends over. He’d left the DVD on, probably in an attempt to make them subconsciously mistake recognition of the tunes for love of High School Musical. Andy and Jordy were slumped on the sofa, talking about something to do with the band.

  I approached the friends/bandmates and came right out with it: “Um… but the way… w-what’re you guys dong for Work Shadowing? …Uh, just out of interest…”

  “Sports tutoring at the leisure centre,” Jordy said, coolly, making the blissful image of him in shorts and a T-shirt flash behind my eyelids when I blinked.

  “Helping my dad,” Andy told me. “Which is probably gonna be a total blow, because I can’t even sit in on appointments since they’re confidential. I’m literally ‘fetch me another box of latex gloves’ boy, and I bet I’ll be sat in the waiting room all day with nothing to do…”

  “Yeah, that’s nice…” I mumbled, still thinking of Jordy and his Sports Tutoring and his spiked-in-a-quiff blonde hair and his gorgeous blue eyes, perfect smile, kissable lips and right-there-on-my-sofa-ness. “Charlie, what’s your plan? It’s already late to get the forms in.”

  My brother looked up from his Disney daydream. “Huh? Dunno. When is it?”

  “Next week – Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Keep up!”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Well? I haven’t got anything yet either, so I’ve no idea how we’re gonna do it. I don’t want to bother Mum, so we’ll have to ask Harry when he gets in tonight.”

  #3 Presents, Parents & Pretendy Playgroups

  When Harry got in, the first thing he did was give Aimee a wad of cash. He’s always done that, and he gives us quite a lot of random gifts too, considering that we aren’t his kids. Next, he handed Kitty a bag of sweets, Zak a rented DVD of Kill Bill, and me and Charlie a casual fiver. For Mum, he pulled out a bunch of roses and some chocolate (without onion, as thankfully the cravings were over) and a tiny teddy made of that soft downy stuff you don’t find anywhere but newborn toys.

  I took Lemmy from Mum and introduced him to the ted so that Mum and Harry could have a proper hug. He appeared to appreciate it, because what seemed like a smile appeared on his face. My baby half-brother was still so peach and perfect, and Aimee still looked sick to her pregnant stomach.

  As babies, me and Charlie had been, y’know, so-so, with everything in the right places and the extra added novelty of being twins. (Twins who from day one had, erm, nothing in common and lacked all possible psychic
abilities – contrary to popular belief.) Zak came along in his typical, baby boy all-in-blue, father’s favourite manner, able to kick a football before he could walk properly, and then Kitty, sickly to start with but better as time went by.

  Lemmy has the loveliest blue eyes ever. Better even than Jordy’s, and somehow just not quite the same as either Harry’s or Mum’s. He’s got an adorable pudgy nose, and an amazingly non-drooly mouth most of the time. I marvelled to myself all over again. We used to be that small! All of us. Even Harry, once upon a time. Even Eileen, even Keisha’s mum – even Dad.

  That made me wonder about Aimee’s baby – would he or she be blonde and blue eyed like herself, or like Ben have faintly ginger-brown hair and brown eyes. I couldn’t quite remember how genes worked. Though this got me wondering about Ben’s eyelashes. How unfair is that? They don’t even know what to do with them, and yet boys seem to always have longer lashes. Just to allure them, us females have to spend ages (and wages) on eyelash curlers and lengthening/thickening mascara, only to end up with clumps all over our cheekbones from accidental rubbing.

  Lots of things are like that. Charlie usually forgets to brush his hair, but nobody seems to notice. Zak just scrapes a fistful of gel through his, falls onto a skateboard and hits the town. I can’t get away with not trying even for one day, even on a skinny postmenstrual day, because every morning I have that dragged-backwards-through-a-hedge look that just doesn’t suit girls with straight hair.

  The next thing I knew, there was a rubber/plastic/gelatine dolphin thrust in my face. I took it gratefully from my sister, hoping it really was one of the sweets Harry had presented her with, and not a mouldy bath-toy from the plastic box under the sink, full of too many foam vowels and not enough consonants and squeaky sharks and rubber ducks, which we probably should’ve thrown out instead of saving for baby number five.

  “Like it?” she asked, looking up at me with her conjunctivitisy blue eyes and smacking her raw, chewed-looking lips.

  “Yeah,” I said, dubiously chewing and forcing a smile. “Thanks, Kit.”

  “Do you want another one?”

  “Ummm… no, thanks. They’re yours.”

  “I can’t eat all the aminals, it feels bad. You do it or I will have to save them.”

  Yeah, sure, if we continued on that logic I’d be committing arson upon her teenage whim, all because she didn’t personally fancy going to hell.