Being Me (11 page)

Marcus has turned on the TV and he flicks to the football results.

Twenty minutes later I’m back at home. Neither Mum nor Dad ask any questions.
They can’t know,
I decide. I make it to my room, lock the door and lie back on my bed. I’m trembling. I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen next.

I check my phone. MC has texted me:

Did u grass us up?

Course nt

Thnx. My cuz says thnx too

Finally there’s something I can feel proud of. Adele Vialli did not snitch. And for that, all three of them owe me. Especially Mikaela. Suddenly I resent her. Nothing ever went wrong until she joined us. I remember her face when she saw me caught. Horror. Yet she hasn’t contacted me since, not even a text. She’s probably hiding under her bed, deleting my number from her phone so she can say she doesn’t even know me. She should have rung. A true friend would have rung.

I’m a criminal now, I realise. I’ve been nicked. I imagine a poster like the Wild West ones with my face on it.

My alarm clock says Sunday, 8.21 am. The house is asleep. MTB spent Saturday evening at the gym inflating his biceps and is probably recuperating. Mum’s snoozing after a late night binge. Dad was out all night entertaining Iraqi Government Bankers. What entertainment does he lay on, I wonder, as I paint my big toe nails pink. His impressions of Italian-American film stars take up all of two minutes. What’s after that? Maypole dancing? The hokey cokey? Pass The Parcel?

I check on Mum to make sure she hasn’t vomited or anything. She’s curled up and snoring. Dad’s sleeping with her. He’s stretched out like a high board diver before they plunge. He’s got a death look on his face. I pull a bit of the duvet off Dad and over to Mum because Mum’s got no quilt at all. Then I tiptoe out.

Bacon can wake the dead so I boil eggs first. Within two minutes of bacon hitting the frying pan MTB comes down. He’s grumpy, smelly and bed-headed. He’s followed by Dad who’s like a dozy bear, all scratching and farting and puzzled, like he’s not sure he’s in the right house. Then comes Mum who flicks her tongue out like a lizard tasting air and scratches herself in all areas. Mum and Dad have both got this vacant look in their eyes and don’t give each other any eye contact, so they may even have been at it this morning. All in all, it’s not a scene that helps keep your breakfast in your stomach, so I flip all the bacon onto one huge plate, then leave them to their scratchy, smelly, tongue-flicking, smutty selves.

I’m back in my bedroom painting my toenails green this time to see how they’d look, when Dad shouts me to come downstairs. I go down. He’s in his PJs still, and he’s got his phone in his hand. Mum’s leaning against the fridge. MTB is smirking into his cornflakes. There’s two rashers of bacon left.

‘Adele,’ calls Dad, in his annoyed voice, ‘I’ve just had the most bizarre phone call. From the police. Allegedly. Have you been setting up prank calls again? Adele? Did you set this up?

‘It is
not
a prank call!’ Mum grumbles at him.

‘How do you know?’ Dad says. ‘One pound fifty for the pleasure of winding up your parents. You know our Adele.’

‘Are you sure it’s the police? Maybe it’s the private detective I’m paying to follow you. The Infidelity Expert.’

‘Adele?’ says Dad, ignoring Mum.

‘Yes?’ I reply. (“Adele?” is not actually a full question, so I don’t say any more.)

‘They’re telling me you were apprehended for shoplifting. Is that true?’

There’s a pause. Everyone’s leaning in.

‘What does “apprehended” mean?’ I ask.

MTB’s smirk takes over his entire face.

‘Caught. Adele?’

‘Yes, it’s true,’ I blurt.

‘You stupid, stupid girl!’ shouts Dad. He kicks a chair. ‘Shoplifting? Really? I mean why? There’s no percentage in it. Rob a bank I can understand. But a shop? Give me strength!’

‘I’ve got to start somewhere,’ I snap back, ‘before I get to your bank-robbing level!’

But Dad doesn’t hear a word, he’s still in his rant. ‘Shoplifting? Of all things. Just plain stupid!’

‘Ohmygod!’ says Mum, arm-fainting onto the fridge door. ‘Someone’s taken my vodka again!’

‘Can you shut up about your vodka for just one day in the week?’

Dad chucks his phone at a kitchen wall. It breaks into the usual pieces. MTB sneaks another piece of bacon.

Dad turns, calmer (chucking things always calms him). He looks puzzled. ‘Have you not got enough things? Don’t we give you...?’

Mum’s clinging to Dad’s throwing arm and is pressing him down into a kitchen chair. Dad looks lost and I’m not sure what he’s going to do next. He could cry, dance or rant again.

MTB cackles.

‘Anthony, go to your room!’ Mum says.

‘Why?’ he complains.

‘Because,’ says Mum.

‘Am I the criminal here?’ he moans. ‘Am I the one robbing shops or banks? Why am I the one who has to get locked in his room?’

‘Nobody’s locking you in your room,’ Mum says. ‘Just go upstairs for a while. Your father and I need to have a conversation with your sister.’

Mum’s icy politeness is well scary. I’ve never heard her more sober.

Mouthing swear words, MTB swipes the last bacon rasher and leaves the room.

I sit down, spread my fingers across my face and wait. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It was a bit of fooling around that got out of hand.’

‘This is all your fault,’ Dad says to Mum. ‘If you paid her more attention...’

‘She’s a Daddy’s Girl,’ says Mum, ‘and she’s only doing what you do for a living, but on a smaller scale.’

‘Can you please stop grinding away about that? I am not like all bankers.’

‘It’s the only grinding I get to do nowadays,’ mutters Mum.

‘I thought this was about me?’ I say to them both.

‘What?’ they both turn and say.

I realise I’m not needed, I’m just an excuse for them to argue again really. I bury my head in my hands. I’m not crying. I’m just tired.

‘What was it you were stealing?’ Mum asks.

Robbing is not about what you lift, it’s about running with friends and the thrill. But what’s the point of explaining? I think.

‘Jewellery,’ I reply to Mum.

‘Jewellery?’ she says, like it’s some astonishing new invention that she has to get her head around. ‘Don’t you have jewellery already?’

‘Fashionable jewellery.’

‘What is fashionable jewellery?’

‘You know, brand names.’

At the pace Mum’s questions are going, this could take weeks. I’m still sitting at the table.

‘Don’t you have brand name jewellery already?’

I’ve nicked loads, but Mum doesn’t know that.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Umm,’ says Mum, ‘You’re becoming a woman. Every woman likes jewellery, preferably as a gift from her partner to show her he loves her.’

Dad ignores this dig and says, ‘The police said it was an iPod, not jewellery. Unless you took jewellery as well and they don’t know?’

MTB has tiptoed down again and is lurking in the door frame, making prat faces at me.

‘Well, did you?’ says Mum, curious.

‘No. Dad’s right.’

‘Then why are we talking about jewellery?’ Mum sighs.

They’ve got it all tangled up now, but I can’t be bothered.

‘iPods are like jewellery,’ I say.

‘I need a drink,’ Mum says as she walks out.

‘This isn’t good,’ concludes Dad.

No shit, Sherlock,
I reply to Dad in my head.

‘This could have repercussions,’ he continues.

I imagine Sherlock Holmes passing Dad his pipe and saying, “Puff away, Mr Vincent Vialli, you’re far sharper than me: hats off to you.”

‘They said they might send a support worker or something around.’

Mum does a little yelp from inside the garage where she’s gone to look for her drinks stash.

‘If they can find one,’ Dad continues. ‘This could stop you playing for England. The sponsorship deal would be off.’

‘What sponsorship deal?’ I ask.

‘Never mind,’ says Dad. He shakes his head a bit then repeats, ‘You stupid, stupid girl.’

Mum comes back with a full bottle of vodka. ‘Stop hiding my things!’ she says to me with venom. ‘I know it’s you!’

She pours some vodka into a glass and takes a gulp, then necks the whole glass and refills it in one smooth action.
Even if I don’t get to play for England, Mum could drink for England,
I think to myself.

Dad looks at me and we both know. Third glass and she’ll lose it.

Sure enough she throws back the third glass and she’s wailing. She flings herself into Dad’s arms. Dad peels her off. She staggers over and falls on me. She’s hugging me from behind, around the neck. One of those hugs that might easily slip into a bit of strangling. She strokes my hair. ‘Oh, Adele,’ she says, ‘Oh, my baby.’

I know she’s feeling sorry for herself, not me. Nevertheless, I burst into tears. Mum bursts into more tears. Dad shakes his head and chokes a sob. It’s a tear fest. MTB rolls his eyes and ducks away from the doorway. I hear his footsteps up the stairs.

I let Mum stroke my hair a little longer then I untangle myself from her and get up from the chair. ‘Is it OK if I go to my room, now, Mum?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ she snaps. She stares at Dad. He’s picking up the pieces of his phone. ‘But don’t steal anything on your way up!’

When I reach my room I catch my brother rifling through my undies drawer. ‘Get out of there, idiot, that’s where I keep my tampons!’ I rush over. He turns before I reach him and in his hand he’s clutching the bracelets. He holds them high above his head. I beat him on the chest but he’s built like a horse and it has no effect, so I kick him in the nuts. He buckles and drops the bracelets.

‘What did. You do. That. For?’ he gasps.

‘It was a favour,’ I say. ‘You should know not to mess with my things. I’ve told you before, big brother.’

‘How is. This a. Favour?’

‘These are hot property.’ I gather the bracelets up. ‘Get your fingerprints on them and the police might lock
you
up.’

‘Get rid of them then,’ MTB says. Cursing me softly, he limps off to nurse his assets in cold water.

I can hear Mum and Dad arguing downstairs still. Something crashes against a wall. Mum doesn’t scream though, so I don’t go down. MTB puts 50 Cents on loop, at max. I dance along a bit with all my bracelets on. I check the mirror. I look mega-blinged, though my PJs look crusty. I hide the bracelets in a bra cup in my laundry basket. The laundry doesn’t get done much since Mia left and MTB won’t think to go rummaging in there. I find a towel from my wardrobe, pluck my football boots out of my boots bucket and wipe the rest of the mud off them with the towel.

Mum is shouting at MTB to ‘take that off’. 50 Cents is replaced by that Xmas song, “Walking In The Air” (MTB’s idea of a joke). She yells at him to turn that down too because it’s doing her head in. I hear Dad’s car spray gravel outside, so I know Dad’s done a runner. That’s going to make Mum even more miserable. Later, she will go and sit with MTB in his room for a while and have him talk about whether he will become a doctor, a lawyer or a professional footballer (‘or maybe all three!’ Add giggles here from both MTB and Mum). Then she’ll test him on his homework and they’ll end up downstairs on the sofa together watching some Musical. My brother plays Mum so well. He presses all her buttons just the way she likes, then at the right moment he taps her for twenty pounds to buy protein shakes and waltzes off to meet up with his gym buddies.

I find my phone and glance at it. There’s nothing from Mikaela. But Marcus has texted me.

Bored. Can u come round?

Can birds fly? I tell Mum I’m off to do my homework at a friend’s house. She’s in MTB’s room, absorbed by his yawn-inducing story about a wasp in his classroom (a story which is probably untrue since he skips school so much). She gives me the taxi fare and smiles me away. Not long after I’m outside Marcus’s house .

Marcus opens the door and I follow him into the lounge. The smell of dirty nappy hits my nose. Steam is billowing in from the kitchen. Some reggae track is playing. Marcus’s dad is rolling around on the floor with little Leah. Leah’s face is all glee. The TV is on in the background. Marcus’s mum is at the coffee table with three identical steel tumblers, talking to herself while trying some magic trick.

She waves me over. ‘Take a seat, Adele, darling.’

The only empty seats are either side of her on the sofa. I sit to her left. She says to Marcus:

‘One more time, sweetie.’

Marcus is standing in front of her. ‘Mum, you’re hopeless,’ he says, ‘Give up.’

‘I’ll get you this time,’ says his mum.

Marcus does a big, lip vibrating sigh and says, ‘No chance.’ He squats in front of the coffee table. His mum shows him a dice then starts shuffling the tumblers quickly, so fast I can’t track which tumbler the dice is under. As she does this she’s chanting, ‘left, right left, left-left, right’. She stops.

‘Which one?’ she calls out to him.

Marcus taps a tumbler. The left.

His mum lifts it. The dice is there.

‘Lucky sod,’ she says, ‘Again!’

Marcus does his dimple grin, runs his hand through his hair and shrugs. His mum lines up the tumblers again. She redoes her routine.