Boys for Beginners (2 page)

Northampton Hill High completely loses it. There are groans, moans, shouting, begging, and I swear I think I even hear someone start to cry. It's one of those very few moments when everyone in school, however much they hate the year above or the year below, or the goths or the saddos or the hip-hop crowd, all feel the same way.

‘Settle down, children!' The Dazzler's trying to calm the mental institution to normal levels of craziness. ‘There are ways you can prevent a uniform from being introduced; if, perhaps, you
all obeyed the dress code we have, i.e. no rips in clothes, no midriffs on display, no low-cut tops, no short skirts, no underwear showing above trousers, no trousers falling below buttocks.' A few people giggle at the word buttocks. ‘Jewellery should be kept to a minimum. No large earrings, especially hoops.' That pretty much includes the whole female population of the school, and some of the blokes. ‘And definitely no belly-button piercings.' Everyone looks at Jenny Gregson. ‘In short, we want the students of Northampton Hill High to look presentable. If they can't do that wearing their own choice of clothes then the board will have to take that choice out of their hands. Do I make myself clear?'

There's a miserable silence that goes round the hall like a stinky fart.

I survived the first day back but today's going to be even worse. I'm hiding in bed. If I close my eyes and wish really hard, the day might already be over.

I open my eyes. No such luck.

So I get up, throw on the nearest T-shirt from a pile next to my football kit and go downstairs. I am thinking of sneaking through the front door without my dad noticing. I get as far as opening it but my brother, the SAS trainee with hearing like a whippet on Red Bull, calls from the kitchen table. ‘Gwynnie,' he shouts, ‘get your plaits in here!'

I can picture them both now, huddled together like two conspiring spies who think I'm not on to them. But I am, and I'm dreading the attack.

As soon as I push the door just a little they pipe up singing, ‘
Happy birthday
'

‘All right,' I say, trying to flap them away, ‘we all know what day it is. No need to make a song and dance about it.'

Dad's ignoring my
leave-me-alone
tone and runs over to give me a hug. ‘Happy birthday, luv.'

‘Thanks, Dad,' I mumble. How come he's all dressed up? His frizzy ginger hair is all slicked down straight, his sideburns are trimmed, and he's wearing a suit. ‘Is all this for my birthday?' I say, pointing to his fancy outfit.

‘I always look this smart!' he replies, and we share a giggle. Dad never dresses up. His tie is older than I am.

‘Happy birthday, little sis.' Kevin is grinning. ‘I know what the second of April means: cake for breakfast.'

Since Mum died of cancer a few years back we've tried to start these new traditions in the family. We do birthdays at breakfast. With cake and everything. The first year, Dad tried to do what Mum did for birthday tea and it turned out so rubbish we had to start something new. It's not that my dad can't bake or anything, he's actually pretty good, but it was all the other stuff – the tablecloth, the homemade placemats, the balloons with my name on that we never
worked out how she found. They don't sell many
Happy Birthday, Gwynnie
balloons at Tesco. Dad tried that year; the closest he got was
Happy Bar Mitzvah, Gideon
. We laughed at the time, but all of us felt really sad. It's those little things that mums just know how to do. They're magic.

Anyway, whatever, that's why we started having cake in the morning.

‘I made you chocolate. Is that what you wanted?' asks Dad.

‘Is there any other flavour?' I reply.

He plonks a slice of cake down in front of me and I tuck in. It's nice. There's cream in the middle. We all smile at each other as we munch away. Dad and Kevin don't talk much in general, but that's all right by me.

Suddenly Dad gets a bit awkward. ‘Look, luv, I know you wanted those football boots for your birthday . . . And I know you've been begging me for a mobile phone . . .' I've guessed I'm not going to like the next part of the sentence as he sort of gets all stuttery and looks at his feet. ‘I will buy them for you, I promise. It just won't be for a few months or so.'

‘That's all right, Dad, it's no big deal.' I say it too quickly so he knows that it
is
a big deal
a little bit. I didn't mean to, it's just the way it came out. The thing is that my old football boots got a hole. Dad fixed them, but they got another hole. I've been playing in trainers ever since and feeling like a right idiot about it. But I understand. Dad hasn't got a job, and the boots I want cost over a hundred pounds. You don't have to be Steven Hawking to do that sum.

‘Sorry, Gwynnie. I swear I'll make it up—'

‘It's really fine, Dad.' I hope I'm sounding convincing. I'd better leave before he catches on to the fact that I'm actually gutted. ‘Got to go to school.' I push my chair away and stand up.

Then Kevin gives me this stare that gets me properly narked because he looks at me like I don't know that Dad isn't poor on purpose and he's doing his best. I sit down again.

Kevin says, ‘I got you a present, Gwynnie.'

‘Thanks.' It's a box. He's even bothered to wrap it. Part of me must not have grown up yet because I'm still a little excited to see what's inside. Maybe he has chipped in with Dad and they really have got me the boots I wanted. I rip off the paper. It's a shoe box. Good start.

I open the lid and the first thing I see is a pencil. Why would Kevin get me a shoe box full
of pencils? I stare at all the foreign objects inside.
What is this stuff?

It's worse than a box full of pencils. It's worse than a box full of killer bees.

‘Er, what's this?' I ask. But I know what it is.

‘It's make-up, Gwynnie,' says Kevin.

‘I know that. But when did you change your name to Max Factor?'

‘You're fourteen now. I thought you might like it.'

‘I know how old I am, Kevin, but why would you think I want make-up? When have I ever been interested in make-up?'

Now Dad's the one sending me looks.

Kevin goes all sulky. ‘I wanted to get you something special so I asked my girlfriend what she wanted when she was your age, and she said make-up and stuff. She even helped me pick it out.' Then he gets defensive. ‘My girlfriend said that a girl of fourteen should be wearing a bit of make-up—'

‘I don't need advice from your stupid girlfriend!' I shout at him. (Hang on a minute, when did Kevin get a girlfriend?)

‘Don't call my girlfriend stupid,' he says.

‘I didn't!' Well, I did, but I didn't mean it like that.

‘You haven't met her. You don't even know her. So why don't you keep your opinions to yourself?'

‘Look at this stuff,' I yell, getting a little defensive too. ‘It's all bright reds and dark blues. So unless your girlfriend is training to be a clown—'

‘Do you know what, Gwynnie—'

‘Hey!' Dad cuts him off before I can find out what. ‘Gwynnie, apologize to your brother. He was trying to be nice. There was no need to be rude about his friend.'

‘Why should I apologize? He said I was ugly!'

‘I didn't!'

He did, didn't he? Well, that's what it sounded like to me.

‘Forget it, Dad,' says Kevin, all up on his high horse. ‘If she wants to act like a big kid all her life, then let her.' He storms out like a moody girl.

‘Kevin!' Dad calls after him, but the only reply is a slamming door.

‘
He's
the big kid,' I mutter under my breath.

Dad turns to me and looks a bit cross.
‘Gwynnie, one day you will realize . . .' But he never finishes telling me what I'll realize one day. Instead he looks around the kitchen and says, ‘Leave all this. I'll tidy it up later. You'd better get off to school.' He turns around and picks up his shiny green mac. ‘I'm heading over to Angela's for a cuppa.'

I decide that I am going to clean the whole kitchen from top to bottom and then he'll be the one to feel guilty. Housework on your birthday equals child cruelty. I'll make sure I do a really good job so he feels extra bad about it later.

Then I take another look around the kitchen and decide that even stubbornness doesn't make me want to touch it. I do what's morally right and leave the kitchen how it is.

I am pretty good at football. Actually, to be honest, I am brilliant at football. I've been playing since before I could walk, with my dad, with Kevin, with Paul. If they're not around then I play with a wall.

It's break time on my birthday and I'm running down the wing, shouting at Justin Kark to pass me the ball. But Justin Kark is a glory-boy ball-hog and he never passes. ‘Justin, pass it! Over here, you muppet!' Richard Williams, from the same team as Justin and me, tackles the ball off him and that shows Justin Kark.

‘Richard! Over here!'

He doesn't pass it. Richard Williams is a glory-boy too.

When we play at school, the standard rules of football like you see on telly don't really apply: it's about twenty-a-side. One side's goal is from
the rubbish bin to the netball post, and the other goal is from this little painted line on the floor to a pile of coats and bags. The rule is that the Year 7s, 8s and 9s have to play on this pitch. The Year 10s and 11s play on the other pitch. That pitch is better and has actual goals on it. No one knows when these rules started, whether it was the teachers or the pupils that made them up, and no one knows who enforces them. It's just the way it is.

I've just shoulder-barged a Year 8 out the way and got the ball. Another year older, and I'm even better at football than I was yesterday. I can see that Ranjit is open on the wing so I chip it over to him. I am not a glory-boy (glory-girl). I'm sort of standing for a bit to get my breath back when I see the new boy, Charlie Notts, at the left side of the pitch. He's frowning as he pretends not to look at the two games, one on either side of him.

Behind Charlie Notts I can see Jenny Gregson and her friends following him and whispering to each other like very unsubtle stalkers.

My team's got the ball back. Better pay attention.

Charlie Notts has taken his jacket off and is
still looking at both pitches. I guess he's trying to decide which one to join. Obviously, as a Year 10, he should be on the other pitch. But the Year 10s are knobs and they won't let everyone play. He looks again at our pitch. The safer bet, but the rubbisher conditions.

Justin Kark has the ball again. ‘Justin, Justin, over here!' I shout. But Justin is glory-boying as usual.

Charlie Notts catches someone's eye on the Year 10/11 pitch but they give him a dirty look, so Charlie Notts turns away.

‘Justin! Pass me the ball!'

I can see the girls whispering really blatantly and then they all start walking towards Charlie Notts, pouting and flicking their hair, trying to get his attention.

‘Gwynnie!' But it's too late. It's the first time Justin Kark has ever passed the ball
ever
, and I've missed it because I'm too busy staring at Charlie Notts. The ball hits me in the stomach, which makes snot come flying out of my nose. ‘Gwynnie, you knob!' shouts Justin, and the other members of my team say similar things with ruder words.

The ball goes off the side of the pitch, right in
front of Charlie Notts, and down the little slope into the rain gutter. That's one way to get his attention. I wipe my face and try to salvage some dignity as I go to get the ball.

Ignoring the looks from the girls, I throw the ball in and say, ‘Hi,' to Charlie Notts as if it's nothing and no big deal. ‘I think I'm getting a cold.'

‘What?' he says.

‘That's why I just sneezed,' I tell him. ‘It looked worse than it was. Not that much snot at all really.'