Read By the Time You Read This Online
Authors: Lola Jaye
By the Time You Read This (5 page)
“You’d rather listen to that radio thing than stay down here with your Gran?”
“No, it isn’t that…”
“You go off then. And keep the room tidy. It’s Kevin’s room.”
She was almost raising her voice. I rolled my eyes again and headed for the room my dad hadn’t even slept in before—Granny Bates had only moved to Sussex AFTER his death. Mad cow.
I spent the remainder of the evening staring at the ceiling, wishing my dad could rescue me. I opened up
The Manual
and picked up where I had left off.
So, instead of listening to your mom, you probably prefer to get advice from your friends. My best friend (as hopefully you still know) is Charlie.
Nope. Had never met him (at least I didn’t remember ever meeting him). Seen a few pictures of him and Dad together though, but that was it.
When we were your age it was always about me and him. He once told me to stick my head down the toilet and let him flush—so I did. No, not really, but when we were thirteen I would have—if he’d asked. All I’m trying to say is, not ALL advice from friends is the right advice. Really think before you do stuff, consider who it may hurt (and yes, this includes your mom), then make a decision.
I’m not asking you to listen to every drop of advice given to you by an adult, no. Because, as you will soon find out, people (including myself) can at times talk a load of horseshit. But if you can, take note of older people. And when I say old I mean really old. The elderly. They know stuff. You can almost picture the years of
experience in their faces—and this can include the reality that life doesn’t always go according to plan, no matter how efficiently you think you’ve planned it. Remember, they’ve seen it, done it, tasted it, felt it, experienced most of what you haven’t yet. So try to cut them some slack when they have a go at you about things you may want to do. Their lack of support may just be a result of their own bad experiences while attempting to achieve something similar, and in their own special way they are merely trying to warn you against making the same mistakes. Make sense? You see, it’s not always just another way to spoil your fun, however much you may think so.
But for some reason or other, people won’t be listening to them as much any more—so do the complete opposite to these “other people.” Listen, absorb and plant at the side of your brain stuff you can use later on. It’s so invaluable. Things my granddad used to tell me, I still use to this day. Of course your granddad is gone, but you’ll hopefully have my mom and your other granny and granddad around to be getting on with.
One morning on the way to the supermarket, I decided to take in Dad’s words and make an effort with my father’s mother, by helping to carry the bags without being asked (I even carried more than was comfortable), and, back at the house, by packing away the groceries as she droned on and on about noisy neighbors and how she missed “back home” and wished she’d enough money to go back forever. I brought up the subject of Dad, hoping it would bring us closer together, I suppose. Instead, she remained silent, staring at me as if I’d grown a third eyeball.
“What was he like?”
Her face softened and I thought I saw a tear. “Your father…was the best son a mother could ever have.”
She walked over to a picture of Dad and held it, running her index finger over his chin, up to his full lips and then to his mole. She stared at it for what seemed like ages.
I broke the trance. “You must miss him so much…like I do…” I know it was such an obvious statement, but I suppose I just wanted her to speak to me. For us to have some type of conversation. About Dad.
But my plan was—sort of—beginning to backfire.
“Of course I miss him. Very much. He was
my
son, my little boy. I miss him every waking moment of every day. My life seems to have stood still since that day…the day he went…”
She moved over to the old-fashioned glass cabinet. Among the porcelain figurines and a cloth map of Grenada was a picture of my dad. She picked it up.
“Me and his father always knew we wanted a good life for our children. That’s why we came to England in 1948. I always made sure my little boy was safe. I could never rest when his father took him out. Never knew what they’d be getting up to. Climbing trees, running about. If he came home with a scrape, I’d immediately put the antiseptic on it. Make it clean. Then when he was a teenager, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep until I was sure he was safely tucked up in bed. I never stopped worrying about him. The girls, Philomena and Ina, never understood. Never.” She looked at me blankly again, then turned to pick up Dad’s picture. “Then he left home and moved in with…” she placed the picture back down again “…your mother. And that was it. Never saw him much after that. My son.”
I wasn’t quite sure where to go from here. So I said the first thing to enter my head. “Sorry.”
“Sorry,” she repeated blankly, placing the picture back into the glass cabinet.
Granny Bates seemed to shut down after that conversation. She’d say little words here and there, perhaps to answer a question to do with the whereabouts of the ketchup. It was as if an already dim bulb had blown—with no chance of a replacement any time soon. And I was quickly able to envisage the remainder of my “holiday” as something I’d rather not endure.
I rang Mom when Granny Bates was in the bathroom, telling her I was ready to hitch a lift home if she didn’t get me out of here a few days early. She arranged for Carla’s dad to drive over, while a silent Granny Bates sat in her rocking chair clutching a picture of my dad.
As I shut the door behind me, I knew I’d be in no hurry to see her again. Maybe I’d change my mind. Maybe I wouldn’t. I couldn’t have cared less. Okay, I did care. A little. For all her faults, she was still Dad’s mom and I suppose I would drop her a line in a few months (groan). But I’d survived this long on my own and now, I had my dad constantly keeping an eye on me and really didn’t need anyone else.
I
was thrilled to be back in London with my friends, sleeping in my own bed and not having to be back at school just yet. My brief time away had seen a change in Carla. Her hair was a bit longer and she’d started to wear lipstick! Worst of all, she now had a boyfriend.
“He’s over there!” she whispered, as we passed Lanes Fish
Bar, our old spot now occupied by a gang of spotty girls. Outside the alleyway stood a bunch of boys in back-to-front baggy dungaree jeans and identical orange sneakers with huge white tongues sticking out. They did look cool, I had to admit.
“His name’s Darren!” she said.
The lovebirds caught each other’s gaze and Carla ran over.
“Hi Daz,” she said, all teeth and sloppy voice. I had never seen my best friend act like this before and it felt disturbing. The others were totally ignoring me as the couple lip-locked and Darren, or Daz, or whatever, stuck a huge furry-looking tongue into her mouth. It was utterly sickening.
Over the next few days it was “Daz this” and “Daz that” and, frankly, I was relieved when he dumped her for the school slut, exactly a week before the beginning of term.
M
y fourteenth birthday, which took place at the ice-skating rink, was a totally contrasting experience to my thirteenth—especially when Mom brought out this huge babyish cake complete with dodgy pink candles as my guests sniggered in the corner. I vowed never to have another birthday party again in my whole entire life, while almost bursting into tears on the spot and displaying my Mega Wimp side in the process.
Mom reckons I’m at a difficult age—I overheard this during a gassing session with Carla’s mom over the garden fence as she put up the washing. Carla’s mom lay on the lawn chair dressed in a teeny little bikini and looking quite gorgeous. Glancing at her and then at Mom sticking
pegs into the Bingo Caller’s revolting odd socks, I knew which mom was the trendiest. My mom knew zilch about being a teenager—how to dress, or who Kriss Kross were—and actually liked Take That! A difficult age? Me?
I did start to notice changes with my body. I had a shape that was catching up to Carla’s but which I suspected would always be behind. And as for the other stuff, let’s just say if it weren’t for the awkward sex education classes at school, and Carla, I’d know
nothing
about THAT subject.
One morning I even woke to find that my tiny little ant hills had decided to grow into breasts. No longer a slave to the training bra, Carla and I got measured at Marks right away, only to discover we were in need of a 34B! And Dad was right, boys did start to change (not least when word got around that Carla was no longer with Daz). They began to sniff around Carla like dogs around a slab of ham. Plus they all sounded like freaks as every boy (except for Billy Turner) seemed to have picked up a new deeper voice that sounded like a cross between Corey’s and Sharlene Rockingham’s (she’d always sounded like a boy).
Miscellaneous: Hormones
Oh boy, I was dreading this bit, so let’s just skip it until later, right, Lowey?
Oh all right, we’ll do it now then…
I can safely say I’ve never been a woman so am unable to speak with any authority on the subject. Therefore, we’ll just have to stick with the hormones of a teenage boy.
Have you read what I wrote about boys talking to your breasts? Well, hormones are the logical explana
tion. If a boy at school asks if he can carry your backpack, what he’s really saying is, “I want to have sex with you.” When he asks “How are you?,” he’s really saying, “I want to have sex with you.” When he looks at you, he’s more than likely thinking about…yes, you guessed it…sex. So my point here is…teenage boys are like teabags bursting with hormones. Once you dip a teabag into hot water what happens? It literally bursts (you’ll get this analogy when you’re older. Much older. For now, please beware, especially as by now you are drop-dead gorgeous in the making, even if YOU think you look like a giraffe in need of urgent dentistry). Just bending down to pick up a pencil will induce a craning neck in a boy. Or the way you purse your lips when you talk. Even a certain way of laughing will bring on something in these hungry little boys, so…I’m just asking you to be aware of it and remember, you’re still only thirteen or fourteen.
Oh, and you’re beautiful. Love you, with stars on. Dad.
Dad was so wrong about the boy bit (they only ever looked at me when Carla was within spitting distance) but right about the giraffe thing (although I’m inclined to go with anteater). The only boy who ever really spoke to me was Corey. But as I’d known him since forever, he didn’t matter. Anyway, I’d come to terms with the fact that no boy would ever consider me girlfriend material and was content to live my love life through Carla anyway. As well as Darren she’d already been to the pictures with an older boy called Jake Saunders and snogged Colin Meek behind Lanes.
With her long legs and elegant haircut, it wasn’t surprising guys found her irresistible.
Miscellaneous: Can’t get a date?
Great!
No, not really, I know this is hard, especially if it seems like everyone around you has a boyfriend, is out at the pictures, holding hands, and buying sloppy-looking cards shaped like love hearts. But don’t be in a rush. One day, someone will see how special you are, how great it is to be with you and vice versa. I never thought anyone would ever look at plain old me, but she did. Your mom did and what a stunner she is—proving the theory that there is indeed someone for everyone in this world.
When I looked at Gary Jones, Jake’s best friend, I
felt
things. Like I wanted him to kiss me. But Gary, along with a host of other guys from Lewisham to Deptford, seemed to enjoy me invading their company as long as it was to discuss tapes and soccer. Nothing else. And I was okay with that. Especially when Gary and Jake once said they liked me because I was just like one of the lads, a comment which proved that one day I’d get a boyfriend. Didn’t it?
Miscellanous: Male friends 1
I bet you have a load of male friends. If not, then at least one. Someone you can hang out with, talk to? You make each other laugh? Discuss everything from school dinners to the state of the nation? This is all well and good, but don’t expect anything else from this if you start to fancy him.
Boys want a girlfriend. Maybe not a pink-ribbon-wearing, frilly, soft, rose-scented little package, but a girl all the same (sorry!). Forget all this talk about them wanting to be with a girl who understands the offside rule, burps and leaves her hand down her trousers “because it’s comfortable.” Terrible. It’s only natural for a bloke to be attracted to someone who acts like…well…a girl (sorry again!), who flutters her eyelashes, flicks her hair when she’s embarrassed by a compliment and who’d never even dream of a burp or a fart.
So if you want one of your friends to ever see you as girlfriend material (and when I say girlfriend, I mean the holding hands, going to the park type) then try to be girly as well as (most importantly) yourself.
I decided to stop being friends with Gary and the others. No post-match analysis, no help with their homework and certainly no “women” advice. This alienation lasted a whole week, right up until Gary Jones commented on what a bitch I’d turned into, which stung like a fresh bee sting and I quickly changed my mind back to being me.
Kevin Trivia
While men orbited the moon, looking for aliens, there were others on earth who publicly insulted some human beings over the color of their skin.
Your last year of secondary school.
Your friends are probably talking about traveling, getting full-time jobs and/or changing the world…as soon as they “escape” the bars and locks of school. But Lowey, if you haven’t decided to stay on at sixth form, please start thinking about it now. I’m not saying that by leaving school at sixteen you won’t get anywhere (I did and I earn a very good wage as a hospital administrator), I’d just prefer you to have more choices and that means getting more grades. Please, think seriously
about it, and in the meantime buckle down to some studying. Don’t neglect your friends and boyfriend (if you have one. Please don’t have one yet!!!!), just try to limit the time spent “hanging around” when you could be studying.
This is an important year for you.
Remember, your daddy loves you. With stars on.
By the time I was fifteen, three major events had occurred in my life.
I got asked out by a boy for the first time.
I became a revolutionary.
I got beaten up for the first time.
First, the beating part. Sharlene Rockingham finally got her way by pulling at my hair as I ripped her school shirt almost in half. A couple of slaps (from her), a few shoves and it was over. I gave as well as I got, but her bulk and my generous amount of “bone” would never be equal in any weigh-in. The clump of hair left behind on the playground floor looked suspiciously like mine as gasps and laughter increased among the assembled onlookers. It wasn’t until we were standing sheepishly in the middle of Mrs. Codrington’s office that I realized the front of my bra was actually showing, complete with ripped seam. Oh, the shame!
Miscellaneous: Humiliations
I’ve had my fair share:
- Being beaten seventeen-zip at a soccer cup match.
- Spending a whole day at work with a piece of toilet paper attached to my trouser leg.
- Danny and Charlie pinning me to a shop window (blindfolded and naked) after my stag night, two hours before opening time.
Hopefully, you won’t be as lucky as me in the humiliation stakes. You might think your mom turning up at parents’ evening wearing the most embarrassing floppy hat is the worst thing that can ever happen to you—but believe me when I say you ain’t seen nothing yet. Humiliations have this unique ability to rise in number, with age. But how you deal with it will also change as you mature—an ability I hope you’ll put to good use along with your ever-growing wisdom, experience, mortgage costs…well, you get my drift.
Two weeks of after-school detention was not a surprise. But the offer by Carla and a couple of reliable cronies offering to “deal” with Sharlene for me, was. Touched, I decided to let it go. I only had a year left at secondary school and getting good SATs had to remain my priority. Nothing else mattered…Oh, except perhaps becoming a revolutionary. Well, sort of.
One assembly, the headmistress announced the local council’s plan to amalgamate our school with a rival comprehensive. The hall fell into a hush, as our minds contemplated what this meant. My own thoughts drifted to the next twelve months, possibly spent surrounded by members of the opposite sex—new boys, non-friend boys. And this new batch had to include
someone
mad enough to even glance my way. But as we filed out of assembly that morning I could almost taste a new energy around us, alive with titters, whispers and opinions—ones turning against the new school.
“I can’t believe they’re mixing us with THAT lot!” spat Sharlene Rockingham, typically.
“Boys!” drooled Carla, almost licking her lips in happiness.
“Not everyone’s a—”
“Just say it and see what I’ll do to you! I’m not Lois, you know!” spat Carla.
Sharlene backed down as another girl spoke up. “This is what they want! Us fighting among each other. Well, you know what…?”
“What?” we asked in surprised unison.
“We ain’t gonna stand for it! Why should we?”
This question seemed to pump the now larger crowd full of adrenaline. So I thought it a good idea just to join in with it all.
At lunch, I followed Carla and a few others to the back of the science block.
“You know, we can’t let this happen!” said one.
“No way. We’ve got to fight it!” said another.
“Too right! They can’t amalga-wotsit us with another school, can they?!” added Carla, punching the air, the quickest change in opinion I had ever witnessed. I’d also never seen this side of her, or any of the other girls assembled on the wooden bench-cum-podium. They reminded me of check-coated old men on rallies, shouting at the television camera as placard-holding masses chanted and nodded their heads in agreement—the type of thing you saw on the six o’clock news and certainly not in my secondary school. Even after Mrs. Codrington shooed us all away, the meeting continued behind the gym block and by the next day even our Home Economics teacher had pledged his support.
What followed over the ensuing weeks were lunchtime “rallies” and meetings to decide how we were going to see off this threat to our education. My thoughts of handsome new boys became a sad but not forgotten memory as I joined the cause, secretly enjoying the togetherness. So, if this meant singing “We shall not, we shall not be mixed!” in the street, then so be it. If this meant welcoming Sharlene Rockingham into the fold, then so be it. We were a team, after all. Women, united in our quest to secure a good education for ourselves and future generations to come.
Lowey, if you’re not prepared to fight for what you believe in, then you might as well pack up and go home.
When the head announced the amalgamation would be put on hold until further notice, I knew a bunch of fifteen-year-olds couldn’t have swayed the minds of a selection of evil-doing council heads. But still, the taste of “victory” collided nicely with my taste buds: refreshing and unfamiliar.
But I was still glad to get back to normal, dodging Mom and studying for my SATs, which worked well until Mickey Mills asked me out one rainy evening as I stood outside Lanes chomping on a steak pie.
Now, Mickey Mills could hardly be described as handsome. Skinny, he resembled two legs sticking out of a neck and probably needed a bottle of Clearasil for his birthday. He wasn’t cool, but at the same time held his own among the cooler kids at his school, commanding respect among the boys as well as having a small but creditable fan club among the girls. He dressed okay (even if his feet weren’t in the latest Adidas). And he was mad enough to ask me
out to see
Jurassic Park,
more to the point. I was quick to say yes, hungry for a morsel of what Carla and all the pretty girls at school had been consuming for years now.
Luckily there were no sex scenes in the movie, so I didn’t have to check for any bulges in Mickey’s trousers. Plus, I made sure I never bent over to pick up any popcorn (or pencils!) either.
“I…I really had a great time,” stuttered Mickey Mills outside my house. If I really squinted my eyes and ignored the spots, he could almost pass for quite a good looker.
“Me too. Thanks for the ticket.”
“Erm, thanks for the popcorn,” he said. His faced moved in closer to mine and he squeezed his eyes shut like I did the last time I was constipated.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He opened his eyes. “I was going to give you a…kiss?”
We stared at one another for ages before I moved in and planted a huge wet kiss…on his cheek.
“Goodnight!” I said, the key already turning the lock. My heart was racing as I shot up the steps with a great big smile on my face.
You may think you’ve found the best thing since, I dunno, video laser discs, but it’s best not to fall for the first person to pay you any sort of special attention or hair compliment. There will be plenty of other lads who will comment on your lovely hair, sweet little laugh and your special ability to do fractions without a calculator (you can, right?). Besides, if he is truly “the one,” then surely it’s meant to be and you’ll end up together anyway. Only, later. Much later. When you’re, like, thirty-six? Okay, thirty.
I couldn’t wait for school to start in just over twelve hours, so I phoned Carla right away with the news.
Mom appeared as soon as I replaced the receiver.
“You see each other every day and she lives next door. Why do you have to phone her? I’m not made of money, you know,” she moaned, dressed in an old nightie and clutching a mug of cocoa.
“There’s loads to talk about, Mom. You wouldn’t understand!” I stressed.
“Did you have a nice time tonight?”
“What?” I asked coyly.
“I guessed you were meeting a boy.”
I felt myself blush with embarrassment. “Just a friend, Mom.”
“Corey’s a friend. This was a date, wasn’t it?”
Suddenly, I longed to jump into bed and escape this unwelcome interrogation.
“Not really. Mom, I’m really tired.”
“Okay, love. But you know you can talk to me about…anything.”
“Yes.” I was already hiding under the covers.
“And feel free to bring him round. Perhaps I could make us all some tea. Snapper and rice?”
Knowing I’d rather boil my own toe, I nodded a quick agreement and raced upstairs to dream about Mickey rescuing me from a pack of green dinosaurs.
A
t school, Carla and I gossiped heavily about my date and then replayed it all back at hers that evening.
“This is sooo cool!” enthused Carla.
“I know!”
“You know what?” asked Corey, who since leaving school
seemed to have embraced maturity overnight. His walk strayed from anxious gorilla to masculine strut, and he now wore his jeans straight.
“None of your biz!” I said.
“Oh, go on!” he whined, sounding like a five-year-old all over again.
“Lois has a boyfriend!” blabbed Carla.
I stamped on her foot.
“Ow!”
“Who?” Corey asked.
“Why?”
“Want to see if I know him,” replied Corey.
“You don’t, so mind your biz!”
“I was only wondering…that’s all!”
“Wondering what?” questioned Carla.
“If he’s a jerk or not.”
As soon as he left, Carla and I resumed our gossiping. It felt so great to have something in common with my best friend again. And as time went on, I began to enjoy this more than the company of Mickey Mills, who on closer inspection had really bad breath. I knew I’d never kiss him and was glad when he finally dumped me, citing my refusal to “french him” as strong-enough grounds.
