My Family and Other Freaks (15 page)

She sighs. “He said he really likes you and always has.” Amber has adopted a slightly bored voice, I notice.

“Oh thanks. Well, that's ruined my big moment. How did you know?”

“Neil told me.”

“You seem to be doing a lot of cozy talking to Neil these days,” I snap.

“Well, I've been trying to tell you that too, but you've been so, erm, preoccupied with Damian and Treasure lately,” she says awkwardly, fiddling with her “Don't Be Mean—Go Green!” badge. “I sometimes wonder if you listen to a word I say that isn't about you.”

“What? How dare you! I do NOT always talk about myself.”

“Then how come you don't know how close me and Neil are then?” says Amber with her hands on her hips. “Because I could never get a word in.”

Suddenly a clunking great penny drops in my (pimply) head.

“By ‘preoccupied' you mean ‘self-obsessed and selfish,' don't you?” I say, slowly feeling the need to chew my fists with shame. Someone shoot me now—I haven't asked Amber a single question about her life for weeks. It's all been about me,
me, me. My crush on Damian, my problems with Simon, my shame over my mom's pregnancy, my lack of a tan.

“Maybe Bad Breath Biggins was right after all,” I say. “Me and Treasure don't spoil a pair. I'm so, so sorry, Amber. After all you've done for me and Simon too. I don't deserve to live,” I wail.

“Oh, don't be so totally melodramatic—again,” says Amber, feeding Deirdre some celery through the bars of her cage. “You've just had a bit of an, erm, one-track mind lately.”

Yeah, the one track being me and my stupid life.

Amber is still talking. I must concentrate. “It's just that me and Neil have been texting loads lately and I really, REALLY like him.” Her face is glowing. Even her freckles are glowing. She looks really pretty.

“We are going to protest outside the supermarket next Saturday against the use of too much plastic packaging!”

Normally, of course, I'd say, “Whoopidoo. Can't
wait to ink that special treat into my diary,” but for once I hold the sarcasm. Instead I suggest that all four of us plus the two dogs go for another walk again soon, in the park, by way of a gift from me to her. Amber looks like she might burst with happiness. Honestly, some people are so easily pleased.

“That would be brilliant,” she says, clapping her hands together. I'm so lucky that Amber is my best friend.

I get a text from Damian asking if I'd like to go to the cinema sometime. I text back saying I don't think it would be a good idea at the moment as it wouldn't be fair on Treasure. I am SO thoughtful and mature.

I phone Sean. He is so taken aback that I actually dialed his cell number I worry he is going to
faint. “I've got something to ask you,” I say.

“What?” he says nervously, obviously thinking that I've had second thoughts about Damian.

“Do you want to come for a walk this afternoon with me and Amber. Bring Neil? About 3 o'clock? With the dogs, obviously.”

He laughs in a relieved, sweet sort of way and says, “That would be wicked.”

Aah. I can't believe such a nice person is interested in a horrible egomaniac like me. Or that anybody still says “wicked.”

Dad shouts up that a friend's at the door to see me. Holy moly! I know Amber's excited about the park, but she's three hours early. I am wearing an old stained dressing gown and have put some of Mom's mud face pack on, which I stole from the bathroom. Safe to say I am not looking my best. Oh well.

I hear feet coming up the stairs so I shout in Miss Judd's robotic, nasally voice, “Warning, pupils, this bedroom stinks like a zoo. Only enter if you have a peg for your nose. Repeat—A. Peg. For. Your. Nose.”

Deirdre, you see, has just weed all over my chemistry homework, which is quite appropriate given that rodent urine contains large quantities of nitrogen, phosphates and potassium.

The door swings open. I have my back to it. “Enter!” I say. “And I promise not to mention tedious, trite, tarty Treasure once,” I say.

“What does trite mean?” says a voice that is definitely not Amber's.

Standing there with Deirdre scurrying over her brand-new Timberland boots is Treasure.

“What? You? Why? Oh!” I say, opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish and, like my mother, only able to say words of one syllable. My enemy is actually standing in my bedroom and I am not equipped for battle,
considering that my face is covered in brown sludge, I have a shabby dressing gown on with Marmite stains down the front and Deirdre has peed everywhere. This confirms everything Treasure has ever said about me. I am indeed a Clampett.

Then I see that her eyes and nose are red from crying and she hasn't even bothered to put any mascara on. Holy moly, things must be bad. “You look terrible,” I say, which is meant to be funny coming from me, but, as usual, this goes over her (air)head.

“Before you start, I have come to apologize,” she says, blowing gallons of snot noisily into a tissue.

“For what?”

“For what I said in the toilets. Damian said it was nasty. And I suppose he's right.”

Hello—am I in a parallel universe? Treasure Cavendish is standing in my house. Asking forgiveness. From moi?

“Which bit are you saying sorry for exactly?” I say, narrowing my eyes.

She lowers her voice. “You know, about your family being the Clampetts and your mom being old and the house being, er, filthy.” She looks around my cesspit of a bedroom as she says the last bit.

I pick off some of the clay that's drying on my face. “You shouldn't say stuff about people's families when they've never done anything to you,” I say. “I never slag yours off.” I take a deep breath and carry on. “But in all honesty one thing you said was true. I did want Damian for myself. But I don't anymore. Cross my heart and hope to wear bifocals.”

She is blowing her nose again and staring in horror at Deirdre, who has chosen this moment to do her party trick of eating her own poo straight from her bottom.

“I know. You're all pally with Sean now, aren't you? Damian says he talks about you a lot. I
think he's smitten. Er, should that gerbil be doing that?”

“She's not a gerbil,” I say loftily. “She's a degu.”

Treasure is now sitting tentatively down on my Ikea duvet cover which, naturally, is covered in Simon's dog hairs. She quickly stands up again.

“This coat cost a hundred quid,” she says.

She looks so miserable I feel a flicker of pity for her. Only a flicker though. Let's not get carried away or forget how mean she was about my mom. “Look, I should probably say sorry too,” I say grudgingly. “I said some vile things to you too. It's only because I was sort of a little bit, well you know, erm, jealous.”

“Oh, I know THAT,” she says. “And it's totally understandable. I get all these great clothes, and I know I usually look pretty amazing and everyone wants to hang out with me.”

Hello? What kind of person apologizes for their shocking awfulness while reminding you how beautiful they are?

“And you have such rubbish clothes, and my mom says you never go on proper, foreign holidays. And I feel sorry for you having such lank hair and bad acne when I've been so blessed with great skin and can afford to get highlights. But you are quite popular. I'd love people to be my friends DESPITE what I look like, not because of it.”

Can you believe I'm having to listen to this in my own bedroom? What's that horrid whining noise? Oh, it's Treasure. She still seems to be talking.

“Because the thing is, when people tell you you're beautiful, Danni, you feel under pressure to ALWAYS look beautiful. It's exhausting. Sometimes I spend a whole week worrying about what to wear for a party because I know people expect me to look sensational. I've set myself a very high bar. I know it's hard for you to understand but, believe me, good looks can be a curse, Danni. You don't know how lucky you are.”

Oh charming. So, to recap, Treasure has complimented me while managing to deliver three brand-new insults. And I thought my hair was one of my better features …

Treasure says she'd better be going because her mom and dad are taking her out for Sunday lunch at Pod, the brand-new restaurant in town, which has computers on every table. Trust her to be the first in our year to go there. I ask what's happening with her and Damian. She looks blubby again. “He said he wants to cool it off for a while and see more of his friends, but we'll still be friends.” She shows her naked wrist. “We've taken off our commitment bracelets,” she says, blowing her nose copiously again. “He wanted me to say sorry. So I have.”

She looks so miserable (and quite ugly! Hooray—Treasure is an ugly crier!) that I decide I can't be bothered to say anything snitty back.

“Look, it was nice of you to come,” I say, “and I suppose it was quite brave, considering I could
have set Deirdre on you. Shall we try to be nicer to each other next term?”

How grown-up am I? How
magnamonous, manganminous
nice am I, eh???

For a minute I think she is going to kiss me, but she's actually leaning over and peering at my neck. Then she says, “I think you're having an allergic reaction to that face pack.”

Treasure has gone and I am looking in the mirror contemplating the red, blotchy, peeling horror show that is my visage. Mom says I should only have left it on 10 minutes, but it was more like two hours. I look like the Ood monster out of
Doctor Who
only less attractive. And I'll be in a public park—in daylight!—with Sean within one hour.

Thing is, I don't think he'll mind.

And, on the bright side, I might have embarrassing parents who kiss in front of my friends
and do not know the meaning of contraception even though they're old-age pensioners, my mother may fail to feed us properly and the towels in the bathroom may always smell of my dad's armpits, but I wouldn't swap my family, actually, if you must know (I'm not even totally hating the idea of meeting the blob now). And Treasure Cavendish—the most fancied girl in our year—has just apologized to ME. My work here is done.

I realize I am humming as I get ready to meet Amber and Sean and Neil and Mitzy with a face like the top of a pizza rustica. Yes, in the words of Kylie Minogue, I know that I am lucky: lucky, lucky, lucky.

Cell is ringing. Go away. Oh, it's Dad. He's taking Mom to hospital because she's having contractions. God spare us. Is it going to be like that video they showed us in biology about childbirth?
That poor woman was mooing and grunting—she was like an entire FARMYARD, with boobs like big veiny beach balls.

“Your gran's here with Phoebe, and Rick's gone out,” says Dad, all breathless. “I'll call as soon as there's any news.”

“OK,” I say, feeling a fluttery sensation in my stomach. The Blob is on its way.

“One more thing, Danni. Mom says since we've given you a hard time recently you can choose your new brother's name. Have a think.”

Oooh, Father, my cup runneth over. How will I ever come down from the excitement of naming the new Dench rugrat?

Hold on though—there is potential to really wind my parents up here. Yes, imagine my dad's face when he has to tell his friends that his new son is called Tarquin Jonquil Tristram Dench.

I walk through the park gates smiling with Simon trotting at my heels …

No, I know what I'll call my new baby brother. Yes, yes—it's the obvious choice.

… Damian …

Hahahaha. KIDDING. I so had you there.

But there is one name I'm more and more liking the sound of.

I pick up my phone and dial just as I see him in the distance, waiting under a tree and nervously checking his watch.

“Hello?” says Sean, answering, very uncoolly, after just one ring. He's wearing his best jacket and has Mitzy on a lead. I've got butterflies again. He looks … well … lovely.

“You might not like this …” I say, walking toward him.

He frowns a bit, worried about what I'm going to say.

“… But how do you feel about having a blob named after you?”

The end