Rebecca's Rules (24 page)

‘Hi, Rebecca!’ called my mother.

‘Hi, love!’ said my dad cheerily.

The shame.

And, of course, I couldn’t ignore them. And I couldn’t ignore John.

‘Oh, hi,’ I said grumpily.

‘Hi there,’ said my mother, beaming at John like a psychopath. ‘You must be John. I’m Rebecca’s mother, Rosie.’

‘Oh,’ said John, looking slightly freaked out. ‘Um, yes. Hello.’

And he shook hands with both my parents like a proper grown-up and started to look like his usual confident self again.

‘So John,’ said my dad. ‘I hear you’re a writer.’

Oh God, why did he have to say that? It looked like I’d been talking about him to my parents. Which I had, but only because they made me.

‘Yes,’ said my mum brightly. ‘Like me!’

‘Well,’ said John, and he smiled. ‘Not quite like you. I write pretty serious stuff.’

‘Ah,’ said my mother. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eye. ‘I see. What sort of things do you write about?’

‘Oh, you know,’ said John. ‘I write about real life. Real issues. War. Love. Death. Adventure. Philosophy. Escaping conformity. Not, you know, romantic fluff.’

‘Wow,’ said my mother. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Yeah,’ said John. He looked very seriously at my mum. ‘I couldn’t write the sort of light entertainments that you write.’

‘I bet you couldn’t,’ said Mum.

‘I’m working on some theatre pieces at the moment,’ said John.

‘Very impressive,’ said Dad politely.

‘So,’ I said desperately. ‘Don’t we have to go? Aren’t we late for Celine?’

‘Ah,’ said my dad. ‘I suppose we are. Nice to meet you, John. Good luck with the musical – Rosie and I were in a musical ourselves once so we can’t wait to see it!’

For a terrible second I thought he and Mum were going to go on about
The Pirates of Penzance
for the ten millionth time which would have sent John running for the hills, but luckily they didn’t.

‘Yes, I’m sure it’ll be brilliant,’ said my mum. ‘Keep up the good writing work!’

‘I’ll try,’ said John, and smiled at them very politely. He looked at me and grinned. ‘Bye, Rebecca.’

And I had to go. Obviously there would be no kissing goodbye in front of my parents. When we were in the car (Rachel had waited there because she, unlike SOME PEOPLE, know that most people do not want to come out of a rehearsal with their sort-of boyfriend and find their entire family waiting for them) Mum said, ‘Well, he seems like a … very serious boy. He cares about his writing.’

‘Of course he does,’ I said. ‘He’s a proper artist.’

‘Hmmm,’ said my mum. And then she started arguing with my dad about the best route to Celine’s house.

On the plus side Celine wasn’t as irritating as usual. She
had a terrible cold so she couldn’t say very much and we didn’t have to stay long. And when we got home my parents got another posh take-away to cheer us up after the visit. So the day wasn’t a total disaster. But still, I wish my stupid parents hadn’t turned up. I bet John thought they were enormous freaks. Which they are.

SUNDAY

Oh my God. Just when I thought my parents had run out of new ways to embarrass me, they come up with a new one. As if yesterday wasn’t bad enough, today we were having dinner and Mum and Dad started going on about
The Pirates of Penzance
yet again. And then Mum said, ‘You know what, Ed? I’d really like to do it again.’

Rachel and I looked at each other.

‘Mum,’ said Rachel patiently. ‘You can’t just put on your 1985 production of
The Pirates of Penzance
on your own. That’s insane. And I can’t imagine all your old castmates would want to do it anyway.’

Mum looked at her. ‘I don’t mean put on the Pirates again,’ she said. ‘Of course that’s a mad idea. Not least because nothing 
could ever capture the excitement of that particular production. No, I mean your dad and I could join a musical society. There’s one in Glasnevin as far as I know. We should check it out.’

I hoped Dad would say, ‘What a ridiculous idea, Rosie, you must have gone mad.’ But he didn’t. He looked delighted.

‘That’s a great idea!’ he said. ‘I’ll go and look it up online after dinner.’

And he did. And it turns out that not only is there indeed a local musical society, but they are holding auditions for their next production in about six weeks. My crazy parents are counting the days.

‘I’ll have to dig out my tap shoes,’ said my dad. ‘I bet they’re up in the attic somewhere.’

‘You have TAP SHOES?’ said Rachel in horror.

‘Of course,’ said Dad. ‘I did all sorts of dancing in the Pirates. Jazz ballet, tap, disco. I’ve told you, it really was an imaginative production.’

The mind reels. Luckily, Rachel is just as appalled by the idea of our parents prancing around on stage again as I am.

‘Our only hope,’ she said later, when we were loading the dishwasher like the servants we are, and our parents were relaxing in the sitting room, ‘is that it’s almost two months 
until that audition. Maybe they’ll forget about it by then.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ I said. And I wouldn’t. I know my mental parents. Once they get an idea into their heads, there’s no stopping them.

I can’t tell John about it. I have a feeling he thinks my parents are trivial fools anyway. And this would only prove him right. We met up this afternoon and went for a walk around Griffith Avenue. John started talking about life experience and how important it is to LIVE before you write.

‘I want to experience everything, Rafferty,’ he said. ‘I want to live, and laugh, and love!’

Heavens.

Anyway, that gave me the chance to ask something I’d been wondering about. I remembered Bike Boy saying it was ages since John had broken up with his last girlfriend – or sort-of-girlfriend – ages ago, but John had never said anything about it himself.

‘So,’ I said. ‘Have you ever … have you ever, like, gone out with a girl? Before me?’

‘You know I don’t like to be pinned down, Rafferty,’ he said. ‘But yeah, I was with a girl called Lucy last summer. I met her at a poetry workshop thing. She was pretty talented, actually.’

I instantly hated this Lucy.

‘What happened?’ I said, even though I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

‘She just didn’t understand me,’ said John. ‘She didn’t get my writing. She was more interested in her own stuff. Not like you, Rafferty. You know how important it is to me.’

Ooh.

I thought he was going to ask me about my romantic history, such as it is, but he didn’t. But I thought I should bring it up, so I said, ‘I was seeing someone last year too.’ I was going to say that I met him because of his Paperboy role, but somehow I didn’t want to. It felt like, I dunno, too personal. So I said, ‘We got together after I was in the Battle of the Bands.’

‘Oh yeah, your band,’ said John. ‘You know, I was thinking about what I said the other week, and I really think you should try and learn the guitar. Or at least the bass. I mean, you don’t really want to be stuck back there behind the others, sweating away on the drums, do you? It’s not very dignified, is it? It’s not very, I dunno, ladylike.’

I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I don’t want to look like a total hobo, but I would always rather have fun and do something cool than be ladylike. So eventually I said, ‘I don’t 
really care about being elegant on stage. I mean, I’d rather play the drums.’

And John laughed and kissed the top of my head and said, ‘You really are one of a kind.’

I have to admit this really annoyed me. Like me caring about my drums was just some sort of silly quirky thing. But before I could do anything about it, I got a text from my dad telling me I was half an hour late and I had to come home for dinner, so I just had time to say goodbye and trot up Gracepark Road at top speed (oh, John is such a good kisser). And now a few hours have gone by I’ve thought about it and I realise that John just doesn’t understand my love of drumming because he’s never actually seen me do it. Once the band is back together and he can see how much I love it, I’m sure he’ll come round and realise how awesome it is. Paperboy thought it was great that I played the drums. I am sure John will too.

MONDAY

Mrs Harrington brought in the first of her Rosie Carberry collection today. It is a giant hardback and it weighs a ton. I 
might have known she’d have all the first editions.

‘Can you get your mammy to sign it “To Patricia and Gerard”?’ said Mrs Harrington. ‘And I’ll bring another one in tomorrow!’

Oh God, I’m going to be carrying giant books to and from school for weeks. AND when she turns up on Saturday she’s going to find out that I lied about Mum and Dad going that night. What have I let myself in for?

That is not the only thing I feel slightly guilty about. After rehearsal today, I was about to tell Cass and Alice I was leaving with John when he said, ‘Oh, come on, Rafferty, we’ll be here all night if you have to find both of them, and we hardly get to spend any time together as it is! You don’t have to tell your friends about your every move!’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I suppose not.’

‘So let’s just go,’ he said. ‘They won’t mind. I mean, Cass is off backstage somewhere and Alice seems, you know, otherwise engaged with Richard.’

So off we went.

‘You know, Rafferty, you worry too much about other people,’ said John. ‘You need to put yourself first sometimes! It’s the only way to get what you want. You can’t be a doormat.’

I know he is right. My problem is that I am meant to be actively trying to be nicer and not a selfish beast. Surely there must be some sort of mid-point between being a doormat and being, you know, nice and thoughtful? Anyway, I clearly haven’t found it because I feel a bit guilty now. I texted Alice and Cass to say sorry and they both said it was fine, but still. Leaving Cass to walk alone is one thing as long as we’re both, like, aware of it, but sneaking off seems a bit wrong.

It was lovely walking with John, though. We talked about books we loved.

John urged me to read Jack Kerouac. ‘It’s written in what he called spontaneous prose,’ he said. ‘Like a stream of consciousness, everything just tumbling out. It’s really intense. You have to read it. He’s like, playing with language.’

‘I’m reading a great book too,’ I said. ‘
The Pursuit of Love
. It’s by a woman called Nancy Mitford and it’s all about these posh sisters and their cousin and they end up, like, being in wars and stuff, but it’s really funny and …’

‘There’s nothing funny in
On the Road
,’ said John sternly. ‘It’s all about passion and life. And the need to just, like, get in a car and drive across America.’

‘Well, there’s some travel in
The Pursuit of Love
,’ I said. ‘The
main character ends up going to …’

But John was so caught up in his love for
On the Road,
he didn’t seem to notice I’d said anything.

‘I’d love to do that this summer,’ he said. ‘Just go to America and hit the road like Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty.’

‘Wow, can you drive?’ I said. ‘I didn’t think you could get a licence until you were eighteen.’

‘Well, I can’t actually drive yet,’ said John. ‘But I’ll be sixteen in July. I could do the test in America. I heard you just have to, like, start the car properly and you pass your test over there.’

‘Wow, that would be cool. But how will you pay for it?’ I said.

‘Oh, Rafferty, all these questions!’ said John. ‘I’ll always find a way to do what I want.’

I bet he will too; he is so determined. I wouldn’t know where to start if I wanted to fund a drive across America. I only have a hundred euro in my savings account and I have to ask my tyrannical parents for permission to take any of it out.

TUESDAY