The Boyfriend Dilemma (2 page)

Chapter two

Our house is full. Fuller than normal, I mean – which is saying something, because there's a lot of us jammed into a pretty small place. While Mum makes breakfast downstairs (she does the best, crispiest bacon in the world and the smell is drifting up the stairs), a whole gang of boys are chatting and laughing in my big brother's room. Kyle had a pile of friends to stay over last night. The boys don't call them sleepovers. Sure, they stuff their faces with popcorn and crisps, watch movies and chat late into the night. Which is exactly the same as a sleepover, right? Except the films Zoe and I watch tend not to be about some creepy guy lurking about in the basement, waiting to chop a bunch of teenagers into little bits.

Mum doesn't mind people staying over. Dad doesn't really notice because he works long hours as a taxi driver – even when he is at home, he's usually asleep on the sofa with his mouth wide open. And Gran, who lives with us too because she gets confused sometimes, likes lots of people around. Until last year she was living in her tiny cottage in the hills, but Mum and Dad were worried about her all the way out there, and Mum gave up her job to look after her. After she moved in with us, Gran told me, with a big, wide smile, “It's impossible to feel lonely in this house.”

Well, that's true. Sometimes, though, I think maybe a smidge of loneliness might be OK. And occasionally, when my little sister Amber's jewellery-making stuff is covering every inch of our shared room, I picture myself in Zoe's amazing bedroom – actually
being
Zoe, with her queen-sized bed and her balcony. She's even got a table and two chairs out there where she can sit and think – and no one bothers her, ever. We just have a tiny back yard with the wheelie bins and a plastic chair with a cracked seat we put out for Gran to sit on when she has her “morning cigarette”. Whenever Gran says it – “
my morning cigarette
”
–
she puts on a posh voice as if there's something almost royal about it. Like the queen might have her
morning cigarette
before receiving guests in the drawing room…

Unusually, I
am
alone now. Amber is downstairs with Mum, and I'm lying fully dressed on my bottom bunk, listening in on the conversation next door. I don't feel guilty, OK? For one thing the walls are paper thin – it's impossible
not
to overhear things. Also, it's payback. A few months ago Kyle installed a “spying device” (just a tiny microphone really) in my room when Zoe and I were singing, and recorded us. We used to sing all the time. Not any more – not since he played it to his friends and they all starting mimicking us for weeks, like it was the funniest thing in the world. Can you believe someone would do that at his age? Isn't he supposed to be
mature
?

Naturally, I recognize most of the voices coming from his room. Apart from my brother with his big, loud laugh, there's also Danny, Harris and Jude, who've been friends of his since for ever (we have lived here, in our little terraced house, all our lives). But there's a new voice too, one I don't recognize. I listen as hard as I can.

His accent is different, kind of posh and definitely not from around here. Not
royal
posh, but confident and clear as he tells the boys about the bands he's seen – and he's seen
everyone.
It's unbelievable. I've never even been to a proper gig. Who
is
he? I lie there still as a corpse, earwigging.

“So why did you move here?” Kyle asks.

“Dad's job,” the new boy replies. “He works in the music industry and—”

“What, in this dump?” Danny exclaims. “There's nothing like that around here.”

“He'll be working in Glasgow,” New Boy explains, “where this big new recording studio's been set up. But Mum wanted us to live somewhere quieter, more peaceful…”

Jude's laugh rings through the wall. “More boring, you mean. Can't believe you left Brighton to come up here.” Although he's Danny's little brother – in the same year as Zoe and me – Jude doesn't act young. He's funny and smart and, to be honest, he's by far the best musician out of all of them. The four of them are in a band together. Kyle plays drums, Jude sings and plays guitar, Danny's on bass and Harris – well, he sort of hangs about, pointing out how they
should
be doing things.

“I don't think it's boring,” the boy remarks. “I kinda like it.”

“Where's your house?” Danny asks. “Bet it's massive…”

“It's OK,” the boy says, sounding embarrassed.

“C'mon,” Harris teases him. “What's it like? Which street is it in?”

There's some mumbling and sniggering as the boys nag him to tell them exactly where he lives. “I'll show you sometime,” he says. I feel sorry for him; he clearly doesn't want to show off and make a big deal of it.

Even so, I'm desperate to know more. Maybe he lives in some grand place that's even bigger than Zoe's. That's probably it. I try to picture the few big houses dotted around here – like Dean House, with its turrets and orchard and the angry owner who threatened to call the police when me and Zoe snuck in and stole apples.

“You coming to Mossbridge after the holidays?” Kyle asks, meaning the school we all go to just down the road.

“Yeah.”

“What was your old school like?” Danny wants to know.

“All right, y'know. Pretty relaxed.”

“You're lucky,” Jude sniggers. “Mossbridge isn't relaxed at all…”

“Was it one of those arty places where you only have to do lessons if you feel like it?” Kyle asks.

“Er, kind of,” the boy replies. Someone's put music on now, so all I can catch are occasional phrases like “boarding school” and “trip to China”, which, to me, mean “
incredibly
posh”. Our school trip last year was to France, and Mum and Dad couldn't afford for me and Kyle to go. Instead, they took us all (including Gran) on a day trip to the seaside, where Amber saw a poo floating in the sea.

I get up from my bed and tiptoe to the bathroom before this new person can see me. With the door locked, I brush my teeth as thoroughly as possible, even though I'll have to do it again after breakfast. I even floss, like Zoe does. For some reason, it seems vitally important to have gleaming teeth today.

Back in my room, I check my reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door, hoping the clothes I threw on earlier don't look too mad. Paisley-patterned shirt, beaten-up denim shorts with flowery-patched pockets, thin red belt to hold them up (as they're a teeny bit too big), plus purple tights … is it all a bit too much? I'm so used to picking out charity-shop clothes that I'm pretty sure I can throw an outfit together. Zoe reckons I have “natural style” – but then, she'd hardly say, “God, Layla – where did you get that shirt from? The clothing bank?” It's next to the bottle bank in the park. CJ spread a rumour that she'd seen me squeeze myself into the hole where people post their worn-out clothes, trying to get stuff out. “Her bum and legs were sticking out,” she announced, making out I was that desperate for something to wear. I have no idea why CJ hates me and Zoe. She calls Zoe a “snob” and me a “tinker”, so you can't win really.

You look fine
, I tell myself firmly. Why am I feeling so self-conscious all of a sudden? Probably because, although charity shops are OK, occasionally I wish I could go to all the normal high-street shops like Zoe does and, you know, look normal. Much easier that way. I glance at my alarm clock and wish she'd hurry up.

“Layla!” Mum calls upstairs. “Kyle, boys … there's a whole stack of waffles here. Hurry up before they go cold.” Eek – I'm about to meet
the voice
. The rich-dad-in-music-business, school-trip-to-China new arrival. I try to flatten my dark springy curls and run my tongue over my shiny teeth. “Plenty for everyone,” Mum adds cheerfully. I hurry downstairs to get myself settled all
casually
at the kitchen table before the boys arrive. By some miracle, Mum has managed to cram eight seats – including our wobbly piano stool – around the kitchen table.

Gran, who's nearly eighty and hates being left out, is already sitting there, stuffing her face with several slices of bacon squashed between a couple of waffles (she likes to eat everything in a sandwich). Amber helps herself to a clump of rashers from the towering plateful, giggling, “Whoops – they were all stuck together.” From under the grill comes another batch, and from upstairs comes a gang of boys, five of them all laughing loudly and clattering towards us. I sit next to Gran, wondering why I'm feeling so edgy in my own house as they all pour in: Kyle, Danny, Harris, Jude and
him
– New Boy – wearing jeans and a pale blue T-shirt with a scratchy drawing of a polar bear on the front.

“Make room for Ben,” Mum says as everyone grabs seats.

The stool next to me is empty. I look up at the boy and he smiles down at me. It's the biggest, sunniest smile I've ever seen. His eyes are so blue they're almost unreal, and his honey-ish hair is just the right kind of messy, all mussed around his face. Sensing my cheeks flushing hot, I quickly focus on my plate.

“You can sit next to Layla,” Mum prompts him with a smile, as if she's a little bit impressed by this newcomer too. “Oh, I am being rude,” she adds. “I haven't introduced you to everyone, have I?”

“That's OK,” Ben says brightly, perching on the stool beside me. My heart starts rattling along at about twice its normal speed.

“That's Amber,” Mum continues. “She's eight. And this is Frances – we don't talk about your age, do we, Mum?”

Gran sniggers and takes a noisy slurp of her tea. “Don't mind me with my shoes off,” she says. “My bunions are hurting—”

“Oh dear,” Ben says with a sympathetic smile.

“You do have slippers,” Mum reminds her gently as Amber's shoulders shake with silent laughter. Great. First impression Ben has of our family, and Gran introduces her poorly feet. “And this is Layla,” Mum adds. “She's the one in the middle…”

“Hi,” I murmur, wishing she didn't describe me like that whenever we meet someone new.

“Hi, Layla,” Ben says. I smile, trying to look relaxed, and take a sip of tea from the “Layla” mug Zoe brought me back from holiday last year. I reach for a waffle but it tastes like cardboard, even with Nutella smeared on. I take another sip of tea and pray that Gran keeps her feet on the floor and doesn't try to
show
everyone her bunions. When someone raps on the front door (no one ever gets around to putting new batteries in the doorbell), I almost cry out in relief and leap up to answer it. At least a few seconds away from the table will give my face a chance to cool down.

“Hey,” Zoe says, all smiles, her long blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Her T-shirt and jeans look brand new, and she smells great. Zoe has a choice of expensive perfumes, while I just use the cheapest body sprays Mum gets me from the supermarket.

“Come in,” I say, wanting to tell her all about Ben but knowing we'll have to wait until later to discuss him.

“Hi, Zoe,” Mum says. “Have you had breakfast, love?”

“No, it was a bit of a rush this morning…” She grins at me, as if to say,
Wait till I tell you
, then her expression changes as she spots the new person at our table.

“This is Ben, a friend of Kyle's,” Mum explains, putting a big jug of orange juice on the table.

“Hi,” Zoe says quickly. Mum fetches Gran's chair from the yard and squeezes it in between Kyle and Jude. Now that Zoe's here, I feel less outnumbered by boys. My only worries are:

 

1. Am I managing to eat nicely, like a thirteen year old should be perfectly capable of doing, or have I somehow smeared Nutella around my mouth?
   
2. Are the purple tights a bit much?
   
3. And the patterned shirt? I loved it when I found it in Oxfam but does it look like I stole it off Gran?
   
4. What I'm going to say as BEN IS TALKING DIRECTLY TO ME?!
   

 

“Er … sorry?” I blurt out, realizing I haven't heard a word. All I can think is, his eyes are as blue as that blue angelfish we had at primary school – the one that attacked all the other fish until there were no others left in the tank.

“Could you pass me the juice please?” Ben asks politely.

“
Suuuuurre,
” I drawl, which comes out sounding ridiculous – like I've turned American or something. Jude gives me a confused look and Zoe widens her eyes. I reach for the jug and clonk it down in front of him.

“Could I have the butter as well, please?”

Such manners! Maybe Kyle could learn a thing or two from him? “No problem,” I say, detecting a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.