Skinny Melon and Me Read online

Page 5


  Mum said not to take that tone with her. (What tone? What is she talking about?) She said she didn’t care what other people were wearing, she wasn’t having her daughter go to school looking like some kind of big-footed grotesque. I said, “That is very big-footist.” And she snarled, “Never mind the smart mouth! I have spoken and that is flat and final. How can you expect to do any serious learning in that ridiculous get-up?”

  Mum is incredibly hidebound. I said, “Well, if it comes to that, how can you expect to have any serious baby, wearing those ridiculous dungarees?” which is what she has taken to wearing now that her secret is out. I said, “I bet the Queen didn’t wear dungarees when she was having babies.” Mum started to get all red and hot, but old Slimey laughed and said, “She’s got you there!” almost as if he were on my side against Mum. She still wouldn’t budge.

  I met the Skinbag at the school gates and asked her what the sleep-over was like. She said it was brilliant and that Harry meeting Sally was even better second time round and why wouldn’t my mum let me go? I told her it was because of Gemma’s brother saying That Word and Mum thinking I might start saying it and the Melon agreed that mothers could be a real drag. She said that right at this moment hers was being even more of a drag than usual which I found hard to believe as the Melon’s mum is really nice. She would for instance never make promises and then break them. Like if she said the Melon could have a dog, then she’d let her have a dog. I mean she’s already got one, of course, but if she’d said she could have another, or choose a video or whatever, she would let her. So I said, “How is she being a drag?” but the Melon wouldn’t tell me. She just said, “Behaving like a teenager.”

  I don’t see anything particularly draggy about that.

  When I got home from school, Mum started on about the baby again, wondering whether it was going to be a boy or a girl, trying to get me to say which I’d prefer. I wouldn’t prefer either! I don’t want to know about the beastly baby. I hope it never comes out. I hope it withers on the vine. I hate it!

  Tuesday

  Boiled organs and baked toenails for dinner. It was one of the boys that said they were organs. Male organs. He fished some out and made rude patterns with them on the table. Boys like doing that kind of thing. Skinny said she thought the toenails might in fact be potato skins, but who wants to eat potato skins? What happened to the insides of the potatoes? Skinny says we’ll probably get to have those tomorrow, all lumpy and foul.

  Got into trouble with Mrs James today because she said I was rude to her. I wasn’t! She accused me of passing notes and I wasn’t passing notes, it was John Lloyd and Steven Carter, I just happened to pick one up off the floor for them. Mrs James said, “There are other ways of letting me know that you have been falsely accused. There is no need to be aggressive.”

  I complained to Skinny Melon about it afterwards and Skinny said, “Well, you were aggressive. You always are, these days. People hardly dare open their mouths in case you jump on them.”

  I can’t help it. I feel aggressive. I feel like screaming, sometimes. It’s living with Mum and Slimey and this baby that Mum’s carting around with her. That’s what’s doing it.

  I keep remembering when Dad was here, before he and Mum started having rows. I was happy then. I haven’t been happy ever since Mum and Dad split up. I hate them all!

  Wednesday

  Got into more trouble. Miss Bradley, this time. We were playing netball and she pulled me up for running with the ball when I wasn’t. She just thought I was because someone barged into me. I explained this to her, as polite as could be. I said, “Excuse me, but you have made a mistake,” and she instantly leapt down my throat and yelled that she was sick and tired of what she called my “attitude”, and that if there was any more of it I would be suspended from the team. Why does everyone keep getting at me all the time? I can’t wait till it’s half-term and I can go and stay with Dad!

  I was so disgruntled, what with Miss Bradley having a go at me and Skinny and me being a bit distant after her telling me yesterday I was aggressive, that I decided I wasn’t going to stay in at lunch-time like we’re supposed to. For one thing I couldn’t stand the thought of having to eat the insides of yesterday’s potatoes, and for another, I saw Skinny going off with Avril Roper and Uchenna Jackson, so I hopped out through the gates when no one was looking and went into town. I got some crisps and a bottle of Coke and walked up the road to the station, which is where the cab company is that Dad used to work for after he’d been made redundant.

  Lots of the same drivers were there and they remembered me and asked me how I was doing and how Dad was liking his new job. They’re ever so much more fun than the people Mum and Slimey know. All of Mum and Slimey’s friends are either writers or publishers or something else to do with books. Books are all they ever talk about. They’re always pushing them at me. “Here’s a copy of my new book for you, Cherry.” “Here’s a copy of a book we’ve just published, Cherry.” “Here’s a copy of a book I thought you might like, Cherry.”

  And then I’m expected to sit down and read them and say what I think of them, which most of the time isn’t much, only I’m not allowed to say so for fear of being thought rude or hurting their feelings. It’s not that I don’t like books, just that I don’t like their books. The sort they push at me. They’re all so babyish! I’m more into the hard stuff. Horror, and that. Mum and Slimey are horrified (ho ho!) but I say what’s wrong with reading something a bit scary? They don’t seem to realise that I’ve grown out of all this kiddy crud.

  Anyway, when it was time to go back to school one of the drivers, who is called Ivy, said she’d take me in her cab. We talked a bit on the way and Ivy asked me how I was getting on with my mum’s new husband. I was glad she didn’t say “your new dad” as I can’t stand it when people do that. So I pulled a face, and Ivy said, “Tough going?” And then she told me how it had happened to her when she was about my age and how she’d thought she’d never get used to her mum having a new bloke, “Never!” but how in the end she had and, “Now we’re the best of friends.”

  I know Ivy was only trying to be helpful, but I am afraid it is not going to work out like that for me. I still have my real dad, even if he does live miles away. It was different for Ivy as her real dad was not really a very nice person. In fact Ivy said he was “a right *******”. (I have to put stars as the word Ivy used is not the sort of word I wish to record in this diary.) I told her that my dad is the best dad in the world and that I am going to stay with him over half-term. I said that I am really looking forward to it. Ivy said, “Well, have a good time, but don’t expect too much, will you?”

  I don’t know why she said that. I didn’t have a chance to ask her as we had already reached the school gates. Skinny was mooning about nearby with Avril and Uchenna. You should have seen their faces when they realised who was in the cab!

  They couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d stepped out of a Rolls Royce. Skinny shrieked, “Where have you been?” It was just my bad luck that Mrs James happened to be passing at that particular moment and also wanted to know where I had been. I told her I’d been visiting my dad’s old work-mates and she said, “You do know you’re not supposed to leave the premises at lunch time without permission?” and I said yes, which was a dumb thing to say. I should have said no, though I don’t expect ignorance is any defence, and she said, “Very well, Cherry,” all frozen and unsmiling like an ice lolly with the colour sucked out of it.

  I am to go and see her tomorrow, first thing after assembly.

  I know what that means. It means she’s going to bawl me out and threaten to tell Mum. I don’t care! It was worth it. I’m glad I went. I don’t see what right they have to keep making all these rules and regulations anyway. Nobody ever asks us what we want. Grown-ups do just whatever they like. Get divorced. Marry creeps. Have babies. It isn’t fair!

  Thursday

  Went to see Mrs James. Actually she was quite nice. She said that
“this sort of behaviour” couldn’t be allowed to go on but that she didn’t want to have to write to Mum unless I absolutely forced her, and then she said, “Did you ever think about my suggestion for keeping a diary?” and I said yes, I was doing it, and she asked me if it was helping, but without prying into the reasons why I might need helping, which is what lots of teachers would have done. So to please her I said I thought perhaps it was, just a little bit, and she told me to keep on with it because it could only be a good thing.

  I hope she’s right. I do quite like putting things down in writing. I can say lots of stuff that I couldn’t say to anyone else, not even the Melon – who is back being friends with me again, incidentally. It seems that we can’t survive without each other. Avril and Uchenna are all right, but me and Skin have been together since Juniors.

  I stayed in school at lunch-time and dutifully ate yuck in the canteen. It made me feel sick. I feel sick most of the time now, what with eating yuck and Mum and Slimey keeping on and on about this blessed baby. Even the names they have come up with are yuck. If it’s a boy it’s going to be Bernard … Bernard Butter. If it’s a girl it’s going to be Belinda. Mum says she likes what she calls the allitration.

  Alliteration. (Just looked it up in the dictionary.) This means having two letters the same. B and B. Like bed and breakfast. Or bread and butter.

  I have just thought of a joke. If it’s a girl they could call it Bredan, which is Brenda mixed up. Ha ha! That is a Slimey joke. I shall suggest it to them.

  Friday

  Dog’s vomit and earwax, with crusty bits on top. I didn’t ask anyone what it was supposed to be. I think it’s better not to know. I just held my breath and swallowed. I am seriously thinking of taking up Mum’s offer of vegetarian sandwiches. I would if it weren’t for him. Old Slimey. I hate the thought of him crowing because he’s won me over. If I decide to do it, it will be out of sheer desperation and a desire not to be poisoned. Nothing whatsoever to do with him.

  When I got in at tea-time he was there, which I didn’t expect him to be as he’d gone off to bore some more poor little kids, showing them how he draws elves. So I told them my idea for calling the baby Bredan and Mum (stupid) said, “Oh, you mean like Bredon Hill? But that’s pronounced Breedon.” Slime got it. He got it straightaway. He said, “Bredan Butter! Brilliant!” and promptly started to sketch a loaf of bread on the kitchen table with his felt-tip pen that he always keeps handy in case sudden inspiration comes to him. Mum said, “Oh! Yes. I see. Then we’d have a Roll and Butter and a Bread and Butter. Clever!”

  Slimey said, “Yes, and if we had another we could call it Toastan.” I have been trying without success to think of other things that go with butter. All I can think of is T.K. Cann-Butter and Chris P. Bredan Butter. But they are not very good.

  I suppose you could have Saul T. Butter. That is not bad.

  A woman over the road who has just moved in has asked Mum if I’d like to go and have tea tomorrow with her daughter because her daughter is the same age as me and doesn’t yet know anyone. Mum has gone and said that I will! It is terrible the way grown-ups just dispose of one’s life for one. I don’t particularly want to go and have tea with this person’s daughter. She is called Sereena, which I know is not her fault, and her surname is Swaddle, which again I know she cannot be blamed for. Sereena Swaddle. That is alliteration. Mum says it is “unfortunate”, but why she should think it’s any more unfortunate than Belinda or Bernard Butter is beyond me.

  Skinny rang later to know if I wanted to go swimming with her tomorrow afternoon and I had to say that I was having tea with this Sereena person. Skinny said “Who?” and I said, “Sereena Swaddle,” and she said, “You’re joking!” I said that I only wished I was. I went back to Mum and said, “Do I have to do this thing?” and she said, “Oh, Cherry, just once! It won’t hurt you. She’s a sweet little thing, I know you’ll like her.”

  When Mum said, “sweet little thing” old Slime caught my eye and pulled a face. I’d gone and pulled one back before I could stop myself. I don’t think I ought to do that. It’s like him and me being ganged up together against Mum. Mum must have sensed it because she said, “You can laugh! It’s nice to know there still are some sweet little things … they don’t all clump around in bovver boots shouting four-letter words and watching ghastly horror movies.”

  I have just thought of something else that could go with butter. P. Nutt-Butter. That is a good one!

  Saturday

  Ha! So much for Mum not letting me go to Gemma’s sleep-over in case she corrupted me. I went to have tea with the Sereena person this afternoon. The sweet little thing who doesn’t swear or watch horror movies. I can see why Mum thought she was a sweet little thing. It is because she has a sweet little face. (Yuck!) She also has long blonde hair and rose-pink cheeks and eyes the size of satellite dishes and blue as whatever’s blue. The sky. Forget-me-nots. Saffires. Rather revolting, really. At least, I think so. But it’s what grown-ups like.

  So anyway, we had tea and her mum was there and she’s sort of … frothy. All fizzing and bubbling like Andrew’s Fruit Salts that Dad used to take for his acid indigestion. She kept giggling and saying things like, “Oh, Reena.” (That’s what she calls her. Double yuck.) “Oh, Reena, isn’t this fun! You’ve found a friend already!” But I don’t know whether I want to be her friend. I like to choose my own friends, and besides, I’ve got Skinny.

  Afterwards we went up to her room and she said, “What do you want to do?” And I said, “Whatever you want to do.” And she said, “Would you like to see some pictures of people having babies?”

  I said, “I’ve seen pictures of people having babies. We did all that in Juniors.”

  “All right,” she says. “What about pictures of people completely starkers?” I said, “Where would you get pictures of people starkers?” and she said her best friend Sharon where she used to live had torn them out of a magazine and photocopied them for her. She said some of them were really gross. Do you want to have a look?”

  I was tempted to say yes as I thought it would pay Mum out for not letting me go to Gemma’s sleep-over, and also it would be a new experience and I do believe in having new experiences, but really to be honest I didn’t fancy it, I mean that sort of thing could put you off for life and I would like to grow up to be reasonably normal.

  Sereena said, “Oh, well, if you don’t think you can take it, I’ll tell you some jokes instead, shall I?” And before I can stop her she’s telling me all these jokes that her friend Sharon had told her and which I shall not repeat in here as this is a diary and not a reseptikle for filth.

  Pause while I look in the dictionary. That word is spelt receptacle. And saffire is spelt sapphire. I am very good at spelling, on the whole. Mrs James said to me the other day (before we had our little talk), “Your spelling and punctuation are excellent, Cherry.” On the other hand I cannot understand figures, which is what Mr Fisher, who takes us for maths, calls “a decided drawback”. Mum can’t understand figures either, and nor can Slimey Roland, but it doesn’t matter to them as they do the sort of jobs where figures are not important. Mr Fisher says that anyone who is not numerate, meaning anyone that can’t add up or subtract, will have a hard time of it in the 21st century. He says we must come to terms with technology or perish.

  Computers are technology and I’m not very good with computers, either. I don’t know what I will end up doing. Sweeping the streets, I expect. I don’t think I will be able to work with books like Mum, as I don’t think there will be any books left, just CD Roms, or whatever they are. And I don’t think there will be people drawing pictures of elves, either. It will all be done by computer and people such as myself will be left behind like old empty bottles on the beach.

  I tried talking about this with Sereena, thinking I would find out what kind of things she is good at other than telling rude jokes, but you cannot have a proper conversation with her as you can with the Melon. All she can do is bat her sat
ellite dishes and giggle. Of course the Melon is a bit of an intellectual, I mean, she has a real brain. Sereena’s brain if she has one, is about the size of a pea.

  When I got home Mum said, “There! That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I told her it was “enlightening” and she said, “Why? What did you do?” I said, “Read porno mags and told dirty jokes.” Mum laughed. She thought it really funny. “No, seriously,” she said.

  I said that seriously we had discussed what we thought would happen in the 21st century and I had come to the melancholy conclusion that far from being a pop star or a judge I would most likely end up living in a cardboard box as I was not numerate and couldn’t make friends with computers the way some people could. Skinny, for example, and Sereena. Mum told me not to be so pessimistic. She said, “You’re like me, you’re into words.” I said yes, but there won’t be any words. Just computerspeak. Mum said, “Oh, what a bleak picture!” I said, “Yes, it is, but I think one has to face facts.”

  Mum doesn’t want to face them. She says that if it’s going to be a world without books and pictures then she’d sooner not be here. Slimey didn’t play any part in this conversation as he was upstairs finishing some more elves to meet what is called “a deadline”, meaning (I think) that his publishers will sue him for vast sums of money if he hasn’t drawn the right number by a certain date.

  It was nice being on my own with Mum, even if our conversation was rather doom-laden. At least she didn’t mention the baby, which is now sticking out in front of her like a huge horrible sack of potatoes.