Cassie's Crush (6 page)

Good thing
: With loads and loads of rubbing and an extra-hot bath, I finally managed to get the blue tissue-paper dye off my boob.

Bad thing (which turned out to be not so bad after all)
: I'm sick of having no money and not being able to do or buy anything. So I offered to do the three o'clock dog for Mum in the hope that she'd throw me a few quid. In the appointments book it said Mrs Roach, Old English, Billy. But it wasn't a Mrs Roach who brought Billy. It was Sam Roach, Ollie's new best mate, which set me all of a flutter. It was important to do a good job so Sam would tell Ollie how brilliant I am, and Ollie would realize he's been missing out big time by not asking me to go out with him.

“Mum asked me to bring him,” Sam explained. I waited for him to make a rude comment about the van's sicky pink colour but he didn't. I also wanted to ask him how Ollie was, and did he know what Ollie was doing today, but couldn't think how to without sounding obsessed.

First I bathed Billy. His coat was a bit matted but he was really patient while I teased it all out with the brush. “How long've you been doing this?” Sam asked, hanging about at the van door.

“Couple of years, since Mum started the business.” I shampooed Billy, rinsed him with the hand hose and slathered on doggie conditioner.

“Wow,” Sam said, looking impressed. “You're good at this.”

“It's easy, really,” I said, feeling strangely proud of myself. I was enjoying working on Billy, even though things were trickier than usual, trying to do everything left-handed. At least it was better than being trapped indoors with Beth slurping all over Henry on the sofa and, at one point,
licking his neck
(shudder). “What kind of finish d'you want?” I asked Sam.

He looked at me. Even though he doesn't set my heart flapping like Ollie does, he has a nice, friendly face. And at least I could be normal with him.

“I don't know,” he said. “What kind of finishes are there?”

“Well, there's the sleek finish, or the fuller blow-dry where you get more volume…”

“Can you just do it natural? I don't think Billy would like looking too, you know…”

“Done?” I suggested.

“Exactly. He's more of a casual sort of dog.”

We both laughed at that, and I felt happier than I had done in ages. I rinsed Billy again, then towelled and brushed him before his blow-dry and trim. I decided it was too risky trimming him left-handed, so just used my normal hand. I didn't want to make a mess of it or accidentally stab Billy with the scissors.

“That's weird,” Sam said. “You were left-handed when you started and now you're using your right hand.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I'm, er … that thing where you can use both hands equally.”

“Really? That's unusual, isn't it?”

“All my family have it,” I babbled, wishing I hadn't started this. First the imaginary boyfriend, and now both sides of me work equally well. My life's tangled up in stupid lies.

At least Sam said I'd done a great job with Billy, and I slipped him a doggie choc for being so good. Billy, I mean. Not Sam.

We had a massive pile of jams to choose from at breakfast because Dad brought home eleven different types from work on Friday. I don't exactly know what he does in the factory except it's something to do with quality control. This means he can bring home any jam that doesn't meet “acceptable standards”.

At first, when he started working there a couple of years ago, I was worried about finding something horrible in the unacceptable jam, like a dead beetle or the end of somebody's finger. But Dad explained, “It just means the consistency wasn't right, or the label hasn't been stuck on properly. Look – this one's all squint.” He was right. It had been stuck on all wrinkled up. Secretly, though, I wished we could have normal jam that had passed all its tests.

 

After I'd tidied my bedroom (under Mum's orders) I called Marcia, asking her to come over. “Mum says I've got to stay in and do my homework,” she grumbled.

“You mean she won't let you see me,” I said, feeling a pang of hurt.

“Um … yeah. I'm sorry, Cass. She's really mad about that top.”

I couldn't believe her mum was acting like this. I mean, Marcia and me have been friends for nearly all our lives! Is she trying to destroy our ten-year friendship over a top? She obviously earns loads of money, so why can't she just go out and buy another top? “Couldn't you sneak over?” I asked.

“Better not.” Marcia sighed. “She's in a really foul mood.”

I felt so lonely and fed up, all I could think of to do was figure out how to be a better person, the kind of person who'd be welcome in her best friend's house. I wrote a list of ways to improve myself:

 

1. Get over my crush.

2. Remember that I don't need a boyfriend to lead a brilliant life.

3. Help Mum a bit.

4. Agree fair pay for above.

5. Be mature.

 

When I read through my list, I decided I hate the word “mature”. It reminds me of the rank cheese stink in our car which is now so bad, none of us want to go anywhere in it. Mum forced us to, though. She said, “We need to spend some family time together”, which I think she meant as a
good
thing, so I tried to look enthusiastic. I found this difficult when it turned out that we weren't going to a theme park or anywhere remotely interesting but a garden centre in the middle of nowhere. And Beth got to stay at home with Henry. When I'm eighteen, I hope I'll be allowed to do whatever I want, like she is.

Anyway, Mum must've forgotten that, as it's the middle of winter, it's not the time to plant anything (but then, all she ever does in the garden is smoke in it). All four of us wandered around the garden place, peering at sad-looking plants and nearly collapsing with hunger (Mum said the café was “extortionate”). Then Dad drove us home.

Mum kept shrieking things like, “Red light coming up!” and “Watch out, Colin – a cat in the road!”

“I can see the cat, thank you, Barbara,” Dad said. As Dad drives at about thirteen miles an hour (that's all the cheese-mobile's capable of), any cat would have about half an hour to get itself off the road.

Mum's best friend Suzie came over later to drink wine in our kitchen. Although I was watching TV in the living room, I could still hear them gassing away about the days when they used to go out with wild biker boys and zoom along the twisty coast roads on their motorbikes. “Those were the days,” Mum said wistfully.

“You could still get a bike,” Suzie said. “There's nothing stopping you.”

“Oh yeah,” Mum laughed, “with the money I make? And keeping up with three kids and all their demands…”

Hang on – what demands do I make? A bit of cash for all the dog-clipping I do, that's all, instead of being the family slave.

“It's different for you,” Mum added, “not having kids…” Then Suzie told Mum that Michael – that's Suzie's new boyfriend – has a daughter who was hopeless at school, a real dreamer (even worse than me, probably) and had gone travelling round Europe and come back this amazing, totally together person.

“Maybe Cassie will do something like that,” Mum murmured.

“You never know,” Suzie said.

“Of course,” Mum went on, sounding a bit tipsy now, “we were quite happy with Beth and Ned. We didn't plan any more babies. But then there was that night we came back from your little cocktail do…” And the two of them started giggling. I felt totally sick. The thought of my parents doing
anything
together is puke-making enough, and now I know that they were a happy little foursome until I came along and ruined it all.

Is it any wonder I have self-esteem problems?

Everyone was leaving English when Miss Rashley called me back and made me stand at her desk. “I don't know what's happened to your handwriting,” she said. “Is something wrong with your hand, Cassie?”

We were both staring down at my jotter, which was filled with the scrawlings of a demented three-year-old. What was I supposed to say? I couldn't tell her about my lopsided boob situation.

“Er … nothing's wrong,” I muttered.

“But your writing used to be … well, not
great
, certainly not tidy, ever – in fact, I'd say it's pretty appalling generally…” Brilliant. Carry on and really boost my confidence. “But it's never been as bad as this,” she concluded with a scowl.

“I was maybe, er, rushing a bit,” I said lamely.

“Could you write something for me now, so I can see if it's anything obvious?”

Now I was stuck. I couldn't do the left-handed thing in front of her because she knows I'm not really left-handed. So I picked up a pen with my right hand and held it over a blank sheet of paper on her desk. “Write something, then,” she barked at me.

“Er, what?” I babbled.

“I don't care! Anything you like, so we can see what the problem is.” She was breathing heavily through her nose and I could smell her horrible old-lady perfume.

What the heck should I write? I wasn't confident that I could do the same kind of wobbly scrawl that covered two pages of my jotter.

Hello
, I wrote in baby writing. Miss Rashley stared at it, then at me. “You're doing that on purpose!” she snapped. “What are you playing at? If this is one of your games, your silly little
japes
…”

“It's not a jape,” I protested. “I … I can't help it.”

“If you can't stop it,” she said, “you'll have to get yourself along to a doctor, because something's obviously not working with your hand. D'you want me to get in touch with your mum?”

“No!” I cried. “I'm sure it's … it's fine, I must have twisted something, a muscle or a vein…”

“A twisted vein?” she said sternly. “I see. Well, if it doesn't untwist itself and your writing doesn't become legible next time I see you, I'll be sending a note home to your parents. This is ridiculous, Cassie. I don't have time for your nonsense.”

I nodded, realizing I'd
have
to resume my normal writing style by tomorrow, which means being stuck with lopsided boobs for ever.

Hand miraculously “cured”.