Drama Queen (3 page)

‘Oh, you haven't eaten, have you?' she asked,
spotting my knife, fork and plate lying in the washing-up bowl.

‘I was starving.'

‘Sorry, traffic was a nightmare. Stop-start all the way. Friday night.'

‘Doesn't matter. I'll have some pizza anyway. How was the rehearsal?'

‘Total disaster. First run-through without scripts. Nobody'd learned their lines. George went ballistic. We've all got to be word-perfect by Tuesday. You wouldn't have time to test me, would you?'

‘I've still got loads of homework to do.'

‘Thirty pages to memorise. Goodness knows how I'm going to do it in time.'

‘Honestly, it's only an amateur performance.'

‘That's not the point.'

‘I reckon he's a control freak. You're grown people, he treats you all like he does us at school.'

‘He's the director. That's what he's there for.'

George, i.e. Mr Williams, was my English teacher. That's how Mum had come to join The Lansdowne Players. He'd put up a notice on the Arts Activities noticeboard announcing the auditions. When I caught sight of it I'd suddenly thought of Mum. She used to boast about all the acting she'd done at
college. I gave the Players a big build-up to sell her the idea.

‘If you're so keen, why don't you audition?' was her first reaction.

‘I don't think I've got time. You know, coursework and everything. I've got so much homework this year.'

‘You could manage it.'

I didn't dare admit the real reason. Frankly, I didn't think I could endure the collective scorn of Year 11. You know, being in Mr Williams's amateur dramatics – just so-oo uncool.

‘But
you
loved acting. You were really good at it.'

‘Me? Rubbish. That was at least twenty years ago.'

‘So?'

‘You don't think I'm too old?'

‘Old? No, it's a proper adult group.'

‘Well, maybe I will.'

So Mum joined The Lansdowne Players. It was kind of weird hearing her refer to Mr Williams as ‘George'.

Anyway, that night she went to bed early with her script. It was a play Mr Williams had written himself. Something historical and all in verse – nightmare! I
could hear her muttering to herself through the door as I lay next door.

When I checked my mobile I found Clare had texted me back. Honestly, I reckon she must check her messages every five minutes.

re: rosemount talent!
more please?
age? height? hair/eye colour?
potential?
love wobble

I decided to let the suspense build up. Tomorrow would be soon enough; besides, I hadn't that much to tell. How much could one gauge from the top of a guy's head?

I lay in bed fantasising that he would turn out to be that
perfect
male I'd been looking for. The ultimate mix of Brad Pitt and Leonardo Di Caprio with Matt Damon eyes. We'd meet in the lift when I was looking really good in my new black jeans – must do something about my jacket … but maybe the weather would turn fine and I could just wear my new top … Anyway, we'd meet in the lift and he'd say something like:

‘Hi. I'm Dan/Marc/Todd (Some really cool name, anyway). Haven't you just moved in?' And our eyes would meet …

(Mid-fantasy, I think I must've fallen asleep.)

The next day, which was a Saturday, I got up really late. I'd ignored Mum's absurd suggestion that I might like to go to the supermarket with her. I'd given her ‘Don't-lie-in-too-long' advice the grunt it deserved. ‘And don't forget you're meeting your father for lunch,' was her parting shot.

When at last I surfaced, I found Clare had left three text messages. First:

urgent
ring me as soon as you're up!

Second:

more urgent
can we meet up later?

Third:

even more urgent!
have you died in your sleep?

I called her up around midday, while I was having a noisy breakfast in front of the
Saturday Show
.

‘What's going on? Where are you? Is
he
with you?' she demanded.

I turned the TV down. ‘Chill. All I know about him is his hair colour.'

‘What is it?'

‘Mouse. Now leave me alone. I'm watching a very important programme.'

But she continued to pester. I placated her with a promise to meet on the high street for a browse around the Mall before I met Dad.

Hauling myself off the sofa, I got ready. I stared at myself assessingly in the mirror as I did my make-up. Maybe this guy downstairs was going to be really fit. Living in the same building like this, I never knew when I might bump into him. I added a second layer of mascara just in case.

I'd pressed the button for the lift three times but nothing had happened. I could hear footsteps below
and caught a glimpse of a hairy wrist sliding down the balustrade. It was Mr Hyde sweeping down the stairs in his long black mac. He was mumbling darkly to himself. Obviously the lift doors were jammed – again. Grumpily, I started my descent. There was an odd rattling and banging sound coming from somewhere. I tracked this down to the third floor where, sure enough, the lift doors were wedged open.

Inside, was the boy I'd seen from above the day before. And his bike. He'd balanced it vertically on its back wheel, the lift being too small to take the full length of it. He now had it stuck with the handlebars caught in the grille and himself trapped behind it.

Our eyes met.

Leonardo Di Caprio NOT. Brad Pitt NOT. Not even Matt Damon's eye
brows
. He had really dweeby square black glasses and his hair stuck up in a kind of tidal wave like Tin-Tin's. Still, he was young and he was local. So I swallowed my disappointment and said in a friendly manner, ‘Wouldn't it have been a better idea to have carried that down the stairs?' realising, too late, that this was the last thing he wanted to hear.

He glowered at me and tugged at the handlebars. A hot red blush was spreading up from his neck.

‘I just moved in upstairs,' I added, trying to make
up for my last comment.

‘Oh?'

It was too late to redeem things now but I tried anyway. ‘Can I help at all?'

‘I can manage, thank you,' he said with dignity and started to twist the handlebars. There was a nasty grinding noise.

‘Well. If you're sure …'

‘I'm sure.'

I decided it would be kinder to leave him to it, so I continued on my way down. At the bottom, there was a huddle of people waiting for the lift.

A short man with a white military moustache, who looked just like Colonel Mustard, was repeatedly pressing the button. ‘What's going on up there?' he demanded.

‘Should we call the engineers?' asked a lady weighed down by supermarket carriers.

‘A boy's got his bike stuck,' I said. ‘You might need the fire brigade with cutting equipment.'

‘Cedric!' said Colonel Mustard, and he started trudging up the stairs.

I was halfway across the common when I heard the ‘tick, tick, tick' sound of a bike coming up behind me.
I didn't turn round. I heard the bike slow down. ‘Cedric' came level with me.

‘Hi.'

‘So you got disentangled?'

‘Uh huh.'

There was silence for a moment.

‘Going to the high street?' he asked.

There was nowhere else I could be going actually, but I nodded anyway.

‘Shopping?'

‘Ah huh.'

This conversation wasn't exactly earth-shattering. In fact, as conversations go, it didn't even creep on to the bottom of the Richter scale. I slowed down, hoping he'd overtake. But he slowed even more.

I cast him a sideways glance. There are some people who should
never
wear Lycra cycle shorts. He was perched on his bike like an insect on a leaf. Dressed like this, complete with his cycle helmet, he looked exactly like a praying mantis. His bike was a racing model and he had those little leather straps to keep his toes in place on the pedals. It made idling the bike a tricky business. But he seemed determined to stick with me.

‘So you've just moved in?'

‘Mmm.'

‘We're in number seven.'

‘Oh.'

We'd reached the top of the high street by now and I noticed a group of Westgate girls standing on the opposite pavement. As luck would have it they'd spotted us. Oh no, it was Christine, star of Year 12, looking, as usual, at her best. Body to die for, endless legs, perfect hair. And
didn't
she know it. She was going out with a sixth-form boy called Matt from the private school on the common. Her male equivalent. Perfect pecs, Brad Pitt cheekbones, head of the school football team.

C + (btdf + el + ph) = M + (pp + BPcb + hsft)
Puke-making!

Christine looked over and spotted me with Cedric. Then she turned to one of the other girls and whispered something. All the girls stared in our direction. They obviously thought we were together. I had to think of some way to get rid of him. I slowed even more. He was ahead of me but going at a snail's pace, weaving his bike to and fro to keep balance.

‘It's starting to rain,' he commented over his shoulder.

‘Mmm.'

‘You haven't got an umbrella.'

‘No.'

‘I could lend you my cycle mac.' He was already shaking out a crumpled piece of luminous yellow plastic.

‘Thank you but no thank you.' Was I never going to get rid of him? I stopped and bent down to re-tie a perfectly tied shoelace. He continued weaving his way forward but, suddenly realising I was no longer with him, he turned abruptly to double back. Gravity was against this manoeuvre and it was too late to retract his toes. He subsided into a sad heap on the pavement. I walked on with as much dignity as I could muster.

The Westgate girls must've seen it all. It was so humiliating.

Once in the high street, I spotted Clare in the Body Shop. She was browsing through the natural hair conditioners trying to decide between aloe and avocado. Clare was so heavily into saving the planet, I reckon she'd drink her own bathwater if it would help cut pollution.

Dear Wobble, she never made an effort. Wobble was her nickname from when she was a toddler – the kind of nickname most people would hate. But the great thing about Clare was she didn't care. Typically, she was wearing her favourite shapeless grey tracksuit bottoms with the top knotted around her waist.

Her face lit up when she saw me and her dimples appeared like single quotes around her double brace. ‘So have you had another sighting?' she asked breathlessly.

‘Yes. As a matter of fact I walked across the common with him.'

Clare's eyes widened. ‘Re-ally! Where is he?' She looked as if she was going to make a dive for the door.

‘Cool it. He'll be miles off by now. He was on his bike.'

‘So. What's he like?'

‘Male and around our age,' I started, noncommitally. It seemed such a pity to disillusion her.

‘Fit?' she prompted.

I was just about to raise my eyebrows to heaven and give her a cruel but accurate lowdown, when I paused. A thought had struck me. I mean, if Clare was that desperate. Cedric, minus Lycra cycle shorts and dreadful haircut, might just equal Clare,
minus saggy anorak and railway tracks.

Ce – (Lcs + dh) = Cl – (sa + rt)
Just maybe

‘Erm. He's called Cedric,' I started.

‘Well, that's not his fault.'

I dredged my mind for the positives. ‘He's quite tall. Nice brown eyes.'

‘Go on.'

I was faltering now. ‘Must be pretty fit. He's really into cycling. It's a racing bike.'

‘Cool!' She'd moved on to testing the free perfume samplers. ‘What do you think?' she asked, holding out a wrist to me.

‘Well, if you want to smell like a fruit salad, it's your affair.'

That was the start of the Clare = Cedric experiment. It may seem a little callous to be using my own best friend as a guinea pig, but since it was all in the cause of science I reckoned I was justified. If it worked, she'd end up with a boyfriend, which is what she wanted. And if it didn't, nothing would've changed.

We continued on our way down the high street doing our usual Saturday morning window-shop. We
always had this competition to see which of us could spot the most naff fashion object. Clare won with a crochet top which had plastic appliqué flowers on it. In fact, it was so naff it was almost cool.

I ended up by buying what my weekly allowance ran to, which was a special offer of really good hair conditioner from Superdrug. I left Clare arguing with the assistant as to whether or not their cosmetics had been tested on animals and headed for the park to meet Dad.

The church clock was striking two when I arrived, so I was fifteen minutes late – but Dad was always late anyway. I was already ravenous so I bought myself a bag of Monster Munch at the kiosk and sat on a park bench eating them by the pond. Mums and dads were bringing toddlers to feed the ducks. A boy and girl stood entwined at the water's edge. A pair of swans glided by in the distance. Swans mate for life, you know. I'd learned that in junior school Nature Study. In fact, today, everyone looked incredibly ‘couply'.

I had plenty of time to observe the local scenery because Dad was late. Really late. I tried dialling up his mobile but, as usual, it went straight to his
voicemail – he must have forgotten to charge it. Before he arrived I'd been to the refreshment kiosk three times and bought a muesli bar, a packet of crisps, and a packet of Werthers and demolished the lot. I'd even got to the point of wondering whether, for once in his life, he'd been on time and arrived as arranged at quarter to two and, not finding me there, had gone off. But then I caught sight of his familiar figure hurrying through the park gates.