Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging, Page 5

  Then Jackie said, “Help us, oh master, to send Abby Nicols upwards.” And then she said, “Lift her up,” and it was really freaky-deaky because I just slightly lifted with my two fingers and she sort of rose up really easily as if she was light as a feather. She was right above our heads. It was weird.

  After a couple of minutes we all simultaneously got the jitters and let her down really heavily onto the desk. This seemed to perk her up a bit, because as we ran out I heard her saying, “I think I’ve broken my bottom.”

  11:00 p.m.

  I woke up with a start because I heard the bedroom door open. It just opened by itself.

  wednesday september 30th

  2:30 a.m.

  I can’t move my head from side to side because I sat up in bed all night and I have cricked it now.

  1:00 p.m.

  Gemma said her friend Peter Dyer, the professional kisser, is going to be around tomorrow after school. All you have to do is go to his house and knock on the door after four thirty and before six thirty when his parents get home. Apparently it’s first come, first served. Has it come to this? No it has not.

  9:30 p.m.

  Had to discuss again with Jas what she is going to wear on Friday. She can go in the nuddy-pants for all I care.

  october

  tainted love

  thursday october 1st

  4:30 p.m.

  For some reason I found myself outside Peter Dyer’s house and knocking on his door. Ellen and Jas, Jools, Patty, Sarah and Mabs were all hiding behind the hedge at the bottom of the garden. What is the matter with me? I am DESPERATE— that’s what the matter is.

  I didn’t know whether to wear lipstick or not. I don’t know what the point would be if it was just going to come off. . . . What am I saying?

  4:31 p.m.

  Peter opened the door. He’s about seventeen and blond, sort of sleepy looking, not unattractive in a sort of Boyzone way. I notice he is chewing gum. I hope he takes it out, otherwise I might choke to death. There is muffled giggling from behind the hedge. Peter hears it but doesn’t seem fazed.

  “Do you want to come in—er—what’s your name?”

  I say, “Georgia” (damn, I meant to say a false name), and we go into his house.

  He has tight blue jeans on and there are those tinkly things that the Japanese have outside the doors. (Not on his jeans, obviously—on the door.) You know . . . wind chimes. Why do they do that? It’s such an annoying noise and do you really need to know that the wind is blowing? We’re doing Japan in geography and to annoy Hawkeye I have memorized the islands. Hokkaido, Honshu . . . er, well, I nearly have. I did it last year with Northern Ireland and reciting the counties (you remember them by the mnemonic FAT LAD—Fermanagh, Antrim,Tyrone, Londonderry, Armagh, Down) can be very impressive to trot out when you are accused of not concentrating.

  Uh-oh, we are going up the stairs to Peter’s room. He hasn’t said a word. His room is much tidier than mine. He has made his bed, for a start. On the walls are posters of Denise van Outen and Miss December, and so on. On my walls there’s a poster of Reeves and Mortimer showing their bottoms. Is this the big difference between girls and boys? Is this . . . uh-oh, Peter is sitting on his bed.

  “Do you want to sit down?” he says, patting the bed.

  I think, No thanks, I would rather put my head in a bag of eels, but I say, “OK,” and sit down.

  He puts his arm round me. I think of putting my arm round him but I don’t because I remember the stuffed-olive incident. Then, with his other hand, Peter turns my face towards his. It’s a good thing he didn’t try that yesterday when I had rigor mortis of the head. Then he says, “Close your eyes and relax.”

  9:00 p.m.

  Phew, I suppose I am a woman now. Libby doesn’t seem to realize this as she has made me wear her deely-boppers to bed. She is insisting I am a huge bee. If I say, “Look, it’s your bedtime now,” she just goes, “Bzzzz bzzz,” and looks cross.

  I have to say, “Bz bz bzzy buzz buzz,” and point at her bed with my feelers before she will go.

  9:20 p.m.

  When I got home neither Mum nor Dad seemed to notice the change in me. Mind you, I’d have to walk in with my head under my arm before Dad would get out of his chair. He’s getting very chunky. I may mention it in a caring way. Anyway, as I said, phew.

  When I closed my eyes Peter said, “We’re going to do an ordinary kiss first.” Then he kissed me. We started off with number one kissing, which is just lips, not moving. He said I was a natural, not too “firm” or toothy, which is apparently very common.

  He told me how to know which side to go to (you sort of watch where the boy is going and then you fit in). Then we did a bit of movement and he told me what to do with my hands (waist is safest).

  Oh, we got through a lot in half an hour. We did a bit of tongues, which was the bit I was most scared of, but actually it wasn’t too bad, a bit like a little lizard tongue darting about. Cute really, in a bizarre way. The main thing to do is to strike a happy balance between “yielding” and “giving.” Peter says you can take a horse to water but you can’t make it kiss properly.

  At the end of the session (he had a little alarm clock) he shook my hand and saw me to the door. I passed Mabs on the way out—it was her turn. I was glad that I had gone first. Jools and Ellen and Jas tried to pump me on the way home, but I said, in a dignified sort of way, “I think I’d just like to think about this for a while, if you don’t mind. Bon soir.”

  10:45 p.m.

  Hahahahahahahaha, I’m a natural.

  friday october 2nd

  4:00 p.m.

  Party time!!! I don’t know why I’m so excited as SG is not even going to be there. But maybe I’ll be able to try out my new snogging skills.

  Jackie Mathews has got a huge love bite on her neck. She’s put about six centimeters of concealer on it and is wearing a scarf . . . how inconspicuoso!! It’s HUGE! What has she been snogging with—a calf? I think it is so common. Why would you let someone bite you?

  The day dragged by. I really am going to complain about Miss Stamp—she should be working in a prison. I’m sure she has done before. Even though it was icy outside she insisted that in our games period we run round the hockey pitch. You could see your breath. She found Jackie and Alison hiding in the showers having a fag and made them change into their sports knickers and do the circuit twice. Which is almost a reason to have her as a teacher. It was hilarious! Jackie might look OK when she’s all dolled up in some dark nightclub, but you should see her from behind in big navy knickers!!

  4:15 p.m.

  Only three hours to get ready and made up before I meet Jas, Jools and Ellen and the gang at the clock tower. We’re going to arrive together. Dad is insisting on picking me up at midnight. It’s useless arguing with him. He’ll only say, “You’re lucky, in my day . . . blah blah blah,” and then we’ll be back in the Middle Ages, or the seventies as he calls it.

  7:30 p.m.

  Meet the gang. We look like a group of funeral directors going out for a drink. Black is our new black. Katie Steadman’s house is quite posh—she has her own room as well as a bedroom. Shag-pile carpets all rolled up round the walls, for dancing.

  When we arrived there were about thirty people there already, including Tom. Cue Jas going all dithery and daft. He was in a group but he came over to talk to us straightaway. I left Jas to it and circulated. It was good fun. I had a mad dancing phase for about an hour. I suppose I was vaguely looking for substitute snoggers for SG, but all the boys seemed a bit on the nice but goofy side. There were one or two most unfortunate skin complaints. I feel lucky just getting the odd lurker—some people looked like they had mountain ranges of spots on their faces . . . and some down their backs too. . . . Au secours!!!!

  Then I saw Peter Dyer. I waved at him and he came over. He had been talking to Katie Steadman and she seemed a bit miffed when he came over to me. Peter said, “Hi!” and I said, “Hi . . . er . . . thanks for t
he other day. It was really . . . er . . . great. I learned a lot. Thanks.”

  He looked at me sideways and stood quite close. “There was something I didn’t have time to show you. Come with me.” And he took hold of my hand and led me out of the room. We hadn’t done hand-holding but I improvised . . . not too floppy but not too gripping. I don’t think anyone besides Katie saw us go. They were too busy dancing stupidly to a record.

  We went outside into the garden and went behind a big tree just by the path. Peter started kissing me (he didn’t seem to be a big talker).

  There was a lot more tongue business. It was all right but it was making my jaw ache a bit. Peter seemed to like it quite a lot more than I did, because he sort of moaned and pushed me against the tree. Then Peter started nuzzling my neck and I thought, Oh, we haven’t done necks before, he’s branching out a bit, and then I nearly choked to death trying not to laugh (up against a tree . . . branching out, do you get it?) . . . but I stopped myself. You have to keep reminding yourself about boys not liking a laugh. Then I heard a car door slam and people crunching up the drive towards us.

  I stepped backwards but Peter was still attached to my neck. I tripped over a root and fell onto my bottom. Peter lost his balance and fell over on top of me and made us both go “Ooofff!” From upside down I found myself looking up at a tall, blond girl I recognized from the sixth form and, next to her . . . SG. He was all in black and looked really annoyed.

  He said, all tight-lipped, “Don’t you think it’s about time you two went inside to the party?” I remembered the blonde’s name—it was Lindsay, a notorious wet. She was looking at my legs. Probably envying them. I looked down, and noticed that my skirt had all ridden up and you could see my knickers. I wriggled it down in a “dignity at all times” sort of way, but she still smirked.

  Peter said quite calmly, “Hi, Robbie, I thought you had a gig tonight.”

  Robbie said, “I have, but Tom forgot his key so I’m just dropping it off for him.”

  He didn’t even glance at me or say good-bye or anything.

  midnight

  I bloody hate him. Big, full-of-himself type thing. Bugger bugger, double ordure and merde. What business is it of his what I do behind trees?

  tuesday october 6th

  3:00 p.m.

  Peter phoned me over the weekend. I don’t know how he got the number because I just left in a hurry from the party. Gemma must have given it to him. Dad answered the phone, which is the end of life as we know it because HE WILL NOT LET IT LIE. He thinks it is funny and calls Peter “Your fancy man.”

  Peter wanted to know if I would go to the pictures next week. I said that would be great. So it looks like I have sort of got a boyfriend. Why do I feel so depressed then?

  Jas is unbearable since the party. She sent me notes all through maths.

  Dear Gee-gee,

  Tom is sooooo cool. He walked me home and then, when we got to the door, he gave me a really nice kiss on the cheek. His lips are really soft and he smells nice, not like my brother. He asked for my phone number—do you think he will call? What day do you think he will call?

  It’s Monday today and I saw him on Friday so that is three days already. I’d call tonight if I was him, wouldn’t you? Should I say yes to any day he says for a date? Or if he says Friday should I say, “Oh, sorry, I’m busy that night,” and then when he says “What about Saturday?” I can say, “Oh, yeah, Saturday would be cool.” What do you think? Or do you think he might think I’m putting him off if I say I’m busy on Friday, so I should say yes to any day he says? Please reply quickly. TTFN.

  I’ve given her my worst look but she keeps sending notes. I am not interested in any of the prat family Jennings.

  4:00 p.m.

  Sadly it makes no difference to Jas whether I’m interested or not. All the way home she was telling me what Tom said or did. The more I hear about him, the less I think Jas should have to do with him. All right, maybe I am being unfair and bitter, but she is my best friend and should do everything I say. . . .

  Tom wants to go into the fruit and veg business. Oh, how fascinating . . . Jas thinks it is.

  “I think it’s great that he’s young but he knows where he is going.”

  I said brightly, “Yes, you’d never be short of potatoes.”

  Eventually even Jas noticed that I wasn’t so keen. She looked a bit confused and said, “I thought you liked him.”

  I didn’t say anything. All I could think of was his brother looking down at me and sort of sneering. Jas went on, “Don’t you think I should go out with him?”

  I still didn’t say anything.

  She said it again. “So you don’t think I should go out with him?”

  I was all enigmatic, which is not easy in a beret.

  11:30 p.m.

  I am a facsimile of a sham of a fax of a person. And I have a date with a professional snogger.

  midnight

  Angus has eaten some of Mum’s knickers. She says he’ll have to go. Why can’t she go, and Dad go? Or am I being unreasonable?

  thursday october 15th

  noon

  Slim has put a ban on levitation. She made an announcement in assembly this morning. She was all shaky and jellylike; her jowls were bouncing around like anything. Anyway, she said, “This school is like the back streets of Haiti. It must stop forthwith. Any girl found practicing levitation will face the gravest consequences. I, for one, would not like to be in that girl’s shoes.”

  I whispered to Ellen, “She wouldn’t get in any girl’s shoes. How much do you think each leg weighs? Imagine the size of her knickers . . . you could probably get two duvets out of them.”

  Then we got the eagle eye from Hawkeye for giggling.

  2:00 p.m.

  I feel like killing something. If I was that sort of person I’d scare a first former. As it is I will have to content myself with hiding Nauseating P. Green’s pencil case.

  3:00 p.m.

  On my way to science class I saw Lindsay. How wet can you be? She really is Mrs. Wet. She has the wettest haircut known to humanity—all curled under at the bottom. I saw her legs in hockey and they are really spindly. Little spindly legs like she has been in a wheelchair and not been walking for years, and also when she is concentrating she wears big goggly glasses. I bet she keeps those well hidden when she goes out with Pratboy. Oh, hell’s teeth, it’s my “date” in four hours. The horrible thing is that I don’t want to go. I just don’t. There’s nothing wrong with him or anything; I just can’t be bothered somehow.

  my bedroom

  midnight

  I wish I’d never started this snogging business. I feel like I’ve been attacked by whelks. I can’t see Peter anymore. Why is he so keen on me, anyway? I haven’t had a chance to say more than two words before I’m attacked by the whelks again. I can’t go out with him anymore. How can I tell him, though?

  1:00 a.m.

  I’ll make Jas do it.

  friday october 16th

  9:00 p.m.

  What a week!

  I got Jas to dump Peter for me. I said for her to let him down gently, so she told him that I had a personal problem. He asked what, and she said that I thought I was a lesbian. Cheers, Jas.

  monday october 19th

  4:00 p.m.

  It’s all round school that I’m a lesbian. In games we were in the changing room and Miss Stamp came in to change out of her gear. Suddenly everyone had disappeared, leaving me on my own with her. She really has got a mustache. Does she not notice?

  friday october 23rd

  8:00 p.m.

  Tom phoned Jas and they’re going on a “date” to watch Robbie’s band. The band is called The Stiff Dylans. I bet it’s crap. I bet it’s merde. I bet it’s double merde.

  Mum and Dad were talking in the kitchen and when I came in they stopped and looked all shifty. Don’t get me wrong, I like it when they shut up when I come in. Well I would like it if it had ever happened before. Mum said, “Have y
ou ever thought you’d like to see a bit more of the world, Gee?” and I said, “If you’re thinking of trying to persuade me to visit Auntie Kath in Blackpool for Christmas, you can forget it.”

  I can be hilariously cutting when I try.

  10:00 p.m.

  No matter from what angle you look at it, I do have a huge, squishy nose.

  I wonder if Mum would pay for me to have plastic surgery . . . ? If I went to the doctor and said it was psychologically damaging to the extent that I couldn’t go out or do my homework, I wonder if I could have it done on the NHS?

  Then I remember to have a reality check . . . I don’t have the George Clooney—type doctor from ER—the caring, incredibly good-looking face of medicine. I’ve got Dr. Wallace, the incredibly fat, red, uncaring face of medicine. It’s hard enough getting an aspirin out of him when you’ve got flu.

  11:00 p.m.

  Jas rang. She had a great time with Tom.

  “Did he bring you a present, a bunch of leeks or something?” I asked meanly, but Jas refused to come down from cloud nine.

  She said, “No, but he’s a brilliant dancer. The Stiff Dylans were ace. Robbie is a cool singer.”