What’s Up With Jody Barton?, page 17
Liam shrugged again. ‘So I hit him,’ he said, and jerked his head at me. ‘But only because I don’t like being hit on. Know what I mean?’
I felt sick.
My dad looked confused.
Jolene said, ‘Oh, grow up, Liam.’ She said it quite loud. She must have done because it was enough to wake up Whispering Bob Harris, who jumped in his seat and bellowed, ‘SPEAK UP, SON. I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’
My dad said, ‘Kids, kids, let’s keep it civil! I don’t wanna go upsetting our friendly cafe atmosphere.’ He looked at Liam and said, ‘I’m sorry, son, I can’t serve you. And I’d be very much obliged if you’d take your custom elsewhere in future.’
Liam said, ‘But—’
And my dad said, ‘But, as a parting gift, have one of these.’ He reached behind the counter where a box of unsold cartons of orange juice was gathering dust, plucked out a single carton and pushed it into Liam’s hands. ‘There you go, boy. On the house. They’re naturally and artificially flavoured, apparently. And made from concentrate.’ My dad shook his head and sighed. ‘I bought four hundred of those, but I just can’t shift them. They look good – got lovely flashy packaging – but it turns out that they’re rubbish through and through.’ He gave Liam a meaningful nod and added, ‘Know what I mean, Liam?’
Liam Mackie went red, tossed the carton of crap orange juice back at my dad and walked out. I haven’t seen him since.
My dad stood there for a second looking very thoughtful and then he shook his head and said, ‘QPR supporters. They’re getting worse!’ And with that he turned and disappeared back into his office.
Jolene and I stood there in silence for a moment. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I know I was still stuck on that second where Liam had told my dad I’d hit on him. And all I could think about was whether or not my dad had heard and, if he had heard, whether he’d understood.
But then I pushed those thoughts aside because that was all stuff I could deal with when the time was right. At that precise second, I had a more immediate situation to handle.
‘I know I’ve said this before,’ I said, ‘but I’m so very massively sorry, Jolene.’
Jolene looked down at her hi-tops. ‘You should be,’ she said.
‘I am.’
Jolene nodded slowly. ‘That stuff I said about finding a new twin – I didn’t mean it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. My eyes were prickling.
Jolene nodded again. ‘And then she pushed her fringe out of her face and said, ‘I’m still upset with you though.’
And I nodded slowly and said, ‘That’s fair enough.’ I bit my thumbnail and said, ‘Are you going to be upset with me forever?’
Jolene puffed out her cheeks until they made that puh sound. I carried on chewing my thumbnail and waited.
Finally, my sister shook her head and said, ‘Nah. Only until you’re sixteen. Or four.’ And then she gave me a sweet little smile and I gave her one great big look of pure relief straight back.
And that pretty much ends the story of the biggest nuclear fallout me and my twin have ever had. Except for one final random detail. The moment after me and Jolene made our peace, Whispering Bob Harris pushed his chair back, stood up and said, ‘Thank God for that.’
Surprised, we both turned to look at him. He pulled his coat on, picked up his stick and said, ‘All that drama ain’t good for my digestion. You two have been giving me bad guts for days. And that Liam feller weren’t worth tuppence anyway.’
Both mine and Jolene’s jaws dropped open. But it was Jolene who managed to speak first. ‘I thought you couldn’t hear anything?’
Whispering Bob Harris frowned. ‘What’s that? Speak up, son. I can’t hear you.’
‘I thought you couldn’t hear anything,’ bellowed Jolene.
Whispering Bob Harris shrugged. ‘My hearing ain’t what it should be, right enough. But I can lip read. And, even though I’m old, I ain’t daft, am I?’
He took a shuffling step or two towards the door, leaving Jolene and I standing side by side in gobsmacked silence. But then he stopped, turned and said, ‘My name’s Henry, by the way. How do you do?’
And, just like two peas in a pod, Jolene and I said, ‘How do you do, Henry,’ and we waved as he walked through the front door to take his place in the never-ending parade of interesting people who wander up and down Willesden High Road.
One thing I’ve learned is that life doesn’t always follow a pretty pattern. Some days fall perfectly into place and quickly blend in with all the rest while other days are as random and as weird as the stuff Mrs Hamood tells us about in Maths Club.
Like the fact that four is the only number in the English language which is spelt using the right amount of letters.
Or that 111111111 x 111111111 = 12345678987654321.
Or that each person in the world shares their birthday with more than nineteen million other people. (Unless you happen to be a leapling like me – in which case you only share it with four million, seven hundred and ninety-one thousand, two hundred and thirty-nine others.)
And although this sort of stuff may sound utterly pointless I’m convinced it isn’t. There has to be some mysterious purpose to it all – even if it’s just to make us think. And it certainly makes me think because it wriggles around my brain like a worm and keeps me wondering about it for ages.
In a funny sort of way, life’s random curveballs are the same. They may well feel like the kind of days we could all seriously do without, but they actually give us the crucial moments that make us stop and think about who we are. And while loads of easier days get quickly forgotten, those random curveballs end up living in our memories forever.
Falling head over heels in love with Liam Mackie was the biggest shocker of my life. And it was stressful and upsetting and it made my eye throb. But it also gave me the strength to speak up and be honest about who I really am. Which I always knew I would do just as soon as the time was right. It was simply a matter of deciding when that time was.
But in the end the moment chose itself. Me and my dad were sitting on a tube train and hurtling along the Jubilee Line towards Wembley. We weren’t the only ones. The whole of north London was on that same train and almost everyone was wearing their tribal colours. White for Spurs. Red for Arsenal. There was also a serious amount of police in fluorescent yellow high-visibility jackets as well.
My dad leaned towards me and said, ‘I can’t believe we made it, sunshine. A League Cup final! And against Arsenal! What d’you reckon the score will be?’
My dad doesn’t like Arsenal. He likes them even less than QPR.
I turned the question over in my mind for a second. I didn’t have a clue what the score would be. Or who might kick the ball into the net. Or even how the offside rule worked. The truth is that I’ve never been remotely fussed on football. But I didn’t want to feel like an alien so I said, ‘Five–nil to Spurs.’
But my dad didn’t get the chance to hear my reply because at that exact same moment half the passengers in the carriage – the red half – started chanting, ‘WE’LL WIN COS WE’RE AR-SE-NAL . . . WE’LL WIN COS WE’RE AR-SE-NAL . . . LA LA LA LA . . . LA LA LA LA.’
My dad looked outraged and did a big comedy roll of his eyes. And then he stood up from his seat, slapped his hands against his belly like he was banging some sort of chubby war drum and started chanting, ‘WE LOVE YOU, TOTTENHAM, WE DO . . .’
The white half of the train broke out into cheers and began to chant along with him.
‘WE LOVE YOU, TOTTENHAM, WE DO . . .’
I felt my face turn scaly and green, and alien antennae started sprouting out of my head – but I still laughed. I couldn’t help it. My dad has that effect on me sometimes. To be fair, the fact that he was wearing a replica Spurs shirt with real cowboy spurs on his boots and a big white Stetson wasn’t making it any easier to take him seriously.
My dad grinned down at me and paused from his chanting just long enough to shout, ‘Come on, sunshine – give me a hand.’
And knowing that I had an entire afternoon of this kind of thing ahead of me I opened my mouth and added my voice to everyone else’s.
‘WE LOVE YOU, TOTTENHAM, WE DO . . . OHHHH, TOTTENHAM, WE LOVE YOU!’
And, even though I couldn’t actually care less about the game, I have to admit that it was massively exciting to be part of the crowd and to be rushing towards Wembley on a wave of red and white and to be shouting and singing and stamping my feet to the only words we all seemed able to agree on.
‘THERE’S ONLY ONE TEAM IN LONDON . . . ONE TEAM IN LOOOOO ONDON . . .’
By the time we all spilt off at Wembley Park, I was so buzzed up that my head was spinning off my shoulders. The sudden drop in temperature quickly made it slot back into place though. I pulled my sister’s borrowed Spurs scarf up around my nose and followed my dad out of the tube station and down Olympic Way towards the stadium.
‘Filthy weather for it,’ said my dad as we walked head first into a wall of drizzle. ‘Oh well, that’s what happens when they insist on playing the final in February.’
I pulled my sister’s borrowed Spurs hat down over my ears and hurried along next to him. If anything, the road to Wembley was even more packed than the tube train. There were Spurs fans and Arsenal fans and stewards and police and ticket touts and programme sellers and general wheeler-dealers and what looked to me pretty much like the entire match crowd of ninety thousand people all moving slowly together towards the giant white arch. I stayed close to my dad so that we wouldn’t get separated.
And then, above all those ninety thousand different voices, I heard a girl’s voice shout, ‘OH MY DAYS, IS THAT JOLENE’S GAY BROTHER?’
And to my complete disbelief and horror another girl’s voice shouted, ‘YEAH, IT IS. I RECKON HE’S ONLY COME TO GET A LOOK AT SOME FIT LEGS.’
I stopped walking and looked up. Natalie Snell and Latasha Joy were grinning and waving at me. They were weaving their way through the crowd and carrying an armful of foam pointy hands printed with the Arsenal and Spurs logos.
Ninety thousand people, and I had to bump into them! I should start playing the lottery or something.
My dad stopped too and frowned. And then he said, ‘D’you want a foam pointy hand?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. Because why the heck would I?
My dad nodded slowly. He was still frowning. ‘Waste of money. We’ll get a programme instead. Come on.’
He put his hand on my shoulder and we walked forward like that together – him steering me through the crowd. To be honest, it probably should have been me doing the steering because I’m at least half a head taller than he is – but I just went with it and put my legs on autopilot. Those stupid mouthy girls had upset me so much that my brain had shut down.
In front of us, a sea of red and white beanie hats bobbed closer and closer towards the big famous arch.
My dad squeezed my shoulder, put his voice close to my ear and said, ‘Any thoughts about what you want for your birthday?’
‘Not really,’ I said.
My dad said, ‘Well, start having a think.’ And then he said, ‘And what about Jolene?’
‘I don’t know what she wants,’ I said.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ said my dad. ‘I meant have you two sorted out this monkey business that’s been upsetting the pair of you?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Good,’ said my dad, and patted my shoulder.
We walked on. Wembley Stadium loomed bigger and bigger in front of us. To see the arch, I now had to tilt my head skyward – just like those Sports Boys do when they’re cross-country running.
My dad said, ‘Is everything else OK?’
I stopped looking up at the arch and looked at my dad. And then my blood ran cold. Because, even though we were walking towards Wembley and he was about to see his beloved Tottenham Hotspur, he had a look of absolute agony on his face. I quickly looked down at my hi-tops and mumbled, ‘I think so.’
My dad stopped walking. I did too. Around us, the red and white beanies continued to float past, slightly changing course as if we were some sort of awkward unexpected island. And then my dad put both his hands on both my shoulders, looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me, son?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
My dad lowered his arms, shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned down at his cowboy boots. For one terrible second, I actually thought he’d started to cry, but then I realized it was just the drizzle making his face wet.
The crowd continued to push past us.
My dad lifted his face again and said, ‘You and me, boy – we’re Chunky and Son. Don’t ever forget that. But sometimes I worry that we don’t speak the same lingo. Sometimes, I worry that we ain’t even in the same solar system.’
And I don’t know whether it was just the stupid drizzle or whether I’d started to cry without realizing it, but suddenly my face felt uncomfortably wet and I had to clench my jaw really hard to stop myself from bawling like a baby.
Tilting my head skyward, I looked up into the grey clouds and rested my eyes on the Wembley arch. And then I looked back at my dad and just came straight out with it.
‘I’m gay, Dad.’
For a moment, neither of us moved a muscle. We just stood there, the only stationary people in the middle of ninety thousand walking ones.
And then my dad said, ‘Crikey O’Mighty! We don’t half pick our moments.’
His eyes flicked away from mine. Something behind me had caught his attention.
I turned. High above the rooftops of Wembley, the sun had finally forced its way through the clouds. Where just a moment earlier I’d seen only varying shades of grey, a faint but fantastic rainbow was now shooting across the sky.
My dad said, ‘Just tell me one thing, boy. You’re not still holding a torch for that Liam muppet, are you?’
My jaw dropped in surprise.
My dad sighed. ‘I might be getting old, son, but I’m not daft. Even a great big bonehead like me twigged in the end.’
I shook my head. ‘You’re not a bonehead.’ And then I said, ‘Do I like Liam? Definitely not!’
My dad nodded, satisfied. ‘Thank God for that.’ And then he put his guiding hand back on my shoulder and we both walked on towards the two great big rainbows in the sky.
And it was true what I told him. I don’t fancy Liam Mackie any more. I don’t even like him. But, even so, I won’t ever forget him. Because he was the spark which lit the fire that changed my life.
And I’m totally cool with that.
Before this book gets stuffed back on to a shelf, I need to say a massive THANK YOU to the following people – because without them there wouldn’t be any book.
Rachel Petty and Emma Young of Pan Macmillan, who patiently waited for me to write something;
Hayley Yeeles of Pollinger, who kept on telling me I could do it;
Gwen Davies, Kirsty Price and Becky MacNaughton, who all read stuff for me when I’d forgotten how to think;
Lynda Jones, who generously provided me with a writer’s retreat when I needed one;
and Graham Tomlinson, who, as always, was patient, helpful and utterly brilliant.
And thanks once again to Paston College, Norfolk, for keeping me attached to the real world.
But most of all, this book owes a great big debt of thanks to Dolly Parton – a true living legend – and to three other inspirational stars who are twinkling in the sky: Johnny Cash, Jim Morrison and River Phoenix.
Shine on.
www.hayleylong.com
Hayley Long was born in Ipswich ages ago. She studied English at university in Wales, where she had a very nice time and didn’t do much work. After that she spent several years in various places abroad and had a very nice time and didn’t do much work then either. Now Hayley is an English teacher and works very hard indeed. She lives in Norwich with a rabbit called Irma and a husband.
Books by Hayley Long
Lottie Biggs Is Not Mad
Lottie Biggs Is Not Desperate
Lottie Biggs Is Not Tragic
What’s Up with Jody Barton?
Downside Up
First published 2012 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This edition published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-2596-6
Text and illustrations copyright © Hayley Long 2012
Cover images © Getty Images
Cover design by Helen Crawford-White
The right of Hayley Long to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
‘Ring of Fire’ Words and Music by Merle Kilgore and June Carter Copyright © 1962, 1963 Painted Desert Music Corporation, New York Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved Used by Permission. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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