What’s Up With Jody Barton?, page 9
As quick as I could, I reached down for the plug of my mega-bass super-woofer and yanked it out of the socket. The last thing I heard before the music abruptly cut off was the word strange.
‘Yeah, you can shut right up,’ I said. And then, just because I was on some sort of poster-trashing mission, I tore down every picture of Jim Morrison as well.
When I’d done, my room looked barer than ever. There was only my chart of prime numbers left. I sat down on the bare mattress-less frame of my bed and looked at it.
It was a dumb thing to have on my wall really because it only listed the prime numbers up as far as one hundred and I learned all of those off by heart yonks ago. In fact, I know all the prime numbers up as far as one thousand so I’m not entirely sure why the chart was still there. Other than because I really like prime numbers.
‘Stupid chart,’ I said, and I ripped that down as well.
Then I just sank down on to the floor of my strange Tottenham Hotspur-themed bedroom and I didn’t move for about an hour. But even though I was finally acting all calm and not throwing things around and trashing stuff, there was still a whole heap of anger screwed up tight inside me. And I wasn’t keeping it there for Liam Mackie or River Phoenix or for Jim Morrison or for any poor old defenceless prime number. I was keeping it there all for my stupid boy-kissing self.
‘Jody, can I come in?’
The knock on my door and the question that came with it made me scramble to my feet. It was my mum, fresh from the nail bar or the tanning salon or wherever it was this time that she’d been making herself look totally tanfastic. I’d forgotten about her. But, then again, I’d forgotten about my dad too. And the cafe downstairs. And the noisy High Road on the other side of my bedroom window. To be honest, I’d pretty much forgotten about the rest of Willesden Green and the entire city of London and the whole of Planet Earth in general. For all I knew, I could have been living on my own inside a giant space bubble. And that should have been OK. Because how complicated can life be if you’re living on your own inside a space bubble?
Except that I wasn’t on my own. There were two other people floating around in there with me.
Jolene and Liam.
And they both hated my guts.
‘Jody, sweetheart, I need a chat.’
‘Er . . .’ I said. I looked around my room. It looked like I’d tried to trap a troll in there. ‘Er . . . I’m a bit busy at the moment.’
‘Playing on your Xbox isn’t busy,’ said my mum. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘I’m not on my Xbox,’ I said. ‘It isn’t even switched on.’
‘Jody, sweetheart, I’m not gonna stand here talking to a blinking door. I just want a couple of minutes of your time.’
‘All right. . . Give me one second.’ I heaved my mattress back on to my bed and glanced around my room. It still looked as if I’d tried to keep King Kong captive in there.
On the other side of the door, my mum said, ‘What the dibble are you doing?’
‘Tidying up.’
I don’t think she was expecting me to say this because she went strangely silent for a second and then she said, ‘Blimey, Jode! I’ll get the Hoover from the cupboard and you can give the carpet a going-over while you’re at it.’
Seizing my opportunity, I scanned the room again. I was feeling desperate. In fact, I was feeling so incredibly and hopelessly desperate that it made my heart and my head and even my hair hurt. And the worst thing was that I knew I was never going to find what I was looking for – a miracle cure for my messed-up face.
Then my eyes came to rest on something almost as good as that. Untouched and untrashed on top of the wardrobe, I spotted my wi-fi gaming helmet.
My mum’s footsteps were returning from the cupboard across the hallway and the dodgy wheels of our ancient vacuum cleaner were squeaking along the carpet behind her. It sounded like she was being chased by a herd of guinea pigs. As quick as I could, I reached upward, whacked the helmet on to my head and then flopped down on my duvet which was still in an untidy heap on my bedroom floor.
My mum poked her head round the edge of the door. And then she said, ‘I knew you were on that bloody Xbox.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. My voice was a bit muffled. My wi-fi gaming helmet isn’t designed for having conversations with people who are in the same building. Not unless they’re both connected via the internet.
My mum looked at me and said, ‘Aren’t you going to take that ridiculous thing off?’ And then, before I could even try to reply, she said, ‘What on earth have you been doing in here?’
‘I’ve been tidying up,’ I said. I had to say it really carefully so that my face didn’t move too much because the helmet was a bit tight and my puffy cheekbone was hurting like hell.
My mum stood in my doorway and gazed open-mouthed at the scene of devastation. I sat on my duvet on the floor and waited. I knew she wouldn’t believe me. To be fair, who would?
After a moment, she nodded slowly and said, ‘I suppose those posters were getting a bit tatty. Making room for some nice new ones are you, sweetheart?’
I hadn’t expected her to say this. I was so surprised that I couldn’t think of a single thing to say back to her. And then I said, ‘Nah. I think I’ll just stick with the Spurs wallpaper.’
The look of shock flashed back over my mum’s face. But then she smiled and said, ‘Oh, well, your dad will be chuffed. It’s always bothered him that you haven’t shown more interest in those boys.’
Inside my helmet, I felt my face go hot. It hurt.
My mum said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t pull your duvet on to the floor though, Jody. It’ll get dusty. I only put a clean cover on it last week. And look . . .’ She paused to wave a pointy fingernail at the wet patch on my floor. ‘You’ve already spilt something on your carpet. I don’t want you spilling drinks over your bedding too.’
‘Sorry,’ I said again. And I stood up and carefully arranged the duvet on the bed. But maybe I shouldn’t have done because the second I’d finished and parked myself down on top of it, my mum came over and parked herself down on it too.
‘The reason I wanted a word,’ she said, ‘is because your sister is a little upset.’
I stopped breathing.
My mum shook her head and sighed. ‘Well, actually, she’s very upset.’
I still didn’t breathe.
‘Your dad had to tell her to go and sit outside by the dustbins for a bit. She was crying so much it was depressing all the customers. He thought some wind and drizzle and the sight of a few overflowing rubbish bags might help cheer her up.’
My mum laughed a sad sort of laugh and began to fiddle with one of her hair extensions. I turned my head ever so slightly so that I could sneak a glance at her through the visor of my gaming helmet. And then, instantly, I wished I hadn’t. She was frowning. And it was a big troubled frown. My mum hardly ever frowns. Most of the time she just laughs and smiles and swans around looking like Willesden Green’s very own version of Cameron Diaz. Only slightly more knackered.
My head started to swim and my jaw felt heavy. I wasn’t feeling too good. In fact, for one panicky second, I was so close to puking that I could taste it. Inside my helmet, I closed my eyes, swallowed hard and took a few quick deep breaths. Almost at once, the urge to barf disappeared. But I still felt awful. And I suppose that’s hardly surprising really because, whichever way I looked at things, there was no escaping the obvious and uncomfortable and face-shaming truth.
I was awful.
I had to be. After all, the reason I was feeling so sick in the first place had pretty much nothing to do with Jolene’s unhappiness and pretty much everything to do with one horrifying thought.
Liam Mackie had told her what I’d done.
I knew it. It was obvious. He’d never keep it to himself. But, then again, how much had he actually said? Had he gone into every single sad little detail – like how I’d closed my eyes and missed a heartbeat and pressed my lips up against his – or had he just said that I’d done something beyond weird? Or that I was a gayer-than-gay, back-stabbing, low-life scumbag who was not, in any way, ever to be trusted?
Not even by my own twin.
The urge to puke was back with an attitude. My fingers gripped the edge of the mattress. They had to. I might have pitched forward and fainted otherwise.
Next to me, my mum said, ‘It’s no good, Jody. I’ve got to ask you something.’
And then I knew that not only had Liam Mackie told Jolene everything, but also that Jolene had gone straight to my mum and dad and told them everything as well.
The whole flipping kiss and caboodle.
And now my mum was about to open her mouth and say . . .
‘Are you gay?’
Three tiny words.
One massive question.
And, even though I’d spent the last week asking myself the exact same thing over and over again, I still wasn’t ready with an answer. Not yet. Not now. I took a deep breath and braced myself.
My mum said, ‘Will you please take that stupid thing off your head?’
I frowned. I didn’t want to take it off. Even without my mashed-up face, I wasn’t in the mood for eye contact.
So I said, ‘Whatever it is that you want to ask me, you can ask it while I’m wearing this helmet.’
My mum said, ‘Oh for Pete’s sake, Jody! Just take the bloody thing off so we can have a proper chat.’ And then she frowned and said, ‘And what the dibble are you on about? What am I supposed to be asking you?’
I frowned. It made my face hurt. ‘You just said that you wanted to ask me something.’
‘Yeah,’ said my mum. ‘And I have! I asked you to take that daft crash helmet off!’
I frowned even harder. My face hurt even more, but, to be honest, I didn’t care. I had other things on my mind. Relief mostly. Although, weirdly, for some reason that I can’t quite explain, there was something else too. Something that felt like a quick sinking sensation of regret. But, like I said, mostly it was just pure and total relief.
‘Is that it,’ I said. I couldn’t stop the amazement from flooding into my voice. ‘That was what you wanted to ask me?’
‘Yeah,’ said my mum. ‘What’s up? Should I be asking you something else?’
‘No,’ I said in a hurry. And then, because my face was hurting and because I’d had enough of hiding and because I suddenly really wanted that proper chat with my mum, I did something that just a few seconds earlier had seemed utterly impossible. I lifted my hands up to my helmet and pulled it off my head.
My mum smiled and said, ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ And then she stopped smiling and said, ‘WHAT THE DIBBLE HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR FACE?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I got into a bit of a fight.’
‘You got into a fight?’ My mum’s mouth fell open. And then she took hold of my face and tried to touch my cheek with the tips of her fingers, but I backed off because it was too flipping painful.
My mum let her hand drop. She stared at me for a moment as if she couldn’t quite work out who I was and then said, ‘Who with? Who’d you get into a fight with?’
I hesitated. Eventually I muttered, ‘Liam.’
‘Liam?’ My mum looked genuinely horrified. ‘Jolene’s Liam?’
‘Hm,’ I said, and stared down at my hi-tops.
‘Liam did this to you?’
‘Look, it’s no big deal,’ I said.
My mum said, ‘It is a big deal! The little thug! Look what he’s done to your lovely face! You look awful. You could frighten people with a face like that.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Don’t go on about it.’
But my mum wasn’t listening. And quite clearly she had every intention of going on about it. She took hold of my face again and said, ‘Why did he hit you?’
I winced. So here we were again. Back to another million-pound question. I pulled my face away from my mum’s hand, stared down at my hi-tops again and said, ‘I dunno. We just . . . sort of. . . fell out.’
My mum looked at me suspiciously. ‘You just sort of fell out and now you’ve got a lump the size of White Hart Lane swelling up on your face?’
I nodded.
The suspicion on my mum’s face grew and she sat more upright and more uptight and folded her arms. And then she said, ‘I may look like a dumb blonde to you, Jody Barton, but let me tell you something. I’m not dumb and I’m not blonde either. So why don’t you tell me the truth?’
And even though it was the worst day of my whole life, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling just a tiny bit. Because I’ve heard my mum say this a billion times before and I happen to know that it’s not even her own rubbish joke but someone else’s.
‘You nicked that gag from Dolly Parton,’ I said.
‘Yeah, well,’ said my mum with a shrug, ‘Dolly is a big-hearted lady. She won’t mind.’
‘It’s a crap gag anyway,’ I said. To be honest, I was just desperately trying to change the subject.
My mum said, ‘Don’t try to change the subject. Tell me what this fight was about.’
I lifted my face and looked up at her. She was looking back at me with worried hazel eyes and it was like staring straight into my own eyes. And I knew then that even though I definitely didn’t want to, I had to tell her the truth. Or at least something very close to it. Because it just doesn’t seem right to tell an enormous fat lie to somebody who views the world through eyes identical to your own.
It was scary though. There were a trillion and one other ways I’d have preferred to have earned my punch in the face. Like because I’d just thrown a spectacular left hook myself or because I’d told Jolene she was crap at Call of Duty or because I’d spilt cola over Natalie Snell’s gold handbag or because I’d called Liam Mackie a nasty, violent, Neanderthal moron. But there was only one reason. And, even though Liam Mackie had told me I was bent, there was no way that I was ever going to let him – or anyone else – call me a spineless lily-livered wimp.
Not even myself.
So there was just one thing for it. I took a deep breath and then I wedged my hands tightly under my armpits and said, ‘The thing is you see, Mum . . . it’s . . . complicated.’ I took another deep breath. Here goes, I thought. Here goes. I opened my mouth.
My mum’s hand touched my arm. Before I could say another word, she said, ‘It’s OK, sweetheart, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve already worked it out.’
‘You have?’ I felt my face go hot. I don’t know if it was with embarrassment or relief. How could my mum know? It’s not as if I go gaying around or anything. At least, I don’t think I do.
My mum smiled at me. ‘You’re my baby, aren’t you? I know more about you than you realize.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Oh.’ My face went hotter still, but this time I knew it was definitely with relief. I was so relieved that I wanted to cry. I was so relieved that I didn’t even care she’d just called me her baby.
My mum rubbed my arm and said, ‘I know you, Jody Barton. You were defending your sister’s honour, weren’t you?’
I froze. And then I frowned. And I thought about what had happened and how Liam had punched me in the face. And even though my face was really very boiling hot, my insides felt like one solid giant lump of ice.
My mum said, ‘That little swine told you he was going to break up with Jolene, didn’t he? And he said something unkind about her, didn’t he? Something unnecessary?’
I opened my mouth to protest.
My mum said, ‘That poor girl is out in the backyard sobbing for England. Don’t tell me what he said, Jody, because I don’t want to know. I’m cross enough with him as it is. And look what he’s done to your lovely face! I’ve half a mind to ring his mother!’
‘Don’t do that,’ I said.
My mum looked into my eyes and rubbed my arm again. ‘You’re a good lad, Jody. You know that? Don’t you go around breaking girls’ hearts, will you?’
I held my mum’s gaze and didn’t move. I couldn’t. The slightest flicker of movement would have caused my face to crack.
My mum frowned for a second. ‘That is what happened, isn’t it?’
And because I’m such a spineless, lily-livered wimp I nodded my head and muttered, ‘Yes.’
I don’t dig Johnny Cash. I know he’s an American music legend who’s tougher than the Terminator but I’d rather listen to anyone but him. Even Bieber. I’m not being deliberately disrespectful or anything – I’m just saying how I feel. And, anyway, it doesn’t actually matter what I think because my dad has got the topic totally covered. He thinks Johnny is The Shizzle. So much so that he’s put framed pictures of him over every wall of our cafe. To be fair, we’ve got framed pictures of Dolly Parton up on our walls too and, in them, Dolly is always smiling. But Johnny never is. He’s always staring straight at the camera with a really mean look on his face – just as if he’s daring the entire world to have a pop at him. And, to be honest, he spooks me out.
It doesn’t get any better when I hear him sing. He’s got a voice as deep as an oil well and ten times as terrifying. It chills my blood to hear him. And on every single song he’s backed by this insane crazy guitar sound which goes boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom . . . on and on and ON without any variation so that it sounds like a freaky great freight train is rushing right out of the stereo on a collision course with my head.
But although this stuff is annoying, it’s nothing more than a surface itch. If I scratch it, it should go away. One press of the POWER button and I’ve got rid of him.
Except that I haven’t. He’s still there. Irritating the hell out of me.
And he always will be because of one Stupid Record.
The Stupid Record I’m talking about is not the one my dad is always singing. ‘Ring of Fire’ is actually a reasonably meaningful song when you force yourself to listen to it. But there’s this other one which I really really struggle with. It does my head in every time I hear it and it does my head in even when I’m not hearing it. Johnny Cash is able to get under my skin and annoy me even when the stereo is switched off.
