Bridesmaid Blitz, page 11
In the living room, I click on the computer and check my Facebook page. There’s a new post from Mills: J’AIME PARIS. VIEW FROM THE ROOF OF THE SACRÉ CŒUR IS TO DIE FOR.
I smile to myself. Then I spot two new personal messages.
One is from Seth:
Hey, Amy,
Missing you so much, babes.
We arrived this morning. My host family is OK — quiet, though. Yves is 13 and doesn’t say much. I think he’s a bit of a sci-fi nerd — his room’s full of Star Trek posters.
We went to an old church on top of a hill this afternoon — bit boring but stellar view. Annabelle refused to walk up all the steps — claimed she had a heart condition. Insisted on taking this ski lift thing while everyone else walked. Stupid wagon.
Hope Polly’s OK. I told her to ring you if she needs anything. Hope that’s cool with you.
More tomorrow.
Seth XXX
P.S. Glad you liked the heart. Cost me a fortune in popcorn.
Hey, Seth, I reply.
Glad your host family is nice. School is dead without you and Mills. Hung out with Bailey at lunch, but that’s about it. No news. My life is boring, boring, boring. And my mum’s gone crazy mad, yet again.
Speaking of mums, ’course. Happy to help Polly — tell her to ring me anytime.
And please tell me all about Paris — I want to hear everything. What are the buildings like? Is it sunny? EVERYTHING.
Amy XXX
P.S. J’ai beaucoup aimé the heart!!! (Hope my French is right — I googled it.)
The other message is from Mills:
Dear Ames,
I’m here — in Paris! It’s such a fab place. Plus, it’s super sunny. Forgot my sunglasses — boo! Bought cool new ones — yeah!
My host family is really nice. Anais and Eriq Barnard are twins, 14 — both of them, obviously! And Eriq is fine. Black hair, olive skin, sexy smile. Think Edward’s face twinned with Jacob’s tan and bod. Best of both Twi-worlds. Holy Moly! I know I got burned by the whole long-distance thing with Ed, but I may not be able to help myself!
Madame Barnard is a great cook — I’ll be the size of an elephant when I get home — and their place is amazing! It’s this cool apartment right in the middle of Montmartre, beside the Sacré Cœur — the church we visited earlier today with Miss Lupin. Lots of steps, but stunning view from the top.
How’s Bailey? Tell him I was asking after him. Or maybe I should play it really cool. What do you think? Ho, hum, I don’t know. You decide.
Anyway, have to mosey. I’m off to a café now with Eriq. He invited me to meet some of his friends — isn’t that sweet?
À demain (that’s “until tomorrow” in French!),
Mills XXXXXXXXXXXXX
P.S. Can’t wait till Friday! I’m all set to implement Operation Seth — just give me the nod.
I sit back in my chair and before I know what’s happening, tears are rolling down my cheeks. I miss Seth and Mills so much, and it sounds like they’re having so much fun without me. I know I’ll be joining them on Friday, but how on earth am I going to cope with school until then?
Sophie and the D4s are only getting started. They’re bound to torment me all week. Without Seth and Mills, I’m a sitting duck. Like I said, Sophie, Mills, and I used to be friends, and I know a lot about Sophie — probably too much. The D4s are ultra competitive about everything, including coming from a perfect 2.4 family. Annabelle’s always bringing in newspaper clippings of her dad and “famous” mum looking like the perfect couple at charity events and balls. Barf. (Annabelle’s mum was an “Irish model” before she got hitched, which basically means she was too short or too curvy to be a catwalk model, so she just appeared in a bikini selling cars instead.)
Sophie’s less-than-ideal background is the chink in her armor, so she tells everyone her dad has a big-shot job at an oil company in Bahrain and doesn’t get home very often. (I bet half of them don’t even know where Bahrain is.) But I know the truth. Like I said, Sophie rarely sees him now he lives in London with his second family. The fact that I know her secret is partly why she hates me so much.
I guess I’ll just have to keep out of her way this week. I’d pull a sickie, but staying at home with Mum in one of her moods would be just as bad. No, I’ll just have to get on with it. And I’m sure Bailey will have come around by tomorrow, even if I did accidentally annoy him by mentioning his old school.
With a sigh, I brush away my tears and reply to Mills, trying to sound cheerier than I feel.
By Tuesday evening, I’m fairly convinced that Bailey really is avoiding me. He sat at the back during English class (slid in beside Sophie Piggott, of all people) instead of in his usual place. Sophie was thrilled and spent most of the class trying to chat him up, much to Miss Bingley’s annoyance. “This isn’t a speed-dating event, Sophie,” she said dryly. “Please stop batting your eyelids at Mr. Otis.”
At lunch break, I looked for him at the science block, but he wasn’t there. It was sunny for the second day in a row and really warm — an Indian summer, my gran would have called it — so most people were sitting outside. I had two choices: hang by myself, like Billy-no-mates, or join the D4s. Ha! As if.
I came up with a third option — skip eating lunch and read Twilight on the closed loo seat in the top loos, hoping that no one would wonder why the cubicle was occupied for so long. Sad, I know, but it was nice and quiet, and at least in there the D4s couldn’t flick their food at me (which happened at little break — and let me tell you, grated cheese is a killer to get out of your hair) or call me names. Today they moved on from “loser” to “raisin face.” Not exactly original, but equally hurtful. I walked around with my hand cupped over my chin all day, trying to hide the new outcrop of spots, but I think it just drew more attention to them, not less.
With a sigh, I check my phone again. Dad still hasn’t replied to my message. I texted him on the DART on the way home, reminding him that he promised I could visit Gracie tomorrow afternoon and suggesting he meet me at Connolly DART station so we could walk up to the hospital together, just the two of us. I’m really psyched about it. It’s been ages since I’ve had Dad to myself, and I can’t wait to tell him all about the Paris trip, and see Gracie again, of course. I wonder if she’s changed — babies grow pretty quickly.
I can’t believe Dad hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I throw my mobile down on the bed beside me. At least Mum forgot to confiscate it today. She’s still in mega bully-Amy-into-studying mode, though. “No computer privileges until your work is done, young lady,” she said the minute I walked through the front door.
Privileges? What planet is she on? Planet Homework Nazi?
Thankfully, once I get started, it doesn’t take long to plow through my homework: Spanish (groan), Irish (double groan), and science. I lay it all out for Mum’s approval. Once she’s given me the OK, I skip downstairs. Logging on to Facebook has become the highlight of my day. How pitiful is that?
There’s a brief “missing you loads” PM from Seth and another longer e-mail from Mills:
Dear Amy,
I SO wish you were here. I urgently need your advice, O wise one.
That café Eriq took me to last night was amazing, and his friends are so cool, real music heads like Bailey. Although, they have very dodgy taste — weird French rap. And it’s not just a language thing, the music’s très odd too. Then Eriq and I walked home together and he kissed me on the doorstep!
And oh, Amy, it’s true, all that stuff about French boys. His kissing was out of this world! My knees went all weak and I lurched against him, nearly taking him down too — soooo embarrassing, but he thought it was funny.
He was really sweet to me at breakfast — made me hot chocolate in a bowl. (That must be a French thing, or else they’d run out of clean mugs.) Then we walked to school together, and that’s when the trouble started.
After a whole morning of French classes (as thrilling as it sounds, not!), we climbed the Eiffel Tower with the French students, and everything was going great. Eriq took my hand going up the steps (which took ages — there are oodles of them). On the viewing platform at the top we bumped into Annabelle, who had insisted on taking the lift. She went into fits of laughter when she saw we were holding hands. Eriq asked her why she was laughing, and she said, in front of everyone, that back in Dublin I was deeply uncool and the biggest loser in the whole of Saint John’s!
Then she started telling him about that time in first year when I came into school dressed up as Cleopatra for classics, only I got the day wrong, so I was the only one in costume, you remember?
“So what?” I told her. “It was an honest mistake, and Miss Sketchberry said I made a very good Cleopatra.”
She made a face at me then and launched into another story — about that time I fell into the duck pond on the open farm trip and stank of pondweed all the way home. Then she only opened her mouth about me wetting my pants in Junior Infants. But I was five, Amy, FIVE! It’s so unfair. She made it sound like it happened recently. At that stage, Eriq looked at me, his eyes all cold, dropped my hand, and walked off, in front of everyone! I was left standing there on my own like a lemon, with Annabelle sniggering away. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my whole entire life! Now Eriq’s treating me like I have some sort of infectious disease.
And the worst thing is: I can’t stop thinking about him! But now that I’m a Parisian social pariah, he’ll never like me.
What should I do? I really, really want him to like me again, Amy!
Help!!!
Mills XXXXXXXXXXXXX
I bristle. That’s just great. I know I should feel outrage at what Annabelle did and sympathy for Mills — even if Eriq does sound like a prize eejit — but she’s so caught up in her own Parisian problems she hasn’t even stopped to ask how things are back in Dublin and how I’m feeling. I’m just about to e-mail her back, to say how lousy things are in Dublin too and to tell her that she’s not the only one feeling fed up, when there’s a loud BEEP: a text message on my mobile. It’s from Dad: SORRY, AMY, TOMORROW MAY NOT SUIT — HAVE TO DRIVE PAULINE TO DUNDRUM SC. SHE CLAIMS IT’S URGENT. SHELLY NEEDS CUSHIONS FOR THE NURSERY OR SOMETHING. IS SAT OK? DAD X
Siúcra. No, Saturday’s not OK. I’ll be in France on Saturday. I need to talk to him in person. It’s all too complicated for a text message.
I type back: CAN I RING U?
BETTER NOT. IN HOSPITAL WITH SHELLY, AND DOCTOR DUE ANY MIN. TALK ON SAT.
Oh, this is just getting better and better. First Mills, now my Dad. Does anyone have time for me? I’m not going to be here on Saturday, you stupid man, I want to scream. That’s what I’m trying to talk to you about!
I sit back against my pillow grumpily and stare down at my phone in frustration. Dad doesn’t have time for me these days, and Mills and Seth are no use to me this week. I have no one to talk to. No one. Then it dawns on me: Clover always has time for me. I ring her.
“Hey, Bean Machine,” she says breezily. “Can I ring you back later? I’m in the middle of writing something and I need to get it finished.”
“Fine,” I snap, clicking off the phone.
Some days are just so rubbish.
Wednesday means a half day and no lunch break, hurrah! I skip extra hockey practice — it’s fitness, and come on, how fit does a goalie need to be? Our forwards are so good that most of the match is played in the other team’s circle, anyway, and I spend a lot of the time hitting small stones off the Astroturf with my hockey stick or daydreaming about Seth.
It’s suspiciously quiet when I get home. I check the kitchen and the garden: no sign of Mum or the babies. I’m pleased. A bit of peace will make up for the fact that I would be visiting Gracie right about now were it not for my useless dad. I flop down on the sofa in the living room and flick on the telly. Time to catch up with the shows I’ve saved on the Sky box before Dave deletes them to make room for Top Gear. Every birthday and Christmas I buy him the DVDs, but he still insists on taping the blooming things. (There should be a law against Top Gear if you ask me.)
Just then my mobile rings.
“Amy?”
“Hi, Mum.”
“What’s all the noise?”
I quickly press MUTE. “Just the radio.” (Mum hates me watching telly in the afternoon. Says it’s a one-way ticket to the dole queues. How she’s figured that one out I really don’t know.)
“No telly till your homework’s done, OK?”
I ignore her. “Where are you?”
“At Monique’s with Evie. Gramps took Alex off my hands, bless him. They’re going on the train. As it’s free for old-age pensioners, Gramps says he’ll read his paper and travel from Howth to Bray and back again until they both get hungry.”
I laugh. “Great idea.” Alex would spend all day every day on a bus or train if he could. “What time are you back, Mum?”
“Sixish. I’ll get some fish and chips on the way home. I can’t be bothered to cook.”
“Cool.” I try not to sound too excited. This is all most excellent news indeed.
“You OK?” she asks. “You sound a bit funny.”
“I’m fine — honest,” I say, trying to keep the bubbles of joy under control. “See you later.” I click off my mobile and sink back into the sofa.
It’s only half two. More than three hours of peace and Sky box. Bliss! Watching telly means I don’t have to think about Mills or Dad or Clover and how useless they all are. Plus, only one more lunch break to endure before Paris.
Things are finally looking up.
I’m in my room later that evening when my mobile rings. It’s Clover. “Hey, Beanie. Anything up? Sorry I couldn’t talk yesterday, but Saffy was breathing down my neck. I was late with my piece on love potions and spells for the Halloween issue. I found this white witch in Wicklow called Olywena and got her to write it for me. Said she’d do it if she could plug her new book at the end. But her spelling and grammar were appalling. I practically had to rewrite the whole darn thing. Took me ages.”
“Hey, Clover,” I say, smiling to myself. (Only Clover could find a white witch in Wicklow willing to do her dirty work for her.) My anger melts away. I guess she can’t always be there for me when I need her.
I must still sound a bit peeved with her, though, because she says, “You sound a bit glum-dum-dum. You OK, babes?”
“Not really. I had another rubbish day in school.” As I tell her what’s been happening since Monday, a lump starts forming in my throat. I gulp it back. “With Mills and Seth both away, I have no one to talk to, and the D4s have decided it’s pick-on-Amy week. I feel like such a reject. Even Dad’s too busy to see me — he canceled today’s visit. Took Pauline shopping instead. Shelly needs cushions for the nursery, apparently.”
She tut-tuts. “Sorry to hear that, but I’m afraid your dad’s a bit of a marshmallow when it comes to what Shelly-darling wants. And once Seth and Mills are back, I’m sure the D4s will find another target for their evilness. You’re nearly there — only one more day, Beanie. Besides, being alone isn’t always such a horrible thing. You have to learn to be cool with it — it’s an acquired skill. There’s a big difference between being alone and being lonely.”
She clicks her tongue and then goes on, her voice a little flat: “Brains is working his little tush off these days and I barely get to see him, but I’ve had to learn to deal with it. Sometimes I throw myself into work, or read, or watch telly, or check Facebook, or chat to you. And you know what really keeps my mind off it? Helping other people. I get a real kick out of answering the problem-page letters and giving readers a leg up. Even though I spend a lot of time in my office, alone, I’ve chosen not to be lonely. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I think so.” I sigh — a big, hopeless, raggedy sigh.
“No one said being a teen was easy, my friend,” Clover says. “But whoa, horsey, enough of this serious stuff. You looking forward to Paris on Friday, babes?”
“Can’t wait.”
“How are Mills and Seth getting on?”
“Seth’s fine but Mills is having a small garçon problem. What’s new? She’s staying with a host family and she snogged the son, Eriq.”
Clover giggles. “Way to go, Mills! Guess she’s over Ed, then.”
“Guess so. But Annabelle Hamilton told him some stories about Mills — embarrassing stuff, like the time she wet her knickers in Junior Infants — and now he won’t speak to her.”
Clover gasps. “No! That Hamilton girl’s nasty, nasty. And the French-fry guy doesn’t sound much better. Tell Auntie Clover everything. And I mean every juicy little morsel. Methinks Mills is looking for advice, am I right?”
“Yep. I don’t know all that much, but I’ll tell you what I do know. . . .”
When I’ve finished telling her all about Mills and Eriq, she launches into loads of fab suggestions as to how Mills can fix things. I smile again. Clover’s right: helping people does make you feel better.
“Hey, Beanie,” Clover concludes, “this would make a great Goss problem-page letter. Can we publish it if the names are changed?”
I nod. “I’m sure Mills wouldn’t mind if we protect her identity. We gave her advice on how to make Ed notice her in the Goss, remember? And she loved that.”
“Awesome.” Clover layers on her best Noo Yawk accent. (She’s amazing at accents.) “Let’s give her a kickin’ reply to her man woes. The agony aunt dream team is back in action, so help me, Gawd.”
And this is what we came up with:
Dear Paris,
The guy you’ve described sounds like a real skank monkey. Turning against you on the word of just one girl. For all he knows, she’s lying to get into his pantalons. Humiliating stories shouldn’t be regurgitated like that — it’s just not cricket. But we all have embarrassing tales to tell, believe me. No one’s past is squeaky-clean. So hold your head up high, girl. You have nothing to be ashamed of.
