Watching You, Watching Me. Chloe Rayban
Christmas by Stephen, my cousin, but he was a total dweeb and since it was under the mistletoe, I guess it didn’t count anyway. Girls at school had been going out with guys since they were twelve practically. I was teased about my single status the whole time. But short of bumping into the boy of my dreams in the local shopping mall, I didn’t have that much opportunity for male conquest. Mum and Dad were dead strict about pubs and clubs, and even parties were vetted. It really wasn’t fair.
‘Look, it’s gone out,’ said Gemma. The light had suddenly been extinguished. We sat in silence for a few minutes more. Watching a flickering candle was pretty boring, but watching a totally dark house was ridiculous. So we went to bed after that.
I lay in bed unable to sleep for hours. My mind kept on making up different photo-fits of our mysterious new neighbour.
I had just got to Mystery-Man Photo-Fit Number Eight which was a bronzed kind of Baywatch guy who’d escaped from Hollywood and come to Britain because he was being hounded by Interpol for a murder he hadn’t committed and was trying to clear his name. I featured prominently in this one, working as an undercover agent and doing amazingly heroic acts for which he was stunned and grateful and he was just about to …
When I must have fallen asleep.
Mornings in our house are always pretty unbelievable. But the first morning of any term gets the chaos award.
I left as much time as I reasonably could before I made my appearance downstairs. Mum had called six times. I climbed into my loathsome uniform. Grey skirt made as short as I dare by rolling round the waistband (a quick unroll adds that vital inch on uniform inspection days). Hideous white shirt you can see your bra through, yukk! I’d forgotten the gross feel of the nylony fabric — the kind of stuff that gives off electric shocks like forked lightning when you undress in the dark. Dangerous if you ask me. Tie — now I reckon it’s kinky making girls wear ties. And to complete the ensemble, scratchy nylon and acrylic mix grey cardie — ghastly!
I stomped downstairs. Gemma was sitting on the third step practising her recorder. The ‘tune’ she was attempting to master was ‘London’s Burning’. Every time she got to the two final notes — ‘Fire, Fire’ — she played two painfully wrong ones.
‘Shut up Gems — you’re giving everyone a headache!’
‘Miss Dawson said we had to have it perfect over the holidays.’
‘But you’ve had all summer!’
I climbed over her. Mum was dressed in her smart ‘I’ve got a meeting at work’ outfit and making sandwiches distractedly.
‘Oh, there you are. You couldn’t be an angel and find Jamie’s football gear for me, could you? It’s brand new, should be in the drawer but …’
‘He’s been wearing it as pyjamas,’ chimed in Gemma, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
‘I have not …’ said Jamie going red — and an argument broke out.
Mum tore open a tin of tuna and Yin and Yang started up a chorus at her feet.
‘Jamie, its your job to feed the cats this week. Why aren’t they fed?’
‘Mum!!!!! …’ Gemma was staring at the sandwiches practically in tears. You know I can’t stand mayonnaise. It makes me want to throw up. The very sight of it and I puke …’
‘Oh goodness yes … I forgot. OK … Tasha, you feed the cats and Jamie, you get your football gear.’
‘Dad came in. I couldn’t find them. Definitely not in the bedroom.’
‘What?’
‘The car keys.’
‘I don’t believe this! We’re going to be late,’ Mum fussed.
Gemma broke off in the middle of an ear-piercing wrong note. ‘Mu-um, we can’t be late on the first day. I’ll get a seat near the front …’
‘I’ll look for the keys,’ I offered — anything to avoid smelly cat food duty.
‘Hey Gems … its OK, your sandwich hasn’t got mayonnaise on now,’ said Jamie.
Mum leapt at Yang, who in the absence of breakfast, had seized his opportunity and was licking mayonnaise off Gemma’s bread.
‘If you smack him I shall ring the NSPCC,’ said Gemma.
‘Try the RSPCA, Gemma,’ suggested Dad. ‘Unless you continue playing that thing — then we might need both.’ And with that he scooped up his briefcase and escaped through the front door.
Mum headed upstairs.
Gemma poured milk on her cereal.
‘I wonder if he’s got any breakfast over there …’ she sighed to me.
‘Who?’ asked Jamie as he spooned cat food ever so slowly and carefully on to two saucers. Yin and Yang were practically going berserk at his feet.
I shoved the saucers under their noses.
‘Maybe we should make up a food parcel, like in a basket or something, and then he could let down a rope and haul it up to his room,’ continued Gemma in a dreamy tone.
‘Dad’s trying to get rid of him, not encourage him,’ I pointed out.
‘But what if he stays up there and starves to death? It’ll be our fault.’
‘He could have my tuna sandwiches and then I’d have to have school dinners,’ suggested Jamie generously. Mum didn’t approve of school dinners. She reckoned they served factory-farmed meat, and they had chips too which she insisted were really unhealthy. Jamie went positively dewy-eyed over the very thought of a school dinner.
‘Shall I make some toast for him?’
‘No, Gemma. Absolutely not.’
The last thing we needed was Gemma doing something typically cringe-worthy like sending over food parcels. Having her act of charity rejected, she returned crossly to the stairs and started up her recorder torture again.
Mum came down the stairs like a whirlwind, holding out Jamie’s football gear.
‘Gemma was right! They were in your bed.’
‘You’ve got a ladder in your tights, Mum. A really humungous one,’ remarked Gemma.
‘I haven’t! I have! The keys! Tasha we’re going to be so late!’
We were late. I found Mum’s keys in the fridge. I reckon Dad must have picked them up last night when he’d had the set-to with the ‘squatter’ and then shoved them in there when he’d got the beer. He’d been in a bit of a state.
So we all piled in the car, and just as Mum was trying to persuade it to start … this boy came out of number twenty-five. He shot through the gate that led round to the back garden, bold as brass as if he owned the place. He was really fit actually. I craned out of the back to get a better view.
‘Cor …’ said Gemma.
‘Gems, that is a really vile and vulgar expression,’ I said, signalling violently to her not to draw Mum’s attention to our new neighbour. Mum hadn’t seen him — she’d been too busy battling between the ignition and the choke. I prayed she wouldn’t realize where he’d come from. For all I knew, she’d be out of that car in a flash and doing a citizen’s arrest on him or something.
The car started at last and Mum coaxed it out into the street. He was ahead of us now, sashaying along on rollerblades, dead in the middle of the road, making it impossible for Mum to pass.
‘I don’t believe this!’ she muttered, really losing