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About the authorWhen I went round to Poppy’s, Luke was heading out to meet Craig and on the way past me his coat brushed my elbow! For a micro-millisecond at least we were fused, as one, in the universe! Not bad going considering it was only mid-January. Poppy noticed and opened her mouth to make a comment, but I successfully silenced her with a glare. God, Poppy could be so embarrassing, if I let her. I hadn’t told her for ages that I fancied Luke, because the potential for cringeworthy comments was so great.
Besides, I had even more ambitious plans for the year ahead:
Holly Stockwell’s New Year’s Resolutions
1. Snog someone. (A gorgeous boy, I mean – e.g. Luke. Not just anyone. Not the bus driver.)
2. Go on one of those group holidays with Poppy, without parents, in order to possibly achieve No.1 on a beach at sunset.
3. Avoid PE (no way can I follow Mum’s advice to just enjoy taking part and not get in a blind panic about it).
4. Get better looking, e.g. get smaller bottom, get rid of braces and somehow transform tangled hair into Pantene-style gorgeousness (tangled hair no good for seduction – how will boys run their fingers through it?).
5. Stop buying CosmoGIRL!, as just end up wanting glittery lip-gloss due to glittery lip-gloss feature, but will have spent all my money on the magazine.
6. Improve social life by going out to more good parties.
7. OK, go to any parties.
The first two were joint with Poppy, so that we could spur each other on. My main resolution was the Luke-snog. Poppy had almost-kissed Yves, so I needed to catch up.
Poppy and I sat in her room and ate Maltesers while she checked her moles in her bedroom mirror. Ever since I’ve known Poppy she has been a total hypochondriac. Every time she gets cramp in her foot she thinks it’s deep vein thrombosis and her leg is going to fall off.
‘Sorry about just now on the phone,’ I told her. ‘Jamie finally bought these new trainers with his Christmas money. He’s been deciding which ones to get for weeks.’
‘Has your Mum forgiven you yet for what you did with yours?’
‘No, not really.’ Honestly, you would have thought Christmas money was yours to do what you liked with, but mine had been accompanied by lots of hints from Mum and Dad about getting some sensible hiking boots, prompted by the mysterious incident where I had left my previous pair on a bus. They weren’t too pleased when I spent it all on a novel and some Pay-As-You-Go mobile phone credit, which was already gone.
‘I was going to say on the phone – tonight, we could call Jez and go out in town instead?’ said Poppy hopefully.
‘I’d love to,’ I said from my usual spot by the window, watching Poppy twist and turn trying to see the back of her shoulder. ‘But can you imagine what my mum would say? Town in the evening? She’d be convinced we’d get lost.’
‘Or mugged,’ Poppy added, who was used to my mum.
‘Or, worse – Jez would lead us astray.’
‘Mmm.’ Poppy frowned into the mirror. She seemed a bit frustrated by my inability to go out – which was a bit rich, considering that she wouldn’t actually dare ask Jez out in a million years. Not to mention that this time it was her parents who were inadvertently preventing us from seeing him, due to their refusal to take us to the youth club. Maybe all parents are secretly in cahoots and take turns thwarting boy-related plans?
‘Don’t you think it’s horrid having so many moles?’ said Poppy, squinting critically at herself in the mirror.
‘No,’ I said automatically. ‘They’re only little freckles!’
‘I’ve got really bad skin.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘And my hair is falling out. I’m going bald!’
‘You are not! It’s curly, that’s all. It just looks like a lot when one comes out.’
‘Oh my God. This is a totally new mole. That’s not good, is it? Look!’
‘That’s a bit of Malteser.’
‘Hmm,’ said Poppy, looking slightly pacified. Then she added, ‘But I really wish we could go out and do something cool.’
She knew I’d love more than anything to have a mammoth night out, but what could we do? Being fourteen is not like it is in films and books and stuff, where the characters spend all their time dancing at illicit parties, sneaking into rock concerts, winning Pop Idol-type contests, etc. There is clearly a magic formula required in order to have cool stuff happen to you:
Cool Stuff Guaranteed if . . .
you’re Californian.
you’re an identical twin.
you’re named Tori or Sandi or similar.
you have a secret talent for something, e.g. dancing, with which to hugely impress some gorgeous boy.
your parents are going away for the weekend.
No Cool Stuff Imminent if . . .
you’re from South London.
you’re the middle child of three.
you’re named Holly as a hilarious comedy follow-up to older sister Ivy.
you’re forced to do PE (with no secret talent for it).
your parents are showing no signs of leaving you alone in the house ever.
My mum let me out for the Friday night youth club, because Poppy’s parents knew the organisers and drove us safely there and back, but most other bids for freedom involved a lengthy Boy-Meeting Risk Assessment – as if I was ten, not fourteen! She genuinely thinks I am too young for ‘such things’. My mum is convinced that all boys are Very Dangerous, and permanently prowling around for fourteen-year-old girls to make pregnant and/or addicted to cigarettes. I think she must get such ideas from reading the papers, because the highlight of Poppy’s and my weekend is usually seeing who can fit the most marshmallows in their mouth at once.
‘Do you want to come over this weekend?’ Poppy asked, as I was playing with Mouse. (Poppy had not been the most imaginative twelve-year-old when it came to the pet-naming department.)
I rolled my eyes. ‘I can’t. My family’s doing a sponsored Fun Run. Ivy’s come back specially from uni for the weekend. I’ve got to go along.’
Poppy giggled for a long time, then said, ‘Oh my God, Holly – they’re not still hoping you’ll get inspired?’
‘Apparently. Ugh. They’re all so . . . active. It’s exhausting just watching them.’ I tried to laugh. I suppose it was funny, looking at it objectively. I feel much more at home with my friends than with my family. My friends don’t care if I prefer books and films to volleyball, but it is a big deal in my family!
‘So don’t go.’
‘It’s not that easy. They are all so into it! It’s easier just to go with the flow.’
‘I guess they’re just . . . very enthusiastic,’ said Poppy kindly, whose parents are nice and normal and don’t own matching tracksuits.
‘I’ll go, but I’m not joining in!’
‘You know, Holly, most people rebel against their parents by dyeing their hair blue or doing Class-A drugs. You rebel by sitting in your mum’s car with a book.’
‘Honestly,’ I said, sighing. ‘Since when did the words “fun” and “run” belong together in the same sentence? I hate running.’
‘You ran for that bus last week.’
‘Only because I thought Luke was on it.’