The Birds and the B.O.
Friday August 11th
9:00 a.m.
There is an upside to all of this. Americans get their licenses at age sixteen. I found this out when Cousin Pants, in a moment of cousinly wotsit, said, "Do you want to see my truck?"
"You can drive?" I blinked. This was the first normal thing Miss Pants had said all week.
I smelled a trap. Or maybe it was just mildew. There's a lot of it around here.
She rolled her eyes at me. One of these days they will roll right out of her head.
We had a bit of a falling out over the last couple days, you see. Uncle Chaz has made a point of not taking sides. By which I mean he has made himself scarce, appearing only to snarf a chicken leg or bit of lasagne, and then ducking out of sight again. I almost miss Vati. At least his rants are good for a laugh. At a safe distance, of course. Uncle Chaz doesn't do anything. Except work. And watch TV. And praise Bella. Bella can do no wrong.
Right, well, why doesn't he just do that thingy for her then? The one you need to become a saint.
No. Not canonization. The other one.
Martyrdom.
By CANNON.
Where do I start?
Bella offered to let me help her clean mold yesterday. I laughed, thinking she had made a joke, although not a very funny one, until she produced a pair of rubber gloves. Then I said, "Who do you think I am? Cinderella? I am not going to fiddle around with black gunk under the sink."
I think she was quite miffed. She told me that she was only asking as a courtesy in a very hollow voice that made me want to bash my head against the wall. Because she really seemed to think that she was, in actualosity, doing me a favor. I told her that if she wanted to do ME a courtesy, she could give me a ring when she got back from the Wet Lands.
There is no way she is human. Somebody has stolen her brain and replaced it with a Roomba. I cannot come up with any other possible explanation. Even aliens have more personality.
Bella opened the door to the garage. A large hunk of rust lay in a dirty heap. I looked for a truck.
"Where is the car?" I asked innocently.
"Truck," she corrected automatically. And she pointed. At the hunk of rust.
Of course.
I stared at the rust pile, weighing my options. It really did not look at all safe. But I would rather take my chances with death than stay in this madhouse a moment longer. "Let's go, shall we?"
"Go? Go where?"
She had a point.
"Erm. How about Newton's outfitters?"
11:00 a.m.
Newton's reeks of DIYery. It smells like Jas's father's garage.
Mike Newton – MIKE NEWTON – is at the register. He's face lights up when he sees … excuse me, you are looking in the wrong direction. LOOK AT ME!
But he is looking at Miss Pants.
"Hey, Bella!"
She sighs. Loudly. "Mike," she says tonelessly. I wait for her to introduce me. She doesn't.
Well then. "Hello," I say, sticking out my hand because everyone knows how Americans are totally crazy about shaking hands. Everyone does it, even the teenagers, in the films. His grip is warm and firm and I imagine that warm and firm hand gripping something else.
Aaaaagghhh. Now my face feels all warm and blurghy.
Oh my God. My nose. My nose!
I pretend to sneeze so I have an excuse to cover the looming red beacon between my eyes.
He looks adorably puzzled but is still smiling. To his credit, he does not look at the nose beacon, even though it is waving its arms and shouting "LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!" "Are you new?"
"Yes." My voice comes out sounding a bit stiff and muffled. "From England. I'm Bella's cousin."
"Oh! I thought so. I'm from out of state, too, though you've come a bit farther than me."
I glance over my shoulder but Bella has wandered off to stare at some backpacks. "Where are you from?" I say, because it is always important to turn the subject back to the boy at hand.
"California."
I nod, as if I am a worldly woman and not really thinking, 'I want to jump on you and make mad desperate love to you behind that case of wotsits.' "What part?"
See. I even know that a state has parts.
Can you believe Ellen once asked me whether a state was bigger or smaller than a shire?
"Orange County. I like it better here, though. People there are so stuck up."
It takes a lot of effort not to look at Miss Pants when he says this.
Somebody should make ME a saint.
...But not until I get with Mike Newton.
11:15 a.m.
I got his number!
He told me I have a cute smile!
He offered to show me around 'some time!'
11:16 a.m.
When is 'some time,' though? Is it like see you around or is it boy-code for some actual time?
Hmmmmm.
11:18 a.m.
Have asked Bella what she thinks it all means.
"He's a bit clingy, don't you think?"
I stare at her, taken slightly aback. "What?"
"Well, if a guy likes you, he doesn't come on too strong. Or at all. He remains aloof."
"That's the rubber-band theory," I say knowledgeably. "The man likes to have space. Of course, he has to come back every now and then for, well." I waggle my eyebrows. "You know."
She blinks at me.
Do I really have to say this?
"Sex," I hiss.
Bella almost hits a pedestrian. "WHAT?"
Hasn't someone had this talk with her before? No wonder she's so screwed up.
"You know, when a man and a woman – "
"I know, I know!" She sounds alarmed now. "Don't talk about it."
There is a silence.
Then she says, "But if a guy just ignores you …?"
"Without the return bit?"
She nods.
"Erm. Usually, Bells, that means they don't like you."
She considers that.
"But what if… what if they act like you smell?"
"Like you smell."
She nods.
"Then that means they think you smell."
9:00 p.m.
How can she be so dense? She is seventeen, isn't she? Maybe she's a young seventeen. How long HAS she been seventeen, anyway?
9:04 p.m.
A while, apparently. I have just perved on Bella's Facebook. She is older than me by two months.
10:00 p.m.
Got email from Jaz.
"Forget the birds and the bees. Didn't anyone tell her about the body's 'changes?' Take your cousin Smella out to buy some deodorant RIGHT NOW before you become associated with her."
11:00 p.m.
Smella. Pftttttt hahahaha.
But seriously.
Tomorrow Bella and I are going to find a Miss Selfridge's.
Or the closest Yank equivalent.
11:01 p.m.
Maybe I'll ask Mike Newton if he knows a place?
11:02 p.m.
But he might think I'm too keen…
11:03 p.m.
Have texted Mike: "Any gud shopping around?"
11:04 p.m.
Sent message. Did not add smiley face. Do not want to come off as one of those sickeningly wet girls who wear pink and talk in simpering tones a la Billie Piper circa 1994.
11:05 p.m.
No response. Maybe he's in the loo.
11:06 p.m.
If he is in the loo, he can't be going number one or he would have answered the phone right now.
11:06 p.m. and two seconds
Why am I having these barmy thoughts? I must be channeling my inner Libby.
11:07 p.m.
I bet if I did look like Billie Piper he would have answered the phone right now.
Even if he was going number two.
11:11 p.m.
Have sneaked onto Bella's laptop to listen to "Because We Want To" on Youtube. Would never in a million years admit to the Fab Gang that I still like this kind of music.
Although Ellen does have Westlife on her iPod...
And Jaz likes Destiny's Child and Britney Spears before she went all fab and clubby.
11:30 p.m.
Mike has responded: "Sorry. Had to close the store. I was driving when you texted me. Try going to Port Angeles. They have some cool shops there – although probably nothing as cool as what you're used to. :)"
11:31 p.m.
He put a smiley face! But not texting while driving. Hmmm. Not sure if this makes him responsible and mature wotsit of a man or wet and rather uptight.
But he SMILED at ME. After seeing my NOSE in all its monstrosity...osity.
I must think about this.
12:00 p.m.
I'M GOING TO CALL HIM TOMORROW.
12:00 p.m.
No, wait, I'm supposed to let HIM call ME.
Aaaaggghhh. How can Bella sleep at a time like this? She's like Rip Van Wotsit.
12:03 p.m.
Oh my God. I think I just saw a man peering in at me through the window.
Author's note: I had to check my email recently and one of them was a review alert for this story! I felt pretty terrible; I had no idea people were reading it – but I'm thrilled that people are not only taking the time to pay attention to my silliness but PRAISE it as well.
It is a mad, mad world we live in – and I love it.
P.S. I don't own Twilight (if I did it would be 10x better and I would be 10x richer) OR Angus, Thongs, and FFS (I'd leave this one alone – Louise Rennison is brimming with geniosity) or any other products I may or may not have thumbed my nose at, prodded, poked fun at, or otherwise molested in any shape or form.
Cheers,
-slobberknocker