Boys for Beginners Read online

  Boys for Beginners

  Boys for Beginners

  Lil Chase

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Quercus

  21 Bloomsbury Square

  London

  WC1A 2NS

  Copyright © Lil Chase, 2011

  The moral right of Lil Chase to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN 978-0 85738 482 9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Typeset by Nigel Hazle

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc.

  For my mum: who may not think she’s in

  this book, but she’s in every letter of every

  word, and all the spaces in between.

  Boys for Beginners

  Chapter 1

  Why are boys so completely stupid?

  My mate Paul and me are chatting as we wait for the bus to school. It’s the usual stuff about the latest Xbox game and who’s going to win the FA Cup. In other words: normal.

  The next minute, he suddenly starts showing off about how many goals he scored at the match we played at the weekend, and how he would have punched some bloke’s head in but the referee was watching.

  Stupid.

  ‘It was that massive kid from the year above. I would have punched him. I had him in a headlock with my fist ready—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask.

  Paul barely stops for breath. ‘But of course the ref, who usually never sees anything, had to catch me at it.’ He stops suddenly as if it is a natural place for his sentence to end and leans back against the bus stop behind him. ‘Oh, hi, Jenny. Didn’t see you there.’

  It’s Goldilocks and her three brain cells, aka Jennifer Gregson, aka Paul’s new girlfriend. That explains it. Paul is saying stupid stuff to make himself sound tough. Which he’s not. I was at that game and I scored more goals than Paul did, but by the sound of him he was Wayne flipping Rooney playing at his best.

  ‘Hi, Paaaaul,’ she drawls, as if she is Marilyn Monroe or something. ‘I missed you.’

  Paul and Jenny Gregson started going out just before the Easter holidays and then she went away for the whole time. It’s the first day back today so really they’ve only been going out for forty-eight hours. I’m hoping it’s one of those phase things that Paul will grow out of.

  ‘Did you get into a fight on Saturday?’ she asks.

  He shrugs. ‘I nearly did. The rest of the team had to hold me back.’ He says it as calmly as if announcing he ate breakfast this morning; no big deal.

  ‘That’s not what happened,’ I correct him. ‘He fell into you and you called him a knob, and then he said your Mum was a knob, and that was it. End of story.’

  ‘Oh, heya, Gwendolyn, how’s it going?’ Jenny Gregson gives me this giant smile that is so fake it almost hurts the air between us. ‘Gwynnie,’ she says, chirpy as a cartoon character, ‘did you do the homework for math?’

  ‘We call it maths in England,’ I point out. Jenny went to America. She’s obviously trying to remind us all by using American words.

  Paul sees Ranjit on the other side of the bus stop and walks over to him. I think he wants to know whether he watched the football last night, which I want to know as well, but I have been roped into talking to Paul’s girlfriend. Paul is so selfish sometimes.

  I start to tell Jenny my brilliant plan to get out of maths homework. ‘I’ll just say to Mrs Jakes—’

  But Jenny cuts me off. ‘Paul is so selfish sometimes!’ she says, which I think is really cheeky. Paul is pretty OK as it happens, even for a Chelsea fan. ‘You’re pals, aren’t you, Gwynnie?’

  ‘We’re mates, yeah. I’ve known him for—’

  ‘Well, I’m supposed to be his lady and he fully ignores me when we’re out together.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘I mean, take a look at him now. Talking to other people while I’m left on my own talking to no one!’

  Good to know she values my company.

  ‘Will you speak to him for me?’

  ‘About what?’

  She leans in a little and lowers her voice. ‘Tell him that when we’re together he must have his arm around my shoulders at all times. It shows that he’s protective of me. I don’t feel like he’s being overprotective or possessive enough.’ She starts counting off a list on her fingers: the boyfriend commandments. ‘If I’m wearing my Jimmy Choos,’ (Her Jimmy Who’s?) ‘they make me a teensy bit taller than him, so he can put his arm around my waist then.’ Am I supposed to be taking notes? ‘When we are walking it’s uncomfortable to have someone’s arm around me, so he’ll need to hold my hand. Or take my arm like an old-fashioned gentleman. Will you tell him all that, please?’

  ‘Erm.’

  ‘It’s really awesome for me to have a boyfriend with a female friend that I have absolutely no worries about him ever falling for.’ I’m not sure if I like what she’s getting at there. ‘Thanks, Gwynnie, you’re a doll.’

  ‘Maybe you should speak to him yourse—’

  Jenny looks panic-stricken. ‘He’s coming over. Don’t say anything.’

  ‘I couldn’t if I wanted to.’

  Paul comes over with Ranjit. I ask Ranjit about the match.

  But just as we’re talking about something interesting, some friends of Jenny’s – Kimba O, Melissa Rix, Tanya Dawson and Elizabeth Phillips – come rushing over. ‘Ohmygodohmygod!’ they screech. ‘Did you hear the latest?’ I can’t tell which of them is speaking. It’s a blur of red lipstick and gold hoop earrings. ‘There’s a new boy starting Year 10 today . . .’

  ‘He’s starting late because his dad’s like some important diplomat or something.’

  Me and Paul and Ranjit look at each other like, So what?

  ‘So what?’ I say.

  They direct their answer to Jenny, who hates to be the last to know anything. ‘His name is Charlie Notts and he is fully gorgeous!’

  ‘I bet he isn’t,’ says Jenny, who seems a little bit narked. ‘Have any of you even seen him?’

  ‘No,’ says Kimba. ‘But Francesca Ramsgate has, and she says he’s H.O.T.’ Kimba casts a mean eye over to Paul, who was only vaguely listening up until this point and has now wandered off again with Ranj. ‘I’m going to get the new hot guy to be my boyfriend and you can’t have him.’

  Jenny looks upset, and weirdly I find myself sticking up for her because I’m sort of sticking up for Paul. ‘Jenny already has a boyfriend anyway. What does she care about this Charlie Notts bloke?’

  Kimba laughs at me like I’m a Year 8. ‘Oh, Gwynnie, you are so naive! This new guy is in Year 10. He’s going to be so mature! Not like that Year 9 imbecile.’ We look over at Paul and Ranjit. Paul is trying to step on Ranjit’s undone shoelace while Ranjit pulls his foot away. He does look like a bit of an imbecile as it happens
.

  Jenny is seething. ‘What does Francesca Ramsgate know anyway?’

  Turns out that Francesca Ramsgate knows everything. About two seconds later the hottest Year 10 anyone has ever seen walks over. All the girls go silent and stare at him. Even I go a little girlie. He’s tall, with longish blondish hair that flops over his eyes. If we lived in Victorian times I’m sure I would have swooned right now. Instead I turn red. I look at the other girls and fortunately they have turned red too. Charlie Notts has created a blushing epidemic.

  Suddenly Paul succeeds in his mission and lands on Ranjit’s shoelace just as Ranj is pulling his foot back. Ranjit falls on his bum.

  Everyone turns to look at Paul while he raises his arms in the air and does a rubbish sort of victory dance. He repeats, ‘Paul is the king and you know it!’ over and over again while circling his bum round and round in a properly foolish way.

  This makes me laugh and I let out a snort like a pig. I have Charlie Notts’s attention. He looks at me like I’m a complete lunatic. I go from Red Alert to Def Con 4. This is the first crush I have ever had and he’s already heard my brilliant impression of a wild boar.

  ‘Why don’t you go and celebrate with your immature boyfriend, Jenny?’ whispers Kimba, loudly enough so that everyone can hear.

  Jenny looks angry and turns to me. ‘Tell Paul that I’m walking to school. If he can’t pay me any attention then I might as well be on my own.’

  She storms off. Paul sees her leave and shouts, ‘Wait, Jenny! You’re the lucky girl who gets to walk with the king!’

  Kimba’s right. Paul is completely immature. I bet you wouldn’t catch Charlie Notts saying stupid things like that to his girlfriend.

  Suddenly Charlie Notts looks at me. He smiles. I’m probably just mental, he’s probably got something in his eye, because I think he just winked at me.

  Big. Fat. Swoon!

  Chapter 2

  Me, Paul and Jenny ended up walking to school – with Paul pulling silly faces at Jenny to make her laugh so she wouldn’t be angry with him any more. Most people say sorry with flowers, Paul says it with gurning.

  We get to Northampton Hill High at about ten to nine. Late, in other words. ‘We’d better go straight to assembly,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to incur the wrath of the Dazzler.’

  We call our headmaster – Mr Roberts – The Dazzler or Bobby Dazzler because of his insanely white teeth. He tells these rubbish jokes and then laughs at them as if they were the funniest thing in the world. Which they aren’t. I’ve heard funnier jokes at funerals.

  We have to walk into assembly with everyone watching. The Dazzler stops in the middle of his sermon so that we know that he knows we’re late. ‘Glad you could join us,’ he says. ‘Late on the first day back – impressive. Did you forget what time school starts, or just forget your watches?’ He laughs, but he’s the only one laughing.

  I go the colour of the Arsenal strip, which I hate, and not just because I hate Arsenal. I look around to see if that new boy is in the hall. This will be the second time he’s seen me and the second time I’ve gone bright red.

  But Jenny loves it. ‘So sorry we’re a teensy bit late, Mr Roberts, sir. Paul and I just lost track of time.’ The whole school erupts into wolf whistles and laughter. It’s Paul’s turn to blush, but Jenny just grins.

  As we walk over to sit by the other Year 9s Jenny, very slowly, takes off her jacket as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Everyone in the school, including me, gasps. Jenny Gregson has ginormous breasts! When did that happen? They are massive! You could hardly notice under her jacket, but with this little top on you can’t miss them. No one can pull their eyes away.

  Not only are we mesmerized by her properly huge boobs, but also she’s wearing a crop top that shows her bare stomach and she’s had her belly-button pierced. The belly-button ring is a big blue diamond thing. All the girls start whispering to each other, saying how they want one, or they are going to get one, or that they wanted to get one first but their mums wouldn’t let them.

  This term is going to be Jenny’s term, I can tell.

  ‘Children . . .’

  So here we are in assembly, the whole school staring at Jennifer Gregson’s boobs, when Mr Roberts says, ‘. . . that reminds me . . .’ He seems to have noticed Jenny’s huge knockers (how could he miss them?) and her new piercing. ‘I am to inform you that the board is thinking of implementing a school uniform, which will—’

  Northampton Hill High completely loses it. There are groans, moans, shouting, begging, and I swear I think I even hear someone start to cry. It’s one of those very few moments when everyone in school, however much they hate the year above or the year below, or the goths or the saddos or the hip-hop crowd, all feel the same way.

  ‘Settle down, children!’ The Dazzler’s trying to calm the mental institution to normal levels of craziness. ‘There are ways you can prevent a uniform from being introduced; if, perhaps, you all obeyed the dress code we have, i.e. no rips in clothes, no midriffs on display, no low-cut tops, no short skirts, no underwear showing above trousers, no trousers falling below buttocks.’ A few people giggle at the word buttocks. ‘Jewellery should be kept to a minimum. No large earrings, especially hoops.’ That pretty much includes the whole female population of the school, and some of the blokes. ‘And definitely no belly-button piercings.’ Everyone looks at Jenny Gregson. ‘In short, we want the students of Northampton Hill High to look presentable. If they can’t do that wearing their own choice of clothes then the board will have to take that choice out of their hands. Do I make myself clear?’

  There’s a miserable silence that goes round the hall like a stinky fart.

  Chapter 3

  I survived the first day back but today’s going to be even worse. I’m hiding in bed. If I close my eyes and wish really hard, the day might already be over.

  I open my eyes. No such luck.

  So I get up, throw on the nearest T-shirt from a pile next to my football kit and go downstairs. I am thinking of sneaking through the front door without my dad noticing. I get as far as opening it but my brother, the SAS trainee with hearing like a whippet on Red Bull, calls from the kitchen table. ‘Gwynnie,’ he shouts, ‘get your plaits in here!’

  I can picture them both now, huddled together like two conspiring spies who think I’m not on to them. But I am, and I’m dreading the attack.

  As soon as I push the door just a little they pipe up singing, ‘ Happy birthday ’

  ‘All right,’ I say, trying to flap them away, ‘we all know what day it is. No need to make a song and dance about it.’

  Dad’s ignoring my leave-me-alone tone and runs over to give me a hug. ‘Happy birthday, luv.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I mumble. How come he’s all dressed up? His frizzy ginger hair is all slicked down straight, his sideburns are trimmed, and he’s wearing a suit. ‘Is all this for my birthday?’ I say, pointing to his fancy outfit.

  ‘I always look this smart!’ he replies, and we share a giggle. Dad never dresses up. His tie is older than I am.

  ‘Happy birthday, little sis.’ Kevin is grinning. ‘I know what the second of April means: cake for breakfast.’

  Since Mum died of cancer a few years back we’ve tried to start these new traditions in the family. We do birthdays at breakfast. With cake and everything. The first year, Dad tried to do what Mum did for birthday tea and it turned out so rubbish we had to start something new. It’s not that my dad can’t bake or anything, he’s actually pretty good, but it was all the other stuff – the tablecloth, the homemade placemats, the balloons with my name on that we never worked out how she found. They don’t sell many Happy Birthday, Gwynnie balloons at Tesco. Dad tried that year; the closest he got was Happy Bar Mitzvah, Gideon. We laughed at the time, but all of us felt really sad. It’s those little things that mums just know how to do. They’re magic.

  Anyway, whatever, that’s why we started having cake in the morning.

  ‘
I made you chocolate. Is that what you wanted?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Is there any other flavour?’ I reply.

  He plonks a slice of cake down in front of me and I tuck in. It’s nice. There’s cream in the middle. We all smile at each other as we munch away. Dad and Kevin don’t talk much in general, but that’s all right by me.

  Suddenly Dad gets a bit awkward. ‘Look, luv, I know you wanted those football boots for your birthday . . . And I know you’ve been begging me for a mobile phone . . .’ I’ve guessed I’m not going to like the next part of the sentence as he sort of gets all stuttery and looks at his feet. ‘I will buy them for you, I promise. It just won’t be for a few months or so.’

  ‘That’s all right, Dad, it’s no big deal.’ I say it too quickly so he knows that it is a big deal a little bit. I didn’t mean to, it’s just the way it came out. The thing is that my old football boots got a hole. Dad fixed them, but they got another hole. I’ve been playing in trainers ever since and feeling like a right idiot about it. But I understand. Dad hasn’t got a job, and the boots I want cost over a hundred pounds. You don’t have to be Steven Hawking to do that sum.

  ‘Sorry, Gwynnie. I swear I’ll make it up—’

  ‘It’s really fine, Dad.’ I hope I’m sounding convincing. I’d better leave before he catches on to the fact that I’m actually gutted. ‘Got to go to school.’ I push my chair away and stand up.

  Then Kevin gives me this stare that gets me properly narked because he looks at me like I don’t know that Dad isn’t poor on purpose and he’s doing his best. I sit down again.

  Kevin says, ‘I got you a present, Gwynnie.’

  ‘Thanks.’ It’s a box. He’s even bothered to wrap it. Part of me must not have grown up yet because I’m still a little excited to see what’s inside. Maybe he has chipped in with Dad and they really have got me the boots I wanted. I rip off the paper. It’s a shoe box. Good start.

  I open the lid and the first thing I see is a pencil. Why would Kevin get me a shoe box full of pencils? I stare at all the foreign objects inside. What is this stuff?