Being Me (3 page)

Today she is face-up starfish. I watch her chest. It rises and falls. Under the swamp smell there’s a stench. Where did she throw up? I get a mop and clear up the sick from the side of her bed. The bedroom floor is marble. Perfect for cleaning up sick. I get a wet cloth from the bathroom. I sit Mum up, make her drink some water and wipe her face. All the while I’m thinking,
why can’t my mum be normal?

‘Adele, darling, I’m not well,’ Mum says, slipping back into her starfish pose as soon as she’s gulped the water.

I imagine kidnapping her and leaving her on a desert island with no drugs or drink. That would cure her.

‘You want me to phone a doctor?’ I ask.

‘No, I’ll be OK. Your dinner’s in the freezer. Microwave for twelve minutes.’

My dinner has been in the freezer for the last three months. I could be a taste tester for Iceland Foods.

Another flashback comes to my mind. Mia the housekeeper. Mia always used to smother me in her arms when I came home from school. Mum says I’m too old for that, but sometimes that’s all I want, just a moment when I don’t have to be strong. Mia was more of a mum to me than Mum. Cooking? Mia. Laundry? Mia. Putting the clothes away? Mia. Tidying up? Mia. Knowing where things are? Mia. Trying to keep the family calendar in the kitchen up to date? Mia. Saying ‘hello, how was your day?’ when I come home from school? Mia. Asking how was the match? Mia.

First Mum changed Mia’s hours so I didn’t see her, then she stopped her coming at all.

‘We won, Mum,’ I say. ‘I scored a hat-trick.’

‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ Mum says, sounding bored. ‘Your brother’s home.’

‘He just left, actually.’

MTB can do what he likes. “Because he’s a boy”. I’m the one who has to stay in all the time. OK, I’m fourteen, but everyone knows girls are more mature than boys, so a girl of fourteen is equal to a boy of fifteen, if not better. Girls are more sensible. End of.

Mum groans. ‘Men are vipers. You take them to your bosom and they sting your foolish heart.’

‘Have you’ve been reading Shakespeare again, Mum?’

‘Don’t be cruel, Adele. More water.’

She sits upright for the water. I’m fascinated by her hair. Even with her bed-head on and bits of sick in it, my mum’s hair is so shiny.

I stroke it. ‘Have you always had beautiful hair, Mum?’ I ask her.

Mum nods then rambles. ‘It was the first thing your dad noticed about me. When I was pregnant with you, we had this tiny house and me and your dad would sit with our dinner on our knees, and you could touch all the walls from the sofa and he’d stroke my hair. I made your dad go out and get me a chicken biryani and when he got back I changed my mind and wanted pizza instead. We laughed and laughed – nothing was too much trouble for him then. We had nothing, but we had everything. Now we have everything and yet we have...’

She doesn’t finish her sentence.

‘What about me, Mum? You’ve got me.’

‘Of course. Tony and you.’

‘Did Dad get you the pizza in the end then?’

‘Yes, he had it delivered – said I’d have less time to change my mind. Quattro Frommagy it was. Bellisima. He was teaching me Italian then. My own private Italian lessons. This freckled face girl from Skelmersdale learning Italian. I didn’t know he hardly knew any more Italian than me. But it was fun. Our own secret language. Per favore. Pono la mano qui. Bailare...’

‘That sounds Spanish, Mum.’

Mum sails on with her story. ‘And we drank Chianti... I had a florists shop back then and I was thinking of getting another one.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

Mum chases a fly of a thought. I wait patiently thinking maybe it’s the drugs. Finally she catches it.

‘Your dad got the bank job and he said there was no need ... he was earning a huge salary. I guess he was right, it’s just I...’

Mum’s voice is slowing down. I take the glass out of her hand.

‘You what, Mum?’

She’s fallen asleep. Her mouth hangs open with words on the edge of her tongue. I lie her back down on the pillow and go to my room.

And cry.

I’m not sure what I’m crying about. I’ve learned when I cry it’s not always the obvious thing. Like you might think I’m crying because of the state my mum’s in. Or because nobody in my family gives a stuff that I’m actually a star football player. Or because we’re rich and maybe we would be better off poor. Or because I’m a girl and I would have been better off a boy. Or maybe it’s none of the above and actually I’m lonely. By the way, I never cry. Adele Vialli does not cry.

Ten minutes later, I’m done with the whole runny nose and red eyes spectacular.

I find my Player of the Season Trophy from last year and I run round my room waving it, imagining the headline:
Adele Vialli Scores World Cup Final Hat Trick.
In my undies drawer, I count seven silver bracelets. Freshly robbed. Holding them in my hands feels good.

I put them back, lie on my bed and look at my phone. The light in my room has faded. It’s almost night. I wait and wait and wait. Then I give in and text Marcus.

I hate texting Marcus first. He should be the one texting me. Boyfriends are so thick. Marcus is one of my brother’s football friends, though they hate each other’s guts. My brother thinks I go out with Marcus to annoy him. It’s a very good reason but I actually happen to like Marcus. I’ve got no talk credit. Marcus never has any either. Sometimes I prefer texts anyway. They’re more mysterious. I text him.

Hi. Hows u?

Am good. And u

Been betta

Wassup?

Family. Friends. Personal stuff. Take yr pik.

He doesn’t text after that. I wait two minutes then I text him again.

Wot u doin?

Maths homework

Bit late 4 that?

True. Long story. Will txt u 2moro. Bye x

I give him a bye and a couple of kisses but I’m not impressed. What use is a boyfriend if he’s more interested in his maths homework than your gorgeous self?

So I text Mikaela.

She phones me back straight away.

‘Hi Mikay,’ I say.

‘What’s wrong, star?’ Mikay says.

‘You ever watch them cartoons where the cat’s running and it runs right off the edge of the cliff, and then there’s this moment it hangs there, then it falls down in a blur?’

‘Itchy and Scratchy.’

‘One minute I’m a football superhero, then I come home and whoosh – the grounds all gone and I’m smack on the floor.’

‘What’s going on?’

I sigh. ‘I’m coming home thinking, “has my mum taken an overdose today?” You know what that does to my heart?’

‘Is she OK?’

‘She’s OK now. But what about tomorrow? Or the day after that?’

‘One day at a time, innit?’

‘I’m still shaking, Mikay. I can’t even hit the buttons on my phone, I’m that shaking.’

‘Listen, Adele, it’s totally unfair what you’re going through.’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Why is your mum so sad?’

‘She found grey hairs in her fringe. And in her pubes!’ I giggle.

Mikaela’s silent.

‘She had me pull them out.’

‘You plucked hairs out of your mum’s pubes?!’

‘Nooo! Her fringe!’

‘OK ... she’s sad. Get her a bottle of hair dye,’ Mikaela says. ‘Is your dad going to be back soon?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You did the right thing. It takes a village to raise a child.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mikaela often has these sayings. If it’s not the rhymes it’s the sayings.

‘You have to face backwards before you can face forwards.’

‘Still not with you, Mikaela.’

She laughs. ‘If you want, I’ll come round and sleep over at yours, or you can sleep at mine.’

‘Mikay, you’re the best. You’ve got me crying now.’

‘Don’t, cos you’ll start me off too and I’ve just put on mascara. Properly this time, before you start.’

‘I’ll be alright.’

‘I’m going to leave my phone on under my pillow. Ring me any time and I’ll pick up, I promise.’

I can hear an argument downstairs. Dad must be back. ‘Mikay, I’m going now. But...thanks.’

‘Stay strong, sister. Who loves ya, baby?’

‘You do, Mikay. I love you loads back.’

I put my phone down. I don’t know whether to believe Mikaela when she says both her parents were members of the revolutionary black music and protest group called the Black Panthers, but she talks good, fighting talk.

The shouting downstairs is getting worse. Something gets thrown against a wall. It makes a thud. I drag myself off my bed and go downstairs. At the foot of the stairs I stop and listen to the word tennis:

‘This is your idea of getting ready?’

Dad.

‘Why should I have to entertain your work friends?’

Mum.

‘You don’t get it do you?’

Dad.

I sit on the steps and listen it out.

‘How can my saying, “what a lovely sausage roll you serve, Mr Chateauhoffer” get you a big contract?’

‘That big contract could save our bacon, girl. We’re sinking, Zowie, we’re going under. The house, the holidays, the jewellery, all gone if something doesn’t arrive soon.’

‘I never liked this house anyway.’

‘You want to live in a field? Wake up, Zow. Are you even listening?’

‘Say your car’s broken down.’

‘You stupid...’

I step in. ‘Dad, Mum, say hello to your beautiful daughter!’

They turn, shocked. As if it has only just occurred to them that yes, they have a daughter and yes, she does actually live with them, and yes, she has ears.

‘Not now, darling.’

They both say this, and at exactly the same time.

Dad’s holding an ornament. It’s a black swan and he’s got it by the neck, about to chuck it at Mum, who is by a door ready to duck behind it. Dad is dressed up in a blue velvet suit. He’s had a haircut. Mum is barefoot. On the carpet is the wooden flower bowl and the flowers that were in it are scattered all over the floor. When Dad threw the last flower bowl the glass shattered everywhere, so Mia replaced it with a wooden one.

‘Your mother and I were having a little conversation,’ says Dad, like they’ve been discussing the weather. He puts the swan back on the mantelpiece.

There’s a beat during which they figure out I am not going to leave the room until they’ve sorted out whatever it is they are arguing about. Dad cracks first.

‘She always does this to me,’ he says, exasperated. ‘I tell her way in advance, she agrees, and then last minute she’s not ready or she’s ... drugged up.’

‘You told me it was next week.’

‘This week.’

‘Next week.’

‘Dad, why don’t you check the date?’ I say.

‘It’s in my phone,’ says Dad, ‘It’s...’

Dad is scrolling through his phone. He stops on some page. ‘Oh,’ he says.

‘So you messed it up, Dad?’ I say.

‘In my phone it’s next week, but it got changed and... What does it matter what week it is, your mum’s not doing anything tonight is she?’

‘Talk to Mum, not me. Nicely.’

‘What do you mean, “nicely”?’

‘Say please. And like the dress she chooses.’

Mum is loving this.

Dad swallows hard. ‘You were right, Zowie,’ he says, totally grovelling. ‘I told you next week and I was wrong, it’s this week. Please. Will you come?’

‘Pretty please?’

‘Pretty please.’

‘I’ll consider it.’

Mum swans upstairs.

Dad fumes.

‘She’s going, Dad. She’s just torturing you for a little while, but she’s going.’

‘Are you sure?’ Dad asks me.

I nod. I pick the scattered flowers up and put them back in the bowl. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘No,’ says Dad, distractedly.

‘Go and eat something then.’

Dad goes into the kitchen.

Later, after they both leave, I find Mum’s vodka. It’s vile. Everything is pretty much a blank after that.

I wake up to music. I can just about make out the clock on the wall. It says 2 something am. I’m on the sofa. Some old-time music is playing and Mum and Dad are dancing slowly in the room, chewing each other’s face off. Mum’s dress is beautiful and looks like it’s about to drop off. Dad’s trying to help it on its way. I push myself up off the sofa.

‘Eughh! Mum! Dad! Get a room!’ I say.

They carry on with the face-chewing like I’m not there.

I haul myself to my feet and stagger up to my bedroom.

MTB knocks and comes into my room. I guess he stays up as late as me nowadays. He sees my boots bucket and asks the score and says well done, even puts his arm around me. But I’m mad at him for not tidying up, for not looking after Mum (he says he hates cleaning up sick and why should he?) and for, well, being my brother. I kiss him anyway then tell him to get out and let me sleep.

Lying back, I imagine myself in five years’ time. Will I be
Adele Vialli, Greatest Football Player on the Planet?
Or
Adele Vialli International Jewellery Thief?
I hear Mum and Dad stumble up. I’m half awake, half dreaming. Boys say girl footballers are all lesbians, but girl players have got hot bods. Faye White got a medal from the Queen. Her Majesty had better get a red carpet ready for me! I imagine the Queen and me having a kick-about at Buckingham Palace.

I’m in Dad’s car on the school run.

‘I saw that Marcus play yesterday,’ Dad says. ‘Scored and ran the game. Smart player, Marcus. Your boyfriend.’

I say nothing, just wait for it. Marcus must have played against MTB and made him look average. I hide a smile.

‘Why don’t you go out with a good Italian boy?’

I knew it.
‘There are no Italian boys,’ I say. ‘We’re not in Italy. You mean good white boys.’

‘It’s not that he’s black,’ Dad says. ‘It’s that he’s what do you call it? Ghetto. He lives on a council estate. Those places are full of thieves and dealers and gangsters...’

I turn on my phone and bring up a game. Sometimes I can’t be bothered to answer my dad, he’s so prejudiced.

Dad keeps on. ‘It’s like you don’t even like your own people,’ he says. ‘You should be proud to be Italian. Or white.’