Life According To...Alice B. Lovely Page 7

  Because Stan’s hunched over and because of his shadow I can’t see what he’s peering at at first. Before I get the chance to look, I’m asked a question.

  “So, do you like them?” says Alice B. Lovely, fixing her cobalt-blue eyes on me.

  “Well, yeah,” I have to admit. “How does someone come up with an idea so … pointless, though?”

  “Well, it’s not really pointless, is it?” says Alice B. Lovely. “The artist told me she likes the idea of taking something ugly and discarded and turning it into something small and beautiful.”

  “Hold on … you know her? The artist, I mean?” I say with a frown, trying to imagine the person who drew my happiness clock.

  I mean, the cute little gum clock.

  (It has nothing to do with me, I remind myself sternly.)

  “Uh-huh,” nods Alice B. Lovely. “She’s my aunt.”

  “Really?”

  It seems amazing that people would be related to a proper artist. A bit like someone being related to a premier footballer or a ballerina. It’s so exotic.

  “Yes, really!” laughs Alice B. Lovely. “What’s so weird about that? Your mum and dad are artists.”

  I wouldn’t say that. Mum designs dull clothes for dull women and Dad does websites that are for businesses called things like “Vans4Hire” and “Gary’s Plumbing Supplies”. My parents aren’t doing anything that’s likely to get hung in a gallery in my lifetime.

  “Hey!” Stan suddenly squeaks. “Alice B. Lovely! Look!”

  “You can just call me Alice,” she laughs, making her silky curtains of hair ripple.

  “Edie.” Stan says urgently, realizing I’m there. “Look – this one’s HER!”

  He’s staring up at Alice B. Lovely and pointing down at the mini-masterpiece.

  I lean over and see a doll face peering back at me, with that familiar curtain of hair and eyes rimmed with feathery black lashes. Around the edge in swirly gold lettering, it spells out her name.

  “It’s not as pretty as the real you.” Stan says, gazing from the gum to the human to the gum again.

  “Aw, thanks, Stan.” says Alice B. Lovely, smiling. “My aunt did that not so long ago.”

  But her smile’s a little wobbly around the edges, I notice.

  Why’s that?

  I should ask.

  It’s maybe the opportunity I’ve been looking for. If I can find out what’s bugging her, perhaps I can torture her about it.

  “Do you think she could do one of me?” Stan asks hopefully.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” Alice B. Lovely says hesitantly. “It’s complicated.”

  Yesss! Here we go…

  “Complicated how?” I ask, all innocence.

  “Just complicated,” she shrugs, making her fluffy collar rise up and down behind her head.

  “Any reason in particular?” I try again.

  Stan is staring at me. He knows what I’m doing. He’s seen me in action plenty of times before.

  “Just complicated,” Alice B. Lovely answers with a sweet smile, which of course is NOT the reaction I want.

  Time to try something else I’ve just thought of.

  “By the way, did you know that eighty-nine per cent of people who wear coloured contact lenses suffer from infections of the iris?”

  It sounds like an excellent made-up condition, which I’m proud to say I just invented right this second. I haven’t lost my touch…

  “Edie, don’t,” says Stan, appearing in front of me, his hands on his hips.

  Edie, don’t.

  Stan has never said that before in his life, unless it’s to stop me from tickling him mercilessly or yanking the tap away from him when we both want a drink.

  And he’s never said it without a laugh in his voice or a grin on his face.

  Right now, his Malteser eyes are serious and begging.

  It’s like they’re asking me not to torture Alice B. Lovely.

  He can’t seriously want her around, can he?

  For the first time today, I feel like running.

  So I run, run, run away from Alice B. Lovely with my head pound, pound, pounding as loud as the ticking of Nana’s old clock of doom in the middle of the night…

  Alice B. Quiet.

  Alice B. Real.

  Alice B. Gone.

  It’s Thursday afternoon and I’m sitting on a park bench, letting my mind buzz over alternative names for the girl who’s getting on my nerves. The girl who Stan seems to be choosing over me.

  (Alice B. Tween.)

  “Come on, Max!” Tash is calling out beside me. “Good boy – bring me the toy!”

  The puppy galumphs over with a chew toy in its mouth. I think it was once a plastic hedgehog but it’s been gnawed so much it’s hard to tell.

  As Tash reaches out for the toy, Max shakes his head madly, sending trails of slobber flying. Some stick to my knees. Hanging out in the park after school today is better than hanging out with Alice B. Lovely, I know, but, well, yuck to slobbers.

  By the way, I managed to avoid her for the rest of yesterday. Alice B. Lovely, I mean. I managed to avoid everyone. Mum might not trust me to look after myself, but at least she lets me have a key. So I ran, ran, ran back home, past a curious Mrs Kosma and her cluster of overfed pigeons and locked myself in my room – after scribbling and taping a note on the door that read: Migraine: sleeping. Please leave me ALONE.

  They’d come knocking, of course. First Alice B. Lovely, then Stan, then Mum once she came home.

  I grumbled about them disturbing me, and they left me alone, except Mum, of course. As soon as I’d seen the door handle turn and heard her voice asking to come in, I’d flicked the light off to send the room from custard yellow into darkness, and hoped she wouldn’t spot the empty wrappers from my EMRGIZEE CHOCLIT stash.

  “All right, sweetie?” she’d asked, feeling in the gloom for my forehead.

  “No, I’m allergic to the latest nanny,” I wanted to growl.

  “My head hurts. I just need to be by myself,” I said instead. “I’ll be fine by morning.”

  She’d insisted on getting me a cool cloth and a glass of water so big it could have doubled as a vase, and then left me in peace.

  And then went on to hang out with Alice B. Lovely, as I could hear when I jammed my ear up against the door.

  Above the irritating tick-tocking of the clock of doom, I listened to what they were saying.

  “The designs I’m working on?” Mum giggled, all giddy and shy-sounding. “Well, if you’re sure you want to see them, I’ll get my laptop out…”

  “I really like the name ‘Indigo Dove’,” said Alice B. Lovely, obviously sucking right up to Mum.

  “Well, I think the company chose it because most of our clothes are navy coloured. The ‘Dove’ part just sounds nice; it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Oh, but there is such a thing as an Indigo Dove.It’s a South American bird.”

  “Really?” Mum said, all interested. (I bet Alice B. Lovely made that up, just to impress her. As a fact inventor myself, I can always spot another one a mile off.)

  “What’s the klective nine for ‘doves’?” I heard Stan ask, and Mum and Alice B. Lovely laughed, and Alice B. Lovely’s laugh sounded a bit like a harp was being strummed in the living room and I wanted to scream.

  Instead I stopped listening to all the cosiness and fun and whatever the collective noun was for stupid doves, and went back to the stress snack box.

  You know, I’d had enough of hearing two-thirds of my family go gushy over this screwball girl. It was as if she was casting some sort of spell over Mum and Stan.

  (Alice B. Witch.)

  “Drop it! Drop it, Max. Good boy!” trills Tash. “What a mess – it’s all chewed. We’ll need to get you a new toy, won’t we?”

>   “How about that dumb grey thing you keep on your bed?” I suggest, thinking of the fluffy bear I always tease her about. I just don’t get how you can expect adults to treat you as all grown-up if you still keep a cuddly-wuddly for huggles at beddy-weddy time.

  “Don’t be mean, Edie,” Tash frowns at me, and immediately turns back to Max, full of smiles and kisses for the tip of his damp, smelly nose.

  I suddenly get the feeling that my supposed best friend has been paying more attention to her dribbly dog than what I’ve just been telling her about yesterday.

  “Hey, have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?” I check with her.

  Tash’s face falls again.

  “Yes!” she says defensively.

  Uh-oh. I’ve annoyed her. But I guess I’m feeling so left out at home, the last thing I need is to have my best friend prefer her cute but dopey puppy to me…

  “Alice B. Lovely liked your mum’s designs and she’s promised to help Stan build a life-sized crocodile out of wire and papier maché for his school project and it’s making you cross. Did I get that right?”

  When she says it back like that, it makes me seem stupid.

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” I mutter, knowing my cheeks have flushed rosy red. I’d thought it would be great to hang out with her today after school in the park, but maybe she’s as bad as the others. Suddenly I wish I could see Dad. He’s the only one that hasn’t been won over by Alice B. Lovely’s sugary sweetness and dazzled by those batting (false) eyelashes.

  “Sorry, Edie!” says Tash, leaning over to give me a hug. “Just don’t give me a hard time, OK? I am on your side, remember?”

  I relax a bit with gratitude, and then realize it’s a mistake. The minute I do that, I have a bad habit of crying.

  “Ice cream?” I ask brightly, blinking hard so the tears don’t stand a chance.

  I quickly stand up and attempt not to trip over Max, who’s tangling up my legs like a dog-shaped rope.

  “Sure. Strawberry, with sprinkles!” says Tash with one of her sunshiney smiles, as she grabs Max before he can follow me into the park café. “Hey, I forgot to ask – what’s happening at the weekend?”

  “Dunno,” I say, walking backwards. She’s talking about Mum and Dad, and their clashing plans to go away to work conferences/pitches/whatever. “One of them is going to have to back down, but I don’t know which.”

  And I don’t want to hear that argument, I think, as I turn and take the two steps that lead up to the café entrance.

  Late last night, when I’d snuck out of my room to the loo, I’d heard Mum on the phone to Nana, trying to get her to come down to stay with us on Saturday, but it sounded like the answer had been along the lines of “Well, no”. It’s not that Nana wouldn’t have wanted to, but it hasn’t been long since she had her hip replacement, so what was Mum thinking of? (Nothing, except her work.)

  With a leaden heart I walk into the crowded park café, where I’m instantly hit with a wall of chatter and a too-loud radio. Some DJ is shouting that “it’s time for a time-check; and it’s coming up to five o’clock on this beee-yoootiful Thursday afternoon” over the top of a thumping dance track.

  I feel like shouting, “Oh, shut up!” right back at him, but then the entire café full of people might think I was completely crazy, not just mildly grouchy.

  “Mine!”

  “No, mine.”

  “No, mine!”

  “I saw it first.”

  “I touched it first!”

  I hover for a second by the fridge, as two little kids argue and snarl over the last white chocolate Magnum.

  “Yours!”

  “No, yours.”

  “No, yours, definitely!”

  As I wait, I tune into the similar-but-different conversation going on in the booth to the side of me.

  “No, yours are definitely the most gorgeous, Dionne.”

  Dionne?

  I turn my head a fraction and see three beautiful, flicky-haired girls, busy comparing their hands. Cara and Holly have obviously copied Dionne and gone for the alien lobster claw makeover.

  “Do you think so?” says Dionne, holding her square-edged talons up to the light streaming through from the big plate-glass windows.

  Linzee (nanny number four or five) used to regularly hold her nails up to admire their fake (un)loveliness. I always enjoyed watching her struggling to make our tea; she’d open jars and chop vegetables with all the ease of a crab trying to open a packet of crisps. The more I stared in wonder, the more it would wind her up, of course, till those claws began rap-rap-rapping on the chopping board.

  “OMG…” drawls Dionne.

  Wow. Is she that impressed with her own manicure?

  “Junk Shop Girl is looking her junkiest yet!”

  Even though I’m getting an Arctic blast from the open freezer, I feel a hot flush rush over me, as I instinctively know who Dionne’s talking about.

  “That is so bad,” mutters Cara, staring out towards the not-too-far-away trees.

  “Totally bad,” agrees Holly.

  I’m holding my breath, as though that’ll help me turn invisible, or stop Dionne, Cara and Holly from turning around and seeing me there.

  And as my heart thumps overheated blood around my body, I check out Alice B. Lovely for myself.

  Against the brown and green of the trees, her red polka-dot skirt stands out like she’s wearing a tablecloth. And today she’s mismatched her battered gold shoes with little-girl white ankle socks.

  She’s way too far away for me to see what colour her eyes (and eyelashes) are, but I can see she’s staring up into the trees, along with Stan. They are both slowly turning around, like ballerinas on top of a music box. They are both holding things. What are they up to?

  “Who’s the kid?” I hear Cara wonder aloud.

  “Think he’s the little brother of that sulky Year-Eight girl,” says Holly.

  My temperature suddenly spikes so high I might blow the top off a thermometer, if anyone dared to stick one in my mouth just now.

  “Oh, yeah,” laughs Dionne. “The one who always looks like she’s up for a fight!”

  I’m suddenly shaking, and feeling slightly sick.

  Is that really how they see me?!

  “HEY, EXCUSE ME, MISS! CAN YOU SLIDE THAT LID CLOSED?” booms a voice from behind the counter. “YOU’RE LETTING ALL THE COLD AIR OUT!”

  The “miss” is me.

  The kids who were fighting over the white chocolate Magnum are gone.

  The lid of the freezer is open, with a mist of icy air rising up.

  Everyone in the café is idly looking to see who’s being shouted at, including Dionne, Cara and Holly.

  I want to curl up and die.

  “It’s her,” I vaguely hear one of the sixth formers say.

  I clearly hear the sniggering that goes with it, as me and my sulky face rush right out of the café.

  “What? What’s up?” asks Tash, as I hurriedly approach the bench where she’s waiting.

  “Can we just go? Now?” I say, heading straight for the path that’ll lead us to the nearest park exit.

  I want to be a million miles away from those girls, from Alice B. Lovely, and even from Stan right now.

  “Sure, but what’s wrong?” asks Tash, jumping up to join me. “Has something happ— Max! Max, come back!”

  But Max isn’t coming back.

  Max is lolloping off in the direction of someone he knows, barking his hellos.

  “Max!” Stan calls out, distracted from his slow-motion pirouetting and skyward staring.

  Naturally, he bends down to cuddle the puppy, and naturally he looks round for Tash, and naturally he spots me.

  “Edie! Hey, Edie – come see this!”

  What do I
do? Run again?

  I don’t know if I could do that to Stan. He was a bit clingy with me at breakfast time, hanging on my arm, like he’d missed me, or was worried about me. (It made it quite hard to cut up my beans on toast.)

  So I guess there’s no choice but to head over.

  And as I do, I can feel three sets of mocking, curious eyes following me from the café. (Ugh…)

  “Hello!” smiles Alice B. Lovely.

  “What were you looking at?” I ask Stan, ignoring that hello and the amber eyes staring at me. I think the eyelashes are rainbow tinged, but I’m not going to look again to check.

  “Hi,” says Tash. (Traitor.)

  “The dancing spiders!” says Stan, his freckly face full of wonder.

  He’s still petting Max with one hand, but pointing upwards with the other. Max is sniffing the thing that Stan’s been holding, and I see that it’s Arthur, come for a walk in the park.

  I gaze up warily, not sure what exactly I’m going to see, and not very keen to look, to be honest.

  Nothing. I can see nothing but branches and leaves and dappled sunlight.

  “Where?” asks Tash, squinting like me at the invisible dancing spiders.

  “Look for the tiny strings of web – they twinkle in the light!” says Alice B. Lovely.

  Sure enough, one second there’s clear air, and next there are dozens and dozens – maybe even hundreds – of tiny, pinhead-sized spiders dangling from rainbow-coloured threads of webbing. It’s maybe one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. Not counting Alice B. Lovely.

  “It happens on these types of trees at this time of year,” Alice B. Lovely. “Everyone passes underneath, without realizing this is going on right above their heads.”

  I want to ask her how she knows, but don’t want to seem too interested. Luckily, Tash does it for me.

  “How did you find out about them?” says my best friend.

  “My dad … he’s a park ranger,” she explains. “He—”

  Her mobile springs to life, with a jangle like sleigh bells. It makes me look her way properly. I see that she’s holding a bent-eared, battered pink bunny. Of course she’d be one of those soft-toy-on-the-bed girls. Did she take it along today to “bond” with Stan and Arthur? Very cunning. Very phoney.