for me. ‘They still screwing you, then?’
‘Yeah, I s’pose.’ There was a pause. ‘But not just me. You want to meet up?’
An hour later I was watching Duane walk through the door of the Macky D’s in the Western Road. I could tell straight away that something was up, because usually he walked like he’d just done your brother and was on his way to do your mother – dead cocky. But now he was walking like he’d just done your budgie, and then let it out the window into the bargain – real shifty, like he didn’t know how to break the awful news.
He sat down opposite me and pinched a chip. I pushed my tray towards him. ‘Go on, have the lot! I’m not touching ’em, I know where your fingers have been!’
‘Same to you. How come you got McNuggets? Thought Filet-o-Fish was more your speed,’ he sniggered.
I hate that – the way everyone knows about me and Kizza. It’s like I’m labelled for life – DYKE! KEEP OFF! Another reason why I should bag Asif. But then, it’s like another label – two teenage toilet cleaners copping off together! Dead depressing. That’s why I needed to climb out of my ‘box’, so to speak – score the smart, exotic Dr Fox, or better still some really hot creative bloke. Like Baggy and Aggy – only not gay. Or a minger. Or a couple. You know what I mean!
‘Spit out it,’ I said coldly. ‘And I don’t mean the chips. Haven’t you got something better to do like, ooh, I don’t know, perving over some fit bird that’s been like a sister to you when she’s spread-eagled on six square foot of BacoFoil with her defences down?’
He didn’t say anything, just got out his phone. ‘Want to show you something – because you WERE like a sister to me, cos you knew I didn’t have no proper family. You were dead kind. Even when Jesus and me done that thing with the superglue and your tampon that time—’
‘Spare me the gory details,’ I said hurriedly. Sitting in McDonald’s with a rent boy, discussing sticky fun with tampons from times past, having just clocked off from my cleaning job, was hardly the glamorous life I was cut out for, at the risk of sounding snobbish. ‘Just tell me the big news and let me finish my Fruit ’n’ Yogurt Parfait in peace.’
He got out his phone, fiddled with it and pushed it slowly across the table to me, screen downwards, looking furtively around as he did so. As I reached out for it I had the most horrible feeling that I was never going to feel the same about B&A again after looking at it. I put my hand over it and pushed it back towards him.
‘Put it away, Duane. I don’t want to see what they’ve done to you.’
‘Do you want to see what they’ve done to YOU, though?’
He pushed the phone back and this time I picked it up.
The first picture showed my Princess dress on a mannequin. Only it wasn’t the Princess dress the way it had been described to me. It was still short and sleeveless but it wasn’t black silk – it was made out of a black rubbish sack, with glitter splashed randomly over it. And the label across the dummy’s face said, in big black capitals, WHITE-TRASH TINKERBELL.
I looked up at Duane. He may only have been fifteen, and a little prick of a bum-chum rent boy, but I suddenly wanted him to put his arms around me and tell me everything would be all right. Instead he shrugged and said, ‘I’m sorry, Shugs. But I just thought you should know –’
I nodded, and hit the button. Next up was my beautiful micro-mini skating skirt with attached knickers, which was meant to have been in lush red velvet – with matching muff! But now it was in a horrible check – even worse than Burberry! – and as for the muff . . . well, you can guess what that was made to resemble. The label on this one said PRAM-FACED PRICKTEASE. My sight was a bit blurry by this time, but I noted that the next dress had pregnancy tests hanging off the hem and was called LATE AGAIN! Then there was PIKEY PRINCESS – a
‘Yeah, I s’pose.’ There was a pause. ‘But not just me. You want to meet up?’
An hour later I was watching Duane walk through the door of the Macky D’s in the Western Road. I could tell straight away that something was up, because usually he walked like he’d just done your brother and was on his way to do your mother – dead cocky. But now he was walking like he’d just done your budgie, and then let it out the window into the bargain – real shifty, like he didn’t know how to break the awful news.
He sat down opposite me and pinched a chip. I pushed my tray towards him. ‘Go on, have the lot! I’m not touching ’em, I know where your fingers have been!’
‘Same to you. How come you got McNuggets? Thought Filet-o-Fish was more your speed,’ he sniggered.
I hate that – the way everyone knows about me and Kizza. It’s like I’m labelled for life – DYKE! KEEP OFF! Another reason why I should bag Asif. But then, it’s like another label – two teenage toilet cleaners copping off together! Dead depressing. That’s why I needed to climb out of my ‘box’, so to speak – score the smart, exotic Dr Fox, or better still some really hot creative bloke. Like Baggy and Aggy – only not gay. Or a minger. Or a couple. You know what I mean!
‘Spit out it,’ I said coldly. ‘And I don’t mean the chips. Haven’t you got something better to do like, ooh, I don’t know, perving over some fit bird that’s been like a sister to you when she’s spread-eagled on six square foot of BacoFoil with her defences down?’
He didn’t say anything, just got out his phone. ‘Want to show you something – because you WERE like a sister to me, cos you knew I didn’t have no proper family. You were dead kind. Even when Jesus and me done that thing with the superglue and your tampon that time—’
‘Spare me the gory details,’ I said hurriedly. Sitting in McDonald’s with a rent boy, discussing sticky fun with tampons from times past, having just clocked off from my cleaning job, was hardly the glamorous life I was cut out for, at the risk of sounding snobbish. ‘Just tell me the big news and let me finish my Fruit ’n’ Yogurt Parfait in peace.’
He got out his phone, fiddled with it and pushed it slowly across the table to me, screen downwards, looking furtively around as he did so. As I reached out for it I had the most horrible feeling that I was never going to feel the same about B&A again after looking at it. I put my hand over it and pushed it back towards him.
‘Put it away, Duane. I don’t want to see what they’ve done to you.’
‘Do you want to see what they’ve done to YOU, though?’
He pushed the phone back and this time I picked it up.
The first picture showed my Princess dress on a mannequin. Only it wasn’t the Princess dress the way it had been described to me. It was still short and sleeveless but it wasn’t black silk – it was made out of a black rubbish sack, with glitter splashed randomly over it. And the label across the dummy’s face said, in big black capitals, WHITE-TRASH TINKERBELL.
I looked up at Duane. He may only have been fifteen, and a little prick of a bum-chum rent boy, but I suddenly wanted him to put his arms around me and tell me everything would be all right. Instead he shrugged and said, ‘I’m sorry, Shugs. But I just thought you should know –’
I nodded, and hit the button. Next up was my beautiful micro-mini skating skirt with attached knickers, which was meant to have been in lush red velvet – with matching muff! But now it was in a horrible check – even worse than Burberry! – and as for the muff . . . well, you can guess what that was made to resemble. The label on this one said PRAM-FACED PRICKTEASE. My sight was a bit blurry by this time, but I noted that the next dress had pregnancy tests hanging off the hem and was called LATE AGAIN! Then there was PIKEY PRINCESS – a
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