The Joy of Stealing Bumblebee Socks

Mum got together with Ronnie when she was spectacularly drunk. It happened the night after she lost her sensibly dull job at the Exchange Bureau, so I guess that's why she gave in to the extra round of Absolute Bitch shots when usually she would've said no. Like a lot of things, Mum thinks I don't know about that night. Auntie Shazza—who's not really my blood Auntie by the way—told me all about it while Mum was busy surfing JobsToday and trying (failing) to expertly acquaint herself with the new shisha pipe she bought on our last (working) credit card.

As a result of that night I guess Ronnie must think Mum is a whole lot more rock and roll than she actually is. When he's round the flat she breaks her own rule about having no shoes in the house, and wears her spike-heeled boots to watch TV. She orders in spicy curry even though she can't stand the heat. She comes out with fashionable words she never normally uses, like 'on point' and 'bae', and I have to pinch my ear lobes in disbelief cos that stuff sounds so lame and disturbing coming from Mum.

Not that this new state of things is all bad. One of the really good things about living above New Look is that no one lives below us, so we can make a whole lot of noise. In the months since Ronnie entered the picture that has meant evenings full of loud indie rock from his very own super-amazing band, The Push. I enjoy watching the adults lying flat out like starfish on the sheep-skin rug in the living room. When they smoke the ganja their eyes go all soft and easy, and for Ronnie that means his eyes practically take over his entire face. All the girls at school die for that at the moment. A guy can have Cheerios for brain cells for all anyone cares. If you get walked to the gates by a crooner with eyes bigger than Jigglypuff, that's it—instant fame.

When they're on the ganja, Auntie Shazza will seize me and squeeze me close to her sun-wrinkled chest. “God, I LARVE my lovely wittle Jolly Dolly SO MUCH. Tell me you love me too, Joy. I'll die if you don't.” My arms feel so full to bursting with her adoration that my happiness erupts as uncontrollable laughter. If Mum doesn't apologetically prise me and Shazza apart, I'll end up tipsy on cava, and then we'll do something really silly, like try to squeeze into the hoover cupboard together.

Our flat is good for impromptu parties. We can't fit all our stuff neatly away, so if anyone falls down drunk, they'll most likely just land in a bunch of Mum's or my clothes. When we first moved in above New Look, I hoped we might get a discount or something, like neighbours' privileges, you know? But Auntie Shazza snapped that I should just take whatever I want. Go on, Joy, doo-dooit already.

My Auntie Shazza has got serious balls. Not even kidding, she swipes make-up from Superdrug all the time. And the way she applies it is way better than even Beyoncé. She says that a woman's not even a real woman without make-up, so I guess I agree. I always imagine it must have been her who taught Mum how to apply it properly. I like to imagine the two of them as sixteen-year-olds in a drab block of school loos reminiscent of a nunnery, Auntie Shazza all in white like an angel, as they caress Juicy Tubes and Mac liners instead of doing maths. The secret conversation Shazza once told me about often dizzy dances around my head too, so at the end of this daydream Auntie Shazza will always press a beautiful lipstick the colour of berries towards Mum's mouth. She'll promise it will be the best chance Mum's ever taken. Go on, Kitts, have the bubba, and I'll stick with you like glue. Us two—or three, I guess—always. Always.

In my daydream Mum always takes the longest time debating whether she should wipe the lipstick off, go with a nude shade, have the baby, or abort.

Bootiliscious Berry Red may literally be the reason I'm alive.

I wish I had the guts to actually steal something. The only time I ever tried, I wimped out last second, chucked my 3 for 2 bumblebee socks at a plastic mannequin, then sprinted out the shop. Shazza caught up to me half-way down the high-street (where I was wheezing and dribbling snot). She let out her bursting, chain-crank laugh. S'no worries, Jolly, men always end up choosing sweet kittens over tiger cats anyway. You're beyond angelic, it's super cute.

I still don't know if she really meant that I did bad or good.

Sometimes the way men look at Auntie Shazza, or more accurately, dribble-stare at her ginormously busty front, makes me think that if Ronnie could only look at me that way then I'd feel way better and braver than just thirteen. Someday soon I want to have an excuse to borrow Shazza's sequin cross-over top, the one that shimmers all Hollywood in the light. When Ronnie sees me in that he'll realise I'm not the pale-faced, embarrassed kid he got introduced to one breakfast time. Mum will probably get over it. Since I can remember, I've had countless promising-but-never-quite-make-it step-father types. Shazza always points out their flaws in the end. With his ear-picking and bouts of shyness, I doubt she'll spare Ronnie indefinitely. Anyway, I've been testing cello-taping my baps together in anticipation for that day. Blokes like cleavage, Auntie Shazza says.

I keep thinking I should write down all her wisdom some place, like a Girls Only Rulebook.

Today, Auntie Shazza perches on the sideboard, one bum cheek—clad in sparkly velour—lolling into the sink. The morning sunlight makes her purple tracksuit and the snap clips in her hair shimmer like a queen. Something bigger than usual must be going on, cos Mum mumbles a strange collection of words, upon which Shazza leaps down then does a hoola dance in her flip-flops.

“Hooray, Kits! Superwoman! That's what I'm talking about! Aren't you buzzing?”

Mum chews her lip thoughtfully, pushes her scratched-up, matchbox mobile back and forth across the table. “I'm a little over-qualified...”

“Ah, babe. No grumpy faces today,” Shazza insists in her pre-scripted pick-up-Mum voice. Her fingers edge towards performing the soothing ritual of combing Mum's buttery blonde hair, but next second Ronnie appears in the doorway, and Shazza momentarily freezes.

“Hey, guess what? Mum's got a new job!” I say quickly, so I can join in with the excitement. Ronnie's water-bubble eyes swell in surprise as I spring towards him for a hug. “Tell her that's great.” The V-shaped wedge of auburn curls which have escaped his dressing gown become a tickly cushion for my chin. “She's going to be a... wotsit, Mum?”

“A plastic tube control operative,” Shazza pipes in brightly, with a speculative look to where my bare feet are now standing on Ronnie's odd socks. She begins a vigorous massage of Mum's head. “Isn't that brill, Ron?”

“We should all go out tonight to celebrate!” I decide.

The lingering effect of Ronnie's Ferrari Fruit shower gel is seductive in my nose. It's disappointing when he detaches from me. His gaze flits across the room to meet Mum’s, then the way his already over-large eyes expand with questions lets me in on all I need to know.

Uh-oh. Plastic tubing is not very rock and roll, is it?

Mum swells a blotchy bubble-gum pink under Ronnie's stare. She shoos Shazza away from her head. “I'll be in charge of a team winding tubing around giant bobbins. I mean, it's not great pay, but it's alright. For now. Don't you think?”

I hold my breath as Ronnie debates his answer. The shorn hair at the nape of his neck makes a bristling sound as he rubs it. “I thought you were going to try singing for real? But, okay... that's something, I guess, isn't it?”

Mum looks a little stricken. Suddenly I feel kind of bad that me and Shazza haven't given her a chance to break it to him gently.

At the sink, Shazza whistles as she turns on the tap full thunder.

To perk Mum up about the not so rock and roll job, early evening, me and Shazza convince her to wrestle into her best leather skirt. After that, Shazza sticks a twenty in Mum's purse, and the four of us climb the steep sloping pavements to the other side of town. The Push are playing at The Dragonfly tonight.

As Ronnie's lads set up, we eat our fill at the carvery. The food is watered-down, salty and hot, and all of us (except Mum, who looks like she's being pinched by her skirt) go up for seconds. Me and Shazza exchange fond glances as Ronnie slop-chomps his way through three giant Yorkshires drowned in gravy. His Jigglypuff eyes whirlpool in food ecstasy.

As the families with little kids clear out, the atmosphere gradually shifts from a chatty lunch place into a rowdy local with karaoke. By eight o'clock, drunks are vying for the microphone, and blokes in flat caps are hanging around the ladies’ toilets.

Ronnie shambles off to help his band set up. Our dirty plates stew in front of us until we’re asked to move so our table can make way for the dance floor. When the disco lights swing on, my body thrums with anticipation. Ronnie does a sound check on his electric guitar, and I grin double-time. He looks like a rock star and a sexy cowboy the way he leans to one side with his mouth screwed up in concentration like that. I can't stop staring—until Shazza slaps my forearm.

“Hey, lookie here! Ha! That's awkward. I've had that one with the goatie, and his skinny mate fancies me.” Eagerly, she slips off her bar stool. Her leopard print leggings catch on a splinter in the frame so a thread pulls loose, but there isn't time to warn her. “Hey, BONSAI, over here, mate! What's uppppp, hooker?” Arms spread wide, Shazza advances. Within seconds she's tangled herself around the two surprised blokes who've just wandered in.

Only two Breezers down, Mum pinches her temple. “Come on, Joy. Let's go home.”

My lips are about to burst open in complaint, but luckily Auntie Shazza misses nothing. “Ah, come on, Kitts.” She leans our way, her call reverberating off the dark wooden panelling. “What's the harm? Sunday tomorrow. Joy can have a baby shandy. I'll watch her.”

Mum dithers, handbag in hand. We both know she's useless at arguing with Auntie Shazza.

“I do have the most god-awful headache, Jolly. What do you think?” Mum's grey feather eyes swirl around my face as if they're painting question marks. Their voices ring out so differently. Shazza's animated brawl always paints the air with musical notes. It's embarrassing how Mum's tentative whisper so often suggests that she herself doesn't think anyone wants to hear what she has to say.

Shrugging, I pretend not to recognise the truth behind the open option, that really she wants me to go with her.

I close my eyes while Mum shambles off, holding her coat folded across her stomach. Nearby, Shazza gets to work making herself indispensable to Bonsai and his skinny mate. My auntie is quite a small woman, but it's impressive how she manages to make herself both taller and longer in the presence of men. Arms which, when she's on the ganja, encircle me like her living happiness depends on it, stretch long like silly string and twist inhumanly to secure the best hold around her prey.

When she eyeballs me, I get the hint and quickly shift my gaze. My arms go goosebumpy though, as I encounter the view straight ahead. The open hatch which leads down to the cellar is like a gaping black mouth. How cold would that first concrete step feel against bare feet? What a lost, suffocating sensation it must be to get swallowed up by the dark belly below.

I wish I had Shazza's sparkly top on. I wish I was eighteen and could order myself a pink Martini, then stroll by the stage, and have Ronnie slap me a high-five. All the girls from school would literally off themselves.

At ten o'clock the band have a break. Ronnie ambles over. I notice there's a fuzzy white feather caught in his hair. If Mum was here, she would probably pat his shoulder then pluck it out, but I'm too nervous to try.

Shazza waves goodbye to Bonsai and Skinny. On her way over to us she expertly signals her favourite barman, Terry, and a moment later Terry is slapping down purple shots.

“Come on. Down the hatch!” Shazza shoots hers like an arrow, then winds her arm around Ronnie's thick neck. My blood fizzes up funny like the soda in my own drink.

“Shame Kitty doesn't know what's good for her,” Shazza muses, smoothing Ronnie's shirt collar now. “She won't be getting many more nights out now she's saddled with that crappy job, right?”

Entombed in one of his shy moods, Ronnie grimly swirls his shot around his glass. It looks like he might be about to say something, but suddenly—across the room, an almighty racket breaks out. The karaoke machine has been hijacked. Bonsai and his skinny mate, arms extended long and longing towards their leopard-printed lady, holler in competition with the jukebox.

Throwing them the queenly cold shoulder, Shazza manoeuvres herself in front of me. I can't admire Ronnie with her in the way, so I stand up, skittle sideways, but then she slides onto my bar stool, flicking me an apologetic wink.

People crowd in either side to buy their next rounds. Sweat prickles my neck as I try to crane around everyone. Eventually I give up, stare at the geometric carpet, and take a sip of the vodka-coke she has bought me. But a beat later, I'm fighting to not screw up my mouth. The vodka pools into a greasy puddle on top of the churned meat and mashed potatoes sitting in my stomach.

Ronnie rumbles something in his shy cowboy drawl, my tummy cramps, and next second, Shazza fiercely erupts, “Kitty just needs to liven up, okay!”

I can't see for white spots. Don't know if it's the shriek, the lingering vodka, or the smell of nearby Jäger bombs which has done it. But my guts squeeze tight. Struggling to breathe right, I lurch sideways then spew greasy, sour chunks, the warm vomit spraying down my leg and collecting in a bubbling mess inside Shazza's handbag.

“Fuck's sake!”

Uh-oh.

I stay crouched low. For a terrible second, all is fear and horror. Shazza’s handbag stinks, it’s undeniably ruined. What will she say? She must be so fuming mad at me. Madder even than that time when Mum told her sorry, babe, she can’t move in with us. And no, Jolly definitely ain’t trying the ganja. In fact, everyone must be mad. Who let the stupid, sicky kid in? Idiotic, wittle Jolly Dolly, who’s not got the stamina to make it past midnight. Too shaky with lipstick. Can’t even nick some 3 for 2 bumblebee socks without erupting in snotty wheezes.

Fuck’s sake, Joy.

Braced, I look up, hotly hiccup. The room revolves in shaky shadow-dancing around me. It takes long seconds of shallow breathing to realise that Shazza doesn't even see me at all.

What? No, none of them do.

At the bar, Bonsai and Skinny haven't got the message. They are thick around Shazza, pressing in with lusty wishes disguised as banter.

“Did you enjoy your serenade, love?”

“Lay one juicy one on me, darling. Go on.”

Her steely hand-on-hip stance suggests she clearly isn’t into it—Although, Ronnie has broken out of his reverie, and is laughing like I've never heard him. Like a dog snapping at a half-dead rat. Terry, standing on tiptoe, is struggling to appease the tussling drinkers who are impatient to be served.

Is that a double?

Get me a gin and tonic, love?

Mind out!

Card?

Vodka-orange and two—no, three—diet cokes.

What beers you got?

Toilets, mate?

Below them, I hunch smaller. Trainers, spiked boots and strappy sandals shuffle on all sides, like drunk-slow dogs without owners. The waft of vomit intensifies. Humid and thick.

“What’s that bloody rank stink?” Eventually a sharp voice comments. Beside me, a stiletto shifts, the heel landing on the strap of Shazza’s handbag, then a cold rush of shame and fear swamps my sore gut.

I lurch to my feet, and—head down—shove my way through, eventually tumbling out of the double doors and into the car park, where my eyes sting against the fresh night air.

Cherry lights project a merry glow over the closest row of shops, but beyond that town descends in squirmy curves of streetlights and empty black roads. After shaking the worst of the sick off my leg, I spit on the cracked pavement, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My tongue is furry with puke. It's cooler out here, yet somehow my forehead drums, humming hot.

The downhill ribbons of road fall away from my feet, winding and diverting, like plastic tubing without a bobbin, confusing in their disorder. For a scary moment I feel like I'm the loose thread on Shazza's leggings, ragged and descending.

Which way is home? How will I know?

The next moment I feel a tug by the navel.