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Fried Scampi From Hell
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3
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'Go on then, spill the Heinz,' she says, not looking at me, not
daring to take her eyes of a pair of diamonte earrings. It is like
we are secret agents. I decide to get it all out in one go.
'I know what Hunky Phil is getting for Christmas because his mum was
in earlier and she bought him new Wranglers and a sexy new denim
jacket and she even bought posh wrapping paper and he's going to
the Chrissy Disco tonight at the Porthole. For certain.' She is
staring straight into my eyes and she looks happy, but it as if
she is scared to smile in case the smile might burst off her face.
I keep the jewellery rotating to avoid any suspicion.
*
'Chrissy Disco, Chrissy Disco,' we are singing in her bedroom like
it is a football supporters' song. We asked good and early this
year and our Mum's agreed.
'As long as you stick together,' mine said, 'You know the rumours
about that place.' We did but we had only been to the Porthole once
before. We were collecting money in the afternoon for our sponsored
cycle and we sneaked a look in the back hall. The famous back
hall where Willie McCallum punched the bar man and Pamela Forsyth
got caught 'at it' with two boys in men's toilets. And on Monday
mornings the older girls would huddle in the cloakrooms and squeal
'God, the Port Hole on Friday night - magic laugh or what?'
The senior boys would slag each other, 'Hey Davie, did you get
you're hole at the Hole?'
'Gonna check my make up?' says Vicky, shining the angle poise
on to her face, her eyes squinting in the glare. I scan her face
for any smudges of mascara or lipstick. Her skin tinted Clearasil
looks more like orangey dots.
'Fine,' I say.
'Maybe a bit more Cleary to cover this plook,' she says, leaning
in to the mirror and dabbing with her middle finger. I nudge my
face in beside hers and try some of her lipstick. It's called
'Fiery Temptress' and there is a slight taste of Fairy liquid.
She stops dabbing.
'Wooo,' she says, 'It looks good on you.' When I laugh it looks
even more weird. Giant cartoon lips out of control. Like it's
not me at all.
'I look like that old barmaid from the TV.' Vicky must know who
I mean cause she does an imitation of her mum:
'Ooh gals, it's time to put me feet up for The Street.' I start
to wipe it off with a tissue.
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