By the Time You Read This (4 page)

I flicked back to the miscellaneous section of
The Manual
and soon arrived at a new and surprising heading. Why are boys such asses? I giggled at Dad’s use of the word “ass” while hoping he’d have the power to at last shed some light on the opposite sex for me. An image of Corey in his big British Knight sneakers sprang into my head, basically because he was the only boy I spent time with—as Mom had put me in a girls’ school.

I giggled nervously at Dad’s sense of humor, never realizing he could be so funny. In fact, Mom never mentioned anything about Dad these days, so obsessed was she with washing her new husband’s graying jockeys, laughing at his unfunny jokes, kissing him full on the mouth—and right in front of me, as if I enjoyed bringing up my dinner. My mood, as always, lifted with joy at the thought of getting to know my dad, but was quickly replaced by a stab of sadness at the thought of the following week. My thirteenth birthday, and I’d yet to think of anything memorable to do while I was twelve. I searched my memory bank for something and then it came to me…Dad’s manual. Hadn’t my life changed since it had appeared? I no longer had an excuse to feel like a kid any more. I was on the brink of becoming a woman, and Dad knew that too. But
most of all I didn’t feel alone. And that had to be the best bit of all, no longer feeling lonely.

I reopened
The Manual,
pleased I hadn’t let my dad down and thankful a new memory had been planted.

One I’d never, ever forget.

T
he morning of the Saturday before my thirteenth birthday, I peered out of the window to see the Bingo Caller helping Mom into the back seat of his car, her hand on her tummy. I went back to sleep and awoke to the sound of the front door being banged almost off its hinges. I smiled.

“Get up, you lazy thing!” shouted Carla as I opened the door. She was dressed in a pretty little baby-doll dress I could never wear, (not with my bandy looking legs) and huge trendy boots. “Change of plan. Your birthday party’s gonna be at our house!”

Apparently, Mom had called from wherever it was she
and the Bingo Caller had gone and requested my thirteenth birthday party be shifted next door to Carla’s.

“Charming!” I remarked.

“Is your mom all right? My mom wouldn’t tell me what was going on.”

“Probably had something better to do,” I said, feeling a little put out, but hoping she had a good reason for her missing my thirteenth birthday.

Looking around next door’s tiny kitchen—which was almost identical to ours, but filled with pictures of the family and with Corey’s huge smelly sneakers by the entrance—it was clear a lot of effort had been made. Tiny cupcakes (soon to be decorated with hundreds and thousands) were baking in the oven; a wonky stool with dusty footprints was evidence of someone having placed colorful streamers on to the wall. A few friends from my school were invited (with Carla’s help), along with Corey’s friends, assuring a good turnout (even though I still doubted whether anyone would actually show up). Carla’s mom forced a red bow onto my head, even though I’d insisted on wearing jeans and not a dress. But for once I decided not to mind because it was my thirteenth birthday. The biggy.

Mom rang just before the first lot of party guests arrived.

“I’m really sorry I can’t be there, darlin.’

“So, why
can’t
you come?”

“You know what it’s like with flu. Thought I’d stay away so I didn’t spread it around.”

“The flu? I never heard you coughing last night?”

“It must have started during the, erm, night.”

I shrugged off Mom’s explanation. Besides, I had Dad now, who’d cared enough to write to me every birthday. “That’s okay, Mom. You get over the
flu.”

“Really sorry, Lois.”

“Don’t worry. I have everything I need here,”
I whispered to myself.

“Never mind, though, your actual birthday isn’t until Monday. I’ll make sure I’m there for that. Okay, darlin?’

“Mom, I have to go now. People are arriving.”

She started to mumble something as I replaced the receiver.

People began to trickle in quite slowly. And quietly. No one saying a single word. There was the odd sound of a leg tapping against a chair as guests basically gazed at each other, as if waiting for someone, anyone, to utter anything mildly witty. The silence was deafening and my life flashed before me—grand confirmation of my big fat L of a Loser status at school. But just as I thought the party was more than over, Carla’s mom turned up the record player and began to move expertly to the fast melodies of “Motown-philly” by Boyz II Men, complete with subway dress and a group of lustful eyes belonging to Corey’s friends. Soon, others followed. My initial fear of mass yawns and exits evaporated and I was free to find the bathroom to let out nothing but a sigh of relief.

I shut the bathroom door behind me just as Carla’s mom, still on the “dance floor,” proclaimed it was indeed Hammertime!

“Lo Bag, where have you been?” asked Corey, sounding like an old man. Voice all deep, as I shut the bathroom door behind me.

“In the John of course!” I shook my head to this silly question, itching to return to my guests and new friends.”

“I…erm…wanted to give you your present.”

“Your mom’s already done that!” I replied. A roar of
laughter escaped from the living room and I longed to be among the joviality and not stuck with Corey the Moron outside the toilet.

“When?” he asked with a puzzled look.

“What do you think all this is about?” I said, gesticulating wildly toward my new pair of stone-washed jeans. “And the party!” The kid had been hanging around with his friends too long it seemed.

“Oh! So what did your mom get you?”

“A puffy coat! I told you she gave it to me weeks ago! Look, this isn’t the time to annoy me, Corey!”

“I’m not…I don’t want to annoy you. I wanted to give you this.” He produced a square package hastily wrapped in what looked like Christmas paper. “Sorry, we didn’t have any birthday wrapping left.” He thrust the tiny item into my palm. “From me.”

Before I could say thanks, he’d walked off. So I opened the present to reveal LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” album on tape. Wow! My feet were already tapping to the beat of my favorite track. The one album I’d been after for months but Mom wouldn’t let me buy (because it was rap music) and Corey had just handed it to me! Carla must have told him, I reasoned, along with wondering why Corey would save up his pocket money to buy
me
a present. The same Corey who up until about a month ago pulled my hair, farted in my face and called me all sorts of silly names. I thought nothing more as I rejoined the others on the “dance floor” and launched into Lois’s very own awkward and stiff dance routine.

F
or the next week, I was on a high. I stood in the dinner queue, constantly greeted with invisible high-fives
from girls who’d never even burped in my direction before. It would seem my party remained on the lips of almost everyone in my year, which unfortunately included Sharlene Rockingham, who cornered me behind the science block as I raced to Math.

“Why didn’t I get an invite to your icky little party, then?” she asked gruffly.

“Why should I have invited you?” I replied. It seemed to slip out before I’d a chance to
really
think about it as Dad’s advice pounded against the wall of my head, desperate to get in.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you, Lois?”

“No,” I moaned, a little cheesed off that my week of glory was about to be soured. I inched away, trying hard not to look like a “wimp” but without being too “smart” about things.

“I’m gonna be late, so I’ll, er, see you…” I said pathetically.

Sharlene’s eyes narrowed with evil. “Yep. You will.”

O
n the morning of my actual thirteenth birthday, I opened up
The Manual.

Yes, I did feel a little flushed with embarrassment, but read on.

I slapped
The Manual
shut, remembering Mom’s sudden bout of flu during my birthday party. I was still angry with her and no amount of words from Dad could change that. Part of me was pleased to know he forgave her for hooking up with the Bingo Caller, though, and perhaps I could try to like him…even if I did think the man was a Loser.

D
uring the next few weeks, I attempted to be civil toward the Bingo Caller.

“Thanks for trying with him,” said Mom, who’d obviously noticed the change in me. General politeness, helping to wash his car; I became the model stepchild.

“Thanks, Lois,” he said one Saturday afternoon, right after I’d helped clear the shed—a job I’d been putting off for weeks.

“For what? It’s only a shed.”

“The effort you’ve made. Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed, because it hasn’t.”

I wasn’t about to move in for a hug but did manage a quiet “Thanks.”

But, of course, in true Mom fashion she had to go and spoil things one Sunday, right after I’d just reread some of Dad’s entries.

Strike one: She entered my room without knocking.

“I’m really, really pleased you’re both getting on!” she squealed as I discreetly slid
The Manual
under my bed.

Strike two: She sat on my bed—again, uninvited, and almost squashing the one-eyed teddy.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she said.

She had a strange, overly smiling face that reminded me of those loonies outside the mental hospital two streets away from the dentist.

“Okay…” I urged.

“Things are a lot better between us all…you know…?”

“They’re all right,” I replied, as my mind shifted to more important things, like whether Carla and Corey wanted to go down to the rec.

“That’s what I thought. So I wondered if…”

“What?”

“If you should think about calling him Dad?”

Strike three.

“Lois?”

Silence.

“Lois?”

“I heard, Mom.”

“How about it, then?”

Tempted to pour a whole tub of dish soap into my ear just to check I’d heard right, I replied with a calmness that contradicted the rage fizzing up inside of me. “I already have a dad.”

“I know.”

“Well then…” I jumped off my bed, not wanting to be involved in any segment of this pointless discussion.

“I know, but…and nothing would change that, I just think it would be nice.”

My mother was obviously sick in the head. “Nice for who?”

“For you!”

“No, Mom!”

“But why?”

“I told you, I already have a dad!” I didn’t want to shout at her, but she kept pushing. My stomach felt like a kettle just about to whistle. I needed her out of my room.

“Lois, no one’s taking that away from you.” Mom dropped her gaze. “But you were only little when your father…”

“Died. And I was five. So?” I stared at Dad’s picture on my side table.

“So, I think it’s important you have a father figure in your life like—”

“NO!” I roared, unable to take this garbage any more. I soooo wanted to tell her about
The Manual
’s existence in my life. How I was able to talk to my dad whenever I wanted. Have him beside me, just before I drifted to sleep, and under my pillow as I slept. He spoke to me through those pages, told me he loved me over and over again. I JUST WANTED TO TELL HER I STILL HAD MY DAD!

“Lois…”

“You think I don’t know my dad, but I do.”

“Lois, look—”

“I know him more than you think. We speak every day…”

As I trailed off, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I replied, my body language willing her to get out of my room, my sanctuary, and away from any proximity to my dad’s special manual.

“We’ll talk about this another time,” she said, calmly shutting the door behind her. I located
The Manual,
opened it, and swore as a stray tear plopped onto a page, blotting and smudging two precious letters of a word my dad would never, ever be able to write again.

I
tried to ignore Mom and the Bingo Caller as much as possible while the weeks dragged by, only communicating by the absolute essential of words. So, for once, it was an unusual but welcome relief when the annual trip to see Granny Bates came around.

I used to enjoy spending time with my mom’s mom, but that had been impossible since she’d moved into sheltered housing. Granny Bates, however, lived in Sussex and insisted I spent a week of my summer holidays with her at a bleak seaside house, with furniture more at home in a museum and surrounded by pictures of my dad, his school reports, soccer medals and any scribbles he’d presented her with as a child. What struck me was the absence of anything belonging to his sisters, my aunties Philomena and Ina. I never asked Granny Bates about this, though. In fact she hardly spoke to me at all, and I found
the whole experience a bit like having a filling put in. I also missed Carla and Corey so much, especially as Granny’s area was surrounded by sheep and old people! Luckily I had my Walkman and Corey’s tape, which kept me sane while I sat opposite Granny Bates as she munched on the ginger snaps Mom always insisted I bring to her.

When I was younger, as long as I took my dolls or some books I could get through the experience without screaming, but since hitting my teens I was finding it increasingly harder to be around Granny Bates. I just wanted to spend time hanging around the rec with Carla and a few of my new friends from school. Sussex and Granny Bates now signified a total waste of my life, and I hated it.

“Gran, can we watch something else?” I asked. A tiny bit bored with the news program. Carla’s mom had just got cable installed and I longed to flick onto something worthwhile, like
Yo! MTV Raps.

“Your dad always loved watching the news.”

Here we go again, I thought. That was another thing. Constantly comparing me to my dad. I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t feel she was having a go at me. Perhaps seeing me as not living up to what he was. I don’t know. She was “pleasant” enough. I just felt that sometimes there was so much I didn’t know or understand about the Bates family.

I stood up.

“Where are you going, young lady?”

“To my room, I might listen to my Walkman.”