The 12 Christmases of You & Me Read online

  ‘Ignore them.’

  Giving a tiny nod, Jonas pulls the mirror and the lipstick towards him. Wolf-whistles and jibes fill the air, but Jonas simply raises his middle finger and continues his task of applying the ruby-red lipstick. It hadn’t dawned on me at the time, but Jonas Brown is one of the bravest people I know. He’s always been true to himself, no matter what, and I’m overcome with pride as I watch the kohl pencil glide across his eyelid. Jonas is truly back to his old self as we pile into Mr Adamson’s history class ten minutes later, all hint of the little-boy-lost vibe gone as he carries a whooping Lily into the room on his shoulders.

  ‘Put her down, please.’ Mr Adamson’s tone is mock-stern. He’s one of the younger, cooler teachers at Westgate High, and I’d never once witnessed him losing his rag or even raising his voice. He had a lot of respect within the school, mostly because he bantered with the boys about football (he was a City fan among a tide of reds) and most of the girls had a crush on him. With his brown curls and prominent cheekbones, he had the Benedict Cumberbatch look going on – not that these girls have a clue who Benedict Cumberbatch is at this moment in time.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Jonas lowers Lily to the ground and she smooths her skirt down and scuttles to a table at the front of the class. Having a Cumberbatch lookalike as a teacher seemed to be the only motivator when it came to Lily’s academics; it’s thanks to those cheekbones that Lily aced her history GCSE.

  ‘Now, I know this is your last lesson before the Christmas break.’ Mr Adamson (‘His first name is Elton,’ Lily had once gushingly told me. ‘Isn’t that the most romantic name?’) paced in front of the blackboard, blank but for clouds of chalky residue. ‘But you have your mocks coming up next term, so I really think we need to go over the background to the Vietnam conflict.’ He raises an eyebrow as a collective groan fills the room. And then he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Only kidding. It’s Christmas!’ He bellows the last part before pressing play on the cassette player on his desk. Slade blasts out, only just audible over the shouts of appreciation and merriment from a classroom full of kids let off a revision lesson. Lily scribbles furiously in the back of her history notebook then tears out the page and hands it to me. I shake my head; it may as well be gobbledygook. Lily tuts before turning to pass her note to Jonas.

  ‘Ooh, what’s this?’ Mr Adamson has whipped the note from Lily’s fingers before Jonas can make contact, but his brow furrows as he tries to make out what it contains. ‘Is this Chinese or something?’

  ‘Japanese.’ Lily snatches the note back (later, she’ll tell me she’s keeping it forever, just because Mr Adamson touched it). ‘So nosy people can’t read it.’ She grins at the teacher and he shrugs before walking away. Jonas is fluent in Japanese – his father has lived in Japan since Jonas was a toddler – and he’s taught Lily (and attempted to teach me) the basics. He and Lily used it as a secret code sometimes.

  ‘What did it say?’

  Lily folds the note and places it in the back of her notebook before leaning in to whisper its translation. ‘It says Mr Adamson is beautiful – I don’t know how to say smoking hot – and I want to have his babies.’ She giggles and shoves the notebook and pencil case in her backpack. ‘Do you want to play cards?’ She looks at Jonas, wiggling the deck she’s pulled out of her bag. ‘Strip poker?’

  Jonas plucks the deck from her grasp. ‘Regular poker will do. I’ll deal.’

  We spend the next hour playing cards, which isn’t taxing at all but I’m still glad when the bell goes, signalling the end of the school day. We’re the last to leave the classroom (Lily always made sure we were, to stretch out her time with Mr Adamson) and I’m utterly exhausted as we shuffle out into the corridor. It’s no wonder Annabelle wants nothing more than to collapse on her bed to unwind with her music after school.

  ‘Oh, Lily?’ Mr Adamson pokes his head out of the classroom door. I suppress a groan. I’m exhausted and my shoes are still pinching. But it’s all worth it as the next string of words float down the corridor towards us. How could I have forgotten this little gem?

  Mr Adamson lifts his hand in goodbye before disappearing into the classroom.

  ‘What did he just say?’ All the other kids have already spilled out of the building, but Lily is frozen to the spot.

  ‘He said he hopes you have a wonderful Christmas and that you come back next term refreshed and ready to revise for the mocks.’ Jonas slings his arm around Lily’s shoulders and starts to guide her towards the exit. ‘And he also said that your performance this morning was inspiring.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Lily covers her eyes with her hands as two pink patches appear on her cheeks. ‘And he said all that in Japanese?’

  Jonas nods, his lips twitching as he struggles to hold in his mirth. ‘Every last word. He sounds pretty fluent to me.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Lily’s hands cover her mouth. Jonas and I burst out laughing, doubled over with hilarity. We are bad friends. Very bad friends. But our laughter soon dies away as we reach Mr Stewart’s office and find Mum, Jonas’s stepfather and Lily’s grandfather waiting outside.

  I would very much like to wake up now.

  TEN

  ‘I’m sorry, okay?’ I’m scuttling after Mum, practically breaking into a jog to keep up with her angry pace as we make our way home. I’m not sorry I called Mr Stewart a tosser, because he is one. A great big one. But I am sorry Mum was dragged into it, and I can only imagine the humiliation if it had been Annabelle in my shoes and I’d been called into the headteacher’s office. I’d have felt responsible for her actions, judged by them, and I’d be fuming. But I’d also hope I’d listen to my daughter, because as well as being silent since we left Mr Stewart’s office, Mum has so far refused to ask why I said what I did.

  ‘You weren’t there, Mum. You didn’t hear the way he spoke to Lily, saying she’s—’

  Mum lifts a hand, cutting me off, but doesn’t turn to face me or break her stride. ‘There is no excuse for what you did, Maisie. None. So I don’t want to hear any, got it? You can explain it all to your father when he gets home from work.’

  It’s so unfair! She won’t even listen to me, so how am I supposed to make everything alright again? I stomp up the stairs once we’re home, taking my anger out on my bedroom door by slamming it before throwing myself on the bed. Being a teenager sucks. I can’t wait to wake up in my almost-forty-year-old body, with its waning energy levels, (slightly) drooping boobs and saggy middle. She may be deteriorating by the second but at least she has autonomy instead of being ruled by tosser headteachers and closed-eared parents. Squeezing my eyes shut, I will myself to wake up, but when I open my eyes I’m still looking at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.

  Marv-e-llous. It appears I’m stuck in this stupid dream, in this stupid body, and I’m starting to think and act like a surly teenager all over again. Good going, subconscious.

  I’m still there when Dad comes home from work, a tin of Roses tucked under one arm and an unopened bottle of whisky in his hand. I watch from my bedroom window as he meanders along the garden path, tripping over his own foot and stumbling onto the lawn. He disappears underneath the porch but it’s at least two minutes before I hear the front door open, and that’s only because Mum has done the job for him.

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  Dad has been ushered up to my bedroom to have a stern word with me and is now swaying in the doorway.

  ‘No, not at all.’ Dad gives a slow shake of his head as he pushes himself away from the safety net of the doorframe and ambles towards my bed. ‘Had a drink or two after work, that’s all.’ He flops onto the bed, falling onto his side. ‘It is Christmas, after all.’ He pushes himself back up into a sitting position and pats the space beside him.

  ‘You didn’t drive, did you?’ I look out of the window, but the hedges are blocking my view of the road so I can’t see whether his car is there or not.

  Dad snorts. ‘You sound just like your mother.’

&nbs
p; Oh, God, I hope not, though I suppose it’s better than sounding like my teenage daughter again.

  ‘No, I didn’t drive home. I’m not that daft, you know.’ He smiles at me, his head wobbling from side to side, making himself look quite daft after all. ‘Come on, come and sit with your old dad.’

  I move away from my vantage point at the window.

  ‘I hear you had a bit of a run-in with your headteacher today.’ Dad tries to adopt a severe look, but his features are too sluggish and he ends up gurning at me as I sit down on the bed instead. ‘You swore at him?’

  ‘He deserved it.’ I fold my arms across my chest and try to maintain eye contact with Dad, which is difficult when his head is wobbling all over the place and he’s blinking more than is natural.

  ‘I’m sure he did, sausage, but you can’t go around calling people tossers. Even if they are tossers.’ He pats my knee before heaving himself up onto unsteady legs. ‘There, all sorted, yes? Shall we go downstairs? Your mum’s about to leave for her line dancing Christmas get-together so we can order a pizza while she’s out.’ Dad lifts a finger, aiming for his lips but almost poking his eye out. ‘But don’t tell, okay?’

  Mum thinks takeaway pizzas are a waste of money – why pay so much money for a cooked pizza when you can buy a frozen one for half the price from the Kwik Save down the road and bung it in the oven?

  ‘Get Lily and Jonas round. We’ll rent a video and make a night of it.’ Dad rubs his hands together, and the momentum almost knocks him off his feet. He manages to recover, his arms spread wide for balance. ‘Not Four Weddings and a Funeral again, though. What about that Christmas one with the kid and the burglars?’

  I help Dad down the stairs and into the living room, where he nearly upends the Christmas tree by using its artificial branches to keep himself upright. He knocks a sparkly red bauble onto the carpet and Mum’s precious porcelain ornaments clang together, but luckily there’s no actual damage done. Mum’s in a foul enough mood without adding to her fury.

  Or so I thought.

  ‘Right! I’m off!’ Mum breezes in from the kitchen in a pair of jeans (Jeans? Since when does Mum wear anything other than fussy floral skirts?), brown cowboy boots and a pink cowgirl hat.

  ‘Have fun, love.’ Dad attempts to kiss Mum’s cheek, but the cowgirl hat gets in his way and he ends up puckering up in the air as the brim of the hat karate-chops him in the forehead. ‘Wish everyone a merry Christmas from me.’

  ‘You could have come along, you know.’ Mum pouts at Dad as she adjusts the hat. ‘It isn’t just women, and most of the others are bringing partners.’

  ‘I think I need an early night, to be honest, love.’ Dad reaches up and yawns, loud and fake. ‘This term’s been exhausting.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mum gives Dad a sideways look before she turns to me. My stomach clenches in preparation. ‘I hope you’ve had a long, hard think about your behaviour.’ Without waiting for an answer, she tips the brim of her hat up so she can peck me on the cheek. ‘Be good. And don’t let your father order a takeaway. There’s a couple of margherita pizzas in the freezer. Kurt! Come and give me a kiss before I leave!’

  And then she’s off. The garden gate has barely shut behind her jean-clad bottom before Dad is on the phone and pressing his video rental card into my hand.

  The room is bright beyond my closed eyelids and I know I’m going to be late for work again because if my alarm had gone off when it should have, it’d still be dark. With a groan, I cover my face so the light won’t be too harsh when I force my eyes open, but I remain as I am for a moment, eyes closed behind my blanket of fingers, trying to process the second strange dream. I’m a trained counsellor – what does all this mean? Why am I conjuring up events from the past? I certainly don’t want to go back there – being on the receiving end of Mr Stewart’s rant about inappropriate language, as well as being in the splash zone of his spittle, was enough to put me off being a teenager. And then there was the bizarre sight of Mum in cowboy boots, having to listen to Kurt go on and on about his Pogs and how many he’d won that day (even though his school had banned them) and sharing a bedroom with Tina again who, despite protests to the contrary, snores like a demon. It took what felt like hours to fall asleep (if you can fall asleep in a dream) but I’m so glad to have woken up again, even if I need to summon the energy to get up and out of the house as quickly as possible. Luckily, I don’t have a client booked in until ten this morning, but I have no idea how far off that is. For all I know, lunchtime – and my client – could have been and gone.

  Peeling my eyes open, I remove my hands and roll over to check the time.

  What the…

  I almost topple out of the narrow bed and only just manage to stop myself ending up in a heap on the Forever Friends rug that sits on the tiny bit of floor space between my childhood bed and Tina’s. Scrabbling into a sitting position, I frantically eye the room. There are two wardrobes, crammed side by side, the nasty hand-me-down curtains that haven’t been in fashion since the late 1970s, and the tiny but bulky TV with the wire aerial that was as much use as a sugar-coated toothbrush. I’m not in my bed. Or rather, I’m not in my present-day bed.

  Kicking off the covers, I suppress a shudder at the chill in the room. There’s a ratty-looking dressing gown that I vaguely remember hanging from a hook on the back of the door, so I grab it and slip my arms into the sleeves then yank open the door and scurry down the stairs. I can hear the sounds of over-enthusiastic kids’ TV presenters over a murmur of chatter coming from the living room, and I find my family in there, Kurt plonked inches from the TV screen, Tina hunched over a bowl of cereal in the armchair, and Mum fussing over a hungover-looking Dad on the sofa.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead.’ Dad’s voice is hoarse, and he winces at the effort.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ Mum – no longer in jeans and cowboy boots, thank goodness – consults her watch and gives a tut. ‘The day is almost over.’

  ‘Hey.’ Tina frowns at me, her spoonful of Rice Krispies frozen in mid-air. ‘Who said you could borrow my dressing gown?’

  I look down at the dressing gown. Of course it isn’t mine. This is yellow, faded almost to cream, while I had a cornflower-blue version.

  I’m still in 1995. Still dreaming.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Aww, he’s so adorable.’ Tina presses the Beanie Baby to her chest and closes her eyes, dipping her chin so it rests on the little monkey’s head. ‘Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘He?’ The monkey has been laid down on the sofa so Tina can move on to her next present and Kurt has picked it up, examining the label. ‘Duh, it says it’s called Nana. Nanas are girls.’

  ‘Just. Like. You.’ Tina plucks the monkey from Kurt’s fingers and places it further along the sofa, among the rubble of wrapping paper and plasticky bows.

  ‘Mu-um. Tina called me a girl.’ Kurt’s face has crumpled, his lips protruding, and he’s eyeing his sister through narrowed slits.

  ‘Can you please not argue?’ Mum pushes at her temples and huffs out a breath. ‘It’s Christmas Day. We should be happy and loving and not wanting to rip each other’s heads off, for one day of the year.’ She releases the pressure on her temples and throws her arms up in the air.

  ‘Say cheese!’ Dad, oblivious to the bickering and Mum’s imminent meltdown, looms towards Tina and Kurt, his camera pressed to his face. ‘Come on, Maisie. Get in closer.’ He waves his hand like an air traffic controller, but I stay rooted to my corner of the sofa and he takes the photo anyway.

  ‘Da-ad.’ Tina combs through her hair with her fingers, studying the still-wrapped gift on her lap. ‘Can you not do that before I’ve brushed my hair? I look a mess.’

  ‘You look perfect.’ Dad wedges the camera into the pocket of his dressing gown. All morning routines have been forgotten today. The fire hasn’t been lit, breakfast hasn’t even been considered, and who wants to waste time getting dressed when there’s a ton of wrapping paper to tear through?


  ‘Are you okay, Maisie?’ Mum has managed to pull herself together and is smoothing down my bedhead hair. ‘You’ve been quiet these past few days.’ She turns her hand over so she can feel my forehead. ‘You’re not coming down with something, are you?’

  Only madness, I think. Because I have surely lost my mind. It’s been over a week now and I’m still caught in my nostalgia dream. It is still 1995, I am still a fifteen-year-old girl, and I’m becoming increasingly terrified that I’ll never wake up in the present again. The days crawl by, as though I’m actually living each second. The dream was fun to begin with, reminiscing about old times and hanging out with Jonas again, but it’s quickly turned into a nightmare I can’t get out of. I haven’t even seen Jonas since we left Mr Stewart’s office on the last day of term, so what’s the point?

  ‘Aaarrgghh!’ Mum and I jump at the sound Tina makes as she catches sight of the gift underneath the paper she’s ripping through. ‘Yes! Aaarrgghh!’ Clutching the gift, which hasn’t been entirely unmasked, she jumps up and throws her arms first around Dad and then Mum. ‘Thank you so much! I love it!’ Flopping back down on the sofa, she tears off the remaining paper and hugs the box to her chest.

  ‘What is it?’ Kurt asks me. I shrug. I have some hazy memories of this period, such as the cornflower-blue dressing gown whose replacement is somewhere in the pile of presents still to be opened, the earrings Mum doesn’t know she’s about to receive, and the fact that Lily will soon descend on the house like a hurricane, full of Christmas Day excitement and half a selection box of chocolate that she’s eaten for breakfast. But although the details must be buried somewhere deep in my subconscious (how else can I replay these events?), they aren’t forthcoming right now.