Heart of Glass

one

suburban relapse

(McKay/Sioux, The Scream: 1978)

i

'Careful knobjockey, can't you see that box says FRAGILE?!'

Her beautiful insult punctures the moment of silence between the end of London Calling and beginning of Brand New Cadillac. She thinks I can't hear. But I definitely just heard her say knobjockey and so now I'm pressing pause. Even The Clash can't compete with that.

I'm sitting in the shade of the sycamore tree that grows in our new front garden. Mum stands next to me, a can of Diet Coke in her hands, muttering with disgust. Peering up from my crappy generic mp3 player, I watch her scrutinising the poor red-faced removal men as they struggle with the million and one boxes that contain all our worldly possessions.

'Not there, you... you utter...'

She's searching for the right put-down. Wank-stain. Shithead. Fuckwit. Go on, I urge, trying to reach her telepathically. Say fuckwit. You know you want to. Fuckwit. Fuckwit. Fuckwit...

'... numpty.'

Even she looks disappointed in herself.

I snigger quietly, but evidently not quietly enough.

Mum turns so she's in front of me, looking down at me, jutting out her hip, blocking out the sun. 'Comfortable down there? Fancy a cushion?'

I push my Skullcandy headphones down around my neck. 'How about a foot rub?'

She doesn't answer. She doesn't look away. Deadlock. I raise my legs and wave my Converse at her. Nothing. She just glares. She has no sense of humour these days. She used to think I was funny, used to say if my career as a world famous singer-songwriter didn't work out, I should be a stand-up comedian. But now- not even a flicker of a smile. Her forehead is all wrinkled up and she looks at me like I'm some kind of alien species that she just happened to find in a bush fifteen years ago.

'That's enough skiving for you.' She crushes the can in her palm with a terrifying finality and starts walking towards our new wheelie bin. 'There's a few boxes of yours over by the car. You can take them up to your room.'

'I just sat down Mum...'

Her head swivels round like something out of The Exorcist and the look on her face tells me arguing is futile so sighing as loudly as I dare, I shove my mp3 player back into my pocket and push myself up off the grass.

I hate moving house. Always have. Always will.

Swoosh swoosh swoosh. I drag my feet as I make my way to the dark red saloon car Mum decided was more in keeping with her new lifestyle than our old silver Golf. Swoosh swoosh swoosh. To be honest, I preferred the Golf. But of course she didn't ask me for my opinion. About the car or moving house or anything. Swoosh swoosh swoosh.

'Danielle, will you please pick up your feet? Stop scuffing up your trainers.'

They're not trainers Mother. They're Converse hi-tops. And since I had to save up for an absolute age and buy them for myself, I think I have every right to scuff them if I want to.

But do I say any of this out loud?

Yeah right, I'm not that dumb.

Instead, I bend down to pick up one of the boxes of my stuff, helpfully marked DANIELLE CLOTHES. My hair falls in front of my face, but I don't have a spare hand to brush it away. It tickles my nose and I can't see a thing behind the mousy blonde curtain. Mum's always telling me to tie my hair back, that I shouldn't hide behind it. That my face has a refined bone structure a model would be proud of. That if only I would smile more... Blah blah blah-dee blah.