Fizzypop

“Excuse me,” said Tom. “I’m just trying to get down the stairs.”

“There’s no need to push. As for you, Frankie F—”

“What’s going on up there?” Mum had come out of the kitchen, accompanied by Rags. Rags is our dog; he loves a bit of excitement. “What’s all the shouting about?”

“It’s them,” said Tom. “They’re at it again.”

“I’m not at it,” I said. “She’s the one making the noise.”

“You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mum. “What’s the problem?”

“She is!” shrieked Angel. “Look what she’s done!”

She hurled her shirt viciously down the stairs in a scrunched-up heap. What dog could resist? Rags was on it in an instant. Angel let out one of her ear-splitting screeches.

“Stop him!”

I made a grab, but Rags was too quick. He capered off joyously down the hall, shaking the shirt from side to side like it was a rat. Angel screeched again. Dad says when she does that it is like a car alarm going off inside your head.

“Rags!” Mum cornered him at the end of the hall. “Drop! Bad boy!”

He wasn’t a bad boy, he just thought it was a game. Any dog would have thought it was a game. But he always obeys Mum, I don’t know why. He doesn’t take any notice when I tell him to do things. I think it’s because we’re mates, while Mum is an authority figure. She can be really stern when she wants. Which, now I come to think of it, is quite often.

“Right. Now!” Mum held up the shirt. “What’s the matter with it?”

“She’s gone and shrivelled it,” wailed Angel.

“Only a little bit,” I said. “If you tucked it in, nobody’d ever notice.”

“I don’t want to tuck it in! That was my favourite shirt, I was going to wear it on Saturday. Mum, it’s not fair! She shouldn’t be allowed to touch my things.”

“Frankie.” Mum turned to look at me. She didn’t seem cross; just kind of… resigned. “I told you to stick to simple stuff… sheets, pillowcases. Tea towels. Why did you have to go and mess with Angel’s shirt?”

“It was there,” I said, “waiting to be ironed. I thought you’d be happy! I folded everything all nice and neat. And I put it all away.”

“And you went spying in my room!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“Did not. I just put it away for you.”

“Just tried to hide it, you mean.”

I hadn’t actually tried to hide it, cos that would have been dishonest; but I had sort of hoped that by the time she came across it she’d have decided it was just, like, totally naff and she couldn’t bear to be seen dead in it, which is what usually happens when she’s worn something more than a couple of times.

“You might at least have owned up,” said Mum. “Just admitted to an honest mistake.”

“Honest!” Angel made a loud barking sound. “Huh!”

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Look, just calm down,” said Mum. “It’s not the end of the world. We’ll get you another one.”

“She ought to buy it.”

“Well, I can’t,” I said, “cos I haven’t any money.”

“No, that’s because you’re still paying for setting the garden shed on fire!”

“That was an accident.”

“Are you saying my shirt wasn’t?”

“No, I—”

“Are you saying you shrivelled it on purpose?”

“No! I just—”

“STOP!” Mum’s voice came bellowing at us up the hall. “I have had enough!”

We both quavered into silence. When Mum gets mad, she gets really mad. Far worse than Dad.

“Just button it! I can’t take any more, this time of the morning. I’ve got Mrs Simmonds coming for a fitting at eight o’clock, I don’t need to be all hot and bothered.”

Mum works from home doing dressmaking and stuff; she often has people arriving at weird hours.

“Get yourselves ready,” she said, “and get off to school.”

Angel disappeared, muttering, into her room. I went through to the kitchen to eat some breakfast. I always eat breakfast. I once read somewhere it’s the most important meal of the day; it gives you brain power. Angel doesn’t bother with it, on account of being figure-conscious. The most she ever has is a low-fat yoghurt, but I believe in eating properly. Angel can be stick thin if she wants. I’d rather not have my stomach rumbling in front of the whole class, which is what happened to me once and was just, like, so embarrassing I wanted to die, especially when people started calling me Rumblebelly. Who wants to be stick thin anyway? She is at that age, Mum says. Fifteen. It makes her very angry.

Tom was in the kitchen, packing books into his school bag. I said, “You eaten?” but he just mumbled and went on packing. I have never actually seen Tom eat breakfast, but that’s not to say he doesn’t. He is just a very private kind of person. Very secretive. I have this theory that Mum must have been abducted by aliens and that his real father is some kind of robot creature from outer space. It seems the only rational explanation. Mum says I’m not being fair; she says he is just shy. “Imagine what it must be like for him, sandwiched between you two.”

At least he doesn’t fly into rages.

“Honestly,” I said, “talk about over the top! It was just a little bit of crinkle.”

I’d hoped he might sympathise with me for the way I’d been treated; that we might even have a cosy chat about Angel and her furious temper. But you can’t really have cosy chats with Tom.

“It’s not like I crinkled the whole thing,” I said. “Soon as I saw what was happening, I stopped.”

Tom grunted, and stuffed some more books into his bag.

“And that thing with the shed… I was just trying to fumigate it.”