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F COURSE, NAT KNEW SHE WOULD HAVE TO LEAVE the house again. But she was determined to put it off for as long as possible. There was one more week of holidays left and she spent most of it sulking at home. NOW she was getting plenty of texts; she just didn’t want to read them. She prayed this would all be over and forgotten about by the time school started again.
“Stop hiding in your room,” said Bad News Nan one morning, popping her head round the bedroom door and scattering biscuit crumbs as she spoke. “You’ll get rickets without enough sunlight. Terrible, is rickets. You get horrible bendy legs. Doctors thought I had it once, but turns out my stockings were too tight.”
Nat wriggled further under the covers.
Bad News Nan sat heavily on the bed and looked around for something to munch. When she couldn’t see anything, she put her false teeth back in her pocket, as she only ever used them for eating.
The dog, who was hiding with Nat, emerged from under the bed and started nibbling at Nan’s trouser pocket.
He loved sucking her false teeth.
They were so tasty.
Nat peeked out from under the covers. The dog with Nan’s teeth WAS hilarious, after all.
“You had a great-auntie who suffered with her nerves,” Bad News Nan droned on, not noticing the snuffling dog. “Great-auntie Primula. She took to her bed one Christmas after her pudding set fire to the living-room curtains. Refused to move out of her room again, even when she got the boils.”
“Boils?” asked Nat, interested.
“Pustules, really. Oooh they were big enough to make the doctors weep,” said Bad News Nan with relish. “Record-breaking, they were. She made the local papers with them. People felt sorry for her, but not me. I think she just liked the attention.”
Nat wasn’t sure that anyone would want to be famous for having pustules, but she didn’t want Nan to think she was trying to get attention. She was in bed trying to AVOID attention.
“I’m getting up now, Nan,” she said, just as the dog made a grab for the gnashers. He ran off with them clattering around in his mouth. Nan said a rude word and leapt up as quickly as she could, which wasn’t very quickly, and the pair of them thudded down the stairs.
It’s not fair, thought Nat, getting dressed. I’m way less bonkers than anyone else in this family, and it’s ME people are laughing at …
When Nat at last emerged from her room, she was persuaded to go shopping with Mum and Bad News Nan. Mum wanted to buy vegetables, because Dad never bought any apart from potatoes, and Bad News Nan needed some ointment. When Nat asked why she needed the ointment, Nan told her. And then Nat felt a bit sick and wished she hadn’t.
In the shopping centre, Nat pulled the strings on her hoodie’s hood so tight around her face that she kept bumping into things. They went to their favourite caff and the only thing she would have was a milkshake, which she could drink by poking a straw through the tiny hole in her hood.
It was miserable, trying to avoid being laughed at. Mum kept reassuring her that people would forget about the video and move on to the next funny thing.
But as days went by, Nat’s angry outburst got more and more popular, and more and more shared. Like a snowball rolling down a massive mountain, gathering millions of snowflakes and turning into a horrible avalanche of frosty doom, EVERYONE was finding the clip hilarious and passing it on to their friends.
Perhaps it was Nat’s face, her wild flying hair, her little wiggly dance of outrage, her hoppy, bum-slapping dance, but something made people love it. And worst of all, she had come up with a phrase that people just liked using.
On Monday she heard the window cleaner over the road shout to his lad with the bucket: “Stop whistling. People are watching. Can’t you be normal?”
On Tuesday, Nat heard annoying local morning radio DJ Cabbage burble: “We’ve got a caller who says she’s just seen Prince Charles doing a hot wash down the launderette. All I can say to her is: ‘Doris, can’t you be normal?’”
On Wednesday Nat saw a comedian on the telly make fun of someone in the audience who was wearing an unfortunate pink tank top. “Why did you put that on?” he mocked. “People are watching …” The audience had started laughing even before he finished with …
“… Can’t you be normal?”
Nat immediately turned over to watch a documentary about a lost tribe in the Amazon. But even then she was half expecting one of the tribe to interrupt a war dance with: “Stop that, Dave, there’s a film crew. People are watching. Can’t you be normal?”
On Thursday, chat show host Dilbert Starburst said it about ten times all through his show and it got bigger laughs every flipping time.
And finally on Friday even the Prime Minister joined in the fun. He was teasing a politician from a foreign country at a big meeting. “Calm down, dear,” he said, in his usual smug voice, “people are watching. Can’t you be NORMAL?”
“Of course she can’t be normal,” muttered one of the Prime Minister’s crawly bum-lick friends, “she’s from Belgium.”
Oh great, so I can never go to Belgium now, thought Nat, watching the news. I bet the whole country will blame me for that comment.
Naturally Nat made Dad suffer for his online crimes. She couldn’t decide between shouting at him continually or refusing to talk to him, so she opted for a mixture of both, depending on whether she wanted him to make her a bacon sandwich, for example.
“Come on, love, you know I hate it when you’re cross with me,” he said on Saturday lunchtime as she tucked into one of his big, greasy, delicious bacon sandwiches.
“Which is odd, because you make her cross a lot,” said Mum, who had been NO HELP TO DAD all week.
“Well, you can stop being cross because I’ve found out how to make it all better,” said Dad, looking quite pleased with himself.
“You CAN’T make it better,” said Nat, who was actually starting to feel less cross with him and more sorry for herself. Besides, she had to admit Dad did make excellent bacon sandwiches. “It’s not a grazed knee that you can kiss better and put a plaster on.”
She was only using that as an example, but Dad suddenly looked guilty. “I’ve apologised for getting you stuck in that babies’ swing a thousand times,” he said, remembering a time when she had grazed her knee. “I thought you were too little for the big swings.”
“I haven’t heard this story,” said Mum quietly.
“Now be fair, Nat,” said Dad, very very quickly, “you only grazed your knee when the fireman who cut you out of the swing dropped you on the gravel. Technically that wasn’t my fault.”
He jumped up out of arm’s reach and plopped more bacon in the pan. Then he said, “Now who wants to hear about the brilliant thing Dad’s just done?”
“There is NOTHING you can say to make this situation better,” said Nat firmly, “except that we’re emigrating. At the very least I’ll have to change schools. Everyone used to make fun of me – mostly thanks to you, Dad – and it’s taken me ages to go from being laughed at to just being ignored. I was hoping this might be the term where I got popular. But no, I’m going to be back down in the ‘getting laughed at’ spot again.”
“Would a hundred pounds make you feel any better?” asked Dad, over the sound of sizzling bacon.
“Ivor, you can’t just give her a hundred pounds to make her stop shouting at you,” said Mum. “That’s a terrible idea, even for you.”
“It’s not FROM me,” said Dad, smiling, “it’s from the hair salon in town. They saw you doing that thing I’m not going to say because I don’t want to be shouted at again, and they want you to be a model for them, and it’s all thanks to Dad!”
“What if she doesn’t WANT to be a model?” asked Mum. “My little girl doesn’t need a load of people telling her how pretty and wonderful and beautiful she is, and giving her money just for being gorgeous, do you, Nat?”
There was a long pause, when all that could be heard was the sizzle of the smoky pan.
“Yeah, that sounds horrible,” said Nat slowly, thinking that it sounded rather nice, on the whole. “Although … maybe I should let poor old Dad try and make it up to me. It’ll make him feel better.”
Dad smiled. “They recognised you from the – the – you know, the thing, and left a message on the website saying that you were the perfect girl to advertise their new styling gel.”
“I’m not saying yes,” said Nat, “but is it cash and what do I have to do?”
Mum looked at the two of them. “You’re both as bad as each other,” she said with a sigh.
“Dad doesn’t get EVERYTHING wrong,” said Nat.
Then the smoke alarm went off as Dad set the pan on fire.
(#uacb6488b-984b-58b0-81f4-abd1797d37a1)
OU DO LOOK FUNNY WITH ALL YOUR EYEBROWS burned off,” chuckled Nat as they reached the hair salon. “Maybe you should get one of the ladies in here to draw some on for you? Loads of people do it.”
“No, loads of women do it,” corrected Dad.
“Or maybe they can stick some real hair on from all the clippings,” giggled Nat. “There’s tons on the floor – black ones, blonde ones, curly—”
“If you don’t mention it, no one will notice,” said Dad.
“Rubbish,” laughed Nat as they went inside the shop. “The only reason no one’s pointed and laughed at me today is because they’re all pointing and laughing at you.”
“Glad to help,” said Dad with a fixed smile.
The salon was called THE FINAL CUT and was decorated with pictures of movie stars.
“Why’s it called ‘The Final Cut’?” asked Dad when he met the manager. “You’ve changed the name. It used to be ‘Curl up and Dye’.”
“Yes, we thought it would give us a more Hollywood Image,” said the manager, who was called Irene Hideous and had leathery orange skin and severe, short blonde hair. “You know, like they say ‘cut’ when they make films.”
“Yes, but ‘The Final Cut’ sounds more like someone having their head chopped off,” said Dad brightly. “Get it?”
There was a horrible pause.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Irene Hideous. “That sign cost us a fortune, and so did all those pictures. I’m not changing it again so please don’t tell my customers that.”
Nat sighed.
“You could do a Halloween theme though,” continued Dad, enthusiastic and embarrassing as ever. “You could have a big chopping block over there and customers could put their head on it and you could cut their hair while you ask them if they’ve got any last requests.”
“Last requests?” said a very old lady who had just come out from under a dryer. Her hair was bright blue. “My last request is to have my ashes put in a big egg timer. I do like to be useful. Even though nobody notices.”
“Shut up, Mum,” said another elderly woman sitting next to her.
“Besides,” continued the very old lady, “my daughter here hasn’t managed to boil me a decent egg for sixty years.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it, you can pay for your own hairdo,” said her daughter, storming out.
Irene Hideous looked at Dad venomously.
“Now she’s gone I can tell you my REAL last request,” cackled the old lady. She then said something SO RUDE that Nat thought her ears were going to fall off.
Quickly the manager ushered Nat and Dad into the back of the salon, next to the sinks.
“RIGHT, well, we’re trying to attract younger customers,” explained Mrs Hideous, “so we thought the ‘Can’t you be normal’ girl—”
“My name’s Nathalia,” said Nat.
“Yes, you, apparently you’re a new celebrity that is popular with youngsters. You’re not even that bad-looking,” said Mrs Hideous as she grabbed Nat’s face and started pulling the skin around. “There are cheekbones in there, somewhere.”
This isn’t like being a model in the way Mum said, thought Nat as her face was squished. She quite liked being called a ‘celebrity’ though.
Irene Hideous ran her long, bony orange fingers through Nat’s hair, sizing it up expertly.
“Oh dear,” she said. “It’s a bit thin.”
“I get it from baldy here,” said Nat, who was getting fed up with the way this was turning out. After all, wasn’t she supposed to be a celebrity now?
Dad tried to cover The Bald Spot Which Must Not Be Named with both hands.
“It’ll have to do,” decided Mrs Hideous.
She reached under the counter and brought out a big plastic tub of what looked like clear jelly.
“This is our own invention. We call it Bio-Organic Gel With A Steady Hold.”
“BOGWASH,” said Dad.
“Dad!” said Nat, horrified.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs Hideous.
“The first letters of ‘Bio-Organic Gel With A Steady Hold’,” explained Dad. “It spells BOGWASH.”
“I’ve ordered five thousand labels from LABELS R US in the town centre now,” said Mrs Hideous, who looked like she was regretting letting Dad within a hundred yards of her salon. “DO NOT repeat that. No one’s going to want that on their head.”
Nathalia stared out of the big glass windows into the street and tried to pretend she wasn’t there. Why did I let Dad talk me into this? she thought.
As she stared blankly at a queue of people waiting for a bus she saw a very familiar sight. There, fidgeting and talking to himself, was Darius Bagley.
Her first thought was: Hey, great, Darius, I’ll see what he’s up to because that’s always a laugh.
Her second thought, about 0.00000001 seconds later was: DARIUS SHOWED DAD HOW TO MAKE THE WEBSITE AND UPLOAD THAT VIDEO AND RUIN MY LIFE AND SO HE MUST DIE.
“Just sign the contract, I’ll be back in five minutes,” yelled Nat, running out of the salon and knocking over a hairdryer.
She hadn’t been able to get hold of Darius for a week now. He didn’t have a mobile, or a landline, because the phone company were too scared of his horrible brother, Oswald Bagley, to come round and put one in.
“Stay right there, Bagley, you little worm,” shouted Nat, just as the bus pulled up at the stop.
Darius barged to the front of the queue and had almost made it through the door when Nat grabbed his frayed collar and dragged him away. His face was dirty, his hair cropped short and in tufts. He was wearing an old shirt three sizes too big for him and he had a baked bean in his ear.
“Where are you going, looking so smart?” she said. She wasn’t being sarcastic – he WAS looking smart. For Darius, that is.
“Let me get on the bus, I’ll be late for my job,” said Darius, wriggling.
“You’ve got a lot to answer for,” said Nat. “Why did you give Dad that video?”
The last few passengers were getting on as Darius wriggled and squirmed to get away.
“People are watching,” said Darius loudly. “Can’t you be normal?”
