The Boyfriend Dilemma Read Free

the holidays?” Kyle asks, meaning the school we all go to just down the road.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat was your old school like?” Danny wants to know.
    â€œAll right, y’know. Pretty relaxed.”
    â€œYou’re lucky,” Jude sniggers. “Mossbridge isn’t relaxed at all…”
    â€œWas it one of those arty places where you only have to do lessons if you feel like it?” Kyle asks.
    â€œEr, kind of,” the boy replies. Someone’s put music on now, so all I can catch are occasional phrases like “boarding school” and “trip to China”, which, to me, mean “ incredibly posh”. Our school trip last year was to France, and Mum and Dad couldn’t afford for me and Kyle to go. Instead, they took us all (including Gran) on a day trip to the seaside, where Amber saw a poo floating in the sea.
    I get up from my bed and tiptoe to the bathroom before this new person can see me. With the door locked, I brush my teeth as thoroughly as possible, even though I’ll have to do it again after breakfast. I even floss, like Zoe does. For some reason, it seems vitally important to have gleaming teeth today.
    Back in my room, I check my reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door, hoping the clothes I threw on earlier don’t look too mad. Paisley-patterned shirt, beaten-up denim shorts with flowery-patched pockets, thin red belt to hold them up (as they’re a teeny bit too big), plus purple tights … is it all a bit too much? I’m so used to picking out charity-shop clothes that I’m pretty sure I can throw an outfit together. Zoe reckons I have “natural style” – but then, she’d hardly say, “God, Layla – where did you get that shirt from? The clothing bank?” It’s next to the bottle bank in the park. CJ spread a rumour that she’d seen me squeeze myself into the hole where people post their worn-out clothes, trying to get stuff out. “Her bum and legs were sticking out,” she announced, making out I was that desperate for something to wear. I have no idea why CJ hates me and Zoe. She calls Zoe a “snob” and me a “tinker”, so you can’t win really.
    You look fine , I tell myself firmly. Why am I feeling so self-conscious all of a sudden? Probably because, although charity shops are OK, occasionally I wish I could go to all the normal high-street shops like Zoe does and, you know, look normal. Much easier that way. I glance at my alarm clock and wish she’d hurry up.
    â€œLayla!” Mum calls upstairs. “Kyle, boys … there’s a whole stack of waffles here. Hurry up before they go cold.” Eek – I’m about to meet the voice . The rich-dad-in-music-business, school-trip-to-China new arrival. I try to flatten my dark springy curls and run my tongue over my shiny teeth. “Plenty for everyone,” Mum adds cheerfully. I hurry downstairs to get myself settled all casually at the kitchen table before the boys arrive. By some miracle, Mum has managed to cram eight seats – including our wobbly piano stool – around the kitchen table.
    Gran, who’s nearly eighty and hates being left out, is already sitting there, stuffing her face with several slices of bacon squashed between a couple of waffles (she likes to eat everything in a sandwich). Amber helps herself to a clump of rashers from the towering plateful, giggling, “Whoops – they were all stuck together.” From under the grill comes another batch, and from upstairs comes a gang of boys, five of them all laughing loudly and clattering towards us. I sit next to Gran, wondering why I’m feeling so edgy in my own house as they all pour in: Kyle, Danny, Harris, Jude and him – New Boy – wearing jeans and a pale blue T-shirt with a scratchy drawing of a polar bear on the front.
    â€œMake room for Ben,” Mum says as everyone grabs seats.
    The stool