You're Not the Boss of Me! E-Book

Catherine Wilkins

• Herausgeber: Nosy Crow
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A laugh-out-loud story about fighting for your right to steal the show, from the much-loved author of the My Best Friend and Other Enemies series. Amy Miller is a very positive person and she is fully prepared to be the star of the school Comedy Show. But when Harry is put in charge, he stops her from performing or writing or doing anything fun. Amy can't understand what's happening until her sister tells her: Harry is being sexist, and Amy must take a stand. Armed only with killer one-liners, Amy goes into battle to fight for her right to make people laugh. A brilliantly funny new story from Catherine Wilkins, stand-up comedian, podcaster and author of When Good Geeks Go Bad,The Weird Friends Fan Cluband theMy Best Friend and Other Enemies series.

Leseprobe

For Hannah, Taylor and Amanda, my favourite #femaleworkplace. CW.

CHAPTER ONE

At 7 a.m. I am practising my comedy eyebrows in my bedroom mirror when I hear the sound of smashing plates and I know it’s because they’ve fallen off the draining board again.

“It’s OK, it’s OK, I’ll get the broom!” I hear my mum yell from downstairs. Then: “Well, why hasn’t it been put back? DON’T COME IN HERE WITH BARE FEET! What on earth was it doing there? Mummy is NOT shouting!”

The plates get cleaned and stacked to dry with really good intentions, I’m sure. But then no one ever puts them away and the draining board ends up like a buckaroo of balancing crockery. It’s the same with the bins.

I roll my eyes at my family and get back to 2practising for my excitingaudition. I don’t know if I will actually have to audition or not; I’m not quite sure how it works. But it’s best to be prepared.

I, Amy Miller, am always prepared. (Unlike my family.)

Today is a day I have been looking forward to for years. (I mean, I look forward to a lot of days, to be fair.)

I, Amy Miller, am a very positive person. But this is still up there.

It’s official. The list is opening for entries for the Lower School Comedy Show.

I remember when I was in Year Seven and I first watched the comedy sketches put on by the older kids, how I fell in LOVE. How funny it was! How daring, how FUN. I couldn’t wait to be a part of it.

And now I, a sophisticated Year Nine, am finally eligible to do it and I’m so excited!

Not that I haven’t dabbled with comedy writing and stuff in the meantime. You have to hone your craft. I used to write quite a lot with my friend Anil. We made a spoof radio show, which we recorded on our phones. Though we’ve drifted apart a bit lately.

Anyway, whatever. I also sing, so I’m a triple 3threat. Well, double threat. I can dance a tiny bit, so maybe double and a half threat. Whatever. Not the point right now.

I do a little tap dance to myself in the mirror and end on a power pose. By the time we are finally allowed in the kitchen, I’m on top of the world.

Mum gets cross about my older sister Caz having her phone at the table, but Dad inadvertently yet deftly defuses the tension by trying to eat a yoghurt with a fork because we don’t have enough clean cutlery.

“Anyway.” Dad frowns and wipes yoghurt off his tie. “Caz, don’t wind up your mum when she has a big presentation today.”

Mum is still chuckling at Dad eating the yoghurt in such a weird way, and she smiles affectionately at him.

Dad looks relieved, and then necks his Berocca like a weary cowboy downing a shot of whisky. A big fight has been avoided. All is calm again at the saloon. For now. Caz subtly goes back on her phone, holding it under the table.

My parents seem to take it in turns to flip out about their jobs. It’s Mum’s turn at the moment.

4As the middle child, I have spent a lot of time studying everyone. Although, you don’t exactly have to be an anthropologist to spot that leaving everything to the last minute is a terrible idea. I have learned from their mistakes.

I, Amy Miller, am a very organised person.

You’d never catch me staying up all night writing something for the very next morning! Unthinkable.

I am just contemplating how glad I am that their general nonsense doesn’t affect me too much, when something truly terrible happens. I shall call it: Milkgate.

I pour lumpy, stinky, out-of-date “milk” on to my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. (And yes, this is of the magnitude that it deserves a gate suffix.)

“Ewww!” Caz actually looks up from her phone. That’s how bad it is.

And, look, you know I am a very positive person. Ask anyone. My two best friends Sadie and Mai have actually described me as “annoyingly cheerful”. So if I think something is bad, people should really listen.

I had been trying to turn a blind eye to the chaos of family. I know everyone is busy and trying their best. But for some reason this infraction cuts through the 5general noise and I am outraged. They have ruined my breakfast. This time it’s PERSONAL.

“OK, look.” I address my parents seriously. “This isn’t cute any more. This is officially an Adverse Childhood Experience. You have crossed the line from narcissistic tendencies to outright NEGLECT. I’m pretty sure if I rang Childline right now, you’d get arrested.”

Everybody looks up from their breakfast at me. There’s a pause. I assume they are thinking how to phrase their apology. But then they all laugh. All of them. Even my little sister Bel, who thinks I’m cool.

“How dare you laugh at me,” I say.

This makes them laugh more.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” My mum tries to stop laughing. “It’s just, you’re so…” She trails off.

“Pompous?” supplies Caz.

“I was going to say dramatic,” clarifies Mum.

“You can’t ring Childline because we’ve run out of milk,” chortles Dad.

“That isn’t the issue,” I state. Do I really have to say this? “Rancid milk is a bad thing to keep in the fridge. How much money are we wasting on new crockery? Why does a basket of clean washing just 6sit next to the ironing board like a constant, help-yourself laundry buffet? Why is there always post and paper and stuff everywhere? Look at your lives! Look at yourselves!”

There is a contemplative silence for a moment. Then: “Are you volunteering to help out more?” asks Dad.

Urgh. This old chestnut. Any time you try and ask your parents to be better people and do more stuff for you, they try and flip it around on you. I bet he thinks he’s snookered me with this tedious distraction. It can’t be that hard to help out more. I bet I’d be brilliant at it.

“If that’s what it takes,” I reply loftily.

And with that, I take an almost-brown banana from the fruit bowl and swish importantly from the room.

CHAPTER TWO

I love school. Mainly. I mean, lots of good things happen here. And as discussed, I am a very positive person.

I get to sing in the choir, play hockey for the school and I have great friends, Sadie and Mai. (We’re officially nerds but that is sort of just school-speak for “really brilliant and clever”.)

And that’s what Socrates himself said.

Well, he said: “When the debate is lost, slander becomes the tool of the loser.”

I know he wasn’t exactly talking about All Saints High, but I think it still applies perfectly.

And that’s why people sometimes call me a nerd. Or bossy. Or fat.

Because of the Socrates thing.

8(And, sure, maybe partly because I frequently quote the Socrates thing.)

And I especially love school today because in our Year Nine assembly our drama teacher Mrs Hague finally announces that the Lower School Comedy Show audition list is open.

I glance at Sadie and Mai, and grin.

“So, long story short.” Mrs Hague flaps her hands at us. “It’s over to you.”

Mrs Hague has a habit of saying “long story short” without actually giving you the short version of the story either. There’s just no story at all.

Which is kind of weird if your subject is drama. It’s literally all about stories. I guess brevity is the – oh, here we go. Mrs Gascoyne, our head of Year Nine, has spotted the paucity of facts. She stands up.

“Uh … Mrs Hague, could you perhaps give the pupils a bit more … information? About what they will be doing? What acts you’re looking for? Who is holding the auditions?” She flaps her hands back at Mrs Hague.

“Um…” Mrs Hague looks pained for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. They’ll find out when they get there.”

9“Really? Nothing?” Mrs Gascoyne persists.

“Well.” Mrs Hague sighs. “We always do a revue for summer term. For some reason, a few years ago I thought it would be easier than staging a play. I can’t remember why now. Anyway, think of it as anAlternative School Play if you like. It will comprise of skits and sketches, possibly songs and dances if that’s what you want to do, which you will write and perform.”

A murmur of excitement ripples through Year Nine. People nudge each other and grin. Some roll their eyes, like they’re above it. But lots seem excited.

“Time really does fly, doesn’t it,” says Mrs Hague absently.

“OK! That’s fine, thank you, Mrs Hague.” Mrs Gascoyne gestures for Mrs Hague to come and sit back down. Mrs Hague gives her this look that seems to say, “Oh, NOW you want me to stop talking.”

Sadie, Mai and I look at each other in curious amusement. “Did…?” I whisper, not sure how to phrase this. “Did Mrs Hague once forget to organise a Lower School play? And then put on the first revue to cover it?”

“Right?” Mai grins; Sadie nods. We’re a little 10incredulous, but we also wouldn’t put it past her.

“Definitely forgot!” Mai is utterly convinced. “I’ll be amazed if this show even happens.”

They stand next to me, chuckling, as I write our names on the sign-up sheet. First three names on the list. We went straight there after assembly. (I wrote their names but they didn’t stop me.)

“It says the first meeting is tomorrow afternoon,” I read out loud to them.

“If Mrs Hague remembers,” laughs Sadie. Mai and I chuckle and we start heading to our first lesson.

We are still discussing it when we arrive at our French classroom.

“She is an odd lady,” says Sadie, plonking her bag and sitting down.

“I’m so excited!” I tell them again.

“We know,” replies Mai.

“It’s going to be so fun,” I assert. I do a quick impression of Adele, singing, to show I am showbiz, then I sit down too.

They shake their heads at me, chuckling. “You’re still coming with me, right?” I ask them. “We’ll all do something.”

11“Yeah, sure,” says Mai uncertainly.

“It will be fun writing,” says Sadie. “I’m not acting or singing or anything though.”

“Hell, no,” agrees Mai. “I could never do that. I’d be too embarrassed.”

“Me too,” says Sadie. They both shudder.

I stare at them pityingly.

“It’s so weird how you never get embarrassed,” says Mai.

I mean, that’s not quite true, but I do seem to have a different “embarrassment threshold” to them. They are quite shy and sort of want to keep their heads down at school. Whereas I…

I do my impression of Miranda Sings for good measure. I do it a tiny bit loud.

“Shhhhh!” They both hush me and then look around to see if anyone cares.

“Haters make me famous!” I quickly add her catchphrase, before acquiescing to their request to be quiet and inconspicuous like them.

My restraint is too late. A few people in the classroom stop what they’re doing to look at me and some of them roll their eyes. Sadie and Mai look down, embarrassed.

12“Oh, yeah? You doing the revue?” a nearby boy called Riley asks.

“Yes,” I reply factually.

“Well, I suppose the show isn’t over till the fat lady sings!” he retorts, and the boys he is with snigger.

Classic Socrates thing in action. I roll my eyes.

All the girls in earshot have gasped and are staring between me and Riley. I’m aware this is one of the worst things they can imagine being called.

I’m aware I’m supposed to feel that way too.

But I don’t.

“Well, first of all, my BMI is perfectly healthy for my height,” I inform Riley. “It’s actually right in the middle. But even if it wasn’t, that’s my business. Second, yes, I may not be stick thin like, for example, supermodel and influencer Ashlee Eklund. But if Ashlee Eklund and I were shipwrecked on a desert island together, my fat reserves would supply me with energy, which means I would survive longer than her, and I’d be more likely to be rescued. So—”

“Bonjour, la classe!” Madame West has arrived.

That’s a shame, I’m pretty sure I was about to win that argument.

Sadie and Mai have their hands over their faces 13and are peering at me through their fingers. They look like they want the ground to swallow them up.

Poor Sadie and Mai. They just don’t know how to handle school yet.

CHAPTER THREE

That night I am so excited about tomorrow’s meet-up that I write down six ideas in my notepad, then I spend twenty minutes ironing until the laundry-buffet basket is empty. None of my family say anything when they get home. I’m going to see how long it takes them to notice that the ironing board has been put away, and the “iron a shirt as and when you need it” reign of terror is over. I can slow-play this.

Apart from my mum, we’re all sitting at the kitchen table, doing our homework and waiting for our dinner. Well, Caz isn’t doing homework; she’s on her phone. And my dad probably isn’t doing homework, but he’s at home and tapping away at his laptop. And, actually, Bel’s homework seems to be mainly colouring.

15Occasionally I miss being eight, because I loved all the colouring, but then I remember how sometimes I was bored, because actually colouring all the time isn’t all that intellectually stimulating.

Plus, it’s important to have personal growth. I’m a much more well-rounded person now. I came third in a short-story writing competition last year and won a pen! Also, I know all about the Periodic Table of Elements. Bel doesn’t know any of that yet, even if she does look really happy colouring.

“Lovely,” Dad murmurs. I don’t think he was really listening to my ripping yarn of how I signed up to the revue.

“Yawn,” says Caz, not looking up from her phone. I guess she wasn’t listening either.

The front door bangs and Mum comes rushing in.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! I’m here now! I’m here now! I’m ready! It went REALLY well today though! Thanks for waiting.” She practically throws herself into her chair. “Right. What are we having?”

Everyone looks at each other and slowly each comes out of their own private, oblivious coma. As our eyes refocus we’re back in the room. BANG. Hypnotism over.

16Dad blinks at Mum. “Oh. I haven’t – I thought – I wasn’t even…” He trails off.

“So there’s nothing in the oven?” says Mum.

“No,” Dad confirms.

“But I can smell it,” says Mum, sniffing. “What’s that smell? It smells like … burning.”

“Yes, what is that smell?” Dad sniffs.

“I can smell it too.” Bel gets up.

“Is that smoke?” asks Caz, pointing towards the giant archway that leads into the living room (which we can now see through, because there is no ironing board blocking it. You’re welcome).

I stand up as well, and see that there is indeed smoke rising from the carpet. From a very specific, small patch of carpet. That has an iron face down on it. Ah.

“OK. I think I know what happened here,” I say.

Dad strides over to the iron, turns it off at the socket, unplugs it and lifts it up. Mum quickly drenches a tea towel and pats down the cremated area of carpet, now that there’s no live electricity. When they think it is safe enough they stop and turn to face us.

Mum closes her eyes for a moment and does what I recognise as her “calming exercise” where she 17counts down backwards from five before she speaks. I can tell because her lips move a tiny bit with each number.

“Amy?” She opens her eyes. “Did you do this?”

“Well,” I say. “Technically, yes, but—”

“Oh, Amy.”

“It’s rude to interrupt,” I chastise her. “If you let me finish, please, I did a nice thing for the family here.”

Caz snorts laughter. “What? Insurance job?” She chuckles at her own joke.

“Oh, insurance,” murmurs Dad.

“You nearly burnt the house down!” says Mum.

“Well, that’s an exaggeration,” I say.

“You’ve destroyed our carpet!”

“It’s just a bit singed,” I protest. “And anyway, the fire bit was just a by-product of my helping,” I add.

Caz chuckles, steps forward and takes a picture of the iron-shaped burn with her phone. “Hashtag sister helping,” she says, clearly posting my little faux pas to Instagram.

“Look,” I say. “I ironed everything in the ironing basket, I put all the shirts in everyone’s wardrobes and then I put the ironing board away. So we can 18finally use this archway for its intended purpose, which is a doorway. Tada!”

“Tada?!” Mum sounds incredulous.

“I apologise for my oversight with the iron,” I say magnanimously. They all glare at me. “Dad said I should help more,” I add. They all glare at Dad.

“Well, Amy has said sorry,” Dad says. “Maybe—”

“Maybe Amy’s help—” Mum sounds angry then pauses, possibly having a change of heart, as her lips count down from five. “Thanks for trying, I guess, Amy,” she finishes.

“You’re welcome,” I beam.

“So what is for dinner?” asks Bel.

There is a frazzled pause. Then: “Let’s just order fish and chips,” says Mum. We cheer. “You do it,” she tells Dad. “I’m going to get changed.”

Dad grabs his phone and we all sit back at the table and recommence homework.

“Amy,” says Caz. “Where did you put the ironing board?”

I am about to tell her “the airing cupboard” when we hear a loud noise, which sounds a lot like someone opening the airing cupboard and unexpectedly having an ironing board fall on top of them.

CHAPTER FOUR

“The thing is, Amy, your mum has a black eye,” says Dad, pouring fresh milk (that I procured) over his morning bowl of muesli. I survey the non-sludgy, non-stinky nature of it indignantly.

“Do you have anything to say?” Mum stands over me, annoyed, putting on her earrings.

“I already said I was sorry loads,” I reply. “Anyway, I think it looks cool,” I attempt. “Mum, look at the positives – now you can say wicked stuff, like, you should see the other guy!”

Caz splutters with laughter. I triple-check the use-bydate on my yoghurt and open it.

“Cool?”Mum is not amused.“Cool? I’m supposed to give a talk about smooth conflict resolution today! I don’t want to look like I’ve just started some kind 20of Fight Club.”

“Well, good, because you just broke the first rule of Fight Club,” says Caz.

“What’s the first rule of Fight Club?” asks Bel.

“You do not talk about it,” answers Caz. Bel looks confused.

“I said sorry,” I state.

“It’s truly not that bad,” says Caz. “You’ve covered it pretty well with make-up.”

Mum sighs and takes a bite of toast while standing up. She’d be very cross if any of us ate while standing up, the hypocrite.

She then addresses my dad. “Please can you do dinner tonight?”

“Oh, um. You’ve hit your deadline now though…” Dad flounders. “I thought that meant we can share the household stuff a bit more again.”

“I’ve still got loads of other deadlines.” Mum sounds stern.

“Well, I’ve still got loads of other deadlines,” replies Dad, also sounding put out.

It’s a good old-fashioned stand-off. The cowboys in the saloon brace themselves.

It’s sort of Dad’s turn to freak out about his job, but 21it’s difficult to argue that when Mum has a black eye.

“I could make dinner?” I suggest.

Everyone stares at me for a moment. So I do my go-to impression of this famous chef called Taffy. (Taffy was briefly an It girl before I was born, and now she mainly does a version of fusion cooking, where she puts stuff together that would never go, like cheese and ice cream, or ketchup-flavoured custard.)

Her catchphrase is: “You will never get to try these flavours again, darling.” We always joke how we would never want to. Me and Anil used to do a lot of bits about her.

I do her catchphrase now: “You will never get to try these flavours again, darling.”

My family chuckle. “OK. You’re on,” says Dad.

“But no liquorice-flavoured omelette or whatever,” adds Mum.

“Naturellement,” I reply in a pretty good French accent.

That’s breaking character, really. Taffy isn’t French. The one time they had a French guest on her show, the French person looked absolutely baffled by what Taffy was doing and then just laughed loads instead of trying the food properly.

22But anyway, ha! I am now in charge of dinner! I am going to do a brilliant job. Preparation is key.

As you know, I, Amy Miller, am a very prepared person.

My friend Sadie’s family have a slow cooker. Her mum just plugs it in in the morning, chucks in a load of stock, beef chunks and veg, and then when they get home eight hours later they have themselves a stew all ready.

That’s what I’m going to do. Except we don’t have a slow cooker. So I am going to have to improvise. But that’s OK.

I, Amy Miller, am a very good improviser. Yes, and.

I turn on my family’s regular oven and set it to the lowest heat setting I can find. Then I get a casserole dish and fill it with water, stock cubes, some tins of tomato and tinned sweetcorn. We need protein and I eventually find some frozen chicken breasts in the freezer. So I chuck them in too. I put on the lid, pop it in the oven and voila!It will all be in the pot, ready when we get home.