Autograph
‘Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.’ I open one eye and see Woody standing in the doorway. It takes me a second to remember where I am. I’m in Nina’s guest bedroom. So why is Woody here?
‘Morning, Sissy.’ He is in head-to-toe denim and has a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. I open the other eye and slowly sit up. ‘Your bag seems to have thrown up everywhere.’ He steps over my scattered clothes with disgust.
‘Woody, how are you here?’ I ask.
He perches at the end of the bed.
‘It was a whole thing. Dr Daddy told Mummy that you finally saw the light and are no longer with Joe Rogan 2.0. Mummy told me, so then I texted the ex and asked where you were, and he told me that you were at Nina’s.
And I was like, who the hell is Nina? He shared her number, and I was like, thanks, ya douche.
’ I gasp. ‘Joking, I didn’t call him a douche.
So, I rang Nina. She said to come round anytime.
’ He looks at his phone. ‘So, I’ve come at 9:39 a.m.’
‘It’s 9 a.m.?’ I ask, horrified. ‘Why didn’t my alarm go off ?’
‘Relax, you’ve quit your job, remember?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I mutter. ‘I have become single and unemployed in one week. What a year 2025 is cracking up to be.’
‘I think it’s great. Physics is the most pointless subject there is. You can’t even see what you’re teaching.’
‘Erm. I’ll still teach physics, just not at Clapham High.’
‘Awkward,’ he sings. He rubs his fingers together to get rid of any bacteria that may have come from my hoodie. I try not to feel offended by this.
‘So, what are you . . .’
‘Doing here? I need you to autograph my Metro. Page eight.’ Woody passes me the rolled-up Metro.
I let out a small cry. It’s actually printed.
I flick to the page and see the headline: ‘Brave Teacher Takes on Birth Control in Science contest.’ Under the headline is the photo of me.
Mindy picked the one that I’m laughing in – I have two chins, and one eye is significantly more squinty than the other.
‘Oh God.’ A pen drops onto the paper. I look up at Woody.
‘I want you to write . . . To Woodstock, you are the best. Love Sissy.’
‘Woody, I’m not—’
‘Sign it!’ he demands. I quickly start scribbling the message. ‘Dr Daddy is very proud,’ Woody says, as I hand the paper back. ‘He’s telling everyone that his daughter is the rebellious teacher in the Metro.’
‘He won’t be proud. He hates this kind of stuff,’ I reply.
‘Don’t be hard on poor Dr Daddy – he suffers from that illness where he can’t show his emotions unless he disapproves of something.
So sad, but extremely common in the old straight, British male.
’ He pushes his bottom lip out and I laugh.
‘The second reason why I’m on your bed.’ He pauses to give me a cheeky look.
‘Is to invite you to my gig tonight. The Fox. Camden, 8 p.m.’
I’m about to give him an excuse, but he holds up his finger to stop me. ‘No excuses. You’re now young, free and single. And more importantly, you need to get out of this room. It looks like Zara on Black Friday.’ He scans the room disapprovingly. ‘So, are you coming?’
I visualise dancing in a sweaty dark room to Woody’s band. It is not my scene whatsoever, but there is a small voice inside of me that whispers . . . Hey, it may be fun.
‘Maybe.’
He claps. ‘Yay, Sissy! And bring a friend or two or ten. We’re massively undersold and the bloated manager is doing his nut.’ He rolls his eyes. I wish I cared as much as Woodstock about what people think. As in, not care at all. ‘Okay, I think that’s it.’ He jumps up onto his feet.
‘Oh, Woody,’ I say.
He sits back down. ‘Tell me.’
‘Have you heard from Lace? She’s not texting me back. I’m worried something has happened.’
‘Lace.’ He thinks for a second. ‘The dressmaker. Ah yeah, she’s gone,’ he says casually.
My stomach drops.
‘Gone?’
‘Flown away.’
‘She’s not a pigeon.’
‘No, she is not.’ He shakes his head as if sad about this. ‘She left a note and fled. Word on the street is that Frankie looks as rough as a stray dog. Poor man, always falling for the flake.’
I throw the covers off me. Woody squints at my star-pattern pyjamas as if they are causing him pain.
‘What if something has happened to her?’ I say, panicked.
‘Chill out, Miss Universe. She got bored and left. People do that all the time, like my Bio-loggy-Daddy. Poof. Gone.’ He looks down and rubs something off his cowboy boot.
‘You’ve never spoken about your Bio-log . . .’
‘Bio-loggy-Daddy. There isn’t anything to say.’ He pauses, looking genuinely sad for a rare moment. ‘Besides, you’re my family. You, Mummy, Doctor Daddy. We’re a dream team.’ He gets up again and begins cautiously stepping over my clothes towards the door.
I feel sorry for Woody’s dad. He doesn’t realise who he’s missing out on. Woody is loud, exhausting, eccentric, yes, but he’s like sunshine, lighting up every room. I’ve had him as a brother for a decade, but not fully appreciated how lucky I am until now.
‘It’s his loss . . . Bro-Bro,’ I call out, and cringe immediately.
He turns with his mouth wide open.
‘Did you just call me your Bro-Bro, Sissy?’
‘No.’
‘I think you did! Bro-Bro and Sissy against the world. Ha. See you tonight, Sissy!’ He disappears.
I exhale and smile.
‘Oh.’ His head is around the door again. ‘If you ever want to get laid, never, ever, ever wear that purple hoodie again.’