Free Dirt Bomb by Fleur Beale Page B

have a shave.’
    Take over my life, why don’t you?
    I followed his orders, though, and what I was thinking now was that if I wasn’t careful I’d have to go through the hair and face routine every day.
    I came out of the bathroom, towel round me and my hair dripping.
    ‘I’ve put your clothes in your bedroom,’ he saidafter taking a hard look at my hair and face.
    All right, you old bastard — you can force me into this interview but thank Christ you won’t be coming in with me.
    I pulled on the jeans and the tee-shirt. My school shoes were on the floor and polished. They’d probably died of shock.
    I towelled off my hair and dragged a comb through it. Lucky there wasn’t time for Gramps to haul me off to a barber for a short back and sides.
    I took a look at myself in the mirror. What a wanker. I never wore tee-shirts this tight. Or jeans this skinny, for that matter. The hair was a disaster too — stuck flat to my head.
    Gramps, though, was ecstatic. ‘That’s more like it, Jake. You look like a man of the world.’
    His world, not mine.
    I got in the car, and he drove me — jerkily — to the supermarket.
    ‘Good luck, son. I always knew you had it in you.’
    He told me where to go and who to ask for. I walked in with my mind spinning in 360s.
    I’d mess up the interview.
    No, I’d do my best.
    They wouldn’t want me anyway.
    No way could I stand working here.
    I needed money, needed this job.
    Didn’t want this job.
    I was there, and a girl behind a desk was smiling at me. ‘You’ve come for the interview?’
    She was a babe — huge dark eyes, shining hair down past her shoulders, and a smile that went straight intomy blood. ‘Um, yeah. I mean — yes, thanks. That’s what I’m here for.’ Felt like a total loser.
    That smile again. ‘Take a seat. Mrs Pere won’t be long.’
    I wanted to keep her talking. ‘So what exactly is the job?’ Then I felt stupid all over again.
    ‘You don’t know?’ She sounded puzzled, but she wasn’t mean about it.
    My face was on fire — one way to dry my hair, I guess. I kept falling over my words as I told her about Gramps, but she didn’t seem to mind.
    ‘Mrs P wants check-out chicks for after school Thursdays and Fridays. Four till eight.’
    I slouched back in the chair. ‘That lets me out then.’ I held out a piece of my hair. ‘It might be long, but I’m not a chick.’
    She laughed and said, ‘She’s okay with check-out roosters too.’
    The door behind her opened, and Harriet Jacobson from school walked out, followed by a woman who said, ‘We’ll let you know tomorrow, Harriet.’ Then she looked at me. ‘Jake Stringer? Come in, please.’
    I hauled myself to my feet, smiled at the girl, gave Harriet a grin and walked into the den of doom.
    The interview didn’t get off to the best of starts.
    ‘Can I see your CV please, Jake.’
    Ha! Gramps hadn’t thought of that one. ‘Um, I haven’t got one,’ I said.
    It didn’t faze her. ‘I see. Just tell me your age, what qualifications you’ve got and what jobs you’ve done before.’
    Telling her about the quals didn’t take long. NCEALevel 1 for maths, English and science. I was glad Level 2 results weren’t out yet. I knew they weren’t going to be good. ‘I’m sixteen — nearly seventeen. I haven’t had a job before.’
    ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Why do you want one now?’
    I shrugged. ‘I need the money.’
    She narrowed her eyes at me and I could see her thinking, Chuck him out now or give him one more chance? She went for the one more chance, damn it. ‘Why do you suddenly need money? Why now? Why not a year ago?’
    I told her about the car, about wanting my licence and Mum not having the money to pay for it. I could have added that it was time I pulled my weight, but the image of me standing behind a check-out looking all scrubbed and polished stopped me. I so did not want this job.
    She stood up. ‘Thank you, Jake. Let Melanie have your mobile number. We’ll text