Lola Night

By Mariana Colette

Imagine your world is turned upside down. Your grandma is a murderer and your mum has turned into a nutcase. You're thrown into living with another family that isn't yours.

Lola Night is a fourteen year old girl and she's not ordinary - even though she'd like to be.

Lola Night is a young adult book that touches on issues that many young people face such as puberty, alcohol abuse, mental illness as they make their way in a confusing world.

This book recognises that many children in the age bracket 12 – 17 deal with adult problems on a daily basis and shows that, even with troubled childhoods, children can be resilient and successful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CreateBooks Publishing
• Release date: Aug 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994122728

Book preview

Chapter 1

My grandma is a murderer. It has been 730 days since she went to jail. I know this because she went to jail on my 12th birthday and today I am 14.

365 + 365 = 730.

I still love Grandma, even if she is a murderer. You don’t stop loving someone just because they do one bad thing.

Chapter 2

Lola

My name is Lola. Lola Night. I think my parents thought I might be fun because Lola is supposed to be a fun name. It’s a name for a girl who laughs often and who kisses boys without a thought. I don’t like boys and I don’t laugh often. It’s the name two idiots give their kid. When I googled my name, I found out that Lola is short for ‘Dolores’ which means ‘sorrows’, so I guess that’s about right. When I have a baby, I’m going to give it a sensible name. Amy has a sensible name. So does Tim. If I had a brother, I bet my parents would have called him something stupid like ‘Rebel’ or ‘Holden’. If I had a sister, they would have probably named her ‘Apple’ or ‘Cinnamon.’

Nobody at my school has a name like mine. Mum says I’ll

love my name one day but I don’t think I will. I’m stuck with it until I am 18 and then I can get it changed legally. Shakespeare thought that names didn’t matter: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But I don’t agree. Names do matter.

Names make other kids snigger. Heaps of people hassle me about mine.

Shouldn’t ‘Night’ be spelt with a ‘K’?

Your name sounds like a pole dancer’s name.

Why aren’t you called Lola Day?

Names I want to have instead of Lola Night

1. Sarah Smith

2. Michelle Smith

3. Holly Smith

4. Rose Smith

My Favourite Things

1. Warm blankets

2. Polaroid Pictures

3. Music

4. TV

5. Fizzy drink

My Favourite Animals

1. Flamingos

2. Foxes

3. Bats

4. Panda Bears

My Favourite Colours

1. Black

2. Black

3. Black

Things I Don’t Like

1. Skirts

2. Homework

3. Make up

4. Haircuts

5. Uncomfortable beds

6. The colour pink

Nobody else at my school has a grandma who is a murderer. Nobody else has a mum who is a mental case either. And nobody I know has had to go and live with another family while theirs sorts things out. I guess I’m a bit different to the other kids, different in a bad way. The very best thing you can be when you’re 14 is exactly the same as everyone else. Being different is bad. I want to be the same, an exact replica of a normal 14 year old girl, a carbon copy of an ordinary kid. Being different sucks. I hate it. They say ‘special’ is good. I can tell you right now that it’s not.

Chapter 3

The Astronaut

On the day that my world shattered into a billion pieces, a billion unfixable pieces, it was sunny, which was weird. It should have been icy cold and stormy. It should have been windy, the southerly slicing through everyone like tiny sharp blades. It should have been raining, a monsoon drowning everybody. But it wasn’t. It was sunny and quite warm. I was

12 years and one day old and was made to go and live at my friend Amy’s house with her mum, Alison, her little brother, Tim, and her dad, Nigel.

I felt like one of those astronauts in the movies that have been cut off from their spaceship, floating aimlessly and alone. My thoughts crashed over one another like waves on the beach. I wanted my mum. I wanted my grandma. I didn’t want to be there. I wished I was dead. My heart was breaking. I couldn’t breathe. No-one will ever understand. And the waves kept coming, questions smashing into one-another until I thought my head would explode. Where’s my mum? Why hasn’t she called me? Will I ever see her again? How could she leave me? What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do?

Alison tried to make the move to her house as nice as possible for me.

This is your room, she said as she led me into the spare room. She put a whole bunch of my stuff in there so that it would feel like my room. It didn’t work. My real room smelt like my cat, Felix, who wasn’t smothering my pillow anymore. The light didn’t fall from the windows in the same way and the bed had a duvet cover on it (ironed so flat it was almost hard), instead of my favourite red blanket. God knows where that’s gone, probably into a wheelie bin somewhere.

Looking at that geometric duvet cover made me realise that I was officially alone. No Mum, no Grandma and living in this strange place that smelt all wrong. It didn’t smell like home. Alison is allergic to cats. You know what’s not fun? Having your cat stolen from you. Felix was at the SPCA as far as I knew. He was probably feeling as crap as I was. I imagined breaking out of the house and going to rescue him. I would be his hero. But I didn’t know where the SPCA was, and I never asked.

As I stood looking at the room that was pretending it was mine, I forced a smile and said thank you. I have really good manners. Everybody says so, even the social worker. They say heaps of stuff about me:

She’s pretty.

She doesn’t say much.

She’s fairly bright.

Her grandma’s a murderer.

Her mum has gone nuts.

I think her dad’s dead.

Alison has a big weatherboard home, with a wrought iron fence. It looks just like a house I saw in a movie once – really American and cool, almost shiny. There’s a kids’ play room and a kids’ bathroom and a pool that glistens blue in the sun. I like the pool. I lie on the yellow lilo with my eyes closed, heat from the sun sinking into my body. Sunshine gives me strength. There are giant rocks around the pool and, in one corner, there is a waterfall that spills down the rocks. I hide under it and the falling water massages my shoulders until they go numb.

Amy doesn’t go in the pool much but Tim likes it in there. He and I have swimming races, doing freestyle and dolphin dives, because Tim can’t really do backstroke without going wonky, and neither of us can do butterfly. We bob up and down in the water like corks.

On your marks, get set, go! I give Tim a half second start before I kick off the end and lunge under the water.

In the water, I feel free. My arms surge through the thickness of the pool, my legs kicking. I hold my breath all the way to the end, then gasp as I come up for air. If I could stay underwater forever, I would. I would be a mermaid in the sea and never have to worry about my grandma or my mum or my stupid name.

Alison’s house is quite new and the carpet is squishy.

It’s like walking on clouds or marshmallows. The kitchen is big, open-planned, and the bench is always tidied and wiped down. She uses cleaning products that smell like lemons. The bathroom glistens white. At my house the basin was a brownish yellow, and there was mould on the shower curtain which stuck to your legs as you showered.

At Alison’s house our toothbrushes are replaced so often that the bristles never get worn down to splay out at the sides. I want an electric toothbrush. If I ask Alison she will probably get me one but I don’t want to seem greedy or rude. It feels weird asking for stuff from someone who’s not your real mum. I always feel guilty when I have to ask Alison for things. Guilty and wrong. Even though she always says yes, never no, it still feels wrong somehow.

The Difference between my House and Alison’s House

1. My house was messy but Alison’s house is spotless.

2. All Alison’s plates, cups and cutlery match.

3. Alison and Nigel don’t fall asleep in front of the TV.

4. Magazines lie on the floor all around my house but at Alison’s they sit in a magazine rack.

5. Alison doesn’t smoke cigarettes.

6. I have never seen Alison cry.

Because it’s my birthday today, Alison will make me a cake and we’ll go to Wendy’s because it’s my favourite place to eat – correction: was my favourite place to eat – when I was eleven. I just haven’t bothered to tell anyone any different yet.

I sit in the back of the people-mover with my window ajar. It’s not one of those wind-down windows. It’s one that can only open slightly, so it never lets quite enough air in. You have to put your face right next to it to feel the breeze. The people- mover is light grey like the sky on a winter’s day. The wind on my face feels cold and smooth. My long brown hair blows around and I can smell traces of coconut left over from the conditioner Alison buys me.

Alison wants me to get it cut, so it doesn’t look ratty at the ends but I like to pull the split ends apart. Since I have lived with Alison, I’ve had four haircuts - but only trims. I don’t want to cut too much off. My hair is a blanket protecting me. I can hide behind it.

Why don’t you get it layered? Alison asks. It would look nice.

I shake my head.

It’s such a pretty colour, she says. Alison always says nice things to me.

Please would you shut that window, Lola? she says.

I sigh. We are never allowed the windows open, so the air inside the car grows stale and hot. Alison doesn’t want her hair mussed up but my mind gets fuzzy in the heat, so I don’t like the windows being shut. It’s like I’m trapped and I can’t escape. I feel like I can’t breathe.

Amy sits in front of me with her phone in her hand, as usual. We are best friends – correction: were best friends, when we were eleven. Until my grandma became a murderer and my mum went nuts and I was forced to go and live at Amy’s house. Neither of us has bothered to tell anyone anything different yet. I’m pretty sure she hates me but I don’t really have anyone to replace her with. Except for Izzy McIntyre, but she’s ‘Bad News’.

Tim is in the back seat with me, jiggling. He has dusty blonde hair and is missing some of his teeth. He is six years old. The tooth fairy brings him $2 every time he loses a tooth and his tooth fairy never forgets. Unlike my useless tooth fairy. I imagine Tim’s tooth fairy is little and sweet and lives in a flower. I imagine mine was drunk on the couch, living in a rotting apple. Tim’s eyes are four different colours – blue, green, hazel and grey. They change in the light. Mine are one colour – grey – like a stone from the beach.

Wendy’s is bright and busy. We find a table near the front window. I order crispy chicken nuggets. The drinks at Wendy’s are huge and I always finish mine. The chips are like KFC chips and the burgers are halfway between Burger King and McDonalds which, in my opinion, is the perfect mix.

We sit for a moment and the silence lasts a bit too long. When there are long, awkward silences I feel like I should say things to make people laugh, or to make them feel at ease, but I just can’t seem to do it. Alison knows how to do it. Amy does, too. Tim, of course, couldn’t care less about awkward silences. They start to chat while we eat.

How’s school?

I hate it, says Amy.

Why? I thought you liked your teachers, Alison looks startled.

No, I hate my teachers. Amy scowls and crunches a chip.

Why?

I just do.

Well, there must be a reason.

There isn’t.

Alison turns to me. Do you hate your teachers, Lola? I shake my head. I like them.

I love my teacher, says Tim.

I smile at him. Tim will probably love every teacher he ever has.

Can I get some more chips? asks Amy.

Alison looks at her. No, you don’t need any more, Amy. Amy is ‘Watching Her Weight’. Well, really Alison is watching Amy’s weight.

Amy glares at her. I’m still hungry.

"You don’t need any more and don’t finish that fizzy

drink. It’s full of sugar."

Amy looks at my empty drink container and then back at her own. She picks hers up and takes a big, long sip.

Alison barely eats a thing because she’s always ‘Watching her Weight’, too. She belongs to the gym and goes most days, pounding the treadmill like she’s trying to kill it with her feet. We are forced to go sometimes, when she hasn’t managed to get there during the day. The gym is officially the most boring place in the entire world. Fat ladies walk around like zombies picking up weights and putting them down again. Men stare at their muscles in the mirror. Alison puts earphones in her ears and gets so sweaty she shimmers.

Alison and her friends talk about kilojoules and Weight Watchers points and going sugar-free and cutting out carbs and fasting twice a week. I know she’s always hungry because she watches every mouthful we eat and then tries to look away. Alison doesn’t have