The Sweet, Terrible, Glorious Year I Truly, Completely Lost It

by Lisa Shanahan

Genres: YA Family

Synopsis

IN MY FAMILY, when anyone rides the wave of their emotions, we say they're chucking a birkett. When the emotion drives out all common sense, we say they're chucking a big one. The telltale signs are: flaming cheeks, shortness of breath, bulging eyes, and a prolonged illogical outburst.Gemma Stone is convinced that it's always unseemly to chuck a birkett and that it's actually insane to chuck one in front of a complete stranger. But that was before she fell for a boy who barely knows she exists, before she auditioned for the school play, before she met the family of freaks her sister Debbie is marrying into, before the unpredictable Raven De Head took an interest in her, and before she realized that at the right time and for the right reason, a birkett could be a beautiful thing.

Release date: November 11, 2008

Publisher: Delacorte Press

Print pages: 304

Sample

When Debbie told Dad she was marrying Brian, her new boyfriend of one month, Dad went ballistic.
"Not Brian!" He leapt from his chair. "Anybody but Brian. I'd prefer that bloke who stole and hocked my tennis trophies . . . what was his name?"
"His name was Bruce, Dad," said Debbie, with a sniff. "And he didn't steal your tennis trophies. You gave them away to St. Vinnie's."
"I certainly did not!" Dad switched off the television. "One of those trophies was for the 1974 Buranderry Tennis Premiership and I certainly wouldn't have given it away. That was the year my backhand slice was so fierce and fast it took a piece out of your mother's backside. Hospitalized her, I did."
"Only because you couldn't get your backhand over the net that year," said Mum, peering up from her cross-stitch. "And all the other women on the team were too scared to be your partner."
My mum is always cross-stitching. The sunroom at the back of the house is full of cross-stitched fruit. Watermelon, grapes, a green apple, a Jonathan, a Red Delicious, a rockmelon, a mango, an orange and a lychee. Dad reckons it makes him feel like he lives in a fruit shop. Mum says it makes her feel peaceful. She can only cross-stitch fruit. She's tried veggies, but they never work out.
"Dad," called Debbie. "We're not talking about tennis now, we're talking about Brian."
"Oh blimey, him again! How did we get back to him?" Dad sank back into his recliner and closed his eyes.
"He's asked me to marry him," said Debbie, strands of blond hair floating with static. "And I've said yes."
Mum stood up. She put her arms around Debbie and gave her a big squeeze. "That's nice, Deb. He's a lovely boy, in his own way."
"Where were you?" I asked.
"In O'Riley's," Debbie said with a sigh. "He asked me at the spice rack."
O'Riley's is the only supermarket in Buranderry. It's small, dim, overpriced and understocked, but everybody shops there because there's nowhere else to go.
"He planned it carefully. He told me he wanted to buy Chinese five spice for the spice rack that he gave his mum for Christmas, and even though they only had out-of-date nutmeg, it was there he got down on his knees and said, 'Deborah Stone, will you spice up my life and be my wife!' "
Dad slid the recliner back. "Why didn't you leave him there? You could have put a quick-sale clearance sign on him."
"Very funny, Dad," said Debbie.
"So you said . . . yes?" said Mum.
"Of course," said Debbie. "They even announced it on the PA."
For some reason, Stan O'Riley had installed a PA system even though the place is the size of a largish corner shop. The only time he ever uses it is when he's shouting out for his brother Ted to get off his bum, stop watching Oprah and serve customers.
"Stan even gave us a gift voucher," said Debbie, as if she couldn't believe it.
I've never liked Stan O'Riley. There is something grubby about the way he licks his pointy finger when he's trying to separate the plastic bags. Ted is my favorite checkout rooster. He likes ballroom dancing and when he's working, the place is full of music and the noise of his feet tapping on the linoleum.
"When are you planning to get married?" asked Mum.
"Sometime in spring," said Debbie.
"How come Brian didn't ask me for your hand in marriage?" asked Dad.
Debbie twirled her gold chain around her finger. "Oh Dad, nobody asks for permission anymore! That was only done in the Dark Ages when women were viewed as possessions."
"I asked Bob for your mother's hand in marriage."
"See what I mean!" Debbie shrugged. "I am so happy! Brian said it was the most original thought he's ever had--his idea of how to propose. He's adorable!"
And she snatched the phone off the coffee table and ran upstairs to call all her friends.
We sat in silence.
"That's his most original thought!" whispered Dad. He lay still in the leather chair, looking at the large patch of damp on the ceiling.
Mum licked her cotton and tried to rethread her needle.
"What sort of bloke is he? He didn't even turn up with her to give us the news," said Dad.
"Well, love . . . ," said Mum. "Debbie did tell me that Brian is frightened of you."
"Frightened of me!" cried Dad. "What's there to be frightened of?"
"Whenever you see him, you grunt, Dad," I said.
"As far as I can tell that's the only language he speaks. He's hardly said a word with a syllable since I've met him."
"He's shy," said Mum.
"Bloody odd, more like it," said Dad.
Mum stroked Dad's arm. "Oh well, love, at least she isn't marrying Birkett."
Birkett was Debbie's last disastrous boyfriend. She met him the previous Christmas at the Buranderry Markets after he set up his bookstall near the rubble of the Buranderry fountain, right next to Mum's craft stand.
He recited his own love poetry without stopping for the whole morning. When he finally paused for a drink, Debbie tossed him a five-dollar note, mainly to keep him quiet--but it only encouraged him to pack up his books and spend the rest of the afternoon describing her silvery gilt hair and her pond-green eyes and her smooth, creamy skin.
Their relationship was doomed. Debbie was a girl who liked to be in bed at eight sharp and Birk was a bloke who didn't wake up until dusk. After two weeks of traipsing into the city and visiting late-night, smoky dingy poetry haunts, listening to Birk's rants against meat, sport, rhyming poetry, dairy products, America, white bread and the scent of fresh grass, Debbie was exhausted. She wrote Birkett a note saying she didn't want to see him anymore.