Freak Out! by Pauline Butcher

Author:Pauline Butcher [Butcher, Pauline]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780859658980
Publisher: Plexus Publishing Ltd.
Published: 2014-07-01T00:00:00+00:00

27

‘I think there’s something missing in the group,’ Frank told the GTOs during one of their visits. Perhaps he had in mind that Sparkie was too pretty and sweet, Pamela ardent and keen, Sandra sexy but unassuming, and Lucy a most reluctant GTO. Only Christine was truly bizarre. ‘I think Cinderella and Mercy should join. They would add much needed oomph.’

Cinderella and Mercy were both friends of Christine, but not of the original GTOs, and I could see Sandra, Pamela, Lucy and Sparkie disguising their misgivings well. If Mr Zappa thought Mercy and Cinderella should join, well, okay.

Looking like the original fortune teller, Mercy had a hooked nose emphasised by a permanent headscarf and huge, hooped earrings. She dressed her considerable bulk in layers of dark, flowing cloth and circled her eyes with black charcoal apparently applied with a paddle.

Cinderella, at seventeen years old, would be the youngest GTO. Streetwise, she’d arrived in LA from an upper-middle-class family in Manhattan Beach and could have been the original punk, with her short, streaky hair and safety pins that pinched together her costumes of chains, bits of fur, brightly coloured tights and antique shoes. Her face, smudged with make-up too harsh for her blonde colouring, had hardened from living off her wits. She would sit brazenly, revealing her crotch, a posture that caused David Gilmour of Pink Floyd to snap, ‘Will you please close your legs, you’re offending me.’

So here they sat at Frank’s feet, those seven GTOs, their bodies clothed in various levels of dishabille, picturesque and vaudeville, their eyes widening at Frank’s words. ‘I think you guys have real rock’n’roll potential. You have great ideas, and maybe even some hidden talent that we can tap. So why don’t we capitalise on it? If you can come up with twelve original songs, I’ll take you into the studio and record an album.’

A momentary stunned silence followed, and then an explosion of squeals and shrieks as the girls threw their arms around each other and jumped up and down. Frank raised his hand to quieten them. ‘I’m serious about this,’ he said. ‘Base the lyrics on your own experiences and I think we’ll have a marketable product.’

For heaven’s sake, what would Frank think of next? How could these girls, none of whom could sing in tune, ever produce an album that people in their right mind would want to buy? ‘We’re going to be pop stars!’ ‘We’re going to be famous!’ ‘We’ll be on TV!’ They squealed so loudly that even with my poor hearing, I covered my ears.

Noticeably, PamZ’s face turned to granite and she stamped across to her room, though no one noticed but me. For the next few days, she barely stopped crying, emptying tissues from my tissue box (the one she’d refused as a present), the tip of her nose growing red and sore. She feared that the GTOs would replace her role as Suzy Creamcheese.

I tried reassurance. ‘If those girls manage to write twelve songs, I’ll take you out to eat every day for a week.

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