Me and Mr J

Gobsmacking.

Even some of his buddies looked taken aback by that and I was speechless for a few seconds. But then instead of staying quiet and walking off (sensible option), I carried on not only digging my own grave, but picking the flowers, talking to the vicar and writing the eulogy (metaphorically speaking).

‘My face makes you sick? That’s a surprise.’ I stretched myself to tower over him. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be able to see it from all the way down there. Oh, and have you seen those adverts for that shampoo, Head and Shoulders? Because you need to get yourself some, Snowflake. Top of your head looks like the summit of Everest.’

I wiggled my fingers to mime snow falling and the others cracked up.

Sam leaned in so close I could smell his breath. Honestly, it was so rank my nose nearly fell off. Like he’d just eaten a tin of dog food. How can Molly bring herself to snog him? Dis. Gus. Ting. In fact, how can she fancy him at all? I know he’s supposed to be some premier league superstar in the making or whatever, but still . . . repulsive.

‘You are so going to wish you hadn’t said that, Titless. See you around, you scrawny ginger slag.’

Realised with the tiny beginnings of an oh shit sinking feeling that he was actually rigid with rage.

‘Looking forward to it, Short-arse,’ I answered, more confidently than I felt, and walked off to sniggers from the other lads and echoes of ‘short-arse’.

Around the corner, out of sight, I slumped against the wall, shaking like the big fat wuss I really am. And now, hours later, I can’t sleep because I can’t stop playing it over in my mind like a horror film. I feel sick, sick, sick to my stomach.

You are so going to wish you hadn’t said that.

Well, he was right there.

Why the hell did I open my big stupid mouth?

FEBRUARY 23RD

I am not thinking about yesterday. Not thinking about it AT ALL. La la la. Have got my hands over my ears. Refusing to think about Sam or what he might do. La la la. Instead, am focusing on:

My Bus Stop Action Plan

Step 1

Start waiting by the churchyard until the last minute, then sprint for the bus.

Step 2

Sit/stand near the driver.

Step 3

Save all money from both paper rounds to get bike quicker.

Step 4

Stay positive.

Step 5

Stop listening to Dad’s Morrissey albums (see step 4).

Mr Jagger collared me again about the talent show idea. He was wearing a white shirt that had come untucked at the back and rolled up his sleeves so his tanned forearms were showing. He looked incredible, he sounded lovely, he smelled amazing.

‘Look, I’m not expecting you to get up on stage if it’s not what you want. But what I do need is a PA-type person because I haven’t got time to do it all on my own. Someone sensible that I can trust to do a good job. You’re the first person I thought of, Lara. You’d be perfect.’

‘What would I have to do, Sir?’ I asked.

‘Oh, signing up the contestants, the publicity, the running order, ticket sales, stuff like that. We can work it out together.’

‘OK,’ I answered, sort of listening, discreetly inhaling.

Sniff sniff.

‘Great. We’ll arrange a time to sort the details out later. Would you like a tissue?’

I muttered, ‘No thanks,’ and scuttled away.

Blush-a-rama.

Every time I speak to him, I make an idiot out of myself. Oh God, I wish I was normal. But I’ve worked him out now. After witnessing Molly’s nit nonsense at the bus stop, he’s set himself a mission to Integrate the Outcast. Maybe he did a module on it for his PGCE: Freak 101.

Beyond humiliating.

Buuuut . . . on the positive side, the thought of extra time with him doesn’t exactly fill me with horror. Plus Molly will explode when she finds out he asked me and not her.

Result!

Form time, lunchtime, lesson time, all the time . . . zzzzzzzz. Chloe’s gaudy, girly glitterfest has been the SOLE topic of 11G conversation for the past few days. I genuinely cannot begin to describe how THRILLED I am not to have been invited to that party. Today they were going on about spray tans. Come on! It’s February and we live in Huddersfield, we’re designed to be mauve; it’s the Pennine gene.

Not for Molly ‘tangerine dream’ Hardy-Jones though. Mum told me they’ve got a tanning booth in their garage. Every Saturday morning, Molly and her mum put paper knickers on and spray each other the colour of chicken tikka.

This is the girl who thinks I’m weird.

FEBRUARY 24TH

Hmmm, surreal conversation with Mum at teatime.

I’d just got back from picking up Gran’s washing and I was telling her about Gran moaning because I’d bought ginger ‘denture wrencher’ biscuits again. (Her words.)

Anyway, Mum went, ‘That reminds me. I was telling Mrs Hardy-Jones how good you are with your gran. How you do her shopping and washing and watch Noel Edmonds with her and that. And it got me thinking. Molly seems a nice girl . . .’

She paused while I choked to death on my fishfinger.

‘Do you ever hang out with her at school? Only you don’t say much about your friends nowadays. I haven’t even seen Chloe for ages.’

My internal monologue went like this: Firstly, I don’t have any friends, not even Chloe. And secondly, FYI, Mum, Molly is ‘a nice girl’ in the same way Hitler was ‘a real sweetie’.

‘You know, she’s always asking questions about you, asking how you are, what you’ve been up to.’

Sirens went off in my head. Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Danger danger!

‘What have you told her about me?’

‘Nothing really. Er . . . about karate and your paper round, how much you help out with your gran, that sort of thing. She’s a nice, friendly girl showing a polite interest. You’d do well to take a leaf out of her book, you know, make yourself a bit more Peer Sociable. It’s not norm– I mean, it’s not good for you to spend so much time on your own.’

‘Peer Sociable’?!

God help us, she’s been on Netmums again. I wish she wouldn’t do that. It’s embarrassing enough to feel like a friendless loser without your own mother underlining it for you.

‘I don’t know where we’d be without the Hardy-Joneses at the moment,’ she said, concluding the Conversation I Did Not Want To Be Having with some more unwelcome info. ‘That cleaning job has been a godsend.’

Beholden to my orange-skinned nemesis? The thought was so stomach-churning I couldn’t face pudding. I had to give mine to Simon. And it was trifle.

Mum never mentioned Chloe’s party, so I assume Molly didn’t divulge that particular kick in the teeth. But it’s a never-ending source of fascination at school. The itinerary, the timings, the venue(s), the clothes, the hair products, the co-ordinated toilet roll . . .

Now the entire class (barring yours truly) has booked in at FunkyFeet for a fish pedicure. Fish pedicure! Jeez. Praying a rookie shoal strips them down to the bone. Chomp chomp. Please, please, Divine Fish God, make it happen.

FEBRUARY 26TH

Taaa-daaaah!! I can now declare the Bus Stop Action Plan a success. No major incidents, just a little mild verbal abuse, but nothing I couldn’t fend off with headphones. Anyway, won’t be long now till I can bid a cheery ‘So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Eff Off’ to the Hellbus because the evening paper round starts on Monday. And as I’ve already got nearly £30 in the kitty plus Mum’s donating her Clubcard points (which is so nice of her because I know she wants a new frying pan) I should have enough for the bike by the end of the month.

AND IT’S HALF-TERM!!!!!

PS Found out Dognextdoor is called Beyoncé. No kidding, he really is.

FEBRUARY 28TH

Happy days, oh happy happy days! A fabulous abuse-free NINE of them to be precise. Well, school abuse anyway. Can’t comment on Mum and Dad who are both ratty as anything. Sadly, that goes hand in hand with no sign of the godlike Mr Jagger for days, which means my half-term cake is plain sponge, slightly stale, no icing.

Sob.

In other news, tonight Simon did his sowing-crumbs-across-the-carpet thing literally a nanosecond after I’d hoovered the front room. But when I entirely justifiably smacked him round the head, I got shouted at! Pointed out this was a gross miscarriage of justice, but Dad stropped off mid-rant, tutting as he went.

When Mum got in, I tried telling her what happened, but I only got as far as, ‘Mum, while you were at work, Simon –’ before she interrupted.

‘I’m not interested, Lara.’

‘That’s not fair!’

‘Well, life’s not fair. I’ve enough on my plate without you two bickering. Sort it out between yourselves.’

At least Emma’ll be here soon. Finally, someone who doesn’t act like I’m a big fat slug in the garden of life.

Oh yeah and Mum? Next time, before you lose your rag over Hula Hoops on the stairs, try and remember:

LIFE’S. NOT. FAIR.

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