Читать книгу Me and Mr J - Rachel McIntyre - Страница 7

FEBRUARY 5TH

Did Mum and Dad win the lottery? No. Has Simon become human? No. Have aliens abducted Molly? Unfortunately not.

Nonetheless, it’s been a fantastic day because I got an A* from Hell High’s newest and finest member of staff, Mr ‘I am so hot I may spontaneously combust’ Jagger!

We’ve been doing some warm-ups for the creative writing coursework. As he’s still ‘getting to know us as a group’, the task to write an essay about the Christmas hols was a bit Year 7, but he is box-fresh teaching-wise (he told us we’re his first job), so I’ll let him off. Here goes:

My Christmas

As is the tradition in our house, Gran is glued to Noel Edmonds while Mum feeds the stress volcano until she erupts, kicking the oven door. I go in, get some frozen peas to put on her foot and finish dinner off, while Dad sits drinking Baileys (which he doesn’t even like) in front of the telly.

By the time The Sound of Music comes on, our house is alive with the sound of mayhem. Simon’s broken his new toys already, Mum’s burnt herself as well as all the food, Gran is comatose and Dad’s slurring his words. And poor Paddington, our highly-strung golden retriever, is cowering under the dining-room table.

This year, Dad got even drunker than usual. As we can’t afford real Baileys since he lost his job, he was drinking a bargain-bucket liqueur (possibly) called ‘Piss’. Anyway, he was plastered and the food was on the table. Mum called everyone into the dining room. When she shouted, ‘Lunch is ready,’ Gran groaned and Dad, who’d forgotten she was there, jumped up with a scream.

It frightened the dog so much she shot out from under the table to protect him. And by ‘protect him’ I mean ‘leapt up and sank her teeth in his butt cheek’.

Dad screamed again, fell over backwards and went straight through our glass-topped coffee table. Mum went ballistic. Dad went to A & E. Gran went back to sleep.

Peace on earth and goodwill to all men? Definitely not in our house.

Mum hasn’t stopped fuming about that coffee table, especially since she keeps going to put her tea on it, so the carpet’s ruined as well. She’s mega-moody now too because Dad didn’t get home from the pub till after twelve last night. He had to leave the car there so he couldn’t take Simon to school. Mum was livid, especially when Dad said Simon should change to the local primary which tangented off into yet another row.

I am starting to really worry about them. Seems the only time they stop arguing is when they’re giving each other the silent treatment. Classic example tonight: Mum said, ‘Lara, remind your father to put the bins out, will you?’ While she was sitting next to him on the sofa! Honestly, they’re worse than kids.

Anyhow, back to my happy place. Mr J handed the work out, saying, ‘I loved reading these; really entertaining stuff. It’d be great to share a few with the rest of the class.’ Then when he got to me, he went, ‘Lara, nothing less than an A* for your heartfelt piece. Would you like to start?’

I turned it over: Highly imaginative and detailed work, Lara. Well done!

Wahey!

Then . . .

‘Er, no, Sir. I don’t want to read it out.’

He smiled. ‘OK, that’s no problem. Thanks anyway, I loved it. Chloe? An excellent B. How about you?’

My Former BFF didn’t need to be asked twice to thrill us with the Fabulous Tale of her Fabulous Trip to Molly’s Fabulous Alpine Ski Lodge. Drone drone drone. I drifted off into a very pleasant daydream about the Fabulous Mr J.

Refusing to read mine out still didn’t prevent the slurpy ass-kissing noises I got after the lesson (not from him obviously). Molly and Mikaela carried on looking Jagger Daggers at me all afternoon, which was as unpleasant as it sounds, but still definitely worth it for an A*. It’s about time we had some decent teachers to make the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES worthwhile.

Later . . . Mr J ‘loved’ my essay. Yay!

FEBRUARY 10TH

Now, no one’s ever going to call me an expert on the male species, but it seems to me there are two kinds of boy in the world:

1. The ones who say, ‘But she’s got beautiful hair. And anyway, so what? It’s only a name.’

and

2. The kind who go, ‘The lanky ginger freak’s called what???!!! Ha ha ha . . . oh no, I’ve wet my trousers.’

Boys I have met in category 1: None.

Boys I have met in category 2: All the rest.

Whenever a new boy starts on the bus, sooner or later they put him through the ‘guess the name of the beanpole’ routine. Today it was the ‘kick a ginger’ lad from the other day. Someone pointed at me and whispered in his ear. He laughed like a jet engine till everyone was staring, then came over to where I was sitting, picking moss off the churchyard wall, myiPodismygod blocking out their stupid voices like the truly lifesaving invention it is.

Him: Oy.

Me: What?

Him: Is it true . . . (splutters with laughter) . . . is it true (going purple in the face) . . . is it true (nearly choking) . . . your name’s (doubled over, almost wetting trousers) . . . TITLESS? (collapses in heap)

Me: No. It’s ‘Titliss’. Lara TitLISS.

Him: TITLESS!!!!!! (rolling around, clutching stomach)

Did I go all Ginger Ninja on his ass? Did I heck. I walked off, leaving him writhing on the floor like his appendix had burst. Twat.

Decisions, decisions. What shall I change it to? Something anonymous maybe, like Lara Jones. Flash and exotic? Lara Kostyakov. Or posh? Lara Willoughby-Smythe, delighted to make your acquaintance. Who am I kidding? I don’t even care; nothing could be worse than the T word.

Wish I could adopt Emma’s attitude, i.e. be totally unfazed by the Surname of Shame. She could have ditched it by deed poll when she turned sixteen last year, but she didn’t, even though Uncle Andy wouldn’t have minded. If I asked Dad, I’d never hear the end of it.

Imagine if the world was less alpha male, we could’ve had Mum’s maiden name and Lara Merry’s life would be an endless sunny-day parade of cupcakes and rainbows. Instead I got stuck with ‘Titliss’, officially the worst possible surname in the whole world for a flat-chested teenage girl. Even Molly Hardy-Jones would struggle to pull ‘Titliss’ off and she’s got massive great udders. The cow.

PS And I found out this new lad’s name is Sam Short, so you’d think I’d get at least a hint of sympathy, but no. The only person who truly understands is poor Tess Tickle in Year 8.

FEBRUARY 14TH

Had some terrible news today: I’m being sued by the Post Office. It appears our postman slipped a disc lugging my avalanche of Valentine’s cards to the front door and will never work again. (Ha ha ha. Please excuse me while I die laughing.)

Graham Flett was the last (ahem, only) person to send me a Valentine’s card. Yes, Fat Graham ‘Hellbus’ Flett. It was in Year 8 and it had kittens on it and came with half a box of Quality Street. (I’m sure he intended to give me the whole box.) Of course, he makes out it was a wind-up now I’m the School Untouchable, but I don’t think it was.

Mr J of course was absolutely inundated.

And shock horror! Sam Short-Stuff and Molly Hardly-Human are now An Item. Actually, probs not too much of a shock. It seems so cosmically right that twin demonic minions sent to torment humankind should unite to rule the world. Mwaaaaahahahaha.

They had a real old slobberfest in the bus queue over their Valentine’s cards. Might as well have put up a stage and sold tickets. Balloons and teddies. Audible snogging. Ugh. Get a room, you pair of dirty slaps.

Bet Molly hasn’t told him she gets mega-minging cold sores though. (Cue advert voice: Herpes – the Valentine’s gift he’ll keep forever.)

Heh heh heh.

FEBRUARY 16TH

Jeez, GET OFF MY CASE ALREADY, WOMAN! Mum continues the nagathon about the less than immaculate state of the house. Er, hello? We’re not all anally retentive with a side order of OCD, thanks. She reckons, because she pays the rent, my room should meet her hygiene standards. My view is if she doesn’t like it she should steer clear. She wants it clean? Then be my guest.

Soooo, written down, that seems reasonable enough. My mistake – and I hold my hands up here – was actually saying it out loud. That cup of tea flew across the room like an Exocet missile. Luckily my reactions are superhero issue so I ducked in time, but the carpet is scarred for life.

Me: (shouting) You can’t throw stuff at me! That’s child abuse!

Mum: Child abuse? I’ll show you child abuse, lady, if you don’t clear that mess up RIGHT. This. Minute.

Honestly, there is no talking to her at the moment, and I thought it was teenagers who were supposed to be the stroppy ones. I’ll show you child abuse. She needs to stop being such a mardy-arse, moody mare and grow up; she’s making Simon look mature. A sentiment I expressed very clearly by slamming the door extra hard on my way out to karate. Ha!

FEBRUARY 18TH

Snow. Loads of it.

Some people, i.e. Simple Simon, look out of the window and see a winter wonderland, replete with possibilities. Me? Sunday paper round from hell. Absolutely awful this morning. It was like Touching the Void. Crampons, ice axes . . . the works.

Extreme Paper Delivery.

I tried to get Paddington to come along, but no joy. Man’s best friend? Yeah, sure. Possibly if you substitute ‘Basket at the top of the stairs’ for ‘Man’. She just gave me the canine evil eye and headed straight back to the warm. (Or where ‘warm’ would be in a normal house, as opposed to one occupied by Mr & Mrs ‘Put another jumper on and stop moaning’ Titliss.)

I had to snap the icicles off the front door to get out, and I don’t mean the outside either. My crappy fake Uggs (Fuggs?) leaked and by the time I got back home my fingers were so stiff they wouldn’t operate individually. I was forced to jab at the doorbell with my flipper-like hand till Dad heaved his idle carcass out of bed.

Then when he saw me standing there, lips blue, fingertips blackened by frostbite, etc., all he said was, ‘What are you playing at? Shut the bloody door!’

Do I want to spend my mornings wearing a hi-vis tabard and being chased by dogs? Of course not. But until I get a proper Saturday job, a paper round’s the only option. He should be grateful I’m trying to earn money to ease the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES, especially now Mr Patel’s said I can have the teatime round too.

Then barely even thawed to mauve before Mr P rang to say there’d been three calls complaining about wet papers. Speechless!

Just keep thinking bike fund, bike fund, bike fund . . .

Later . . . Excellent newsflash: just got off the phone and, if the Ice Age ends, cousin Emma is coming up to an open day at Leeds Uni, so she’s staying here for a few days.

Getting used to seeing her once-every-whenever has been well rough. Being skint/Mum and Dad at each other’s throats/Chloe’s vanishing act/chucked out of our lovely house – all of that sucks biiiig time, but not having Em on tap is the mouldy cherry on the top.

In my fave boring-lesson-avoiding daydreams for the future, I’ve got a flat with Emma in some glamorous part of London. It’s in a Georgian townhouse with black-and-white marble tiles in the entrance hall. My room has high ceilings and sash windows that rattle a bit in the wind, but I don’t mind. There are red geraniums in pots on the window boxes and the friendly gay neighbours leave home-made muffins on the doorstep, romcom style.

My boyfriend (who is a dead ringer for Mr Jagger) is coming over to take us to a champagne bar so I’ll have to iron the Vivienne Westwood in a minute. We’ve got a mad night’s partying lined up to celebrate Em’s new job at Alexander McQueen.

Meanwhile, back home in Huddersfield, Molly Hardy-Jones has also landed her first job: serving on the counter at Greggs.

FEBRUARY 20TH

Guess who Mr Jagger has personally selected to help him on his new ‘special project’?

Yep, none other than good ol’ Lara T, Queen of the Untouchables!

I know!!! Blimey.

Last lesson, I was packing my English stuff up when he asked me to stay behind. Then, when everyone else had gone, he leaned against the edge of his desk.

‘Thanks, Lara, I won’t keep you long. Now I know Mrs Gill always puts a play on at the end of this term, but I fancied doing something different. A talent contest, maybe, get the boys involved too. Something to get both schools buzzing. What do you reckon?’

‘Sounds good, Sir.’

‘Really? Not too clichéd?’

‘No, Sir. I think it’s a good idea.’

‘Great. Well, I’d love you to get involved; I think you’d enjoy it.’

Hmm, pretty certain that was the gist anyway. I was too busy contemplating his unearthly gorgeousness to register the individual words. He’s got the whitest eyeballs I’ve ever seen; they glow like Simon Cowell’s teeth.

‘Er, not sure what I could do, Sir, I haven’t got any talents.’

‘Oh, come on, of course you have.’

His eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles and the amber flecks are like pebbles in a rock pool. (In the Caribbean, not Skegness.) Incredible how not one aspect of his entire being is less than perfect: he looks airbrushed even close up.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun.’

‘I’ll think about it, Sir. Thanks for asking me.’

I had to pelt it to make the bus, but it didn’t matter because Mr J wants me – ME – to help him!

And while on the topic of unrequited adoration, Themnextdoor’s dog has developed a crush on Paddington, attempting (rather ambitiously for a Yorkshire terrier) to hump her at every opportunity. Dad went mental over it last night and turned the hose on them both, icing the drive like a bobsleigh run in the process. How Mum laughed as she went flying.

Then when I went to fill the kettle after the early papers this morning, Dad was already sitting at the table, staring down at a pile of brown envelopes, none of which looked like they contained good tidings. The top one had my school crest on it.

I put on a phoney American accent. ‘Who is this Bill guy anyway, and why does he always want our money?’

‘Not now, Lara,’ he said, without looking up.

I turned the tap off and went to school. Can’t even remember the last time I saw him smile.

FEBRUARY 22ND

Bugger. I think I may have made a HUGE mistake. It seems I have made Sam Short my mortal enemy.

‘What’s this then? The original Ginger Minger?’ he said, ostentatiously looking me up and down as I waited near the bus queue at home-time.

I put my headphones in and walked off to hide behind the churchyard wall in the hope he’d lose interest.

No chance. He planted himself slap in front of me, gang of henches hot on his heels.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’

I unplugged myself reluctantly. ‘What do you want now?’

‘Did you know you’re the definition of ugly, Titless? It’s true. I got a dictionary, found the word “ugly” and your picture was right next to it.’

Now what I should have done is let his insults blah blah blah over me until he got bored. But I was so pissed off (I don’t even know you! Why are you doing this?) that what I did instead was break the Golden Rule of the Bullied and open my BIG MOUTH.

‘Have you finished? Only I don’t care, so you may as well leave me alone and go and pick on someone who gives a toss.’ I faked a yawn for added yeah, whatever.

‘Ooooooooooo!’ chorused the others behind him.

His evil little eyes lit up. ‘Well, you should,’ he continued. ‘Give a toss, I mean. Because you’re that ugly you’re making me feel sick. In fact . . . eeeurrgggghhhh.’ He mimed throwing up over my shoes. ‘Seeing your ginger face every day is making me ill. You know what, I bet your mum took one look at you in the hospital and wished she’d had an abortion.’

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.