Читать книгу The Number One Rule for Girls - Rachel McIntyre - Страница 8

Okaaaay. So I’d been there, done that, and by 4 o’clock I just needed the Hang on, this isn’t what the brochure promised T-shirt to make the college induction day complete.

Where were the many ‘exciting new friends’ I was supposed to be making? Once I’d had my ID photos taken and my timetable printed, I headed straight for the canteen. Fair enough, there were plenty of ‘exciting’ people milling around. Unfortunately, none of them seemed interested in meeting me.

Most people had been to the same feeder schools and I didn’t have the balls to gatecrash those cosy cliques. Without the girls or Matt as backup, I was apparently a bit of a social doof. A crash course in gatecrashing, that’s what I needed.

And the campus! Just leaving the foyer made my ears pop and there was no chance I was ever finding my way round this mad maze of staircases, Hogwartsy nooks and crannies and never-ending corridors.

Confused, lost, overwhelmed, ignored . . . these emotions were definitely NOT mentioned in the brochure.

I clung to Rule #8 and tried thinking positive until break, when I wussed out and rang Ayesha.

‘You’ve only been there for a couple of hours,’ she said, when I’d unloaded my nearly-teary emotional splat. ‘Stop skulking about like the ghost of no-mates past. Just walk up to someone and say hiya. Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?’

‘Well, the worst that could happen is they laugh in my face and the sound echoes through the whole building, attracting everyone’s attention, and when they’re all staring at me, my clothes mysteriously disappear meaning two thousand people see me naked and –’

‘Enough!’ she said.

‘But what if you were right and I did rush into it? What if I should have stayed on at school?’

As the whine crept into my voice I swear I could hear her eyes rolling. ‘Daisy, you have done NOTHING but slag St Mary’s off all summer. The uniform. The teachers. The toilets. The dinners . . .’

‘You hypocrite! Who started the petition to DNA-test “Mystery Meat” pie?’

‘Yes, but we’re not talking about me, are we? Oh. And the carpet tiles. You said they gave you static shocks.’

‘They did!’

‘Fine, but my point is you can’t suddenly get nostalgic for school after a couple of hours at college. You need to give it more of a chance.’

Of course she was right. And anyway, school wouldn’t be the same with Matt being in Spain. Us not getting the bus together. Not seeing him at break. Not sitting with him at dinner. Freaky-deaky. And that on top of everyone knowing he’d dumped me.

College hadn’t ticked many boxes so far, but it certainly beat having my crappy-ever-after picked over by the gossip vultures.

‘The bell’s just rung,’ Ayesha said. ‘Look, me and Beth’d love you back here, but you need to give college a proper go before you think about jacking it in.’

I gave myself a mental arse-kicking there and then. Think positive, Daisy:

1. Induction day is a trailer, not the main event

2. There’s no such thing as insta-mates

3. College will be what I make of it.

Now grow a pair and stop whingeing.

I’d been told to go to tutorial at eleven in room 71(b) so I walked back into the foyer to get my bearings just as the clock over the main entrance clicked to 10.56.

I had no idea where room 71(b) was. Four thousand (approx.) doors in the place, each numbered by a sadist with a black belt in sudoku. Where is 71(b)? Upstairs? Uruguay? Uranus? Despite Ayesha’s best efforts to tame the panic demons, I couldn’t help desperately missing my St Mary’s-shaped comfort zone as I blundered up and down corridors that didn’t lead to where I was supposed to be.

I was insanely flustered by the time I finally found the room. It was rammed to the ceiling tiles, meaning I had to squeeze through a tiny gap to get to an empty seat. And this was made infinitely worse because only ONE person (a Scarily Handsome Guy) stood up to let me pass.

I was rocking (Ayesha’s carefully curated idea of) student style: Mum-made tea dress; vintage floral blazer (swirly shades of purple), plum tights and my trusty pink patent Doc Martens. Kooky cool. And, under the gaze of what felt like a million snidey eyeballs, I was nearly at my seat when this girl with an American twang went, ‘Hey, why’d no one tell me it was fancy dress?’

Eh? Then the fake-baked twiglet cackled and my face flushed as pink as my boots at her smack-my-gob rudeness! And the irony because she was wearing the shortest, tightest, lowest garment imaginable: a neon orange dress so dazzlingly tacky it would have made my Nana Green wince and she had cataracts.

I was fluorescent with sweaty embarrassment myself by the time I finally sat down, thinking, Did I miss the ‘Meet snarky classmates’ page in the prospectus? At that precise moment I would’ve given my right arm with my vintage Biba bag slung over it to have Beth and Ayesha by my side.

Looked left: lad in a SpongeBob SquarePants T-shirt who smelled of rice cakes (or possibly wee), but at least he smiled in a friendly way. Then the teacher (‘Call me Phil’) came over and handed me a sticky address label, mouthing, ‘Pop your name on that.’

I wrote Daisy with a little flower on the tail of the y, same as usual.

‘Okaaay.’ Call Me Phil perched on the edge of the desk, swinging his flip-flopped foot. ‘As I was saying, you’ve all got a college email account and you should remember to check it every day. And now, here . . .’ He chucked a beanbag at a lad in glasses. ‘Tell the class your name plus three interesting facts about yourself. When you’re done, pass it on. It’s time for an ice-breaker methinks.’

Noooo! methought.

Every member of the class was eyeing the beanbag with horror. (Except the mouthy girl, who was almost exploding with all about meeee! ecstasy.)

The lad who’d caught the beanbag pushed his glasses up his nose. Not literally up his nostrils of course, because that would have been entertaining. No, instead he blinked a couple of times, then kicked off the I like football/pizza/telly/hate sprouts yawnathon which travelled round the room until it reached Scarily Handsome Guy, who practically had What the actual f . . . written across his perfect, modelsome features.

He picked the beanbag up carefully, taking his time, inspecting it. One side. The other. No rush. Then he pressed his hands on the desk and slowly levered himself to his feet.

It gave me a chance to get a better look at him. Tall, flawless, kind of Mediterranean-looking with his dark hair and olive complexion (as in tanned, not green or stuffed). From his sulky, fifties movie-icon expression to his very tight, very white T-shirt, he radiated this ‘Look at me’ subliminal command. An aura of awe. (An awe-ra?) Whatever it was, he turned fondling a manky beanbag into a mesmerising spectacle. The air zinged as we waited for him to speak and the bitchy American skankwomble began to drool.

‘I’m Toby Smith,’ Mr Incredible said eventually in a vaguely London accent. ‘I’m seventeen and, sorry, I don’t do ice-breakers.’

Then he slouched back down with professional-grade ennui and gently lobbed the beanbag at weedy SpongeBob who, judging by his face, urgently needed a clean pair of SquarePants. (And possibly a Sponge.)

‘Er, h-h-hello everyone. Nice to meet you all. My name is Humphrey Badger and I-I . . .’

Well, coming after Toby King of Cool, the poor lad had no chance. The tension instantly shattered into yowls of ‘Humphreeeeyyyyyyyy!’

‘Quiet please!’ Flip-flop Phil shouted. ‘Enough, thank you, guys, shhhh.’

Humphrey raised his eyebrows along with his voice. ‘So now you’ll understand why I prefer to be called Badger. And yes, my parents do love me. And no, I’ll never forgive them.’ More laughs, kinder this time, and he gave the hint of a smile as the room quietened. ‘OK, my three facts are: I’ve been home-schooled my whole life, I play the trumpet and the French horn, and I –’

But his last point was swallowed up by Miss Tanfastic screeching, ‘French WHAT?! ’ in a voice like nails scraping down an eardrum.

That did it. The room was in uproar again. I don’t think anyone even noticed Badger sit down, cheeks flaming fifty shades of red as he slid the beanbag over to me.

Poor SpongeBob. My hands itched to deliver a little slap-justice on his behalf and I briefly daydreamed about running round the room, smacking every single guffawing goon across the chops.

This of course should’ve been Flip-flop Phil’s job (maybe not the violence), but our tutor was being (in the immortal words of Nana Green) about as much use as an inflatable bloody dartboard. Flapping his arms, going, ‘Hey . . . quiet now,’ in an attempt to calm the cackles.

Yeah, like that was going to work.

With the beanbag in my hand and a blandly plastic smile on my face, I stood up as the howls faded to sniggers. Toby le Gorge was watching me, no trace of a smirk clouding those perfect features, but I hardly even noticed. I held out for pin-drop-level hush, then kept them waiting one beat, two beats, three beats more. Deep breath and:

‘Hi everyone, my name’s Daisy Green. My parents own a wedding business called Something Borrowed and I work part time for them. I love vintage clothes and playing football. And I absolutely, with a passion, hate bitchy people.’ Then I chucked the beanbag, hard, at the girl in the neon, doll-sized dress. I’ll give her this, she didn’t bat an eyelid as she got to her feet.

‘Thank you, Debbie. My name’s Brittany Bentley and three amazing facts about me are: my mom’s from England, but I grew up in Texas. I’m a cheerleader and my team made it to nationals in Atlanta this spring, which was awesome; I love competitive dancing, especially disco and Latin; I got into the televised rounds of America’s Got Talent last year and I want to be . . . famous!’

As she flashed a creepy pageant-princess smile, my immediate thoughts were: a) That’s not three things and b) Who the hell is Debbie?

No one else seemed to notice though, and loads of the boys started wolf whistling and awwwoooo-ing. (Toby and Badger-not-Humphrey earned instant brownie points for their non-joining in.) Brittany flicky-flicked her hair and did a fake aw shucks curtsy.

Famous? Yawn. Way to go, Stereotype Girl.

Me and Badger smiled at each other.

‘Daisy, yeah?’ he whispered, holding out his hand. ‘As in flower?’

‘Badger, yeah?’ I replied, shaking it. ‘As in vicious, striped woodland creature?’

‘Erm, yes. Hello.’

‘Hi.’

‘Did you hear the one about the beanbag?’ he said.

‘No?’

‘It didn’t break the ice.’

Arf arf. Lame cracker jokes aside, at least he was friendly, which instantly catapulted him above the rest of the people I’d met so far. Then he said bye he had to rush off to music, and I got my timetable out. Now, where was D Block?

By the time I’d worked out I was already in D Block (duh), the room was empty except for Scarily Handsome Toby. Odd. I glanced around, expecting to see a crowd of his mates lurking somewhere, but no. He was waiting for me.

His sulk-face had been erased by a smile so hot it probably had the power to vaporise knickers (Other girls’ knickers anyway. Mine were 100 per cent smile-proof thanks to Matt.) ‘Are you on a free now?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m just late for next lesson,’ I said. ‘Got my Spanish induction.’

‘No worries,’ he said with a wink, an action that would normally set me cringing for England. Except from him it weirdly kind of didn’t. ‘I’ll see you later then, Daisy.’

‘Yeah, bye,’ I said, smiling.

Nice guy. Cute. It almost made up for catty Brittany. Almost.

And I suppose the rest of the day wasn’t that bad, not burning-in-the-sulphurous-pits-of-Hell bad anyway. More un-good, like finding an umbrella in your Christmas stocking: hardly Yay, gift of my dreams, but not quite Kill me now territory either.

I guess the biggest shock was how similar college was to school. Maybe there were no bells, no uniform, no registration. (No friends . . . sigh.) But from the Dirty Porridge painted walls, to the perma-reek of Lynx and chips, I could have been back at St Mary’s.

The Rule #8 Think Positive List

Here, I could be Just Daisy not

DaisywhogotdumpedbyMatt.

The toilets were clean.

No uniform.

OK-ish teachers.

It wasn’t a mistake. Right?

Right?!

And speaking of mistakes, Brittany must’ve though it was fancy dress herself. I mean, why else would anyone walk round dressed as a Bratz doll?

After college, I caught the bus to footie training and then me and Ayesha went back to hers.

‘How was school?’ I said as I sat down on her bed. ‘Everyone missing me already?’

‘Well, me and Beth certainly are,’ she answered. ‘And Mr Fox asked after you in registration.’

‘Old Captain Comb-over? Really?’

Given our years of mutual loathing in form time and maths I was stunned he didn’t get the party poppers out when I failed my GCSE. Or fall to his knees and weep with joy when I told him I wasn’t coming back.

‘Shocker, I know. He said to give you his best wishes for college.’

Blimey.

‘And I think he really meant it.’

Double blimey with sprinkles on top. He must have been wetting his flares in case I changed my mind about leaving.

I opened my mouth, ready to cast a think positive spin on my day when the doorbell rang. It was Beth. Apparently she wasn’t grounded as long as she agreed to her dad following her wherever she went. As in he was sitting outside in the car. Beyond creepy.

However, my initial mad-dad sympathy soon drained away as the endless tears Beth snotted down Ayesha’s cardigan turned my heart to stone. And after five minutes of her, But I loooove Shaneeey, driving me up the Wailing Wall, I could not hold my tongue another second.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe your dad’s got a point.’

Beth’s head popped up, a mascara-smeared meerkat sensing danger. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Maybe it’s time you tried being single for a bit.’

‘Single? What the hell for?’ She sounded genuinely surprised.

‘Oh God, I don’t know. Because you’ve never tried it? Because you’re making yet another mistake?’

‘What mistake?’

‘I mean . . .’ I breathed in deep. ‘From what I’ve heard, I don’t think this Shaney is good news.’

‘Oh yeah?’ she said, folding her arms and giving me the bring-it-on eyes. ‘Why not?’

‘Well, for starters, he followed you home from school.’

‘Only to talk!’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Talk . . . stalk . . .’

‘Daisy . . .’ said Ayesha in a warning tone.

‘I’m staging a Rule number 5 intervention,’ I said defensively. ‘Always be honest . . . ’

‘. . . even when it’s painful,’ Ayesha finished. ‘I know, I know. But I don’t think now is the right time.’ She gave an exaggerated nod in Beth’s direction and grimaced.

‘Well, excuse me,’ interrupted Beth, with a Jeremy Kyle guest hand/head shake ’n’ wag. ‘It’s up to me who I go out with, not you. Stop interfering.’

This was the exact moment at which an emergency gob-stop would have been advisable. Sadly, it appeared my mouth had missed the memo.

‘It’s not me who’s interfering with you, is it?’ I said.

‘Daisy! ’ said Ayesha, more urgently this time.

I rolled my eyes heavenwards again. ‘For God’s sake, Beth, get real; he’s a complete pervatron.’

‘You’ve never even met him,’ she snapped. ‘You don’t know anything about him.’

‘I know he’s a bouncer with a misspelled neck tattoo who follows schoolgirls home.’

‘I love him!’

‘And I love animals,’ I said, ‘but I wouldn’t particularly want to start a relationship with one.’

Beth glared, presumably aiming for haughty, but too red-faced and snot-encrusted to carry it off. Ayesha inhaled, poised to rub some verbal Savlon on our bitch scratches, but before she got a word out, Lady Boohoo took a final swipe.

‘You’re jealous, Daisy, that’s your problem. Bitter and heartless and jealous. The only reason you want me single is so you won’t be the only one without a boyfriend. Because since Matt left you can’t stand to see anyone happy.’

Ouch. That hurt so much.

I didn’t even stay to state the obvious, Er, who’s happy? I just grabbed my coat and stormed past Ayesha’s lovely mum in the hall and Beth’s bonkers dad on the street.

But as I walked home, muttering, ‘Bitter, am I? Jealous?’ under my breath, my anger began to recede. Had I been too harsh? Was I really being the Queen of Stony Hearts?

It was true that Matt broke my heart when he went to Spain. (And by ‘broke’ I mean ‘tore out and pounded to lifeless, smushy goop’.) But that didn’t mean I wanted everyone else to be miserable too. Especially not my friends.

But get real! Any primary schoolkid could have told Beth that if a strange man followed you home, you should report him to the police, not hand him your phone number. No exceptions. And to call it love, puhlease. She barely knew him.

Beth was a first-class drama farmer. Every other week she created some new boyfriend crisis and expected me and Ayesha to just jump on the emoto-cycle with her.

Phase 1. Ignore the warning signs.

Phase 2. Expect Daisy and Ayesha to pick up the pieces.

Rinse and repeat.

Well, I’d had it with her Goddess of Melodrama act. Maybe you couldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I was pretty sure you could spot a twat by his tatts.

She needed to take those wanker blinkers off once and for all and it was my and Ayesha’s duty to remind her of the Never-to-be-Broken #1 Golden Rule for Girls: It is always better to be single than to date a twat.