Rachel McIntyre - Me and Mr J

I know, it’s genius. Cycling is cool AND I’ll get the papers done loads quicker AND it’ll pay for itself in a term as it’ll save me forking out for a bus pass AND I’ll get fitter AND help the environment, plus (and this is the best bit) I won’t need to face the boys’ school knobs on the Hellbus ever again.

Go me!

PS 11.35. Still no sign of Dad.

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 Tit LISS.

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.