Rachel McIntyre - Me and Mr J

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.’