Holly Smale - All That Glitters

Is it a play on words? A groom, a broom, a …

“A cupboard?” Raya suggests, but I suddenly know. Wham . As if my brain was in the dark and a light’s just been switched on: once you see the answer, you can’t unsee it.

I punch the air.

“I’ve got it!” I yell, and beam triumphantly at Liv and India. “It’s a mush-room, miss!”

Then, with three quick hops, I reach the sock and start automatically doing my happy dance: hands punching the air, knees bent, bottom wiggling.

“We win!” I squeak jubilantly. “We win we win we win! Wooooooooo!!!”

y cheeks are flushed. My knees are shaking.

All the standard responses to success, adrenaline and unexpected physical activity.

I knew it. Best. Day. Ever.

This is exactly like Rebecca’s birthday party eleven years ago when I won all the games. We played Pass the Parcel and I explained the rules to anyone who held on to the package for too long, and Musical Chairs where I encouraged anyone who was walking too slowly to hurry up, and Musical Statues when I helpfully pointed out people who were moving and … and …

And nobody wanted to play with me ever again.

Cucumbers consist of ninety-five per cent water. Without warning, it suddenly feels as if I may have become one. Every cell in my body is rapidly turning into liquid.

No. No no no no .

I abruptly stop wiggling my bottom and – with infinite slowness – turn around.

And there it is.

Every single one of my peers is standing in silence: arms folded, faces sullen. Glaring at me with narrowed eyes and raised eyebrows. Unimpressed. Outraged. Bored stiff by a game they haven’t participated in.

Precisely the same as when we were five, except they’re considerably bigger now and even angrier because this time they’re covered in broken up bits of toilet roll and they’re not quite sure why.

Oh my God: I’ve done it again.

I was so desperate for my team to win, I didn’t think about anything else. I was trying my hardest, but in doing so I’ve made the entire game about …

Well. Me, I guess.

With a sick lurch, I’m suddenly not so sure I need Alexa to make me unpopular after all.

Oh, who am I even kidding?

Maybe I never actually did.

Swallowing, I turn slowly to Liv and India. Their arms are folded as well. I hold up my hand to awkwardly high-five them. “We won, guys. Yay?”

They both stare at it, suspended in the air. The loneliest hand that has ever existed in the 65 million years since our primate ancestors first evolved them.

“Not really,” India says finally. “ You won, Harriet. All by yourself.”

And – as she turns in silence and starts walking back to the sixth-form building, followed by every member of my class – I can’t help but marvel at the irony.

Because, despite my best efforts, all by myself is exactly how I’ve ended up.

he poet John Donne once wrote that no man is an island. I’d like to seriously question the accuracy of that statement.

In the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean, 1,700 miles from Antarctica, lies Bouvet Island. It has an area of forty-nine kilometres squared, is covered in glaciers and ice, and nobody lives there or ever has. According to Wikipedia, it is the remotest island in the world.

Thanks to today’s misadventures, it is still a more popular destination than me.

The rest of the morning can be summarised thus:

1 I apologise to India and Liv and give them my share of the tuck-shop voucher.

2 They tell me it’s fine, honestly, and then avoid me.

3 I overhear a girl in maths say I’m “still an arrogant, weird know-it-all”.

4 I briefly consider telling her that weird originally meant “has the power to control fate” and if that was true I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

5 I realise it’ll prove all three points and think better of it.

News of my unsporting smugness and apparent In Your Face dance spreads around sixth form with the speed of a forest fire. By the time I get out of double physics with Mr Harper, it’s everywhere.

I try to outrace it – attempting to start friendly conversations with strangers as fast as I can – but it’s impossible. The flame hops from student to student via whispers and raised eyebrows until all I’m doing is circling the common room like a desperate squirrel with its tail combusting.

I’m smiling, trying to find things in common, asking questions and remembering details as hard as I can.

But it’s too late.

My seven seconds are up. The first impression has been made, and with every attempt to undo it I just look even more pathetic. It doesn’t matter what I do or what I say any more.

I am the school weirdo.

Again.

By the time I’m ejected from my sixth failed conversation attempt (“Did you know that pirates used to wear gold hoop earrings because they thought it improved their eyesight?”) I’ve officially given up.

I haven’t seen Toby all morning. I should probably focus the remainder of my efforts on the one person in the year that still wants to talk to me.

But he’s not in the common room, he isn’t in the dining hall and when I take my lunch to his normal spot in the bush behind the gym hall, he’s not there either.

Seriously. For a stalker, Toby is becoming ridiculously difficult to track down.

By the time I eventually find him, tucked into the corner of the art studio, I’ve basically resigned myself to playing noughts and crosses on the floor of the playground. I’ve already got two chalks ready, just in case I can persuade a year seven to play with me.

Although, given how quickly my leper status is whizzing around the school, even that’s looking optimistic.

“Hey, Toby!” I say, pushing through the art room door. He looks up with slightly mad eyes, like a miniature Albert Einstein except without the moustache or Nobel prize.

“Harriet Manners!” he says, pulling his earphones out and quickly flipping over a piece of paper in front of him. “What an unprecedented surprise!”

I am so, so happy to see him.

“Are you having lunch in here today?” I say, bouncing forward and slamming my satchel enthusiastically on the table. “Did you know that in the average lunchtime you eat 150,000 kilometres of DNA? Although I’m afraid this cheese sandwich may have a few less, judging by the state of the lettuce.” I plop it on the desk in front of him.

“Want to share?”

Toby gently pushes the sandwich off his piece of paper and brushes a few crumbs away.

“That’s very kind of you, Harriet. But Mum made me sushi.” He prods a little Thomas the Tank Engine lunchbox on the chair next to him. “Except we didn’t have any fish so it’s beef and I’m not keen on wasabi so it’s mustard.” He opens it and peers in. “With bread instead of rice.”

“So,” I say slowly, “it’s a beef sandwich, then?”

“Absolutely,” Toby agrees, holding one up. “Except Mum cut the crusts off and rolled it up into little balls so I’d feel like I was getting an interesting cultural experience.”

I grin and glance briefly around the room.

Thanks to a total lack of artistic interest and even less ability, I’ve spent as little time as possible in this part of the school. There are paints and brushes everywhere, bright canvases leaning against walls and a general atmosphere of creativity.

I don’t like it.

Entirely subjective grades make me uncomfortable.