Rebel with a Cupcake

by Anna Mainwaring

  REBEL

  WITH A

  CUPCAKE

  Anna Mainwaring

  KCP Loft is an imprint of Kids Can Press

  ISBN 978-1-5253-0066-0 (EPUB)

  Text © 2018 Anna Mainwaring

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Kids Can Press Ltd. or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Kids Can Press Ltd. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial capital letters (e.g., Disney).

  Kids Can Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Published in Canada and the U.S. by Kids Can Press Ltd.

  25 Dockside Drive, Toronto, ON M5A 0B5

  Kids Can Press is a Corus Entertainment Inc. company

  www.kidscanpress.com

  www.kcploft.com

  Edited by Kate Egan

  Designed by Emma Dolan

  Jacket photo courtesy of Isabella Cassini / Alamy Stock Photo

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Mainwaring, Anna, author

  Rebel with a cupcake / Anna Mainwaring.

  ISBN 978-1-77138-826-9 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-5253-0033-2 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PZ7.1.M35Reb 2018 j823'.92 C2017-903218-6

  For Grace and Beth

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Invisible Rule #1:

  Sometimes being a girl sucks. And blows. All at the same time.

  “We’ve only got an hour,” Hannah whimpers, grabbing the hair straighteners.

  “Actually, it’s 57 minutes and 39 seconds.” Izzie peers at her phone. “38. 37. 36.” Her bottom lip quivers and I think she’s going to cry. “I don’t think I can take the stress.”

  “I know,” Hannah says. “Let’s all phone in sick. Or pretend we’ve been abducted by aliens.”

  “Stop panicking,” I suggest. “I mean, all we’ve got to do is get ready to go to school.”

  They both stare at me as if I’ve suddenly grown an extra head.

  “Jess. Not now. Don’t start the whole ‘clothes are just clothes’ thing. You may be right but surely even you can see that this is the worst day of the year.” Hannah is now desperate, going through a pile of clothes on the sofa. We’re in the basement of her house, where we always hang out, normally a happy place full of music, food and a very strong Wi-Fi connection.

  Not so happy today.

  Today is Own Clothes Day, the most nerve-racking day imaginable.

  Izzie is in front of the mirror, putting on her fourth coat of mascara. She’s going for the wicked-fairy-who’s-fallen-on-hard-times look, and amazingly, she seems to pull it off. She looks like someone out of an advert — quirky yet glamorous all at the same time.

  “You’d never guess you were a Manchester City fan until three months ago,” I say.

  Izzie humphs. She doesn’t like to be reminded that she’s made the bizarre transition from football fan to white witch. Not quite like Jadis in Narnia — we’re short of polar bears and sleds round here — but she does think she can do magic. Worse still, most of our school believes her. But this means that she can go for the emo look and no one will hate her for it.

  Next to her, with the dark red hair and pale complexion — that’s Hannah. She’s more conventionally dressed in a series of cunning layers that bring her in at the right places and out and up at the right places. With her big eyes and ringlets, she looks a bit like a Disney princess. But whereas Disney princesses are never famous for having much going on between their ears, Hannah is on course for eleven A-pluses in her national exams. Clearly not just a pretty face …

  Hannah turns around and stares at her backside.

  “Do my slag lines show?” she asks.

  I look closely, as only a best friend can at another friend’s arse, to see if her panties are visible. “Nope,” I say, “you pass the slag test.”

  She smiles contentedly and goes back to work on her eyebrows. I’m saying nothing, but in a few minutes, it’ll look like two slugs are sitting on top of her eyes. For an intelligent girl, she clearly doesn’t mind drawing on fake eyebrows that make her look — well, to be honest — a bit stupid.

  Then there’s me. Jesobel — Jess for short. I sort of like my name cos it sounds pretty. But older people always look shocked when they’re introduced to me. Apparently, the original Jezebel was some woman from the Bible who got executed for doing magic, and then her dead body was fed to the dogs. Not really a lifestyle to aspire to.

  But maybe it’s my name that’s marked me out as a bit different. Because while these two are in crisis, I’m just sitting here reading the latest post on my favorite blog, Fat Girl with Attitude.

  That is until Izzie says, “And what are you wearing today?”

  I look at her, bemused. “Er, this?” I wave a hand in the general direction of my body.

  “You’re Year Eleven! That’s what Year Nine will be wearing!” Hannah cries.

  I look down at my so-called skinny jeans and Hollister top. She has a point — I have been wearing the same outfit for the last two years. (Don’t worry, it has been washed. I don’t mean LITERALLY wearing it for two years — that would be gross.)

  Izzie grabs my bag. “Let’s see what else you’ve got. Did you bring the leggings?” She rummages through it, tossing one garment aside and then grabbing the next with glee. “Yes!” she cries, and I’m sent to the corner to change clothes. Apparently, layered T-shirts, short skirt and leggings are so much better than what I had on before. With a sigh, I add my prefect badge to my new and improved outfit. I get to stalk the corridors at lunchtime and report any bad behavior.

  “That is so much better,” Hannah reports back. I stare at myself in the mirror. A girl rather larger than Hannah stares back. But she’s smiling, so that’s okay. Some might say she’s fat, and on a bad day, I’d agree with them. I’m not a whale, mind, just, you know, curvy. And curves are good, aren’t they? I’ve read many blog posts telling me that, but then the photos of curvy women that go alongside them show women that have clearly never eaten ice cream or even thought about a chip. My idea of curves is having boobs that actually wobble when you run upstairs.

  I digress. You might be wondering why there’s so much fuss over what we’re wearing, and you know, I’m kind of with you on this one. But then again … let’s think it over for a minute.

  Take an all-girls’ school and stick it in a reasonably posh area — South Manchester — stuffed full of football players (and their perma-tanned wives), doctors, dentists, lawyers, TV presenters and artists, who all want their darling daughters to be the BEST. It’s like The Hunger Games without the bows and arrows — a fight to the death to be the cleverest, thinnest, prettiest, most popular girl in the school.

  So, it’s bad enough on a normal day when we have to wear regulation uniform — gray skirt, gray blazer, gray socks. (I think they want our souls to be gray.) Own Clothes Day is worse, much worse. Every detail of wh
at we wear will be noted, analyzed and posted online within seconds of us arriving at school, accompanied by mean comments if we’ve got it wrong. This is why Hannah and Izzie are freaking out. But even though I know all of this, I’m still not that bothered. I mean, there are more important things in the world than clothes, aren’t there?

  And by things I mean food. Now that I’m dressed, I’m feeling a bit hungry and thinking that food might lighten the mood.

  “I know what will make things just tickety-boo,” I say. (I know it’s an old-fashioned word. I was brought up mostly by my grandmother. This shows from time to time.) I pick up the plastic container that I have carefully carried from my house, a few streets away, and tease open the lid.

  Izzie and Hannah simultaneously sigh as if they have both just seen the most beautiful sight in the world. Which they have, if I do say so myself.

  I know what you’re thinking — we’re girls and food is bad because food makes us fat. That’s the invisible rule, isn’t it? If you’re a teenage girl, you should hate your body, hate food and hate yourself.

  Well, I don’t think like that.

  I don’t get why food is the enemy. Have you noticed that people are often nicer when they’re sitting around eating and talking, rather than not eating and being miserable? Yes, Cat, if you ever get around to reading this, I do mean you.

  And also food never lets me down. And there aren’t too many things you can say that about.

  Cupcakes eaten and clothes sorted, it’s on to hair and makeup. Within seconds, the basement is full of the familiar smells of teenage girls: scorched hair, body spray and scented lip gloss.

  Finally, Hannah stops looking terrified. “Okay, we’re fine for time and we all look great. Result.”

  We stare at our reflections in the mottled mirror that hangs on the wall of the basement. Three cool but different girls smile back.

  “Come on, time to go,” Izzie says, and that’s that. Let the games begin …

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Invisible Rule #2:

  If a girl has curly hair, she wants straight. If she’s short, she wants to be tall. If she’s got no boobs, she wants huge ones. You’re never allowed to be happy with what you’ve got.

  We head down the high street as slowly as possible. No one wants to look too keen, and the walk to school is the best opportunity, today of all days, to see who’s wearing what and whether anyone is really way out there. Like the year Sonia Fitzherbert came wearing her mum’s wedding dress and full white body makeup. Apparently, she was being some weirdo — from a book by Dickens — who never got over not getting married. Online dating didn’t exist back in the dark ages.

  As a team, Hannah, Izzie and I attempt to check out Ruth Mulholland and Sara Ejaz, also from our year, who walk parallel to us on the other side of the road. They look at us, we look at them. We’re wearing the same kind of stuff. But not exactly the same. That would be the Worst Thing That Could Happen.

  We wave at each other and give the thumbs-up. We try to be nice, whereas we know that some other girls will just do THE LOOK. You know, where they scan you up and down with a pinched face like they’ve got a mouthful of sour candy, and you know they’re doing a checklist of your faults.

  Recipe for the Perfect Girl (according to fashion shoots and celebrity sites):

  Legs: thigh gap required. Also, absolutely NO suggestion that hair ever grows on these babies at all. Ever.

  Boobs: need to look like small firm jellies that point up; absolutely NO hint of nipples.

  Skin: airbrushed perfection.

  Hair: must look natural in a way that only three hours in front of a mirror and twenty products can create.

  Stomach: flat and hard enough to roll pastry on.

  I could go on — but I can’t bear to. Far more interesting are two boys from the boys’ school who are our FRIENDS but not our BOYFRIENDS. We are invited over by those most romantic words, “Hey, wenches.”

  Dominic Hall and Fred Cormack are lounging on a bench. We’ve known each other for years. In fact, I married Dom in the playhouse one lunchtime back in Year Two, so I’ll assume that the “wench” comment is ironic. We do fool around at parties if there’s no one else we fancy. I like him, but he doesn’t make my heart race.

  “Looking good, girls,” Dom says as he checks us out, up and down, apparently appreciating all our efforts.

  “Of course,” Hannah says with a well-practiced flick of her hair, “we always look good.”

  Which is weird. Even with our friends-who-happen-to-be-boys, Hannah has suddenly changed from a normal person into a smirking robot.

  “So, did you hear about …” Fred leans in with the latest news. Boys may say they don’t gossip, but they’re just as bad as us.

  While I’m half listening to what Girl B might have done or not done to Boy A, I can’t help thinking about all the time we three have put into our appearance this morning (the clothes, the hair, the makeup), when Dom and Fred have clearly just squirted on the Lynx and they’re good to go. I don’t think Fred has even brushed his hair — this year — and Dom has spots. A girl would struggle to leave the house without twenty layers of concealer on them, but Dom clearly still loves himself. If reincarnation does exist, I want to come back as a boy. At least then, when I fart in public, everyone will find it funny.

  Then I notice how Dom stares at my boobs. There are a variety of ways to look at this:

  a) I’m getting male attention. In public, for all to see. Which is good and makes me look good in the eyes of all the girls walking past, who WILL be taking notice.

  Or

  b) How rude — there is more to me than my mammary glands. But given that I am, you know, on the large side, some girls would think that I’m lucky to get any guy to notice me. Weirdly, it’s girls who give me grief for being fat, not boys.

  “You can look at my face, you know,” I say to him.

  He laughs and hits me on the arm.

  “Sorry,” he says, “but I’m a boy. I’m just a testosterone machine, hardwired to look at breasts. And yours are just amazing. Are you sure that you’ve not had a boob job this year?”

  I sigh and then I blush more than just a bit, not sure how to take this. I mean, this is good, isn’t it? But do I want to be liked just for some random genetic factor that means I’ve not seen my feet for the last year?

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I haven’t had a boob job — all my hormones just kicked in at once!”

  “Well, my hormones like what your hormones are doing to your body,” he says cheerfully, punching me on the arm again to show that this is just joking and not flirting. I think. Or am I missing something? I could just do with my arm being punched less.

  As he turns back to the others, I carefully glance around to see if a certain boy is there. A boy who makes my heart, face and other parts of my anatomy tingle if I see him. You see, I have a bit of a secret crush on this guy called Matt Paige. Who, unfortunately, is not in sight.

  I do mean secret. I would actually rather die than tell anyone. And I do mean crush because the amount of time I think about him puts me into the category of Scary Stalker Girl.

  And this is how it happened. How I fell ridiculously head over heels for him. It only took a second.

  He lives near me. About a year ago, he was walking home and I was in my room, doing my homework in a distracted sort of way — well, I was just looking out of the window. And I looked down at him. He looked up at me.

  And he smiled.

  At me.

  That was it. That was all it took.

  All of a sudden, I realized that under that mad mop of hair, he was hot. With a good smile. And I sort of glowed inside. It was one of the first times ever that a boy actually looked at me and smiled. As if I was pretty. It was lovely!

  Of course, reality kicked in l
ater and I realized that I’d been sitting down and so all he saw was my face. And if you just see my face, I don’t look fat. If you just see my face, I look a bit like my mum. But I can’t just be a face. The rest of me is attached. I can’t push myself to school sitting on a wheelie chair with a desk in front of me to disguise the rest.

  But for months now, he’s been all I can think about. He’s in Year Twelve at the boys’ school, so he’s an older man! You can tell a lot from a boy’s A-level choices, and his are: Psychology (in touch with his feelings), English Literature (you have to be a real man to do English at the boys’ school — imagine the piss-taking), French (swoon) and, wait for it — Art (double swoon). What a combination — perfect or what? He’s interested in human nature, he’s creative, bilingual and actually confesses to reading books! I know all this because Hannah’s elder brother, Alex, is in his year and she found all this out for me. It took me ages to ask all the right questions so that she told me everything without realizing that I fancied him.

  Even though I’m fine about … well, the way I look; I’m also a realist. I’m me and he’s him and there’s very little chance of anything happening. There might be if I looked a bit more like that girl over there — a vision of female perfection, lounging on a low wall, surrounded by tall, cute boys. All our group are suddenly staring at her.

  She’s the girl that everyone wants to be or be with. She’s thin, she’s pretty and she has those huge eyes that look too big for her face. She’s wearing shiny leggings and manages that winning combination of sexy and vulnerable. The boys competing for her attention are perfect. Tall, hot, old, but not too old. And guess what? They look her in the eye. Because somehow, being attractive means that boys make more effort with you. You’re worth it.

  Her tinkling laugh chimes out and, for a split second, her dark eyes break away from the group and scan lightly over us. I have a strange feeling when I watch her. Since I was little, I’ve watched all the films, happy in the knowledge that all I have to do is to be myself and I will be loved. Except, in films, “being yourself” also means being impossibly thin with ridiculously large eyes and perfect hair.