Lou Out of Luck

by Nat Luurtsema

  Sorry. (Damn straight you are, Missy.)

  Isn’t this wild? Me, sitting with them? (Yeah, well done. So proud.)

  I’m soooo busy. (Sigh.)

  Don’t be mad at me, OK? (Hmm… We’ll see.)

  The honest little voice at the back of my head says, Maybe she got tired of taking second place to Gabe and decided she wanted more than the spare time you give her when you aren’t seeing him?

  Shut up, little voice.

  I’m lost in a fug of gloom, but out of the corner of my eye I spot Dermot staring across the room. I follow his gaze and see Karl and his mate Ash looking at a magazine and laughing silently. I recognize that cover and my stomach gives a squeeze. Karl and Ash look over at me, smirking.

  “Karl? Bring that here, please?” Mr Peters’ voice is calm and quiet but it’s his dangerous voice. That’s the sign that detentions are about to be flung about like confetti. Karl shoves his chair back, wearily, and slouches up to Mr Peters like this is all SUCH an effort.

  As I feared, Mr Peters looks at the magazine and then straight at me. I dip my eyes down and at the desk. Interesting desk, very woody, some gum residue. Is that a rude word scratched into it? Of course it is.

  I know they’re looking at Lavender’s photo and I bet Karl has drawn a penis somewhere on her face. Are there loads of this Stylie magazine going around school? The thought makes me want to punch someone, ideally Karl. I glance up and meet Mr Peters’ eye. He looks embarrassed. I bet I’m right about the penis. He puts the magazine in the bin, then on second thoughts, pulls it out and sticks it in his bag so no one can grab it at the end of class.

  As Mr Peters sends Karl back to his desk and continues with the register, Dermot whispers to me, “Want to come to a performance class thing with me?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I whisper back, paying zero attention to the question cos I’m so distracted wondering how many Stylie magazines are circulating around school.

  “Cool!” Dermot gives me a little thumbs-up. “It’s on Saturday morning. You can come to mine and Aggy can drive us there?”

  I can hear Dermot is thrilled, and this worries me a bit. Because I just know we’ll have very different ideas of what’s thrilling.

  “Sorry,” I hiss under my breath, “what’s this class?”

  “Performance!” Dermot does a quick jazz-hands at me and I am now very concerned. At that moment, the bell goes and everyone jumps to their feet.

  “The bell is for me not for— Oh, never mind.” Mr Peters gives up.

  As always, the class stampedes out into the corridor as if we’ve been held captive for years. I look for Hannah through the crowd but Melia’s already pulling her away from me, saying, “Han, come on! If we run, we can get there before maths!” Before I can say, “Hannah, remember me? BFF here – not feeling that second F right now,” she’s been whisked away and I lose her.

  I head to maths and suddenly see Lav, head down, making her way towards the exit. Where’s she going? I turn back to Dermot. “Derm, can you … make some excuse for me? I might be late.”

  “Shall I save you a seat?”

  “Yeah, all right. Please!” I try not to notice how happy that makes him.

  I chase Lavender. She’s marching at top speed past people giving her looks. One guy is even pointing her out to his friends as if she’s famous. I have a nasty feeling that this term is not going to be good for Lav.

  I don’t want to shout and call more attention to her, but I can’t quite catch up. I lunge forward a couple of times, ploughing through the mass of bodies filling the school corridor, and finally grab her by her jumper. Lav turns around with such a hostile look on her face, I think she’s about to slap me. But her face softens when she sees it’s me and, without a word, she pulls me by my hoodie into a nearby staff toilet.

  “Lav!” I squeak. “We’re not allowed in here!”

  “No one ever uses it,” she says, covering her nose with her jumper sleeve.

  “Why n—? Oh.” I gag and cover my nose too.

  She shrugs. “Drains.”

  “Are you OK, Lav? Are people being…?”

  “Complete dicks? Yes, they are. There are SO many copies of that Stylie magazine going around school.”

  “Your friends will make sure no one dares—”

  “My friends are loving the attention and manhandling me down the corridor. Earlier, Jess kept shouting, ‘Don’t be jelly cos she fay-fay.’”

  “She did NOT.”

  “She did. She literally did that.”

  We stand in silence in the smell, appreciating the basic stupidity of her friends. I try a new approach.

  “Well, don’t worry, Dad’s calling that magazine and they’ll pull you out of the competition today.”

  She shakes her head and shows me her phone. A text conversation between her and Dad. I’m surprised to see how many emojis they use – Dad and I just text variations on Can I have a lift? and I’M HERE. WHERE ARE YOU?

  “Dad rang them. And they asked if he knew how much the prize money was.”

  I open my eyes wide and raise my wonky eyebrows in a question.

  “First prize is twenty-five thousand pounds,” Lav says.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyebrows climb a little higher.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Exactly.”

  “So you’re staying in the competition?” I ask. “Even though people are drawing penises on yo—”

  “People are drawing what?”

  “What? Nothing. Nowhere.”

  Lavender sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. I try to cheer her up. “Hey, Lav, maybe lots of people are really pleased for you?”

  “Yerthink?”

  I can’t maintain the lie. “Yeah, but … no, they probably aren’t.”

  “I’ve already been called vain, insecure and unfeminist for entering a modelling competition.”

  “You didn’t enter!” I point out. “And hey, maybe some of them are being narky because they DID?”

  “I didn’t even think about that,” she says, and it’s nice to see her smile. “I just need to try and style it out. Because if I won … can you imagine?”

  “It would be amazing! Mum and Dad would be so happy.”

  “Relieved, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you worried about them?”

  “Yeah. Mum more than Dad?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The mood in the toilet sinks again so I say, “But twenty-five thousand pounds, Lav! Twenty. Five. Thousand!” and we do a little excited dance in the stinky fug. Then we can’t take any more of the smell and bolt back out into the corridor. Lav douses me in body spray, then we have a quick hug and run off to our classes.

  I rush to maths, thinking up a brilliant excuse involving a fox tangled in a discarded multi-pack Coke can plastic thing and me having to rescue it. I think the more elaborate the lie, the more truthful it sounds – though I have been proved wrong on occasion.

  Anyway, I never get to use it, because when I poke my head apologetically around the door of the maths classroom, braced for a telling-off from Mr Uppan, I get a much more unnerving response. As soon as he sees me, he looks sympathetic. I have NEVER seen Mr Uppan look sympathetic. Annoyed, yes; disappointed; exasperated – but never sympathetic. It’s eerie, like if a pencil started singing.

  “OK, Louise?” he says, quietly. But not quietly enough. Heads are popping up around the room and people are starting to snigger. I’ve been an object of public ridicule a few times in my young life and I know the signs. Mr Uppan points me to my seat in an almost caring way and I stare VERY HARD at Dermot, who’s absorbed in his algebra but blushing red to the hairline.

  I sit down next to him. He doesn’t look up, so I pinch his arm.

  “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m not a natural liar.”

  “Lou’s bag broke. Lou had to speak to the head. Lou had a call from home. Lou needed to nip to the medical centre – bit dramatic but OK. Any
of these excuses would’ve been fine.”

  “I panicked! Mr Uppan asked if anyone knew where you were and everyone stared at me and usually I don’t mind embarrassing myself but I was worried about embarrassing you and I thought if it had a grain of truth that might make the lie better and you did go off with your sister so I was trying to say that but kind of in a vague way…”

  “What. Did. You. Say. Derm. Ot?” I hiss, quietly but forcefully.

  He wipes spit off his ear. “I said you had a girl emergency. But I didn’t mean it … the way everyone took it.”

  I sneak a look around the classroom. About half of the class are whispering to each other and fighting giggles.

  Cool. Just glad to be bringing joy, guys.

  I spend the rest of maths focusing on the twenty-five thousand lovely pounds that would remove the dark circles from under my parents’ eyes. It’s a pleasant daydream and doesn’t leave much headspace for maths – soz, Mr Uppan. When he sees my blank workbook, he looks less sympathetic and more irritable. That’s the face I’m used to.

  As soon as maths is over, Hannah dashes over, looking concerned. “Lou, are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I say in super dignified tones while Dermot pretends to be very interested in packing his wicker basket. “I was just talking to Lav.”

  “Oh, I thought—”

  “No, just talking to Lav.”

  “Is something up with her?” Hannah looks concerned and I swear, I am just about to tell her, but then Nicole appears and there’s no way I’m telling my sister’s private business in front of that gossipmonger.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yep. All good.”

  I take it back, Dermot. Neither of us think well on our feet.

  There’s an awkward silence, only broken by squeaky wicker noises as Dermot continues to pack his school bag.

  Hannah looks hurt. “Sorry, wasn’t being nosy. I was just worried.”

  “Yeah! Of course! Definitely. I know,” I say and she looks expectant. But now Cammie and Melia are clustering behind her, bags on their backs, waiting for their precious Prom Committee to be a four again.

  “All right. I’ll see you later, maybe,” Hannah says in a small voice.

  “Lunch?” I say.

  “I have to do …”

  “Prom Committee stuff,” I chorus with her and she looks wary as if I’m making fun of her – and I am a bit. I feel bad, so I say, “Hey, can I do anything to help?”

  Three lessons later and it’s lunchtime. Hannah’s raced off to the art department to have a conversation about budget. I’m tempted to ask how much the prom is costing per student and could I just have my cash if I promise not to come? I bet what they’re spending on one party would sort my family out for a month.

  Feeling very sorry for myself, I’m waddling down the empty corridor, buckling under the weight of Hannah’s bag, my bag AND Melia’s bag. Cos when I said “Can I do anything to help?” they took me literally.

  I stop for a moment and lean against the radiator, which is roasting hot and doesn’t help. There’s a little nudge on my back.

  “Sorry,” says Dermot. I turn around and he’s bent almost double under Cammie’s bag, Nicole’s bag and his own.

  “You’re forgiven for girl emergency,” I tell him, most graciously.

  “I’d better be,” he grouches, dabbing his sweaty face with a silky handkerchief.

  We stay there for a while, panting.

  “Glad I wore sports casualwear today,” he says, peeling himself off the wall to continue our trek to the canteen.

  “Is that what those are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sports casualwear,” I echo, doubtfully.

  “Well, not in this century. But they were in the last one.”

  As we approach the big white swing doors that lead into the canteen, we can hear strange noises coming from the other side. We hang back. These doors should always be approached carefully, as some of the older boys find it funny to barge into them, sending unwary Year 7s flying on the other side.

  They call it flicking. School calls it Anti-Social Behaviour.

  But this sounds like something more sinister. I can hear cheering from a large group of kids, and not happy cheering, more aggressive. I swear I hear someone yelp “Get him!”. There’s a crash, like a table going over. I look at Dermot, who hoists up the bags to get a firmer grip and tenses his legs, poised to run away if anyone comes charging through those doors.

  I hear a scream and I jump. I know that voice.

  “That’s my sister!” I gasp at Dermot.

  Dermot and I push against the swing doors, but they don’t move – there must be people leaning against them. So we dump the bags, tripping over the straps, and stumble outside towards the other entrance. There are big windows in the canteen so I can see the mayhem inside as we get closer.

  A table has been turned over. There’s food everywhere. A large crowd is trying to look like it wasn’t cheering on a fight, five seconds ago. I can see Karl from our class sitting on the floor, dazed and covered in food. Dermot nudges me and points out Lavender at the front of the crowd.

  I see Mr Peters, his cardigan half off, glasses askew, holding Roman back. He begins ordering everyone out of the canteen, and the dinner ladies are emerging from the kitchen looking grim at all the cleaning up to be done. Even from a distance, Karl doesn’t look OK. He was never the brightest penny in the jar as Dead Grandma would say, but right now he looks like he’d struggle to find his bum with both hands.

  Mr Peters tells Lavender to go and she does, with some reluctant backwards looks. Dermot and I rush back to the corridor to intercept her.

  Lav sees me, gives the tiniest shake of her head and hurries away. “Lav!” I shout after her but I know she’s not going to look back.

  “Bloody hell,” says Dermot.

  “Yeah,” I say. “She’s my sister. I just wanted to know—”

  “No,” says Dermot and pivots me by the shoulder, pointing at the floor.

  Everyone went streaming through this corridor a minute ago and we had left all the rucksacks on the floor. They’re lying tattered and crushed, their contents strewn all over the place. They look like bloodless roadkill.

  Well, bloodless until we tell Cammie.

  “Of course we didn’t do it on purpose!” I hiss. “Look, mine is ruined too. Dermot’s bag is …”

  “… cat litter,” he says, examining a handful of crumbled wicker.

  “I don’t care,” Cammie whispers back, icy calm. “Mine actually cost MONEY, can you imagine? Mine wasn’t some nasty little budget supermarket tat, mine was designer.”

  “So was mine,” adds Melia.

  “And mine,” says Nicole.

  Hannah stays silent. THANKS, PAL. Feel free to jump in here at any point.

  “So you have to buy us new bags,” Cammie says, like that’s sorted.

  Melia and Nicole nod.

  “Mine was from Miami? I got it on holiday? So you’ll need to look online for it,” adds Nicole.

  Finally, Hannah finds her voice. “Guys. Lou can’t afford that.”

  “Fine, her parents can pay.”

  “No, her parents can’t afford it either. They’re—”

  “Thank you, Hannah,” I say, my voice as cold as Cammie’s.

  “I’m trying to say,” Hannah hisses, exasperated, “that we shouldn’t have made you carry all our stuff. I’ll pay for the new bags.”

  Instantly, the mood changes.

  “Honeeey…” says Melia, scandalized. “Don’t do that!”

  “We couldn’t let you do that,” says Nicole.

  Cammie is shaking her head graciously, like how could Han possibly think they’d be so demanding?

  They all turn inwards on their table of four. I can’t even see Hannah now so I turn back to my little table of two with Dermot, feeling dismissed and covered in spit from all the hissing. He shrugs at me and we get on with our work. I do actually get a lot done when I s
it with Dermot – he concentrates and listens, so I do too. I guess he got into good habits because he never had friends to distract him. That sounds mean; I don’t mean it meanly.

  Talking of mean, I sneakily texted Lav at the beginning of class to see what was going on and she’s finally got back to me. Apparently, Karl was waving around a copy of Stylie magazine and he’d scribbled all over her face. I don’t bother asking what he scribbled. I’ve known him a long time and he’s never been an enigmatic soul, full of hidden depths and corners.

  Roman told him to stop. He wouldn’t. Then Ro threw himself across the table at him, and they had a fight. Not a fight like in a film but lots of pushing and grabbing at each other’s jumpers.

  I sympathize. I wouldn’t know how to fight either.

  But now Ro’s in the Head’s office – sispnsiion??

  She must be texting sneakily under her desk too. I assume this means suspension. I send her a string of dismayed emojis, culminating in a line of poos. I really need a non-smiling poo emoji for moments like this. This guy looks far too breezy for this kind of situation.

  Dermot kicks me under the table. I look up and stare at the interactive whiteboard, furrowing my brow in deep concentration.

  “Lou, any ideas?” the teacher calls over to me.

  “Acceleration!”

  “No.” Ms Peel looks weary.

  “Energy?” I guess again. “Iiiis it a type of energy?”

  Ms Peel is quite severe. She only wears black dresses, and they’re cut so rigidly they could probably stand up by themselves.

  “Louise, it’s always a type of energy.”

  “I see. Hmm. So arguably, we could say I’m not wrong?”

  There’s an unfamiliar noise – Dermot is laughing. This sets a few other people off too. To my surprise, Ms Peel finally cracks a grin and says, “Half a point for being broadly correct.”

  I guess if I was a teacher I’d have a soft spot for weird Dermot too. I feel bad for always breathing through my mouth when I’m around him. I take a deep inhalation through my nose and instantly feel like a better human being.

  “Lou?”

  Ms Peel is staring at me as I take in lungfuls of Dermot.