My most prized possession during these years was a video camera that my family had given me for my birthday. My friend Rachel and I spent countless weekends writing and filming our own silly little skits and spoofs. Here I could be loud. I was brave. We’d craft slapdash costumes out of blankets and clothes pegs, then walk through the village dressed as our characters – scullery maids, TV presenters, and, more than once, Simon Cowell in drag – trying to keep a straight face as we made eye contact with passers-by.
We spent hours working on our scripts, sitting cooped up in my room stuffing Thorntons toffee into our faces, using a thesaurus to pick out the most obscure words we could possibly find.
“I need another word for ‘walk.’”
“What’s the sentence?”
“They walk to the shops.”
“OK, how about ambulate?” Rachel said, thumbing through the thesaurus.
“They AMBULATE to the shops?!”
“Oh no, wait, I’ve found a good one. Toddle. They can toddle to the shops.”
We fell about laughing.
Then came the bit I loved best: editing the films on Rachel’s ancient PC. I was used to storytelling the old-fashioned way, with words on a page and a pen in my hand, but telling a story visually, with film clips and sound effects, was even more exciting. My dad, who made animations for a living, showed me how it worked step by step. I loved every second of it, and I decided right then and there that video editing was a job I would love to have some day.
I dreamt endlessly about the future, and turned my fantasies into art through short stories and screenplays, encouraged by the support from my parents, Mrs Robinson, and Rachel. I pictured myself as a top-level film editor, cutting together video clips at the speed of light. I imagined what my edit suite would be like; a state-of-the-art studio tucked away in the Hollywood Hills, with shelf after shelf jam-packed full of Oscars. I thought about my co-workers’ faces when they saw what I could do; awestruck and inspired, impressed by my talents, clapping and whooping as I loaded up more reels of film, ready for round two. I knew it was possible if I put my mind to it. My imagination was telling me to hold on, so that’s exactly what I did.
Besides – why listen to the Jameses and Bethanys of the world, when you could listen to the Rachels and Mrs Robinsons?
I was five when the first Harry Potter book came out, and Hermione Granger became my hero overnight. She was everything I wanted to be – smart, logical, independent, and true to herself. I used Hermione’s quiet determination as my inspiration; I knew I could be just as powerful as her.
I read all the books myself, but insisted that my dad read them aloud to me at bedtimes, too. He never failed to make me smile, acting out certain scenes in an overly-dramatic fashion, doing all the different voices and ad-libbing here and there. He made me laugh until I was clutching at my sides, tears rolling down my cheeks. In the mornings, he would drizzle an ‘H’ for Hermione in golden syrup on top of my porridge. “Calling all witches and wizards,” he’d shout up the stairs. “It’s breakfast time!”
On days when I was worried or scared about something, I imagined how Hermione would deal with it. I knew she would never let something as irrelevant as anxiety stop her. Whenever I had a lesson to go to that I hated or was bad at, I pretended I was Hermione Granger, top of the class, and walked in with my head held high. Hermione got me through my most difficult days.
Rachel loved Harry Potter, too. We’d write our own spinoff stories and act out our favourite scenes together, but I’d always make her play Harry or Ron, even though she had Hermione’s curly brown hair. I hoped she didn’t mind.
When the first Harry Potter film finally came out, I fell madly in love with Emma Watson. I covered my wardrobe doors with my favourite posters of her, tearing them out of magazines and newspapers, begging my mum to bring home any articles she found that had interviews with Emma in them. I remember thinking to myself that she was beautiful and wishing that I could look like her. At the time, I wasn’t aware that my feelings for her might be more than admiration or envy.
I begged my parents to buy me some Gryffindor robes (I’ve since accepted that I’m more of a Hufflepuff) and fashioned a wand out of some twigs I found in the garden. Then, after saving up my pocket money for weeks on end, I bought some curly brown twine from the local garden centre. Armed with a pair of scissors and some Sellotape, I sat on the rug in my bedroom and carefully constructed an extravagant, multi-layered Hermione wig. I walked around town with it wrapped into my ponytail, swishing it proudly. I didn’t care that people laughed. I was Hermione Granger, and I could conquer the world.
A few months before I turned twelve, I made a big decision. While everyone else in my class had chosen to go to the local secondary school, I decided to go to a different one. I would know absolutely nobody, but I had very little to lose – I had been so unhappy at primary school. Little did I know at the time, it would be the best leap of faith I ever took.
Just make friends. You have to make at least one, I thought to myself as I walked through the double doors on my first day.
I was petrified. As I entered the main hall, all I could see was a mass of other Year 7s in matching navy-blue school sweatshirts, babbling excitedly. The hall, although quite big, had a cosy feel to it. Giant, oversized curtains hung majestically over the main stage, with the school crest placed proudly above it. The smell of freshly cooked food wafted in from the canteen.
I fiddled nervously with the bottom of my sweatshirt as I walked through the crowd, looking for a place to sit. I was getting more and more anxious with each passing minute. Everyone was in groups, chatting and getting to know each other.
My heart sank and a lump rose in my throat. I stood in the corner, biting my lip, not knowing what to do.
“Hello! What’s your name?” a voice from behind me asked.
I turned around and recognized Mr Nelson, the Head of Year. He was balding, with kind eyes and a knack for making people feel instantly at ease.
“I’m Lucy. Lucy Sutcliffe,” I whispered hoarsely, not even trying to hide my building anxiety.
“Ah!” said Mr Nelson brightly. “You’re from outside of our school’s catchment area. A newbie! Let me take you to meet the other girls who also came from different schools.”
He took me firmly by the arm and led me to the other side of the room, where a group of three girls were sat in a circle on the floor – a small, dark-haired girl with a bright pink bag, a pale girl with vivid orange hair, and a taller, black-haired girl with a wide smile.
“This is Sophie, Kristine and Rebecca,” he said. “Kristine has come all the way from the Philippines! Sophie and Rebecca are from primary schools in Oxford, so they don’t know anybody else, either. You four are the bravest ones, coming here by yourselves – but don’t tell the rest of your year group that I said that.” He winked, then turned away with a cheery wave.
The three girls stared at me as I sat down. “I’m Lucy,” I offered up, trying to be brave, swallowing the lump in my throat and placing my rucksack on the floor beside me.
“Nice to meet you,” said Kristine, offering her hand with a huge grin. I couldn’t help but smile at the formality of the gesture. She saw me smiling and laughed. “In the Philippines, we greet everyone with a nice, firm handshake. It’s tradition!” She beamed, clearly amused by the incredulous looks on our faces. I shook her hand, chuckling.
“I’m Rebecca, but you can call me Becci,” whispered the smaller girl sat next to Kristine.
I noticed Becci’s pencil case peeking out of her bag; it was bright pink with little photos of guinea pigs printed all over it. “Nice to meet you – I love your pencil case!” I exclaimed, pointing to her bag. “I have two guinea pigs at home, they’re so cute.”
Becci’s face lit up. “Me too!”
“I have a dog, does that count?!” said the girl with bright orange hair. “I’m Sophie by the way!”
“No, I don’t think dogs count,” said Krist
ine seriously, trying not to laugh. Then her bottom lip began to twitch into a smile and we dissolved into giggles.
I got a sudden, almost overwhelming feeling of relief. This is way easier than I anticipated, I thought.
I felt like an entirely different person as I walked out of the school gates that day. Being thrust into a new environment where I was suddenly supported and liked by my peers made me realize that I had no reason to be anyone but myself. I loved what it felt like to be included and involved, without fear of being mocked or laughed at. My shy, timid personality was fading away, and a better, more confident me was appearing. I raised my hand more often and spoke up in debates and discussions. Slowly but surely, a part of me that had never been able to shine before – I liked to think of it as my inner Hermione – was beginning to emerge.
Year 8 rolled around, and slowly, things started to change. The teachers announced that we were being divided up in terms of our abilities rather than having all of our lessons as a tutor group. I tried not to panic at the thought of having a class without anyone I knew. The happy little bubble that I’d built for myself was threatening to burst.
After checking my timetable, I was relieved to see that the only class I’d be away from my friends for was Design & Technology. But I hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know the rest of the kids in my year group, and I began to get a nagging, anxious feeling that I just couldn’t shake. Would I be able to make new friends?
As I walked into the classroom for my first D&T lesson, I felt like I was going to be sick – I’d never been so nervous. I sat down at a table and watched everyone else file in. I recognized a few faces that I couldn’t put a name to, but no one said anything to me and I was too scared to start a conversation. I felt useless and self-conscious, and the most frustrating part was, I couldn’t figure out why. Calm down, I repeated to myself, over and over. You have nothing to be nervous about.
An eccentric-looking man strolled in, holding a huge cardboard box. He had a thick, curly beard, a bright green shirt and a striped yellow tie. He looked around excitedly.
“Today, we’re going to be making our product displays,” he announced, handing out huge pieces of polystyrene and Stanley knives. “They’ll need to be designed on the computer using a special and very complicated program, which I’ll explain how to use in a bit.”
The class tittered. I started to relax – perhaps this wasn’t going to be as bad as I’d thought.
Mr Stevenson turned to face the whiteboard and began to draw. “First, though, we’re going to make some 3D—”
The door of the classroom crashed open. Two boys traipsed in, one swigging from a giant bottle of Irn Bru, the other scoffing a packet of crisps.
“You’re late,” Mr Stevenson said with a sigh, not even turning around. It seemed he had already resigned himself to what was about to happen.
The two boys looked at each other and sniggered.
“Can you find somewhere to sit, boys? You’re disrupting my lesson.”
The smaller boy shrugged and headed over to sit in one of two empty seats at my table. The taller one hesitated. Mr Stevenson stared at him. “Colin? Colin, sit down, please, we need to get started.”
Colin shrivelled up his nose. “There’s nowhere to sit. Duncan took the last seat.”
The smaller boy laughed, stretching out in the chair with a big, over-exaggerated yawn.
“There’s a seat next to Duncan,” Mr Stevenson gestured to the seat opposite me, exasperated. “Just sit down.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to sit near her. She’s ugly.” He pointed at me and began to make retching noises. “She probably smells, too.”
My cheeks flushed scarlet. A few people giggled nervously, but most of the room remained silent.
Mr Stevenson folded his arms and glared at Colin. “Sit down, or I’m sending you out,” he snapped.
“Send me out then. I’d rather sit outside than next to her. I mean, look at her! Look at her glasses!” Colin chortled. He grabbed a Stanley knife from the nearest table and started twirling it casually around in his hands.
“Get out,” said Mr Stevenson quietly.
Colin threw his empty Irn Bru bottle at the wall and sauntered out of the room, laughing loudly. Everyone was staring at me.
I told myself that I’d been called ugly before and that it was no big deal. I told myself I could handle it – Colin was just some stupid child who knew nothing about anything. I told myself it was going to be OK, and that I wasn’t that ugly … but from that moment on, I dreaded every D&T lesson. The second I set foot in the classroom, my anxiety would swell like a balloon inside my chest. And although no one in my class ever said anything, I was certain that they remembered what Colin had said and were secretly judging me.
What I didn’t know was that my anxious feelings were just a taster of what was to come in my later teens. I’d developed a certain way of thinking that would eventually become a full-blown anxiety disorder that would take years of self-awareness training to reverse. But, then again, I was only twelve. What did I know?
“So, I heard David really fancies you,” Sophie whispered excitedly as I met her at the school gates one sunny Tuesday morning at end of the summer term. We’d just turned thirteen, and Sophie was becoming increasingly boy crazy.
“Oh!” I said, shifting my bag strap on to my left shoulder nervously, trying to sound delighted. “That’s sweet.”
Boys hadn’t really crossed my mind since starting secondary school. Most of the boys I knew seemed nice enough (besides Colin, Duncan and a couple of other morons I’d had the misfortune of meeting), but none of them really interested me – and the feeling had been mutual, or so I’d thought. We just sort of coexisted, and that was the way I liked it.
“So, what do you think?” Sophie asked as we climbed the steps to our classroom. “Do you like him?”
I was taken aback. “He’s not really my type,” I found myself saying, before the thought had even been processed by my brain. I paused. I’d never properly thought about who my ‘type’ would be. And if David wasn’t it, then who was?
As we entered our form room, I looked around at the boys in my class, sizing them up. John is kind of cute, I suppose. He seems friendly, always chatting with everyone. And I suppose Tim is all right…
My train of thought was interrupted by Sophie. “Lucy! LUCY! Look!”
I looked dutifully in the direction she was pointing. Our classroom door had been propped open to keep the room cool, and across the hallway, in the classroom opposite, we could see David, leaning back in his chair with his legs propped up on the table. He was staring at me.
“He, like, can’t take his eyes off you,” gushed Sophie with a giggle.
David winked. I smiled awkwardly and turned away.
“Oh my gosh, you totally like him back!” Sophie insisted. “You’re sooo blushing!”
I was flattered, but that was where my feelings ended. I hardly knew the guy, but my hesitation only seemed to encourage Sophie’s persistence, so when he asked me out during second period, I said yes just to shut her up.
At break time, I was the talk of the playing field.
“Lucy, are you going out with David?” girls in my year whom I’d never even spoken to before were asking me, incredulously.
I tried to convince myself that I liked David back. After all, there seemed no reason not to. Still – I couldn’t shake the unpleasant sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Just before the end of break, David came up behind me and without a word wrapped his arms around my waist. I held his sticky hands awkwardly. I felt almost nauseous.
I stood there in his uncomfortable embrace for what felt like hours. I was so relieved when the bell finally rang that I scurried off to my French lesson without so much as a “see you later.”
As I sat down, I was greeted with a flurry of questions.
“Did you kiss?!” Becci squeaked excitedly.
“No…” I stuttered.
“It … it feels a bit weird with him, guys.”
There was a long pause. “Do you want me to break up with him for you?” Becci said, sympathetically.
Inwardly, I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Um … yeah, yeah … perhaps that’s for the best,” I agreed, trying not to sound too keen. I wanted to hug her.
“Maybe he’s just not the right guy for you,” Sophie mused. “You’ll find someone better!”
I looked down at my shoes. Someone better? I’d never fancied a boy. While my friends drooled over posters of movie stars like Zac Efron and Leonardo DiCaprio, I preferred posters of Emma Watson or Cheryl from Girls Aloud. When I watched films, I was always far more interested in the female actresses. It’s because they’re just inspiring women, that’s all, I thought to myself, putting the thought firmly to the back of my mind.
Later that week, David asked out Sophie and she said yes. It was the talk of the year group, and everyone wanted to know how I felt. As I was getting on my school bus one afternoon, Kristine came rushing up behind me.
“Lucy! Are you OK after what’s happened?”
“After what happened?”
“You know, the whole David and Sophie thing?”
“Oh, that! Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, with what I thought was a suitably pained expression. “I think,” I added after a pause, worried that I didn’t sound sad enough.
“But I mean … aren’t you kind of mad at her? Like, whatever happened to Girl Code, you know? Don’t ever date your friend’s exes, it’s like, rule number one.”
“Um, yeah, I guess,” I lied. “But as long as they’re happy, right?”
“I suppose,” said Kristine. “Hope you’re OK though.”
“I’m sure I will be!” I said, with a little too much vigour.
Kristine patted me on the back with a sympathetic smile. “Plenty more boys out there!”
Or girls, the tiny voice in my head whispered.
Things can change so fast when you’re not paying attention. One minute, I had been eleven years old and sitting in my maths classroom, giggling and passing notes to my friends; the next, I was fifteen and worrying about exams, my weight and why on earth I wasn’t crushing on boys the way my friends were.
Girl Hearts Girl Page 2
