CONTENTS
Chapter One
Making Friends
Chapter Two
New Life, No Life
Chapter Three
Facebooking
Chapter Four
Total Idiot
Chapter Five
Shopping Hell
Chapter Six
Shadow
Chapter Seven
Bad Art
Chapter Eight
Dad’s Fault
Chapter Nine
Thank God It’s…
Chapter Ten
The Meeting
Chapter Eleven
New Start
Bonus Bits!
Chapter One
Making Friends
Monday.
This morning will be different. This week will be different. I’ll make it different. I’m going to make an effort.
I found this website – makingfriends.com. They tell you how to do it. To make friends.
So I’ve got these rules now, for making friends with people.
I don’t understand people. Sometimes I don’t even think I like people. I bet it won’t work.
But the website says you have to think positive. So I’m telling myself it will work. It’s got to.
I’m going to talk to somebody at school. Anybody. I will smile. I will even go up to the class loser and ask her how she is. I will speak to somebody today. I will hold my head up and look them in the eye.
My first rule is Make an effort. I’ll do it. I can, I know I can.
I realise I’m smiling. That’s a first since I got to this dump. I mean, this lovely new place. I must remember to think positive.
I get to school early. Dad makes me walk, but I can do that. I can do anything. School is miles away. Well, it takes about twenty minutes. It feels like miles.
I stop off at the gate, watching for anyone I half know.
“Hi,” I say, smiling, when four girls from my class swoop by. “How’re you doing?”
They’re chatting too much and laughing too loudly to hear me. They don’t stop. I’m left on my own. Again. But I won’t get down about it.
I trail after them into the classroom.
Make an effort, I say to myself.
“Hi,” I say, grinning at the class loser, landing my bag on the table next to hers.
Her mouth drops open in shock. “Hi,” she mutters.
Then she turns away and looks down at the book she’s got open on the table. She’d rather look at a stupid book than talk to me. Now who’s the loser?
I think I’ll give up now. This is not working.
Chapter Two
New Life, No Life
Mo. That’s my name. Not that anyone cares.
I’ve been at this school for a whole week. We’ve moved to a new town halfway across the country. It’s nothing like where I used to live in Bristol. It’s not like home.
Mum says this is home now and I have to stop comparing it to Bristol.
This is more like hell. Whatever hell is. I’m not sure I believe in hell. But this place is rock solid real.
I wish it was made up.
One day someone will come up to me and say, “Hey, I’ve been wanting to talk to you ever since you got here. You’re just so interesting. The way you look – not like any of the others. You’ve got style. Want to come out on Friday?”
It won’t happen. I’ll just wander round the playing field at lunch time like I’m looking for something, or someone.
I am looking for something. My life. Because I used to have a life, and now I’ve lost it.
I’m Mo. I’ve got frizzy hair, Tesco jeans, no special talents except whining.
My dad lost his job in Bristol. I mean, he didn’t even like his job. He was always moaning on about it. Stupid job. Stupid boss. Not enough money. Too many hours. Not enough holidays.
So what did he do when he lost it? He got a new job and made everyone move to a new town.
How selfish is that? Did he ask me? Did he think about anyone but himself?
And he doesn’t even like the new job. It’s just the same as before. Stupid job, stupid boss, not enough money, too many hours, not enough holidays.
My mum tells me we had to move. Now she has to work in a supermarket. She’s looking older. And she’s lost all her friends too, just like me. And Gran is back in Bristol, phoning every day, forgetting where we are, wanting Mum to come round or do the shopping.
Mum cries or shouts at me and Jack every time Gran phones.
I tell her, “It’s not my fault we’re here; you should have told Dad you weren’t going,” and then Mum cries some more.
“It’s not like that,” she says. “It’s not like that.”
I don’t know what to say.
Jack’s my little brother. He’s eleven, with sandy hair and freckles, full of jokes and chat.
Everyone likes Jack. He’s okay at school. He was straight into the football team, racing round the pitch, people trying to catch his eye, calling his name. They know his name. It took him five minutes to settle in, even though it’s the middle of autumn term.
In my class I get to sit by the loser. She doesn’t seem to care what she looks like. She just works. She reads loads. And from what I can tell she’s always getting the best marks.
Even she doesn’t talk to me.
I don’t know any of these people. My friends back home were the best. Alex and Jemma. We had such good times. I wish they were here. I wish I was there with them.
I must think positive. Make an effort. Those are the rules.
They had all these stories, on the website, about people who went from no friends at all to millions of friends, just by following the rules. Did they make the stories up?
I have to think positive. I have to try harder.
Chapter Three
Facebooking
It’s night. It’s dark. It’s cold. I’m on Facebook. Jemma is online and we’re chatting. She used to live near me. We used to spend all our time together, with Alex of course, and some of the others. Now she lives a million miles away.
Jemma How are you doing?
I bet it’s obvious how I’m doing if you can see me. But she’s too far away to see.
Mo Cool. It’s great here, loads of new friends and everything. Can’t believe it’s only a week since I got here.
Why can’t I tell the truth? But I don’t want to tell her the truth. What’s the point?
Jemma We’re all going out on Friday, sleepover at Alex’s. Her birthday, remember?
Do I remember? Alex, my best friend. Forever. Before I got sent away. Before Dad dragged me to this dump.
Mo Yeah. I’m going out too. With some mates.
I wish.
Jemma Where are you going?
Mo I dunno, movie or something.
Jemma Cool.
And she’s gone.
I look through everyone’s news. Break-ups, make-ups, who’s single, who’s in a relationship, photos of parties I’m not at. Everyone’s having a great time in Bristol.
Since when did I tell lies and make things up?
Since I came here.
I can’t let it get to me. I have to make an effort. That’s the rule. Rule number one.
Rule number two is: I have to think positive.
I play games for a while, check my email. Then go back to Facebook.
There’s a new guy asking to be a friend. At least someone wants to be my friend. I wonder who he is. Should I say yes?
Look. He wants to be my friend. Right? Am I going to reject the one person who’s interested in me? Kind of?
I click on confirm and don’t think about it again.
I’ll do the school gate routine again tomor
row. That’s another rule. I have to try three times. So that means two more days.
I just made up that rule. But hey, I can change the rules.
Chapter Four
Total Idiot
It’s Tuesday. I didn’t sleep much at all. And when I did sleep, I had horrible dreams. People ignoring me. Me running after them, calling out, shouting, but never catching them. Just like real life.
I do the school gate routine again. A girl in my class looks at me, then smiles. I don’t think she meant to.
A boy gives me a look and sniggers to his friend. As if I’d be interested in him.
I go and sit by the loser again. She’s reading and making notes in a book. She doesn’t even look up.
On the playing field at lunch-time, I wander about. It’s windy and I pull my sweatshirt sleeves down over my hands to keep them warm.
The same girl, the one who smiled, comes over and talks to me. She’s taller than me, Asian, big eyes, long straight black hair. I wish I had hair like that.
She’s talking to me, smiling. I’m so shocked I don’t hear what she says.
But I get the last bit.
“Come over, we’re just having a laugh.”
I mumble something about meeting a friend. She shrugs and walks away.
Why did I do that? How could I be so stupid? I’m such a total idiot.
Chapter Five
Shopping Hell
School’s finished for the day. I don’t want to go home. The evening stretches out, empty. I don’t want to just sit in my room again.
I turn towards town, or what they call town here. I haven’t had a look at the shops. There was too much to do last weekend sorting out my bedroom after the move.
So this is it.
Call it a town? Call these shops? There is nowhere – like, nowhere, none of these shops – that I’d buy anything from. I want to turn round and go home. But I must make an effort. I might have missed something.
I wander round. No, there’s nothing. And everyone else my age is with their mates. In a two, or a three, or a four. Having fun. The only people on their own are in a hurry. They have places to go and people to see. Homes that they want to go to.
I’m staring at a charity shop window. There’s china dogs, a set of cups and saucers, and a dress on a stand that looks like it’s there to get people in, but it puts me right off.
I could offer to give them some advice on how to run a shop so people like me would go in. I could transform the whole place, make it somewhere anyone would want to be, make the charity millions. Then do a TV programme about how I did it.
I look at the sign. It’s a charity for old people. They don’t want people like me in there. That’s why they’ve got a dress my nan would turn down.
I go on down the street. I see one of those cheap clothes shops and go inside.
Maybe if I had clothes from here people would talk to me? I mean, this is where they must buy stuff, right? There’s no other clothes shops.
There’s not much, but I pick out some jeans and a top and go to try them on.
I’m finding my way into the jeans in the changing cubicle, when I hear a familiar voice.
“What do you think? I mean, they’re not too bad, are they? Do they fit my bum?” the voice says.
I pull up the jeans and zip them. They are truly terrible.
They’re all laughing out there.
“No, they’re fine – you look good in them,” someone says.
“You should get them – wear them on Saturday,” adds another voice.
I pull back the curtain and step out into the corridor. By the mirror, posing with her mates, is the girl who spoke to me this morning. And she’s got the same jeans on as me.
I am so embarrassed.
She sees, of course. They all see. There’s even the same label on the front, saying ‘reduced’. The worst thing is, they suit her much better than me.
“Hi,” the girl says, “you buying those?”
“No, they’re so – I mean – maybe,” I mumble.
She knows what I’m saying. What I’m thinking.
“No, me neither.”
The others go quiet.
I back into the changing cubicle again. I don’t even try the top. I wait until I can’t hear them any more.
I can’t help it, my eyes are welling up and I can’t stop crying. I’m glad they’re playing crap music so nobody will hear.
When they’ve all gone I come out of the cubicle and dump the clothes with the girl.
Chapter Six
Shadow
The bloke I friended on Facebook has written on my wall. His name’s Shadow. What kind of name is that?
Shadow Did you used to be in Bristol? I’m sure I remember your face from somewhere.
I send him a message. I don’t want everyone to know my business.
Mo Yeah, until I moved to this dump. Brinckley, whoever’s even heard of Brinckley?
He answers right away, like he’s waiting.
Shadow Hey. That’s strange. I moved away too. I’m in Derby. It’s not so bad here, not far from Brinckley as it happens.
I’m chatting to him for about an hour. I feel better. He’s interesting. 19, at college, on some kind of scheme where they work part-time. Lives with his mates. Goes out to clubs. He’s funny. He asks me questions.
He listens.
I don’t need to try. Or lie. Or think positive.
I’m going to do the gate thing one more time. It’s the rule. But tomorrow I’m going to try something else as well. Another rule. Listen to people. On the website it says, if you want people to listen to you, you have to listen to them.
Why shouldn’t they listen to me first? I mean, I could tell them all about the cool places in Bristol, and my really great friends, and the amazing shops. Or maybe that wouldn’t work. Maybe better not.
Listen, and try everything three times. Those are the rules.
Or maybe twice.
Chapter Seven
Bad Art
Wednesday.
It’s freezing. It’s the last day of my gate routine. The girl who smiled yesterday comes past.
I say “hi”, not expecting anything.
And she stops.
“What’re you doing hanging round here?” she says. “It’s so cold, you’ll freeze.”
“Yeah.” I can’t tell her about the rules.
I look at my hands. I think they’re turning blue. And my feet, they’re icy too. I’m not sure anyone would notice if I got frostbite and my feet fell off. Or maybe even if I died. Would anyone come to the funeral? Would they look really guilty and sad, because they should have listened and everything?
I realise I’m not listening to this girl, and she’s standing looking at me.
“You doing anything at break?” she says.
Her name’s Mahsuda. If I’ve spelled that right. I heard one of her mates calling her that.
I want to say yes. I take a deep breath, and nothing comes out.
“We’re going to the art room,” she says. “It’s warm in there. Miss Stanton doesn’t mind. Want to come?”
I don’t really fancy it. I’m not an arty person. But I grit my teeth. Remember the rules. “Okay,” I say.
“See you later then,” she says. She moves on, runs to catch up with her friends.
Result. Maybe. Maybe the teacher told her to make friends with the new saddo.
Last Monday, when I first got to school, he made a speech. “This is Mo. She’s new here – to Brinckley and to this school. Now, it’s not easy being new in mid-term.
So I want everyone to look out for her, show her round.”
Everyone turned round and looked at me. Then they turned back and went on talking to their friends.
But she’s invited me now, and I said yes. Think positive. It is a result.
I can’t wait for break. I can’t focus on anything. Nobody notices, of course. But that’s a good thing right now.
I go to the art
room, and there’s a huddle of four girls and a few boys scattered about. Mahsuda’s in the middle of the huddle.
I hover round, pretending to look at the art. I hope she notices me soon.
The art is bad. You’d think it was done by four-year-olds, not people doing their GCSEs. I could do this. And I’m no good at art.
Then Mahsuda sees me.
“You came! Hey, have you seen what Joe’s done?” she asks.
I don’t know anyone called Joe, except in Bristol. He was this tall guy with a beard who walked in the park looking suspect.
Mahsuda is waiting, looking at me. I think I’ve forgotten how to have a conversation.
“Who’s Joe?” I ask. That’s good, that’s listening, isn’t it?
She laughs like a drain.
“Hey, Mo doesn’t know who Joe is! How can anyone not know who Joe is? Joe,” she says, turning her back on me and swinging her hips to the others, “is the coolest boy in Brinckley.”
I’m not impressed. Can she tell? No, not with her back to me she can’t. But I have to keep this going.
“Wow,” I say, “and you know him?”
Another question, that’s good. Do I sound like I mean it?
“Do I know him?” she says. Everyone laughs.
“Course she knows him, he lives on her street,” says one of the others.
“That,” says Mahsuda, “is Luce, and that,” pointing her finger, “is Taz, and this is Suki.”
Luce looks the other way. She’s blonde, long hair, about my height. Taz is dark-skinned, tall, ought to be a model. Suki’s little, kind of chunky, looks the most friendly of them. She smiles at me.
Breaking the Rules Page 1
