by Joanna Nadin
Ed is sitting on the wall by the back door, feet on his skateboard, wheeling it from side to side. I sit next to him.
“Hey, Jude,” he sings.
I wince. Knowing that she is watching. Listening. “God, Ed. Don’t you ever get bored of that?”
Ed grins. “Nope. So how’d the French go?”
“Magnifique,” I say.
“Seriously?”
“No. It was fine, you know. I’ll pass. Not A-plus pass, I mean. Just pass.” And they’re my words. The words Jude would pick. But the tone is different. It’s not “I’ll be OK. Don’t worry about me.” It’s “What’s it to you, anyway?” The way Stella would say it.
Ed pauses for a second, two wheels of his skateboard in the air. “Are you OK?”
It’s happening already. I can feel it. But I can’t tell him. I won’t. I don’t need the lecture. Not from Dad and certainly not from him.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Sure. Exams. I know.” He lets the wheels slap on the ground. “Listen. Do you want to come down the Point later? There’s a load of us going.”
I’m surprised. Not because we never go there. We do. Summer after summer we’ve spent there watching the tourists down below on the beach. But this is different. Because his friends will be there. And my enemies. The Plastics.
“Um, maybe. I don’t know. You know Dad.”
“Well, if you want to, we’ll be there at eight.”
“OK. Thanks,” I say.
“Listen, I’ve got to go.” Ed flips the board effortlessly and catches it with one hand as he stands. He drops his head to one side, dark hair hanging over his eye. “Try to come later, yeah?”
“I will.”
But I know I won’t. I never do. Not when the others are there. I have a million excuses. Dad. Exams. Emily Applegate. And one more now.
Stella.
When I get back upstairs, Stella is lying on the bed, smoking.
“Stella! Not in here. He’ll smell it. At least open the window.”
“God, chill.” She stubs the cigarette out on a CD cover. “So, when did he stop being fat, anyway?”
I look at her.
“Saw him out the window. He’s a Baldwin.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s hot.” She smiles.
“What? Ed?” I look out at his retreating figure, T-shirt, board shorts, and Vans, walking up the hill, skateboard in one hand. Ed, who I dropped like a hot coal when Stella arrived the first time, because she said he couldn’t be in our gang because he was too fat, an embarrassment. Ed, who hung around anyway, quietly waiting until Stella was gone. Who let me stay at his house when I tried to run away. Who taught me to surf. Who walked me to the gate on my first day at Duchy. And was waiting for me there when the bell rang at the end of the day. Who patiently told me I was perfect every time Emily Applegate called me a freak, or a bitch, or a mental case.
“I don’t know.” And I don’t. I can’t remember when his hair got long, or he stopped wearing lace-ups and bought old-skool trainers. Or when he got the board. Then I realize. My stomach lurches. “No, Stella. He’s out of bounds. Totally. I mean it.”
“Jeez. OK.” She makes a face. “Anyone would think you fancied him.”
“No . . .” And I mean it. It’s not that. It’s Stella. And what she might do. “It’s just . . . you know. He’s my mate. And, anyway, he’s leaving in a few months. Going to study law at King’s College.”
“Great, another corporate fat cat in a pinstripe. Just what the world needs.”
“No. Ed’s not like that. . . . He’s going to do good stuff.” And he is. Going to change the world, he says. From the inside.
“Whatever. So, million-dollar question. Who’d you rather? Fat Ed or that bloke who sits outside the launderette all day?”
“What, Mental Nigel?”
“Whatever. Is that his name?”
“Yeah . . . Well, not the mental bit. No, not him. He’s totally weird. Ugh.”
“So, Fat Ed, then.”
“No . . . oh, I guess. Christ, Stella. This game is stupid.”
“No, it’s not. You want to do Fat Ed. Deal with it. Come on, my turn.”
I don’t argue with her. Not because she’s right. But because she will win. “OK. Mental Nigel or Mr. Applegate?”
“Easy. Mr. Applegate.”
“Gross. Why?”
“He’s rich. I could blackmail him not to tell Emily. Or his wife.”
“You are sick.”
Stella smiles. “I hope so.”
Alfie shouts up the stairs. “Dad says tea in five minutes.”
“’Kay . . .” I turn to Stella. “Sorry.”
She shrugs. “Got to fly, anyway. Want to go shopping tomorrow?”
I shake my head. “School. I’ve got this drama rehearsal thing. The exam’s next week.”
“You’ll totally pass. You were always into that acting stuff.”
And then I tell her. Because then there will be no going back. Because she will make it happen. “I’m applying to the Lab. You know, in London? For September. I mean, I haven’t sent the letter yet. And then I might not even get an audition. But —”
“You’re leaving? What does Tom have to say about that?”
She means Dad.
“He doesn’t know. Not yet.” He’ll lose it. Thinks I’m too young. Thinks I’m trying to be like her. “But I’m sixteen,” I say, convincing myself more than Stella. “And it’s not like I’ll be living in some crack den. I can stay at Gran’s.” I can do this. “Anyway, I have to get out of this place, or I’ll end up stuck here like Mrs. Hickman, stacking shelves till I’m sixty.”
And it sounds good, like that. Like I mean it. Not like I’m terrified. Not like I know that there are only three places left this year, only open to special cases. The ones who live abroad. Or were ill. Or were so scared they missed the audition in March. Not like this is Last-Chance Saloon.
“So why haven’t you posted it?” Stella says. “The application.”
“I don’t know.” And right then I don’t. Don’t know why I doubted myself. Because this is what Stella does. Makes me strong.
“Give it here.” She sits up.
“What?”
“The application form. Give it to me. I’m going to send it.”
And I do. I dig deep into my drawer, under the bits of paper that record who I am, who I was, the school reports and drawings and cards, until I feel it, the letter, crackling with promise. She takes it. Puts it down the front of her dress.
“Safest place,” she says.
Then someone shouts up the stairs again. “Jude. How many times? Dinner!” Not Alfie this time. Dad.
“OK!” I shout. And, under my breath, “For God’s sake.”
“Time for tea, children,” says Stella as she unwraps another stick of gum.
We walk down the stairs to the door. I look at her, chewing, sunglasses on, scuffed toes kicking an invisible stone, and wish I looked like that. Bored. Above it.
“See you after school?” I say.
“Not if I see you first.” She smiles and walks off. The letter down inside her ball gown. My possibility against her heart.
“Ha, ha,” I drawl. But part of me is scared she means it. And I don’t want her to go. Not when I’ve just gotten her back.
SHE COMES the next day. I’m at school, sitting under the oak tree on the field. Eating cold chicken, left over from last night. As far away from Emily Applegate and the Plastics — from noncivilization — as possible. From the toilets where they’ve flushed my head in the cracked and stained bowl; from the lockers where they’ve slammed my fingers in the door; from the cafeteria, where they’ve tripped me and spilled Coke on my uniform. But they still find me. I watch them walking toward me, like some slo-mo Gap commercial. All blond ponytails, tanned legs, and bleached white teeth. I feel my stomach turn and a wave of dizziness wash over me. They stop, photo-shoot perfect, in front of me.
Emily speaks first. That
’s how it works. “Nice lunch.”
“That’s gross.” Dawce looks in disgust as a piece of chicken falls out of my mouth, the grease staining my white shirt.
I wipe it away quickly. “Shut up.”
Emily smiles. “Wow. Clever put-down. How long did it take you to think that one up?”
The Plastics snigger.
“Why do you care what I eat, anyway?” I say.
“Oh, I don’t. Just confirms your fruitcake status, though.”
“Whatever.” Out loud I’m above it. But inside I’m begging them, Just leave me alone. Please.
“Again, genius.”
“Just go away, will you?” I plead.
“Or what?”
Or nothing. That’s the problem. I can’t run to Mummy. And for all the blah in the school rulebook about bullying, the teachers don’t do anything. “If you give off signals that you don’t want to belong, people will make sure you don’t.” Beautiful. All you can do is keep your head down and hope they’ll find some Year Seven with a lisp to pick on instead.
But then there’s a noise behind me. The smell of lighter fluid and Doublemint. And Stella is there. Out of nowhere. My fairy godmother. Wearing an Alice-in-Wonderland headband in her backcombed hair and some vintage dress, all pink puffball skirt and tight top.
“What’s your damage, Applegate?”
Emily stares. “My damage? How retro.”
“Seriously, Emily . . . Emily —” Stella stops like she’s pondering the word. “That’s a fat girl’s name, really.”
“I’m not fat.”
“Not yet,” Stella concedes. “Give it five years, though. You’ll be shopping in menswear like your mum.”
“Bitch,” Emily snaps, searching for a comeback. She finds one. “At least my mum’s alive. Not some dead mental case.”
But Stella can do better. “Truly Shakespearian. Now who’s shit at put-downs?”
Emily snorts. “Whatever.”
Holly Harker tugs at her arm. “Come on, Em.”
Emily snatches her arm back. “Get off me.”
Holly drops her hand. Emily stares at me and then laughs. Short and catty. Then she walks away. Half the school watching her stride across the field. The Plastics flanking her like My Little Bodyguards.
“Advantage, me.”
Stella. I turn to her. “What was that all about?”
Stella pops her gum. “Gee, thanks, Stella. Oh, that’s OK, Jude. Anytime.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” I feel a stab of fear again. That I’ve upset her. That she’ll turn on me like they did. “It’s just that . . . they don’t like me already.”
“They don’t even like each other. Oh, hang on. What? So you want them to like you? Christ. Why do you want to hang out with a load of Psycho Barbies and Diet Coke–heads, anyway?”
“I don’t. I just don’t want it to get worse.” I look down. Waiting for her to trash me. To write me off as a loser. A weakling. But she doesn’t. Instead she smiles and holds out her dress like the angel on top of the Christmas tree.
“It’s all right. I’m here now. I’m your knight in shining armor. Your fairy bloody godmother.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Seriously. With me around, she’ll back off eventually.” Stella takes the gum out and sticks it to the tree.
“Maybe.” But I don’t believe it. “What are you doing here, anyway? If the teachers see you —”
“What? They’ll ask me nicely to leave? Give you detention? Big deal.” She pulls a packet of cigarettes out of her bag.
“Stella!”
“We’re outside. Jesus. Chill, would you?” She lights one up. “So, what are we going to do about Emily?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Nothing?”
“Wrong answer,” retorts Stella. “Come on, Jude. She needs to learn a lesson. Like the ponytail. But bigger. And better. And badder.”
“No, Stella. Leave it. It’s not worth it,” I plead.
“Bollocks. She’s a plastic bitch and she’s going to pay for it. I just need to figure out how.”
“But —”
“No buts. Here, hold this.” She hands me her cigarette. “My bra strap’s all twisted.”
Then I get that feeling. You know. Like you are being watched.
“Jude?”
I look up, panicked. Oh, God. My drama teacher, Mr. Hughes. I glance at Stella with what I hope is a “Just don’t say anything, don’t even look at him, and cover up your bra” look. Stella ignores me and smiles at him. A Cheshire-cat-that-got-the-cream smile. Mr. Hughes says nothing. But he’s seen it. Seen her.
“So, Jude.” But he’s looking at Stella still, distracted. Seconds pass. Then it’s as if he returns from another place. Back to me. “You were great this morning.”
“Oh . . . right. Thanks.” I wonder if he’s just saying that or if he really means it. If I really am good. Good enough to pass the exam. Good enough for the Lab.
“Seriously.” He smiles. “You’ve got no worries.”
I nod. Believing him now.
“So, can I expect you in A-level theater later?”
“Sorry?”
“Introduction? This afternoon? I mean, I know you’re not coming back.” He laughs. “But in case you change your mind. Decide to slum it with us for another two years . . .”
“Right. Yeah, I think so.”
“Great. Great.” He pauses. “You’ll want to give that up, though. Bad for the voice. Unless you want to sound like Bob Dylan. Which I’m guessing you don’t.”
I look at the cigarette, still burning between my fingers. “Oh, God. Sorry . . . I mean, sorry for saying God as well.” I glare at Stella but she’s looking at Mr. Hughes. “It’s not mine. Really. I . . .”
He smiles. “Well. OK. Good.” He turns to go, then stops and glances over his shoulder at us. “Oh. And don’t let anyone else catch you looking like that. I know it’s only a few weeks, but uniform is uniform.”
I nod, gormlessly, as he heads back toward the quad. Then stare down at my shirt, my kilt. Regulation. He must mean Stella. Must think she’s a Duchy girl. As if. I turn to her. “Thanks a bloody million. You could have told him it was yours.”
But Stella isn’t listening. “Oh, my God. He is gorgeous.”
“Stella!”
“What? He is.” She looks at me, smiles. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t fancy him. You’re so bloody transparent.”
And I am. It’s like she can see inside me. See every dirty secret that lurks in the darkness. But that was finished long ago. It never even started. It was just a crush. Childish. Pathetic. And I knew he wouldn’t. And nor would I.
“No way. He’s got a girlfriend. Anyway, he’s old.”
“What is he? Thirty? That’s not old.”
“Stella!”
“He is, though, isn’t he?” Stella elbows me, grinning. “A babe, I mean.”
I pause.
“Kind of . . .” I admit.
Because he is. Hair curling over the neckband of his washed-out concert T-shirt. Old tweed jacket and jeans. Skin turning brown from the June sun. Not like the other teachers in their navy-blue suits and Ford Mondeos.
I watch him disappear into the theater building, the doors swinging shut behind him. Then I turn to her. “You’d better go, Stell. He’s right. If anyone else sees you, I’ll be in detention for a week.”
She stubs her cigarette out on the scorched grass. “School’s out for summer.”
“Not at Duchy it’s not.” Never mind that we’re on exam leave. Or that half of us won’t even be back in the autumn. Duchy girls breathe rules. And Stella has broken at least three.
She’s silent for a second. Then I see it. A flicker in her eyes. A dare. “Come with me,” she urges.
“Where?” I don’t get it.
“I don’t know. Anywhere. Just out of here.” She pauses. “The dunes.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.” She’s standing now, right hip stu
ck out, looking up from under her lashes. “What have you got this afternoon?”
“Um. Supposed to have this A-level introduction thing.”
“What’s the point of that? You’re not even staying.”
“Well . . .” She’s right. And even if I did stay, it’s not like I don’t know exactly how it’s going to be. Same corridors. Same teachers. Same Emily Applegate. Just without the uniform.
Stella is already walking backward to the gate, beckoning me to follow. “Come on.”
And I realize I want to go. Old Jude wouldn’t. She would stay at school. Sit quietly through the blah talk. But that’s not who I want to be. So I follow her. Because I can. Because she makes me feel like someone else. Someone who can walk out of school when she likes. Someone who can be just like her.
WE STAYED in the dunes until four. Timed it so Dad would think I’d just gotten off the bus, back from school. Hoped he wouldn’t notice the sand in my hair, on my kilt, trailing from my shoes. She sits on the wall outside, sucking a Popsicle, watching me go in.
Then she’s gone. For a week. A week where I rehearse my lines. Practice for hours in front of the mirror. Being someone else. Isabella, from Measure for Measure. A nun. How appropriate, I think.
And I should be grateful that she stays away, lets me work. But I’m not. Because I miss her. She’s been gone nearly eight years and back just days and already I don’t know how I managed without her. I need her.
So I made her promise to come back.
And she does.
She’s waiting for me after my exam. Outside the dressing room. I’m wiping makeup off my face when I smell it. Lighter fluid and gum. And my heart jumps. The lurch of seeing a new love. Or a lost one. At least, that’s what I read once. I pull on my uniform and run out into the corridor, scared I’ll miss her. That someone else will see her first and she’ll have to go.
But she’s still there, leaning against the wall in this fifties sundress with cherries on it.
She sticks her gum to the peeling paint of the door frame and smiles. “Ready?”
“For what?”
But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what it is. Today I’ll do it.
“You’ve got to stop dressing like a bloody schoolgirl,” Stella says as she pulls my kilt down for me. We’re in the changing room at Dixie’s, this vintage shop on Ship Street in town. A shop I’ve walked past a dozen times. Wishing I were the kind of person who would wear clothes like that. Clothes that shout, “I’m different! I’m somebody!”
