GingerSnaps

by Cathy Cassidy

  Almost every hand is up now, and Mr Hunter is laughing. ‘Don’t let anyone ever tell you that kind of writing doesn’t count!’ he says. ‘It does – it counts for a lot, because it’s writing you choose to do for yourselves. It’s all about expressing how you feel. Books, magazines, newspapers, poetry, plays, websites – it counts! Song lyrics, rap, texts, messaging, even graffiti on a toilet wall… all of it counts! Now who likes English?’

  Every hand is in the air now, even Jas Kapoor and the rest of the boys in the back row… I think it was the mention of graffiti that got them. Mr Hunter is striding up and down the room, handing out paper. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he says. ‘Any way you want to. What makes you special, what makes you you? I want to know! The only limits are the ones you put on yourselves!’

  The class is buzzing. Mr Hunter has me grinning, motivated, excited about English for the first time since I picked up a stubby pencil way back in nursery. He believes in us… all of us.

  Well, almost all.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Sam Taylor appears, grinning under the trilby hat. ‘Er… sorry I’m late,’ he says. ‘I was discussing hats and religion with Mr Kelly.’

  ‘Well!’ Mr Hunter says, waving Sam inside. ‘You’re here now. Come in, sit down. Do up your shoelaces, take off the hat…’

  ‘Ah,’ says Sam. ‘About the hat…’

  Mr Hunter frowns. ‘It’s not actually school uniform, is it? Not sure the rest of it is, either, strictly speaking…’ His eyes flick down over the graffiti-art jeans. He’d approve of that, surely?

  The class is watching, slightly disappointed that Mr Hunter would care about things like school uniform and trilby hats. He seems to realize this, and just as quickly, a smile chases the frown away. ‘Well, find a seat, young man,’ he says. ‘I’ve asked everyone to write something about themselves, no rules, no regulations, just something that tells me who you are. Got it?’

  ‘I’m Sam Taylor,’ the new boy says, puzzled, and someone stifles a giggle.

  ‘Idiot,’ Shannon says under her breath.

  Mr Hunter rolls his eyes. ‘Sit down, Sam, and get on,’ he says. ‘Now, class, I have a digital camera here. I’m going to pass it round the room, ask you all to take a shot of the person sitting next to you. We’ll use the words you write and the picture you take to create a collage… all about YOU!’

  He hands the digital camera to Emily Croft, and any doubts the class may have had a moment earlier are gone. This is a different kind of English lesson, a different kind of teacher.

  Sam Taylor catches my eye, then glances at the empty seat beside me. I could just smile and nod and he’d sit down, become part of the group. Shannon might not be too impressed, to start with at least, but we’d get to know him. He’d make us laugh, wind up the teachers, wink at me and call me Gingersnaps. He’d stop acting weird and learn to fit in, and slowly he’d become a friend, or maybe something more.

  It’s funny how decisions like that are made in a split second.

  ‘Come on, Sam, what are you waiting for?’ Mr Hunter says. ‘Christmas?’

  It’s a pretty lame joke, but the class laugh. They’ve made their decision – they like Mr Hunter, and they’re not too sure of Sam Taylor. So they laugh, even though it’s kind of mean, and in that moment my eyes slide away from Sam’s and he turns away. He spots another empty seat in the corner, next to Emily Croft, and flops down there.

  Like I say, things can be decided in a split second, and sometimes there’s no going back.

  I keep an eye on Emily Croft, and I don’t like what I see. All week, she is alone, in class, at break, at lunchtime. Now she’s in the school canteen, hunched over a plate of macaroni, looking like someone just shot her pet hamster. She’s starting to get that loser look, all drab and dull and defeated.

  ‘There’s Emily,’ I say to Shannon as we pay for our lunches. ‘On her own again.’

  Shannon frowns. ‘I feel sorry for her,’ she says. ‘But…’

  Yeah, exactly. But.

  As we edge past with our laden trays, Emily looks up and catches my eye, as if to remind me of the times at primary school when I was glad of her company. ‘OK, Emily?’ I ask.

  She smiles, but the smile is too thin. On impulse, I turn back, dipping my tray down to the tabletop. ‘Any room here?’ I ask. ‘Can we join you?’

  Shannon raises an eyebrow, but Emily’s face lights up, and we sit down. Random acts of kindness, I think, like Sam Taylor said. The world needs more of them.

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Emily says. ‘I’m OK.’

  There’s a pause, a long, empty moment when nobody knows quite what to say. We’re waiting for Emily to smile and nod and steer the conversation on to safer ground, but she has other ideas. Her lower lip quivers and her eyes brim with tears.

  ‘It’s just so awful having to do everything alone,’ she blurts, looking at me with feeling, as though she’s only just sussed what I went through every day of primary school. Well, maybe she has.

  ‘You’ll make new friends,’ Shannon says.

  Emily sighs. ‘I suppose. Everyone has their friends already, though. It’s hard to break into a new group.’

  What am I supposed to say to that? OK, no problem, have my friend? I don’t think so.

  Shannon leans across the table, twisting a strand of golden-blonde hair between her fingers. ‘You know what, Emily?’ she says, narrowing her big blue eyes. ‘You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your best friend’s gone – well, tough. You’ll never find a new one if you dissolve into tears every time someone comes near you.’

  ‘Shannon!’ I say, shocked.

  Emily blinks. ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘Shannon’s right. I’m pathetic, right?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Shannon says.

  ‘You’re not!’ I protest, but Emily is dabbing her eyes, sitting up straighter. The ghost of a smile flickers across her face.

  ‘No, no, I needed to hear that,’ she says in a small, steely voice. ‘I need to let go, move on. Well, OK, fine. I’ll do that. Thanks, Shannon.’

  Thanks, Shannon? Huh?

  ‘No more crying, either,’ Shannon says. ‘It makes your eyes all piggy and bloodshot. Not a good look.’

  ‘Got you,’ Emily says, taking a long breath in. ‘Sorry.’

  Shannon just shrugs and smiles. ‘Any time,’ she says.

  ‘Poor Emily,’ Shannon says later as we’re getting changed for netball. ‘She really hasn’t got a clue, has she?’

  Emily is already in her PE kit, bright-eyed and smiling, handing out tie-on netball bibs for Miss Jackson. She’s so eager to please it’s just plain embarrassing.

  ‘She’s trying,’ I shrug.

  ‘Very trying,’ Shannon quips. ‘I’m glad you got us to sit with her at lunch, though. I mean, I dofeel sorry for her, and if she’s an old friend of yours…’

  ‘Not a friend, exactly,’ I say. ‘She was just a girl in my class.’

  ‘Well, whatever,’ Shannon decides. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll be nice to her, yeah? Watch out for her.’

  ‘OK,’ I agree, although I’m not sure that Shannon’s tough-love style of being nice is exactly what Emily needs. Maybe – maybe not.

  ‘Darn, I can’t find my trainers…’ I turn my rucksack upside down, rooting through the books and pens and sweet wrappers. Nothing. Too late, I remember dumping them in my locker on the first day of term.

  ‘Miss Jackson,’ I say. ‘I’ve left my trainers in my locker… can I run and get them?’

  ‘Be quick then,’ the PE teacher replies. ‘We’ll be out on the netball courts, warming up.’

  ‘I’ll be two minutes,’ I promise.

  I head out into the silent corridors, conspicuous in a grey wraparound netball skirt, stripy socks and T-shirt. I open my locker, dig out the trainers and sit down on a bench to put them on. Out of nowhere, a few lockers down from me, new boy Sam Taylor appears, struggling to extract a la
rge, tattered brown suitcase.

  ‘Hey, Gingersnaps,’ he says, grinning at me from under the trilby hat, and I smile in spite of myself. ‘Nice skirt. Very…’ He narrows his eyes, struggling to find the right word.

  ‘Short?’ I suggest.

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ Sam says. ‘I think you may be pushing the uniform rules a bit today, but who am I to point the finger? Besides, it’s very, very cute.’

  I smile. ‘I’m not pushing the school uniform rules,’ I say. ‘It’s my PE kit. Shouldn’t you have PE too?’

  Sam Taylor frowns, considering. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Football, I think. I knew there was something…’

  Silence falls between us, awkward and heavy, broken only by a tinny, clanking sound as he pulls out the big brown case and slams the locker door. The suitcase is ancient, the corners patched with parcel tape, the clasps long since broken. A leather belt, wrapped round it, is all that is keeping it closed.

  ‘What have you got in there?’ I ask him. ‘Don’t tell me, footy boots, ball, collapsible goalposts?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He unhooks the belt, opens the case and lifts out a saxophone, a big, golden, shiny curve of metal, from its bed of black velvet. He clips on the neck and the mouthpiece, slips the strap over his head and turns to me, cradling the sax like a small child.

  ‘I’m in a band,’ he explains. ‘Ska Tissue. We play ska music, obviously.’

  ‘Ska music?’

  ‘It’s from the late seventies, a kind of mixture of jazz and soul and reggae with a bit of punk thrown in. Trilby hats were part of the look.’

  ‘That figures,’ I say. ‘Who else is in the band then?’

  Sam looks thoughtful. ‘Well, I play sax,’ he tells me. ‘We have a vacancy for guitar, bass, drums and keyboard at the moment. Oh, and vocals. We’re just starting out.’

  I bite back a smile. ‘Let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘You’re in a band, but there are no other members?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Sam admits. ‘Can you sing?’

  Shannon is right – this boy is weird, hopelessly, gloriously weird. I start walking away. ‘No,’ I tell him over my shoulder. ‘I can’t sing.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  Suddenly, an ear-splitting burst of sax music fills the corridor behind me. It’s loud and jazzy and upbeat and cool, making the air around me shiver and dance. It’s the kind of music that makes you smile, like it or not.

  Unless you’re Mr Kelly, that is. The maths teacher storms out of his classroom up ahead of me, purple-faced. He spots Sam and narrows his eyes. ‘Sam Taylor!’ he roars. ‘Stop that this minute!’

  Maybe Sam can’t stop right away, though. It’s probably something to do with breath and timing and lung capacity, because the music goes on, louder than ever, crazy, happy sounds that bounce off the grey corridor walls and dance along the scratchy nylon carpet beneath my feet. It finally squeals to a halt as I push through the double doors that lead out towards the netball courts.

  Shannon jogs up to meet me, long hair streaming out behind her. ‘Do you know,’ I tell her, ‘that a wraparound netball skirt can be very, very cute?’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ she asks. ‘A netball skirt is a crime against fashion. It’s like a couple of grey tea towels, with pleats. Cute? I don’t think so.’

  I just smile.

  We win our netball match, six goals to two. Predictably, Emily Croft scores three of them. Miss Jackson blows the whistle, and we troop back up to the changing rooms. As we cross the playground, the Year Eight boys are straggling up from football.

  Sam Taylor made it in the end, obviously. He’s at the back, in a mud-spattered footy kit, still wearing his hat.

  Saturday night is sleepover night. We’re at my house this week, and so far we’ve shared a stuffed crust pizza, watched a slushy DVD, then retreated to my room to paint our eyelids shades of orange, pink and purple and our lips shades of green, blue and yellow.

  The best bit of any sleepover, though, is when you’re snuggled down under the covers, drifting in and out of sleep with the lights out and the music low, just talking.

  ‘Mr Hunter is soooo cool,’ Shannon sighs into the darkness. ‘D’you think he’s married?’

  ‘No way,’ I say. ‘Too young. He might have a girlfriend, though.’

  Shannon huffs a little in the dark. ‘Well, he might not. He’s only just left college. He could still be looking for the right person…’

  ‘And that’d be you, right?’ I tease. ‘Shannon, get a grip!’

  ‘It could happen!’

  ‘No,’ I tell her sternly. ‘Really, it could not.’

  ‘He’s cute, though,’ Shannon says. ‘I wouldn’t mind a few extra lessons from him–’

  ‘Shannon!’ I yelp, outraged. ‘Be serious!’

  Shannon just laughs in the darkness. ‘Oh, I’m serious,’ she says. ‘Trust me, I am!’

  Mr Hunter is the most popular teacher we’ve ever had at Kinnerton High. Suddenly, everyone likes English. Boys who haven’t been near a book in years have started borrowing thick fantasy sagas with dragons and swords on the covers, and girls who normally struggle to read the instructions on a packet of hair dye are wafting around with books like Pride and Prejudice under their arms, trying to look like Keira Knightley in a blazer.

  Half the girls are in love with him, at least. It’s like an epidemic.

  I mean, I like Mr Hunter – who wouldn’t? I just don’t fancy him. He has to be ten, fifteen years older than us – ancient, right?

  On Friday, he announced a class trip to see the film version of some crusty old Shakespeare play, Romeo and Juliet, next Friday afternoon. Most other teachers would have settled for a DVD, but Mr Hunter announced he wanted us to see it on the big screen, get a sense of the drama of it. Every kid in the class signed up to go, even Jas Kapoor and his mates.

  ‘Jas reckons that Romeo and Juliet is all about teenage gang fights and murders and under-age you-know-what,’ Shannon says. ‘That’s what Mr Hunter told him…’

  ‘Yeah?’ I say. ‘I reckon Mr Hunter was stretching the truth a bit. He is clever, I’ll say that for him. He’s got everyone straining at the leash to watch a dusty old Shakespeare film.’

  ‘Think I’ll wear my blue dress and black leggings,’ Shannon says dreamily. ‘And my strappy sandals…’

  ‘For what?’ I ask.

  ‘For the film, of course. Me and Mr Hunter, in the dark, watching a slushy movie together. It’s a dream come true…’

  ‘Er, right,’ I say. ‘You, Mr Hunter and the rest of the 8a English class, remember? And it’s on Friday afternoon, in class time, so you’ll have to wear uniform. Seriously, Shannon, it’s a school trip, not a date!’

  ‘Details, details,’ she sighs.

  I snuggle into my duvet, burrowing down against my pillow, then squeal as Shannon chucks a chocolate truffle at me in the dark. As the truffle dissolves on my tongue, I stretch and sigh and smile to myself. I’m happy, right here, right now, with my best friend, and nothing can ever spoil that. Friends forever.

  Then I think of Emily Croft, and the happiness goes flat, like a Coke that’s lost its fizz. Emily won’t be at any sleepovers, not any time soon. She’ll be crying into her pillow, not eating chocolate in the dark.

  ‘Poor Emily,’ I say out loud.

  ‘Poor Emily?’ Shannon echoes. ‘Don’t be such a big softy, Ginger. Why do you care?’

  I care about a lot of things, of course. I care about Emily, about kids everywhere who are sad or lonely or bullied. I care about global warming and cruelty to animals and little kids starving in countries where there’s famine, war, disaster. I care about a whole raft of things, but I’d never tell Shannon any of that, because that’s not the kind of girl she expects me to be. Cheeky, confident, careless, that’s the way I’m meant to act.

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ Shannon tells me.

  ‘She won’t, though,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t know how to make friends – it was just her and Meg, for as far back
as I can remember, two geeky girls together.’

  ‘She’s a loser,’ Shannon says. ‘No offence, Ginger, but she is.’

  That’s what Chelsie Martin used to call me.

  ‘I know,’ I say in a small voice. ‘I just wish I could help her a bit, you know?’

  ‘Some people will just never fit in,’ Shannon says. ‘End of story. It’s not your problem, Ginger.’

  It’s not my problem, but it used to be. Shannon doesn’t know that, of course. I find myself thinking that Emily Croft could reinvent herself, the way I did, without a whole lot of effort. A new haircut, clothes, a few tips on how to be friendly and fun instead of geeky and weird, and Emily could have friends. Not friends like Shannon and me, maybe, but friends all the same.

  ‘What Emily needs,’ I say, ‘is a bit of a makeover. Some friendly advice.’

  Shannon snorts. ‘Emily? She’s too far gone. Couldn’t be done.’

  I sigh in the darkness, letting go of the idea. Shannon’s right, of course – it’s not my problem.

  Suddenly the lamp clicks on, flooding the room with a soft, golden light. I sit up, blinking. Shannon is wide awake, grinning. ‘Then again,’ she says. ‘It’d be a real challenge, but…’

  I see the gleam in Shannon’s blue eyes, and a shiver of disquiet slides down my spine.

  ‘Emily’s not a charity case,’ I say.

  Shannon nods. ‘I know, I know. She’d be more of an experiment–’

  ‘No!’ I argue. ‘This isn’t a game! Emily is a person!’

  ‘Obviously,’ Shannon says. ‘And this would make her a much, much happier person. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Ginger? It was your idea!’

  I frown. It couldn’t do any harm, could it? Emily could learn a lot from us. We’d be helping her… wouldn’t we?

  ‘We can teach her everything we know…’ Shannon says. ‘Sort out her hair, her clothes, the way she acts. She’ll have new friends within the week!’

  If someone had scooped me up when I was eleven and helped me to turn my life around, I’d have been happy, wouldn’t I? Instead, I had to do it all alone, with just Cass to support and encourage me. A makeover – would that be such a bad thing for Emily?