by Sue Limb
The hair joke was their best running gag. It was usually Jess who said, ‘Get your hair cut!’ in a military voice, because Fred’s hair was always in his eyes and down over his collar. He could get away with it because he was a famous brainbox – by the standards of Ashcroft School. But Jess had often wondered what Fred would look like with a short cut. Although there was always the risk that he might end up looking like a bushbaby, as he had rather large, saucer-like eyes. No! That way madness lies, thought Jess. Comparing boys to animals was a waste of time. Men were animals after all.
The door to Mr Fothergill’s office was closed, and there was a notice on it: Do Not Disturb: Editorial Meeting in Progress. Jess strode past briskly, as if she hadn’t been at all interested in that particular door. She walked on blindly for a minute, not having the faintest idea where she was going, then found herself by the gym again. Oh no! Any minute now she really would be mistaken for a girl who salivates over a six-pack.
She paused, pulled a face to suggest a serious and possibly tragic thought, and looked importantly at her watch. Then she turned on her heel and marched back towards the music room again, as if she had suddenly decided to do something tremendous, such as saving the world single-handed. She had never had such a confusing day. But at least all this exercise might trim her buttocks into shape.
Before she got to the music room, she heard some divine piano playing drifting out on the air. Jess wished she were musically gifted. The nearest she got to playing an instrument was when she flushed the lavatory.
Inside the room were the music teachers Mr Samuels and Ms Dark. Ms Dark was sitting at the piano, and Flora was sitting next to her. Mackenzie was standing behind them, taking a keen interest. Mr Samuels was playing bass, and Ben Jones was sprawling picturesquely on a desk. He looked up as Jess came in and gave her a lovely, lazy, handsome smile.
It was widely rumoured throughout the school that Mr Samuels and Ms Dark were having an extra-marital affair. Mr Samuels was a little overweight but decidedly handsome with black curly hair and a fabulous smile. Ms Dark was fair (life was so contrary), and quite Marilyn Monroe-like from the neck down. They spent lunch hours in their department making beautiful music together and travelled to and from school in Ms Dark’s car.
Mr Samuels had a goofy, cross-eyed wife and two cross-eyed, goofy children. Life was indeed contrary. Why hadn’t they inherited Mr Samuels’ divine looks? Ms Dark, meanwhile, was living with a man who resembled a mass murderer. He had a homicidal nose and a cruel mouth. So while Jess did not approve of teachers having affairs, she thought perhaps in this case it was understandable. If indeed they were having an affair. Somebody said they had seen Ms Dark’s car parked after school in Lovers’ Lane. But, of course, Ms Dark might just have been walking her dog – a good-looking Schnauzer called Bridlington.
‘Jess!’ cried Mr Samuels with a delighted smile. ‘Just the very person we need!’ He had this way of making you always feel welcome. ‘Flora’s been telling us about Poisonous Trash – great name, by the way, Flora.’
‘Oh – Jess thought of the name!’ said Flora, blushing. But would Flora have admitted that if Jess hadn’t actually been in the room? Or would she have just taken the credit, smiling her beautiful smile?
‘Flora and Mackenzie are just trying to work out a number with Ms Dark,’ said Mr Samuels, and he managed to say the name ‘Ms Dark’ in a caressing kind of way, even though it was such a short, sharp name. Perhaps it was fortunate Ms Dark wasn’t called Miss Honeysuckle, or Mr Samuels’ spit would certainly have oozed all over the floor tiles. Ms Dark gave Mr Samuels a smile which would have melted the Eiffel Tower, and Mr Samuels gazed in rapture right back at her. Then Ms Dark tore her eyes away from her beloved.
‘Maybe you can help us, Jess,’ she said. ‘We’ve got in a bit of a tangle with the words.’
‘Couldn’t Jess join the band?’ asked Mr Samuels suddenly. ‘You could do with a rhythm section. Drums or something.’
‘No!’ cried Jess. The man’s happiness had clearly turned his head and sent him lurching over the crazy edge of craziness. She wasn’t going to be tacked on to Flora’s band as a kind of afterthought! Never, never, never! She was being invited to join in as a patronising sort of kindness. They pitied her tragic, lonely, under-achieving existence. OK, so she wanted, secretly, to be in the band more than anything else on earth. But it was too late now. It was ‘their’ band. She was an outsider. And she was going to make absolutely sure she stayed an outsider.
‘We’re going to play in the end-of-term show!’ said Flora, her face shining with horrible excitement. ‘It’s in two weeks, so we’re going to have to practise every night after school.’
‘Good job the exams are over,’ said Mr Samuels, exchanging a secret glance of longing with Ms Dark.
‘Great,’ Jess said. ‘Cool. But I’m afraid I can’t make it. I’ve got, like, so many other commitments.’
‘Oh, OK,’ nodded Ms Dark. ‘You must be helping Fred with the newspaper, right?’
‘Well, I won’t disturb you any longer,’ said Jess, ignoring Ms Dark’s inconvenient question. With any luck, by tomorrow she would be helping Fred with the newspaper. ‘I just wanted to ask Flora if I could borrow her French textbook, cos I’ve lost mine.’
‘Sure,’ said Flora. ‘It’s in my locker. You know the combination.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Jess. ‘Have fun!’ And she turned to go.
Suddenly Ben Jones slithered down off his desk.
‘Yeah, um, I think I’ll come, too,’ he said. ‘Song-writing isn’t really … my, like, thing.’
He followed Jess out and they walked together towards the courtyard in the middle of the Upper School.
‘So. Yeah. Um – where are you going?’ asked Ben casually. Jess was too embarrassed to say that she hadn’t the remotest idea. So much stuff was whirling around her head that she didn’t have a really clear idea of where she was, let alone where she was going next.
‘Let’s have a drink first, I’m thirsty,’ said Jess. They went to the school snackbar and Jess bought them a Coke each and some cheesy biscuits. She insisted it was her turn to treat him, because Ben had paid when they went to the burger bar. Ben was moaning about the band, but Jess found it hard to concentrate.
‘OK,’ he said eventually, finishing off his Coke. ‘Where next? To get the French book from Flora’s locker?’
Jess sighed. She now had to go through this charade, even though she hadn’t really needed Flora’s French book. It had just been an excuse to get away. Every time she told a lie, it kind of recoiled and wound itself around her like a horrible tangle of netting.
‘This, like, rehearsing stuff sucks,’ said Ben. ‘I’m too dumb to write songs.’
Jess tried hard to focus on what he was saying.
‘I’m useless at bass guitar, too,’ he went on. ‘But Mackenzie kind of, like, forced me to. This band is his idea, see?’
‘Oh well,’ said Jess, politely, ‘I’m sure it’ll go down a storm. There won’t be any other bands playing in the end-of-term show. It’ll be just fat girls playing the trumpet.’
‘I dunno,’ said Ben Jones. ‘I think we’re gonna be rubbish and make total fools of ourselves.’
‘No you won’t!’ cried Jess. She turned to him with a huge effort, feeling guilty that she hadn’t really been concentrating on what he’d been saying for the past half-hour. She made a huge effort and gave him a dazzling, encouraging smile. ‘You’ll be brilliant, you’ll see. And I shall personally organise your fan club.’
They turned a corner and bumped straight into Fred. So the editorial meeting must be over. He blushed. He must have heard Jess’s last remark.
‘Oh, hi!’ he said, trying to look light-hearted and preoccupied.
Jess felt her ribs turn to dust. Here was her chance – and she couldn’t say anything, because of Ben being there. Fred looked kind of furtive, and hesitated, as if he needed to say something, even though he looked as if he would mu
ch rather be running away.
‘Sorry – bit embarrassing,’ he muttered.
Jess squirmed. What on earth was coming?
‘Could I possibly …’ Fred stuttered.
Was he going to invite her to write for the newspaper after all?
‘Could I possibly, er – have that £20 back?’
Oh no! The money! The money Fred had given her to buy his mum a present! Jess had forgotten all about it!
‘Sure, sure, of course – I totally forgot. I’ve had so much on my mind in the last couple of days – I’m really, really sorry,’ she gabbled, rooting around in her bag for her wallet.
She opened her wallet, and then realised she’d used some of Fred’s money to buy lunch for Ben just now. Subconsciously she’d noticed that she seemed to be unusually loaded, finance-wise, but it just hadn’t sunk in.
‘I’m so sorry! I’ve only got £17.65 right now. I’ll pay you back the rest tomorrow.’ She handed over the horrible collection of notes and coins to Fred. This was the worst moment of her life so far.
‘I can lend you £2.35,’ said Ben, and fished the money out of his pocket. ‘After all, you did buy me a drink just now.’ He gave it to Fred.
Somehow this was even worse. Jess could only pay back Fred with Ben’s help. Ben had meant to be helpful and kind, but somehow his very presence was an added torment.
‘Thanks, cheers!’ said Fred, and backed off. Jess had the terrible feeling that Fred was planning never to speak to her again. He turned his attention to Ben. ‘The band … Yeah. I’d like you to write something about the band. For the newspaper. A sort of diary about all the rehearsals and everything. All the pre-show nerves, you know, the rehearsals, the rows, that sort of thing.’
‘You gotta be joking,’ said Ben Jones. ‘I can’t even write the ABC. Um – hey – Jess could do it, though.’
Fred turned to Jess. A look of frozen politeness filled his eyes. ‘I really wanted somebody who was actually in the band to do it,’ he said.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Jess. ‘I can’t. I’m not in the band. Flora will do it. Just ask her.’
‘OK, then,’ said Fred, with a strange little formal nod. He looked relieved.
‘You gotta get Jess to write something, though,’ insisted Ben Jones. ‘She’s, like, a genius with the ole pen, you know.’
Jess wished Ben would shut up. Why, at the very moment when Ben ought to be dignified and silent, did he have this disastrous urge to attempt joined-up speech?
‘Sure, sure,’ said Fred, sidling past them as if under great pressure of important work. ‘Oh yes. I want everybody to write something. Send stuff in, send stuff in.’ And he gave a stupid little wave, and hurried away.
The bell rang for afternoon school, which saved Jess from having to make any more polite conversation. Which was just as well, because somehow her insides felt as curdled as if she’d had three milkshakes and an orange. As far as Fred was concerned, she was now just part of ‘everybody’. As in ‘I want everybody to write something. Send stuff in’. Everybody, even you – what’s your name? – ah yes, Jess.
Eventually the meaningless lessons were over, and the meaningless bell rang for end of school, and Jess set off home, trudging through a fog of misery. Poisonous Trash went off to do exciting band practice in Serena’s uncle’s garage. Fred was snugly tucked up in his editor’s office, planning his fascinating newspaper. And Jess was off home to put her fascinating Granny’s exciting eardrops in.
Granny did have a surprise for her, however, when Jess arrived.
‘A boy rang,’ she confided. ‘Asking for you. He wouldn’t give his name. He said he’d ring again later. I wonder if it was that friend of yours – Fergus?’
Chapter 22
The mysterious boy didn’t ring again, though. Jess couldn’t risk phoning Fred, in case it hadn’t been him. It might have been Ben, or possibly Mackenzie, or even the dreaded Whizzer. After all, he had once squeezed her minestrone. The phone call did give Jess that tiny shred of hope which she needed in order to get through the evening without throwing herself off the kitchen table. Otherwise, putting Granny’s eardrops in would have been the highlight of the night.
After supper Jess’s mum was watching a programme about the history of England, as she had a crush on Oliver Cromwell. So Jess couldn’t distract herself with music channels. She went up to her room and carried on getting her clothes out of plastic sacks and hanging them up. It was a major, major task. It could take years. She might just about have finished it in five years’ time. By then it would be time to leave home, and she’d have to start packing it up again.
Who was this boy who had rung and refused to leave his name? Whizzer, who had only been attracted to her because of vegetable soup? Ben Jones, who hung around with her now and then because his best mate was going out with hers? Or Fred, who was hardly on speaking terms with her now, and regarded her as just part of ‘everybody’? Heavens! She had been inside that boy’s pyjamas. Not at the same time as him, obviously. But it must count for something. Though not, apparently, to Fred.
As Jess walked into school the next day, she bumped into Ben Jones by the noticeboards.
‘How did the band practice go?’ she asked.
He pulled a face. ‘We wuz rubbish,’ he said. He didn’t say anything about having rung her the night before. So it more or less had to be Fred. But Jess wasn’t sure how she was going to find out.
Third lesson was English. Everybody would be there. If Fred had rung her, he might mention it, or give her a sign, or something. If only she had remembered to give him his money back! It had added insult to injury. Poor Fred. He must think she was a monster.
As she entered the English room, Mr Fothergill was giving out a worksheet. Fred was sitting at the front, reading. He always used to sit at the back with her and Flora. He didn’t look up as she came in, or as she passed. She ignored him right back, twice as hard, and sat down with Flora. Mackenzie and Ben Jones were sitting next to Flora. It now seemed impossible ever to see Flora on her own. Jess would have to kidnap her and take her off to a remote mountain hut just to enjoy a girly chat.
Flora gave Jess a dazzling smile, but then turned straight back to Mackenzie and whispered something in his ear. And squeezed his arm.
‘Now,’ said Mr Fothergill, ‘I just want to finish off Shakespeare for this year, so from next lesson we can all concentrate on writing something original. Creative writing. Don’t forget, if you want to submit anything for the school newspaper, give it to Fred. How’s it going, Fred?’
‘Snowed under with stuff,’ muttered Fred. ‘Can’t cope. Contemplating suicide.’
‘Good, good,’ beamed Mr Fothergill. ‘That’s the spirit.’
Then Mr Fothergill explained about the final worksheet on Twelfth Night. Jess stopped listening. She was thinking about the newspaper. She had so many ideas for it. A Lonely Hearts column, for instance. A gossip column. A cartoon competition. Everyone could do cartoons of the teachers and the winners could be published.
She had so many ideas, but she wasn’t going to ‘send stuff in’. Fred might not accept it. He might send it back, or just lose it. Why hadn’t Fred invited her to write something? He so clearly hated her guts. He had invited Jodie, for goodness’ sake, and Jodie could hardly hold a pen.
‘OK, get on with it,’ said Mr Fothergill.
Jess got on with it. Mr Fothergill had meant the Shakespeare worksheet, but Jess thought she would start with the Lonely Hearts idea.
Girl, 15, charming but insane, 70 spots to support, greasy dark hair, smells slightly of Granny’s eardrop fluid, bum looks big in everything, boobs will never win prizes at the village show, crazy moments, imagination tends to run away with her, seeks godlike boy with spiky golden hair that shines like a crown, eyes of swimming-pool blue, and a smile that can make baked beans boil in their can. (Ben Jones, obviously.) No football fanatics, computer geeks or TV violence junkies.
Although, thought Jess, what sort of boys do
es that leave? How limited the male sex was.
Unfortunately, chaps were necessary if you wanted to have a family. If only you could reproduce by pulling a hair out of your head and putting it in water. Pretty soon it would sprout roots, like Mum’s geranium cuttings, then you would pot it up and put it on a sunny windowsill. A huge bud would form. You’d have to support it in a kind of net, like melons in greenhouses. Then, one day, you would hear a lusty cry. You’d rush to your windowsill and find the bud had burst open and a bouncing baby had dropped off into the net. Then all you had to do was think of a name for it.
Jess was into names of places at the moment. India was a nice name for a girl. Wyoming. San Francisco – although San Francisco sounded like a person’s name already. Jess realised it was probably Spanish for St Francis. She remembered St Francis was the saint who loved the birds. Eagle would be a good name for a boy. Albatross. Not Raven, though – the child would inevitably get called a Raven Lunatic.
The bell rang for the end of the lesson.
‘Jess!’ called Mr Fothergill. ‘Can I see how you’re getting on, please?’
Horror seized Jess. It was too late. She hadn’t done a single answer on the worksheet. She had had no idea that sixty minutes had passed. It felt like about five. The rest of the class went off. Flora pulled a sympathetic face and slipped Jess half a bar of chocolate. Flora, of course, had been writing away at about seventy miles an hour and had completed the worksheet exactly on time.
Fred stayed behind to ask Mr Fothergill something. Jess made an ‘after you’ kind of gesture to suggest he should go first. She didn’t want Fred to see her being humiliated by Mr Fothergill. Fred nodded a horrid polite ‘thank you’ and dived in.
‘It’s about the football reports,’ he said.
Jess immediately stopped listening. Instead she looked at the back of Fred’s head. His hair was practically down on his shoulders. It looked awful. If only he would get it cut.
