Only We Know

by Simon Packham

  ‘I just wanted to get started on my homework.’

  ‘Really?’ says Mum. ‘I thought there might be … problems.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I say, flipping down my laptop before she notices the smiley profile picture. ‘It’s this textiles project I’m working on. I’m really excited about it.’

  ‘Right,’ says Mum, removing a mouldy coffee mug from my bedside table. ‘So it’s all good then?’

  Well, I can’t tell her about H, can I? She’d have a fit. I probably shouldn’t even mention it to Big Moe. And I’m certainly not telling Tilda – she’s scared enough as it is. They say that talking makes things better; sometimes it’s more sensible to keep quiet.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I lie. ‘It’s all good.’

  12

  HARRY’S GAME

  The next day, I realise how blind I’ve been. Everywhere you look there are photos of Harry Heasman: standing with the other prefects in the main corridor, part of the victorious basketball team in the sports hall trophy cabinet, and even more surprisingly for someone who witnessed his frequent attempts to murder Arctic Monkeys’ songs, if you look carefully at the cast photos of Oliver! outside the drama studio, you’ll see he makes a pretty convincing Artful Dodger.

  It all makes sense now, the stuff he told me about his school: the music teacher who wanted to mother him, the funny-shaped corridors, the mad PSHE guy who always carries a Tesco bag.

  But even if I have to keep my distance for the next ten months, I’m still glad to know he’s doing okay – better than okay. In fact, if you’d told me four summers ago that he’d end up as ‘deputy head student’ I’d have said you were crazy. And I couldn’t help smiling when I saw him chugging up the hill this morning on a little red moped (a 50cc Honda City Express). H was only twelve when I knew him. Back then he wouldn’t have been seen dead on that thing, although he would probably have made a pretty good stab at killing himself on it. But if his mode of transport was a touch surprising, it wasn’t half as weird as walking into assembly and finding him standing on the stage telling the Year Tens to shut up. And some of them actually did.

  So by the time I arrive at my first English lesson (can’t believe they’ve put me in the top set) and see H sitting by the window, my heart might skip a beat or two, but at least I don’t go into total meltdown mode. And I’m making my way to the spare seat next to Magda and Izzy when a cold vice-like hand grips me by the wrist.

  ‘It’s all right, Lauren, I’ve saved you a place,’ says Katherine.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘Did you get to maths all right?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, no problem.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the big bad Woolf,’ she says, nodding at the woman in the Marks & Spencer suit. ‘She’s not the worst teacher at St Thomas’s. Though I never know why such an obvious stranger to passion thinks she has anything worth saying about the great works of literature.’

  ‘Well, I suppose she …’

  And that’s when I catch a glimpse of the old H. He’s taking two ballpoints, a blue paperback, his ELR and an exercise book from his leather messenger bag and laying them out in front of him. Two seconds later he puts them back in his bag. Two seconds after that he lays them out again. The third time he gets it ‘right’.

  ‘Are you staring at Harry?’ says Katherine. ‘I knew you fancied him.’

  That girl is too observant for her own good. ‘No, it’s not that. I —’

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Katherine. ‘If you’re going to get passionate about anything, Harry Heasman’s a good place to start. Except if you’re a teacher, of course. Not that that would ever happen.’

  Mrs Woolf certainly doesn’t look like a man-eater. ‘You must be Lauren. Mr Catchpole said you’d be joining us.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘You may have covered some of the set works already. But it won’t do you any harm to go over them again. What play were you studying?’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet, miss.’

  There’s a sort of collective snigger.

  Mrs Woolf licks her lips. ‘I’m afraid we’re not doing that this year. We decided to look at Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw instead.’ She faces the class with a don’t-mess-with-me glare. ‘So what can any of you tell Lauren about the play?’

  ‘It would make a good musical, miss.’

  ‘And it’s got swearing in it.’

  The whole class, apart from me and Katherine, recites the only quotation everyone knows: ‘Walk! Not bloody likely. I am going in a taxi.’

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ says Mrs Woolf. ‘I expect you know the basic plot, don’t you, Lauren?’

  ‘It’s the one about the professor guy who turns the flower-girl into a lady, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sexist rubbish,’ mutters Katherine.

  ‘I tell you what,’ says Mrs Woolf, ‘why don’t we read a bit? Lauren, perhaps you’d like to be Eliza Doolittle – you’ll have to share with Katherine, I’m afraid.’ She smiles adoringly at the deputy head student. ‘Harry, can you read Professor Higgins, please?’

  ‘So what do we think?’ says Mrs Woolf. ‘Some critics have said that Pygmalion’s not about turning a flower-girl into a duchess, but about turning a woman into a human being. Could a person really change like that?’

  ‘It all depends who you’re trying to convince, doesn’t it?’ says Katherine. ‘I mean some people are so shallow, they only judge you by your looks.’

  ‘Guilty,’ says Magda, pointing at Katherine like she’s a witch.

  ‘How about you, Lauren? What do you think?’

  I can almost feel the eczema bubbling up on the back of my neck. ‘Well, I’m not sure, miss. I suppose if —’

  ‘I think it’s possible for someone to change,’ says Harry. ‘But it’s a lot easier if no one knows what you were like in the first place. Like the guests at the embassy dinner – it’s the first time any of them have seen Eliza Doolittle, so they’ve got no preconceptions.’

  ‘A bit like Lauren, you mean,’ says Izzy with a sly smile.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I say, tightening my calves and preparing to be attacked.

  Unlike her highlights, Izzy’s timing is less than perfect. ‘Well, I stalked your Facebook, didn’t I?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing on it,’ says Izzy, almost like she’s taken it as a personal insult. ‘No profile picture, no status updates, no nothing.’

  ‘It’s my mum,’ I say, grabbing the first unlikely explanation that comes into my head. ‘She’s a bit weird about social networking.’

  ‘What, like that girl with the purity ring?’ says Magda. ‘She’s not even allowed to watch The Simpsons.’

  ‘And anyway,’ I say, ‘Facebook’s pretty uncool these days, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Woolf checks the ceiling for cobwebs. ‘I’m not sure I see the relevance of this, Izzy.’

  ‘It’s what we do, miss. Even my dad Googles everyone before he meets them. How are we supposed to know what she’s like if there’s nothing about her online?’

  ‘Because you couldn’t possibly try asking her, could you?’ says Katherine.

  Questions rain down on me from every side:

  Are you on Twitter?

  What school did you go to?

  How tall are you?

  KFC or Nando’s?

  Are you in a relationship?

  Is it with a teacher?

  Is that why you left your old school?

  Battlefield or COD?

  But it’s not Mrs Woolf who comes to my rescue. It’s H.

  ‘Look, if you really want to know about Lauren, I’ll tell you, okay?’ he says.

  Everyone goes quiet. Shit, what’s he going to say?

  ‘She’s an international drugs dealer, right? So she’s hiding out at St Thomas’s because the FBI are after her and she’s heard how tight security is.’

  A few groans, and one enormous sigh of relief.

  ‘Now can
we get on, please?’ says Mrs Woolf. ‘Perhaps we should go through a couple of possible exam questions.’

  ‘Sorry,’ whispers Katherine. ‘I should have warned you that might happen. Well, at least Harry’s got your back.’

  That’s what’s so worrying. Why would he try to protect me like that? I could have coped with their stupid questions (I’ve been kind of expecting them anyway), but if H has the slightest suspicion about who I am, I really need to know.

  13

  WORDS TO THE WISE

  The fingerprint system in the canteen reminds me of a prison. I’d normally steer well clear of any situations involving large groups of teenagers and food, but Katherine’s taken her sandwiches to the Millennium Pagoda, so it seemed like my best chance.

  I grab my tray and race towards H, hurdling rucksacks and swerving to avoid the flying sachets of tomato sauce. If I don’t bust a gut, someone else will get to him first.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  ‘Go for it,’ says H.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what I can say without making him suspicious. So I take a sip of healthy option Slush Puppie and stare into my pasta.

  ‘Sorry about English,’ says H. ‘That lot can be a right pain. I could have a word if you like.’

  ‘No, don’t, please. I mean, thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘No worries.’ He’s the only person in the canteen attacking his panini with a plastic knife and fork. ‘It’s not bad here you know, Lauren. You’ll be all right.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be all right?’

  ‘No reason. I like people to be happy, that’s all.’ He sticks his finger down his throat and mimes puking. ‘Something like that, anyway.’

  The hair really suits him – different, but in a good way. I almost feel like putting it off for a bit and enjoying the moment. Except I’m not here to admire his new hairstyle; the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can breathe easy again.

  ‘Can I ask you something … Harry?’

  ‘Nothing personal, I hope. Whatever they’re saying about me, it’s not true, okay?’ He sees that I’m serious. ‘Yeah, sure, what is it?’

  ‘Don’t I … know you from somewhere?’

  He hesitates, swallowing a mouthful of panini before carefully positioning his plastic cutlery on the side of the tray. ‘Is that a chat-up line or something, Lauren?’

  ‘No, course not. I just have this funny feeling we might have met before.’ I study his face for telltale signs of recognition.

  Not a flicker, just the ghost of a seductive smile. ‘I think I’d remember a girl like you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You weren’t at Glastonbury, were you? My dad took me to see Neil Young.’

  ‘You’re not still into him, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean “still”?’

  ‘Nothing. I just didn’t think anyone was any more,’ I add quickly.

  ‘I take it you weren’t there then?’ says H.

  ‘No, I think me and my mum were in the States.’

  ‘Oh, right. And what were you doing over there – running from the FBI, I suppose?’

  I really shouldn’t have mentioned America. ‘Oh, you know …’

  ‘What, sightseeing and stuff?’

  ‘Yeah, kind of.’ One more question and I’ll know for sure. ‘So … Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you make an elephant laugh?’

  And he stares at me like I’m absolutely mad. So mad that just for a moment he almost seems lost for words. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  He really doesn’t remember.

  And you know what? A small part of me is actually disappointed.

  ‘Forget it. You must remind me of someone else.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’ He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and prepares to leave. His face turns serious for a moment. ‘A word to the wise, Lauren.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Whatever you do at St Thomas’s, never ever touch the spicy sausage pasta. It’s like puke in a plastic cup.’

  ‘Oh right. I’ll remember that – thanks.’

  ‘Anyway, got to go, Duke of Edinburgh Award meeting. See you around perhaps.’

  ‘Yeah … perhaps.’

  When he gets to the drinks machine, he turns and smiles at me. And for some reason, I can’t help smiling back. But my smile gets even broader when I see who’s slipped into the empty seat opposite. I had a nasty feeling she was avoiding me.

  ‘Hi, Tilda, how’s it going?’

  She opens her pot of pasta and sniffs suspiciously.

  ‘It’s not spicy sausage, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, so what?’

  ‘Apparently it’s disgusting.’

  But my sister’s in no mood for small talk. ‘No, I’ll tell you what’s disgusting, shall I?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You. What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Having lunch. What do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ says Tilda, stabbing a gobbet of sausage with her plastic fork. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No, Tilds, I really don’t.’

  ‘Talking to that Harry bloke … the prefect guy.’

  ‘So I’m not allowed to talk to anyone now?’

  ‘Don’t act all innocent. I saw the way you smiled at him.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  Her little red face is starting to do my head in. ‘I don’t actually, Tilda. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘You were flirting with him.’

  ‘What? No, you’re joking aren’t you?’ My laugh comes out a bit fake.

  ‘You were all over the guy.’

  ‘We were just talking … about Pygmalion.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘We were actually.’

  ‘You can’t do this, okay?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get close to anyone. Well, not another boy anyway. We talked about this. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Trust me, Tilda, me and Harry are never going to “get close”.’

  ‘So it’s Harry now, is it?’

  (I suppose that’s how I’ll have to think of him from now on.)‘That’s his name. What else do you want me to call him?’ I know she’s scared, but I just wish she could see it my way. ‘Oh come on, Tilds, it’s not —’

  ‘Please, just don’t be an idiot, okay? You know what happened last time. If you carry on like this, it’ll be the same story all over again.’

  OCTOBER

  Is there anything more pitiful than the child who courts popularity, mistakenly believing that membership of the ‘right’ peer group will somehow enhance their underdeveloped sense of identity? And what could be more irksome than the teacher who believes a rudimentary knowledge of popular culture will endear himself to his pupils?

  Dido’s Lament: 1,000 Things I Hate about School

  14

  FASHION

  Tilda was wrong. I’ve been at St Thomas’s nearly a month now, and as far as I can tell it’s all going fine. I’ve drip-fed enough boring ‘facts’ about myself to keep the online stalkers off my back; according to Miss Hoolyhan, I’m exceeding my targets in everything except German; and the rest of my tutor group seem perfectly happy for me to listen in on their conversations and even offer the occasional opinion about gay marriage or push-up bras.

  As for Harry, I’ve more or less managed to avoid him. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was trying to avoid me too; except that when we do meet, in English or down in the learning resources centre, he’s actually pretty friendly. So I guess it’s all worked out for the best.

  Things are better at home too. Tilda seems to have calmed down at last, Dad’s doing impressions of 1980s comedians I’ve never even heard of again, and Mum doesn’t look like a bomb’s about to go off. I ought to be really
happy. So what’s the matter with me?

  Maybe ‘fitting in’ isn’t enough any more; maybe I want to be part of something. But it’s virtually impossible with Katherine trailing me round the school like an over-opinionated spaniel. That’s not fair. I’ve read her blog and it’s actually pretty funny and I love the way she doesn’t seem to give a shit. I just wish she was a bit less conscientious about the whole mentoring thing. And I’m sitting on the steps outside the art block, half listening to Katherine’s theory about girls who spend entire decades obsessing over ‘abstruse details of their wedding receptions’ being more likely to gas themselves, when Magda and Izzy float tantalisingly into view. I’ve finally worked out how to tell them apart. They’re like those TV presenters – Magda always stands on the right.

  ‘Hi, Lauren,’ Magda says, somehow managing to simultaneously smile at me and give Katherine the cold shoulder. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, what is it?’

  Izzy sucks on an imaginary lemon. ‘In private, yeah? There’s something we want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Why can’t she talk here?’ says Katherine.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ says Magda. ‘But it’s really important.’

  ‘Found a cure for cancer, have we?’ says Katherine.

  ‘Not exactly, but when we find a cure for the ugly gene, we’ll let you know.’

  ‘Yeah, funny,’ says Katherine.

  ‘I’ll just see what they want, shall I?’ I say, trying to sound like I’m not that bothered.

  Katherine looks even more disgusted with life than usual. ‘You’re not serious, are you, Lauren? Do you honestly want to talk to the Barbie twins?’

  ‘Two seconds, okay?’

  I follow them across to the rubbish bins at the back of the canteen. Izzy turns excitedly. ‘Can I tell her now?’

  Magda nods, her hair bouncing healthily, like a conditioner advert. ‘Yeah, go for it.’

  Izzy takes a step towards me. Instinctively, I back away. ‘Don’t look so nervous, Lauren. It’s good news, I promise.’