by Juno Dawson
Contents
Title Page
World Book Day 2016
ALSO BY JUNO DAWSON
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Two Weeks Later
A Note From Juno
Juno Dawson
Extract of ‘Sophie Someone’ by Hayley Long
A Note From Hayley Long
Copyright
THIS WORLD BOOK DAY 2016 BOOK IS A GIFT FROM MY LOCAL BOOKSELLER AND HOT KEY BOOKS
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ALSO BY JUNO DAWSON
(Writing as James Dawson)
All of the Above
Under My Skin
Say Her Name
Cruel Summer
Hollow Pike
Mind Your Head
This Book is Gay
Being a Boy
To Samantha – you look so fine.
x
Chapter One
I hate them but they are all I think about.
The A-List.
I observe them covertly from the table next to theirs in the canteen, peeking out through my greasy hair curtains. They always look like they’re having so much fun. Even in this grey canteen, a personal ray of sunshine seems to follow them around. What perfect white teeth they have. They’re laughing – in a riotous, attention-seeking way – at something Rufus is saying.
Rufus, the funny one. A class clown, sure, but handsome in his own quirky way. He’s dating Lucy, the delightful one, and she’s sitting on his knee picking at his fries. With her white-blonde hair and big blue eyes, she’s Disney’s Aryan princess. I don’t know why she puts up with Rufus. People – in fact everyone she comes into contact with – love Lucy and have done since we were all about four. There’s something about blondes. We treat them differently.
Next to them is Tyler, the giant. Six-foot-three of stupid glued together by testosterone, but you wouldn’t want him on the other rugby team, that’s for sure. He has muscles upon muscles, and I can’t pretend he’s not Thor-geous, even if I would rather die than admit it. The last I heard, he was with Scarlett.
Scarlett: the one made of pure evil. Yes, she’s beautiful. Yes, she has Pantene-commercial hair falling in perfect chestnut waves over her shoulders. Yes, she has dewy skin, high cheekbones and full lips – but she also has all the warmth of a great white.
Then there’s Naima, the vicious one, Seth, the silent smoulderer, with his see-into-my-soul eyes and floppy fringe, and CJ, the little noisy one. There’s always a little noisy one.
I fantasise about them. They’re the stars of my own little made-up drama series in which I’m the lead part. In this recurring daydream, I’m beautiful too, not hideous like I am now, and I stand up to them, lead a rebel alliance. I’d tell them to shut up and die. I’d be with Seth, who I know is good underneath it all, and we’d rule benevolently to unite the warring factions of Brecken Heath Academy.
Too late, I realise CJ is looking right at me.
‘What are you gawking at, Pizzaface?’ I whip my head down, pretending not to hear him. ‘She was like, proper staring at you, Ty.’
‘She probably fancies you.’ I don’t need to look up to recognise Scarlett’s cyanide voice.
‘You-a-want-a-some-pepperoni?’ Tyler says in a mock-Italian accent.
On my table, my best friend, Lois, tuts. ‘Shall we go, Avery?’
I nod, still not looking up. I hate them so much. Hate is a very strong word, but I mean every drop. As I push my chair back, I knock over my water bottle and its contents gush across the table, trickling over the edge.
The A-List hoot with laughter.
‘Nice one, Pizzaface.’ This time it’s Rufus.
With as much dignity as we can muster, Lois and I exit the canteen, an angry dinner lady calling after us to mop up the water.
We go to the loo to dry off.
‘Are you OK?’ Lois asks.
Me and Lois have been friends since we started Brecken Heath, back when I wasn’t so monstrous. In a parallel world, Lois would probably be one of the A-List – she’s so pretty with her Taylor Swift bob and button nose – but, in our unparallel world, she has one ‘normal’ arm and one funny little arm (her words, not mine). It curls against her chest and she has very little strength in it. The A-List call her ‘T-rex’.
‘I’m fine.’
Almost as if I want to punish myself for being such a klutz and for making a fool of myself, I look in the mirror. I tilt the hand dryer nozzle up and it blows my hair off my face.
I’m deformed. In the olden days, I’d have belonged in a circus sideshow or scurried the cobbled streets of Victorian London, my face obscured by a veil. Fatima Mahmood doesn’t know how lucky she is with her niqab. I’ve seriously considered getting one.
My chin and cheeks are permanently raging and red – very much like, as Rufus was once quick to point out during physics, the surface of Mars. Lumps and bumps and boils and pustules (that’s an especially disgusting word, pustules) cover my skin. Some bright red, some pink, some yellow and ripe and ready to burst. Only you can’t burst them, because then you’ll get scar tissue.
Oh, it’s only a few spots. Everyone gets spots. You’ll grow out of it.
Well, it’s been five years and they don’t seem to be getting any better.
And no one warns you about the pain. My face hurts. All the time, night and day. It feels like there’s a needle at the centre of each spot, burrowing down to the bone. I prickle like a cactus. Half the time my skin feels so tight it could rip.
It’s hot, it’s red, it’s angry and so am I. What kind of heinous acts against humanity did I commit in a previous life to wind up like this? It’s just not fair. It’s not fair that I look like a monster, and it’s not fair that Lois was born with a funny little arm.
‘You just have to ignore them,’ Lois says, fluffing her hair. She really is very pretty, and her mum and dad spoil her rotten with clothes. Not that owning a bit of Burberry will ever elevate her onto the A-List. I’m not being harsh – they really are that shallow. ‘If picking on people’s appearances is the best they can do, they’re not very imaginative. You know you’re fabulous, right, Avery?’
‘Oh yeah, I’m the world’s undiscovered supermodel.’ I roll my eyes at her. ‘If only real life came with Photoshop, eh?’
‘Rufus and CJ are stupid little boys. It speaks only of their own insecurity that they
feel the need to put others down.’ She ends her sentence with a little Miss Piggy-style ‘humph’.
I smile. ‘Well, I’m not gonna disagree with that. I just really wish that Scarlett Drake could wake up tomorrow with skin like mine.’
You’d be surprised precisely how much time I’ve frittered away on wishing that.
‘Avery! Personally, I’m not going to waste any time on negativity. My grandma always says that all we can do is keep our own front steps clean.’
‘What?’
‘I think she means that all we can do is work on being better people ourselves. I grant you Scarlett looks amazing on the outside, but inside she’s as rotten as a mouldy apple.’
I don’t say anything, but I can’t help but think of PE a few weeks ago when Scarlett kept barrelling a netball at Lois’s chest, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to catch it.
Instead I say, ‘A mouldy apple with maggots in. And the maggots have leprosy.’
‘Yep! Come on, don’t let them get you down. We’re out of here in a year.’
I think Lois’s skin must be thicker than mine. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s brushed off the T-rex thing.
‘I know.’ I swing my backpack on. ‘Come on, let’s go and find the others.’
We leave the cafeteria and head for the picnic tables outside the science block. This is where the Year 10 losers hang out, because we know the lab technicians and science teachers will keep an eye out for us. Here we have the music nerds, geeks and general dregs. There are no cute guys, although a lot of the band guys and girls date each other. In fact, it’s all quite incestuous, and I find their comings and goings hard to keep up with.
Lois and I sit down with Jess (who, thanks to the A-List, has her very own theme song: she’s big, she’s round, she bounces on the ground, it’s jumbooooooo Jessica Wright!) and Viola, who is lovely and very sweet, but who doesn’t speak that much English yet because her family only just moved from the Czech Republic. She also wears hearing aids in both ears so it could just be that she can’t hear a word we’re saying.
Lois and I link up and play a computer game for the rest of lunchtime. Lois manages fine as long as she can rest her DS on the picnic bench. Then when the bell goes we head to registration. I’m so lucky that Lois and I are in the same tutor group.
Unfortunately for both of us, we’re also in the same group as Rufus, CJ and Scarlett. They sit at the very back. We sit at the very front. They saunter in at the last possible minute, as ever, so the rest of the class are already seated.
‘Thank you for joining us,’ says Miss Greenwood, seconds before she starts the register. Miss Greenwood looks about twelve years old. She only qualified last year. She has the frazzled, one-second-away-from-tears air of someone who isn’t even close to coping.
‘Mozz-a-rella!’ Rufus says under his breath as he passes our desk.
‘A-spi-cy-meat-a-ball!’ adds CJ.
Scarlett says nothing. It’s somehow worse.
‘Settle down, please,’ Miss Greenwood says. ‘Scott?’
‘Here, Miss.’
‘Psst! Avery, do you do stuffed crust?’ It’s Rufus again. Scarlett laughs and laughs. Some others snigger too. I sink further into my chair.
Miss Greenwood flushes but says nothing, and continues with the register.
Chapter Two
The next day, and every mouthful of Special K turns to putty in my mouth. I struggle to swallow. It’s often not so bad once I actually get there, but I’ve actually started to dread dreading school. I legit worry about worrying.
Mum plonks a glass of Tropicana in front of me. ‘Don’t forget we have a hospital appointment this afternoon. I’ll collect you from the back exit at two-thirty. Don’t forget, please!’
I roll my eyes. ‘I won’t.’ Actually, I probably will. ‘But maybe you should text me at two just in case?’
Mum smiles. ‘What are you like?’
‘Not that I see the point in going …’ I mutter. I decide if I can swallow one more mouthful I can at least claim a victory over breakfast.
‘Oh, Avery.’ Mum takes a sip of her coffee, then pulls a face. We recently got a Nespresso machine and she’s very into trying different pods. ‘Don’t start all this again …’
‘I’m not, but if you won’t let me have Truisoclear, there’s nothing they can do for me, is there?’ Even I’m bored of this argument, to be honest. Truisoclear is an acne treatment, but as it also has links to depression and suicidal behaviour, Mum and Dad decided, without my involvement, that I wasn’t allowed to go on it. There have been many, many slammed doors over this, but they won’t back down.
Dad, I should say, lives three streets away with my stepmum, Julie. It’s no biggy, just how it is.
‘Avery, you know why.’ Mum sits down on the other side of the breakfast table and takes my hand. ‘Your skin will get better, I promise.’
‘What if it doesn’t?’
‘It will!’
‘But what if it doesn’t?’
I see Mum’s eyes glaze over. I don’t want to make her cry. ‘You are not your skin. It’s what’s on –’
‘It’s what’s on the inside that counts. Yeah, I’ve heard that once or twice.’ I stand and rinse my bowl out at the sink. ‘I’d better go and meet Lois, but I’ll see you at two-thirty.’ As I leave the kitchen, I can see the pain all over Mum’s face.
She should try spending a day wearing mine.
Right after registration, I manage to pick one of my spots by accident. It’s a bleeder. After heading for the girls’ toilets before assembly, I dab at the wound with some scrunched-up toilet roll. I don’t even realise I’m not alone until Lucy Manning, who must have perfected a very stealthy style of weeing, emerges from the end cubicle. I catch her eye for a second in the mirror before I stare into the sink.
‘Oh, hi, Avery,’ she says in a tone as bright as her blonde. ‘How are you?’
Is she kidding? She’s alone, thankfully, but that doesn’t mean she’s not going to scurry back to Scarlett and tell her how she saw me squeezing my acne in the toilets.
‘I’m OK,’ I mutter.
Lucy washes her hands at the next sink, and there’s a deeply awkward silence. Back in primary school, Lucy and I were best friends. Inseparable. Peas in a pod. That was before she ditched me and my deteriorating skin for Scarlett and the A-List as soon as we got to Brecken Heath. I don’t look at her, but I can tell she’s trying to get my attention.
‘So …’ she says to fill the silence, ‘… have a nice day. I like your bag, by the way. Not my style, but it suits you.’
The thought of My Little Phony Lucy Manning carrying a studded black rubber backpack is almost hilarious. I can’t help but smile.
‘Thanks.’
‘See you around.’ Lucy scoops up her Cath Kidston bag and leaves. Two-faced backstabbing witch. At least Scarlett has the decency to act as evil as she seems.
I join Lois in assembly seconds before we have to stand for Mrs Collins, the head of Year 11. What’s she doing here? Usually our assemblies are taken by either the head proper or Mr Topping, the head of Year 10. Collins is frankly terrifying, she looks like an evil Russian henchwoman from an action film.
‘Good morning, Year 10.’
‘GOOOOOD MOOOORNING, MRS COLLINS.’
We sit back down and a gurgle in my tummy warns me that Mrs Collins presence might have something to do with next year’s exams. Like any of us need reminding, they test us often enough.
‘We have a slightly different assembly today,’ she begins. ‘It’s time to start thinking ahead to next year. As you know, every year, one boy and one girl from Year 11 must represent Brecken Heath Academy as head boy and head girl. We’ve decided to start the process earlier this year, so the election won’t clash with sports day or your end of year exams. To talk to you about what the election entails, here are Dylan and Suriya.’
There’s a murmur. Dylan Caldwell and Suriya Kaur are Brecken Heath royalty.
Dylan is the first out, gay head boy EVER. He’s a semi-famous YouTuber and everything. And Suriya spent last summer helping out in an orphanage in Pakistan. Both make our drab grey uniform look like Prada. They are perfect in every way. I am in awe. I swear they are glowing slightly.
‘Good morning, Year 10,’ Dylan starts. ‘Soon, it’ll be time for Suriya and me to leave Brecken Heath.’
‘We’ve loved representing the school, and leading the school council, but it’s time for us to pass the baton on to two of you,’ Suriya says.
‘It’s a big responsibility,’ Dylan goes on. ‘Once a week, you’ll meet with the senior leadership team to help give every student at this school a voice.’
‘This year, Dylan and I have done everything we can to be that voice and to make this school a better place. We established the Gay/Straight Alliance …’
There’s a round of applause.
‘Our Anti-Bullying Week campaign was on the evening news …’
‘And the canteen now serves gluten-free, dairy-free, vegan and halal options to all pupils.’
More applause.
Dylan becomes more serious for a second. He’s so gorgeous. Tyler Oakley once Twitter flirted with him. I saw it.
‘We leave this legacy to you, Year 10. Who will continue our good work?’
‘It’s very simple,’ says Suriya, sweeping her mane of velvet-like hair over her shoulder. ‘Between now and the end of the month, you can nominate yourself by filling in an application form and placing it in this box.’ She gestures to a gaudily painted gold ballot box.
‘Once all the nominations are in, we start the campaign,’ Dylan says with a grin. ‘Candidates will have a month to win over voters before the election on 2nd June. Is that clear?’
An excited buzz fills the hall. Neighbours ask each other if they plan to run. Looking at luminaries like Dylan and Suriya, I guess we must have been a poor intake – there’s no one in our whole year who could compare to either of them.
