by Polly Young
Copyrights
eBook First Published in 2012 by Autharium Publishing, London
Copyright © Polly Young 2012
The moral right of Polly Young to be asserted as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights reserved, No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
British Library Cataloguing-in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN: 9781780258126
To Be Honest
P J Young
Chapter 1: Thursday
Josh has lost it.
His duffle coat’s stuffed into his bag, it’s raining and he’s shivering: pale, like a blu-tack snail in stonewashed denim and lime green cravat.
And Mr Morlis might carry it off but he’s thirty and cool, whereas Josh’s fifteen and ... Josh.
“Lisi?” he asks when we’ve passed the sodden field of year 11 boys kicking footballs - none of them sparing us even one glance - and shrugged his parka back on.
“What?”
“ Do you think Kai’s gay?”
I sigh. No, I do not think Kai Swanning’s gay. We’ve been down this road so many times. Normally I say no and we argue, so today I just say, “yes” to my best friend with a death stare. It works: he falls silent, swinging his bag and scuffing his brogues through damp leaves and crisp packets.
We skirt the woods around the dual carriageway in the early December gloom as cars slosh past. I stayed late with Miss Mint catching up on Twelfth Night and Josh waited, of course. I don’t know what he did for twenty minutes after he’d changed out of uniform; probably in the toilets re-tying his cravat. Josh’s funny like that.
It’s Thursday, the streets are all black and if I was on my own, I’d be streaking through the orangey mist with rain dripping down my neck, or more likely taking the bus home because to be honest I’d be a bit freaked out. Not that I’d admit it to Josh, of course.
“What you wearing?”
He’s means to Courtney’s party and it’s like the ninth time he’s asked but it gets us off the subject of Kai.
“Red top with the slash neck, pleated Zara skirt, tights, snakeskin platforms.”
“Slut.”
“You?”
His eyes glitter. “White bomber, skinny Hudsons, gel.”
“Slag.”
He shoves me into a puddle so we spend five minutes wrestling. When we reach the main road the traffic’s crawling, so we rest, soaked. On the traffic island, quick as lightning I grab Josh’s cravat and wipe my face. His eyebrows and middle finger lift ... so easy to wind up.
“To mine?” I ask, like I don’t know.
He grunts, pushes his fringe to the side and then I feel bad. His mum’s at the hospital getting the baby its injections, so he’ll have to do tea. Josh’s mum’s always pregnant. He’s got two sisters and three brothers, all with bad teeth. Mum says their dental bill’s mental.
But that’s fine, ‘cos Josh’s dad’s loaded. He’s a banker, managing crises somewhere in Hong Kong. Sometimes, when Josh’s stressed and his mum’s slamming doors, I wish he’d come back and manage his family but he never does; just pops back, waves money and impregnates his wife. All a bit yuck, to be honest.
We say goodbye at the corner and he flicks a ‘V’ and lopes off: a drizzly blur, shimmering over the railway bridge that leads to the posh bit of town.
“Say hi to Miss Mint,” I yell and he waves his bag and disappears. Josh lives next door to my favourite teacher in the world. I have a little bit of a crush on her. Everyone does.
I bang through the hallway and dump my bag by the mirror. The green dye’s faded since Hallowe’en but my hair still hangs round my face like the reeds at the side of the lake behind school. For a while I thought it was cool, especially with tons of black eyeliner, but now I hate it. And it’s here to stay unless I dye it brown which would not look good.
“Yoohoo,” yells my mother from upstairs.
I bellow a return greeting, hang on the larder and peer inside but a manky old cereal bar’s as exciting as it gets. A melon festers in the fruit bowl: something rotten in the house of Reynolds, I think. Which is really quite witty for me.
“There’s melon if you want it,” Mum calls. Then down she comes.
My mother’s called Debbie which you don’t get much nowadays but it’s ok if you’re in your forties I s’pose. She’s not bad as far as mums go: works long hours on Thursdays but generally lets me do my own thing while she gets on with hers. Which, at the moment, happens to be home improvement.
“Do you want some cushions for your room? I was thinking something in cream? Maybe patchwork.”
“No thanks.”
“Oh.” She looks upset. “I’ve bought twelve.”
“Mum! Why?”
She brightens. “Your bedroom’s your sanctuary. I got caribou feathers and star jasmine room spray too.”
“Marabou.”
“What?”
“Caribou are reindeer. I don’t need cushions, Mum. New jeans’d be nice though.”
She flops onto the sofa, takes off her slippers and rubs her corns. I wish she wouldn’t; I knew all day as a dental nurse must be knackering but there are such things as privacy and bathrooms. She looks at me like one of those David Attenborough seals.
“Don’t you have quite a lot of jeans?”
“Yeah, but only two pairs of skinnies,” I lie: I have five. “I want some maroon ones. Like Miss Mint’s.”
I plonk myself down at the table with my cereal bar which, to be honest, is so sickly it’s probably making more holes in my teeth than cake.
“Your English teacher wears jeans to work?”
Well, they’re technically jeans, but not the way Mum thinks, ‘cos Miss Mint wears them with high boots and silk cardies. But I can’t explain the intricacies of fashion to my mother who lives in cords and tunic when she’s not at work and cords, tunic and a white coat when she is.
“Yeah,” I mutter and leave it at that. Mum sighs and I can tell she’d rather go back upstairs than talk. But she tries.
“How was school?”
“Awful.” It wasn’t but I always say that, like when you’re asked how you are, you say, ‘fine’ automatically. I switch it to her.
“How’s the study?”
“Ooh, I need your help with the pluperfect after tea.”
Brilliant. Mum’s taken it upon herself to do French GCSE next year, at the exact same time as me. In the same hall , for gods’ sake. I don’t mind her taking exams ... but the same one? She shows off to anyone who’ll listen that we’re doing the same thing ‘just 27 years apart,’ and then starts doing some really random ‘doo, doo, doo, doo’ sound like it’s mysterious or something. When actually it’s just annoying.
I’m good at French; that’s why I’m taking it in year 10. But I’m not much good at other things. Not sciences, like my mum and my sister Emily, who’s escaped to Bristol to be a proper dentist. Not English like Josh or dance like Rach. Not art like Erin. I wish. But I’m ok at French.
“Well, back to it,” Mum says. “No rest for the thickhead.” She gives me a cheesy grin. “Tea in an hour?”
I give her an odd look. She’s never in this much of a hurry
to get back to the books. “You ok, Mum? You’re back early.”
“Of course,” she smiles brightly, then fades. “Are you?”
Apart from having a weird mother and a gay best friend with a crush on the same boy as me? “Fine,” I say, and swing my bag up in a heavy arc. Just fine.
Chapter 2: Friday
Next day during biology, Courtney and I are in the middle of tracking fingerprints in pig’s blood up our arms when Mr Morlis glides over, making us jump.
“If you’re into branding, try Danepak,” he says gravely.
He doesn’t use his scooter much since the Ofsted inspectors saw it peeping out from under his desk and he got in trouble. Plus the Aerosmith soundtrack kind of drowns out noise.
Mr Morlis is a legend.
He’s bald, but shaved bald not proper bald, and he wears the coolest trainers. Sometimes he does experiments with things that smell and coloured smoke which impresses the boys but I’m more interested in the way he can get the whole class quiet to explain things that can make your head explode, let alone whatever’s on the Bunsen burner. I wish I was better at science. A Levels with Mr Morlis would be wicked. The multicoloured cress moustache he’s done on a massive piece of blotting paper hangs over a poster of someone he says is called Alan Partridge and looks awesome. Other male teachers are doing it too but on their faces, which is unoriginal, desperate, whereas Mr Morlis just gets it.
“Sorry, sir,” I mumble.
“She’s working out what to wear to the party,” Courtney offers. “My fifteenth,” she says, applauding what she thinks is Mr Morlis’ interested expression with mascara-ed lashes.
“Chop up the pig or leave. Your choice.” It’s said and accepted and he scoots away. We move through the rest of the dissection silently: that’s just how it is with Mr Morlis: you don’t mess about.
Later, washing our hands, Courtney squeezes between Josh and me with a hip-bump. Josh is sulking; stuck working with Olly Goddard, a boy with the worst acne you’ve ever seen in your life and great, sack-like arms with pits that smell like the games block. He’s taking ages at the sink, scrubbing under his fingernails like Kate Middleton’s on her way.
“Thirty two hours and counting!” Courtney shakes at the thought of nearly the whole year group at her party. Sometimes her whole body goes into spasm when she’s excited, like when she got tickets to Master Chef. Her brother’s just left Fairmere. He’s captain of the college rugby club and hired the hall out for her. One of his fit friends is DJ-ing ‘for practice’; a lot of year 11s are going including Kai Swanning. It’s going to be carnage.
“Yeah, we’re shopping tomorrow,” I say. Josh raises his eyebrows.
“Are we?”
“I need a jacket.”
“You’ve got one,” he looks pained. Shopping with me can be an all-day event, to be honest.
“Well, you don’t have to come.”
“I’ll give it a miss, then.” Josh gazes out of the window at the playing field where Kai Swanning and his team are leaping about doing drills.
Rachel, Erin and Courtney are my best friends ‘cept Josh. We got together in year 7 when I bashed Erin in assembly. She pulled my bag, Rach hit her and Courtney tripped Rach. We all ended up in Mr Underwood, the Head’s office, giggling our own off.
None of us knew anyone, all coming from different schools, so after that we stuck together: Rachel Dewar, small and wiry, wants to be an Olympic dancer; Erin Wiltshire, who looks like Rihanna, wants to change the planet and Courtney Rowan who’s, let’s be honest, fat, lovely and just wants a shag.
“Primark, ten am. And it’s my birthday so you can bring a present,” Courtney glitters, rinsing the cutting board. “I want Kai Swanning.”
Josh sighs longingly, turns away from the window and packs up.
* * *
Mrs Debono’s always late, silly cow, so we hang around in the corridor while everyone else is being registered. Then she lets us in, spends ages logging on and forgets the notices and we’re always last to period five. Which is fine when it’s maths but today we’ve got English so I am not being late.
Just as Debono’s enormous shopper, man arms and frizzy perm appear round the corner, Kai Swanning and Felix Thorpe steam in from the field like carthorses.
“Aargh, shut the door, it’s FREEZING,” yells Rach, then sees who it is and goes pink.
Kai Swanning is the most gorgeous, amazing specimen of a nearly seventeen year old the world has ever seen. It’s generally accepted that one look from Kai means you twitter for days. Not literally, of course: no one puts it online, but he makes your heart go fluttery, like a tiny starling or something.
His hair’s dark chocolate and his cheeks glow like the inside of Topshop . Although the field through the classroom wall looks all chilly with mist, Kai is a poppy of warmth. In its bright red nylon football shirt, his chest looks like Christmas, ready to burst. I want to hug him to stop it; let that warmth cloak me.
But Courtney gets there first, making a scorching sound as she prods his bicep, then shakes her fingers like they’re burnt.
Kai looks bewildered and laughs.
“Don’t touch what you can’t afford,” he drops over his shoulder as he and Felix cruise down the hall, nearly running Mrs Debono over as she fumbles for keys.
“ Guys ... sorry, sorry , I’m here ...”
We file into the form room but Josh hangs back, watching Kai and Felix jump and smack the archway over the entrance to Fairmere, then jog to the year 11 block. “Oi!” I hiss. “Romeo!”
And he follows me but his eyes don’t.
* * *
We’re doing Twelfth Night and it’s too confusing.
Why would anyone want to be somebody else?
Though I wouldn’t mind being Miss Mint, to be honest. She stands, waiting for quiet, holding a wrist with the other hand so her bangles are covered. I love her bangles; they’re so her: delicate, gold, exotic. She’s perfect, from her hair to her sheepskin-lined boots. I know girls in year 11 who keep notes on what she wears — but she’s ten years and millions of copies of Elle ahead of us, and clothes look so much better on her. Her body’s uh. May. Zing. Today, her nails are sapphire.
“Settle,” she says decisively. And we do, though Olly Goddard and Joe Brannigan still kick the backs of each other’s chairs as she’s taking the register.
“Boys.” She looks up, surprised. Phoebe Mint zaps their teenage scowls and they stop, open their books, and find a pen. Mrs Debono, watch and weep.
I know it’s Phoebe ‘cos I saw a letter addressed to her once, just inside a coursework folder. I’m not surprised. She’d never be called anything like Debbie or Claire (that’s Debono) or even Elizabeth (me). Phoebe. Phoebe and Taff, sounds well posh, doesn’t it? Taff’s her boyfriend. Sorry, fiancé. The diamond on her left hand shivers as she pulls up the lesson objectives. Josh leans over to whisper something but I ignore him as I’m drawing a big ‘P’ on the inside of my book.
“Prick?” Olly leers over and gobs on the cover. By accident, I think, though that doesn’t help. I wipe it off with my sleeve and flick his spotty forehead.
“Lisi?” Miss Mint turns angel’s eyes from the board.
I’m stuck. I heard the question; something about what would Olivia do if she had to choose between Orsino and Sir Andrew. It ought to ring a bell because of the work we did last night but to be honest I was staring at her necklace with the three tiny crescents on it, trying to work out if I could make one like it from beads, at the time. I wish I was better at English.
“Dunno, Miss.”
A shadow crosses Miss Mint’s face. “Were you listening?”
“Yes,” I lie.
Her mouth twitches. “I’ll come back.” She moves on through the next couple of points, and then sets us to work finding quotes.
Oh my god, school’s depressing. Miss Mint’s room’s on the ground floor where they haven’t got around to modernising yet and there’s flaky paint and scabs of stapled moun
ting paper all over the walls. I’m near the radiator, which is belting out heat, making my swamp hair go dry and frizzier than Debono’s. I can feel the damp of the windowsill seeping through my sleeve. I’m so not in the mood to work but Josh’s scribbling away, plucking A* quotes out like pick ‘n’ mix.
I don’t know where to start.
“What have you got?” I whisper, trying to sound nonchalant but Josh’s not fooled and slides me his exercise book to copy while he thumbs through the text. The maverick. But I’m bored so I write notes to him instead.
Miss Mint’s timer goes off and pens go down. There’s not even a highlighter lid on the floor: it’s like she has some sort of spell over us. Like Mr Morlis, she can get us all doing what she wants no problem, and I’ve no idea how. No one else can do it like they can: although there are some ok teachers at Fairmere, they’re definitely the best in the school. I think Miss Mint’s top’s from Oasis and I want it. I’m not sure, though; it might be Warehouse . I scribble in Josh’s book asking him if he knows.
After some pointless group work on character, the bell goes. We sit. You don’t move until Miss Mint says so.
“Right, I need volunteers. Thank you Josh Meadows, Erin Wiltshire, Courtney Rowan, Rachel Dewar and Lisi Reynolds. The rest of you may go.”
Scraping chairs get quieter and I can hardly stop myself from grinning: more time with Miss Mint, then drama - last thing on a Friday: mental. Then home, for the WEEKEND. Oh yes.
“You’re going to help with the trip next week.”
We eye-roll collectively, but anything for Miss Mint.
“School gates, eight sharp, Monday morning. School uniform. No sweets. The coach leaves at eight forty and I need to brief you before the rest arrive at quarter past.”
We move to her desk and she shows us a list, each of our names in bold at the top of five or six others in our class. I’m with Olly; great.
“Miss, we’re not together!” Courtney wails.
“Nope,” Miss Mint says simply. “Happy birthday for tomorrow Courtney. Being fifteen has its responsibilities, I’m afraid. I’ll see all group leaders bright and early on Monday. Have a lovely weekend.” She smiles and we shove off.
