by Emily Barr
I shrug. ‘I just fancied a change,’ I say. That is the biggest lie ever. My hair used to be long and blonde like Mollie’s, but now it’s lopsided (much longer on one side than the other) and purple. The lopsidedness came after a horrible incident at school with Tessa, whose hobby is making my life, and the lives of everyone else who doesn’t quite fit in, as difficult as she can. The purple was part of a complicated accommodation I made with Bella to stop her attacking Tessa back with her own knife. Anyway, my public position is that I fancied a change, and actually I like the purple. I’m different from everyone else, so I might as well look different.
‘Right.’ Mollie is smirking. Actually I can’t wait to get away from here.
‘So it’s about Mrs Morel controlling Paul even after she’s died,’ I say. ‘That’s what I put. I looked it up online and that’s what it said. She ruins all his relationships because she wants to make sure he loves his mummy the best.’
‘Hey, Anusha,’ says Mollie. ‘That sounds a bit like Dean.’
Everyone looks at Anusha and laughs about her boyfriend, and the heat is off me and I am pleased.
3
35 Days
‘Lily?’ says Mrs Browning. ‘Perhaps you’d like to answer.’
I look at Lily. She is fiddling with her fingernails, staring down at the desk. She hasn’t got a clue what to say. I know she didn’t hear the question because she was drawing a picture of herself as a manga character in her notebook under the table. She has coloured her skin light brown and her hair pink, and has given herself huge eyes. Underneath it she has written: Lilichan.
We are supposed to be sensible now that we’re in our last year of school. We’re meant to be adults. We should be doing these subjects because we are committed to them. We are not meant to yawn and mess around and draw cartoons under the desk; and yet of course we do, because this is school and we have been here for years and years and it’s boring.
‘Sorry,’ says Lily.
There is a muffled snicker from the rest of the group.
‘Lily – answer my question about the text. This is A-level year. If you don’t want to answer a very basic question, you should not have picked this subject.’
Mrs Browning is a good teacher and I like her. No one else does. However, I don’t like it when she picks on Lily, who daydreams her way through English because she didn’t know what to do for her third subject and picked it because I was doing it. Lily’s heart is not in English and, although she is the most focused person I know, when she’s in an English lesson that focus is never on the book. She’s generally thinking about music and drama instead.
Now she shifts in her chair, pulls her skirt straight and stares at the book in front of her. I take the drawing from her under the table, just in case. The rain has turned to hail and the stones are battering at the window. A year from now we’ll be out of here, and Mrs Browning will still be behind her desk, trying to get people whose minds are elsewhere to talk about books they haven’t read. I wish I could communicate that thought to Lily right now.
I know Sons and Lovers. I like it. I heard the question. I clear my throat and speak quickly before I can decide not to.
‘Mrs Morel’s jealous of Paul’s relationship with Miriam,’ I say quickly. ‘And that’s –’
‘No, Ella. I asked Lily, thank you. I know you know.’
The silence is tangible. It is a thick thing, a fog, heavy in the air. There are only ten of us in the class, and when I look around I see that I am the only one who is not staring down at a piece of paper, desperate not to be picked on.
My head rings and I start a frantic internal bargaining with Bella. She cannot take over at school. She cannot. She never has, not in class, and she never will.
CAKE.
No.
ANOTHER HAIR COLOUR.
No. Later. We’ll do something later.
HURT THE TEACHER. SHE’S BEING MEAN TO LILY.
I can’t hurt the teacher.
Mrs Browning, unaware of the danger she’s in, is staring at Lily, who is hunched in on herself, looking down at her lap. No one gets to make my best friend feel like this. Lily is an angel. My vision narrows.
This cannot happen at school. It can’t. It did once before, and I only just got through it by locking myself in a loo and taking it out on myself until Bella went away. Not now; not in class. No. The edges of my vision black out, and I look frantically at the edges of things to make them come back into focus.
‘Your hair looks nice today, miss,’ Bella says to Browning, using my mouth. I am horrified. I only ever speak in class to give an answer. I never do anything like this.
She touches her hair, which is as flat and scraggly as it always is. ‘Well, I wish I could say the same for you, Ella,’ she says, her lips tight.
‘Yeah, but it does. Where do you get it done?’
Everyone is staring at me, wide-eyed.
‘Lily. Answer the question.’
‘The question?’ Lily says, very quietly.
I close my eyes and take some deep, deliberate breaths because I can’t let Bella do anything more than this. Being rude to Mrs Browning was not enough. I can feel it happening. It’s rising inside me. I can’t look at everything quickly enough to stop it blurring. I am becoming Bella. I want to fly at her. I want to shout. I need to hurt her.
PULL HER HAIR.
I can’t.
THROW HER BAG OUT OF THE WINDOW.
I can’t.
PUNCH HER.
I have to stay in control.
WELL, HELP LILY. LILY IS THE PERSON YOU LOVE MOST. YOU CAN DO THAT.
Bella and I are in tentative agreement.
I pull my notebook down under the table and start scribbling, breathing deeply, pushing away the ringing and the blurring. I focus only on the words, and when it’s done I push it towards Lily, who reads it quickly, then says:
‘Mrs Morel is jealous of Paul’s relationships with Miriam and Clara. This has a damaging effect on Paul. So, though she dies, I would argue that she has still won.’
Browning rolls her eyes. I can see that she is on the brink of walking out, even though there are still twenty minutes until break. I hope she does. I will her to. That would end this.
‘You would argue that, would you, Lily?’ she says.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Ella, you are doing Lily no favours whatsoever,’ she says. ‘Yes, I know you can do it. I know you’ve read the book and can produce a considered argument. You won’t be able to pass Lily the answer in her exams, will you? She needs to do the work herself, or otherwise drop the subject. If she can’t be bothered to read a novel that is not at all difficult – or even to read the bloody York Notes – then this class is not the place for her. And as for your rudeness, we’ll be discussing that later.’
‘Lily’s going to get an A,’ I say. I reach for her hand under the table and squeeze it. She squeezes back, clinging on. The universe the universe the universe. I chase Bella away with the words. I hang on to Lily’s hand.
My breathing comes more easily. I can hear properly; I can see properly. It is the biggest relief, the best thing. I close my eyes and appreciate having my head to myself. Bella left, and I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t even hurt myself.
The lesson staggers on for fifteen minutes that manage to be both dull and tense, and then I take Lily’s hand in mine and we walk out of the room together. Mollie walks on Lily’s other side (though I don’t know where she was when Lily needed backup), and none of us look back. We go straight to the common room.
Lily blinks back tears and tries to laugh. I notice that she is tiny these days. I want to look after her like she looks after me.
‘Oh fuck,’ she says. ‘She’s kind of right. I know. I was going to read the book. I just … didn’t.’
‘Read it,’ I say quietly, ‘and you’ll be fine. You will get an A, and then we’ll be out of here. All the teachers will have to stay until they die.’
Lily smile
s at that.
‘Coffee?’ says Mollie, to both of us.
‘Sure.’
I am still shaky but I don’t think anyone is looking at me. I reached a compromise with Bella and it was just about OK. It was a horribly close call. If I’d done what she wanted and punched a teacher I’d have been expelled by now. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Nothing like this can happen again.
I don’t know how to stop it. It’s getting worse and I don’t know how to make it stop. Bella wants to come out every day. I use almost all my energy pushing her back down. It’s beginning to feel impossible.
I watch Mollie as she tips the old coffee out of the jug and refills the filter. The common room is big, with sofas and bean bags, and a kitchen corner with kettle, coffee machine and a fridge that stinks of gone-off milk. The room as a whole smells of coffee and perfumed deodorant. It is always filled with teenage girls making a big point of relaxing, or desperately trying to do overdue homework before it slips out of control, or going through crises and breakdowns, alone, together, collectively. I know I’m not the only one with demons. I imagine I am the only one with a demon though.
I don’t want to be here. On my bedside table I have a list of places I would rather be. Only Jack has seen it. He made his own at the same time. We didn’t compile the tragic ‘bucket lists’ terminally ill kids make; we just wrote down some places we would rather be. I added the last two items when I was alone. Mine says:
ELLA’S WISH LIST
Go to Rio – particularly Copacabana beach. Draw it from life, not from a photo.
Visit a tropical island anywhere in the world, with sand and palm trees. Find a beach that is the opposite of where we went last year, in Cornwall.
Live in a huge exciting city, e.g. New York.
Find a job and earn money doing something fulfilling and interesting, independent of my parents.
Be away from my life in Kent. JUST BE ANYWHERE AWAY FROM STUPID ENGLAND AND MY FRUSTRATING LIFE.
Be someone different from Ella Black because I am SO DULL.
Learn to live with my dark side.
We had a laugh writing them. Jack’s is full of shocking ideas, and I bet he added some extras when I wasn’t there too.
I have written my list out several times, and this is its current incarnation. Each time I try to make it measured, but Bella takes the pen and adds her thoughts and it degenerates into frustration and anger. I’m going to apply to universities and art colleges in cool places (though not as cool as Rio or New York obviously) and I’ll probably get into more than one of them. I do well at school, and this summer I’ll have qualifications in English, art and history.
I don’t want to get my head down and go to university and then find some dull job like my dad and work all the time. No one here thinks I’m adventurous, but I am in secret. I long to be free of everything I currently know. I don’t belong in this common room. I have two friends in the whole world, Lily and Jack. I want to run from everything: from being seen as pathetic by everyone, from Bella, from my mother’s constant locking of the door once I am safely inside. I want to be free.
‘Thanks, Mollie,’ I say, taking the stained mug of black coffee she’s holding out to me. It’s a big thing, Mollie making me a coffee. It’s because I was so rude to Mrs Browning. I smile broadly at her and take a sip: it’s hot, and pretty much nasty, but it’s what we drink.
‘Well, Ella,’ says Mollie. ‘You were epic.’ She is staring at me with something like awe. ‘Seriously.’ She turns to the twins, who don’t do English. ‘Browning was giving Lily a hard time. And then Ella just goes: “Your hair looks nice, miss.” ’
‘Ella?’ Anusha gasps.
‘I know, right?’
Everyone within earshot bursts out laughing. I try to smile along with it. The moment is reported again and again to people who didn’t hear the first time. I shrink into my seat and look at Lily.
‘You OK?’ I say quietly.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’m fine. But where the hell did that come from? Your hair looks nice, miss?’ She giggles, and I giggle too, and then we are both laughing. We don’t notice that there’s a teacher in the room, heading right towards us, until she’s almost beside us.
No one really takes any notice when teachers come into the common room. When they do they try to be cool. They make a show of ‘treating you like adults’. They do this by saying: ‘Hi, girls!’ and ‘Ooh, you look relaxed.’ They try to slouch a bit to show us that, impossible as it seems, they were young once.
Today, though, it’s our form tutor, Mrs Phipps, and she isn’t trying to be down wiv da kidz at all. She is walking purposefully, looking only at me.
Mrs Browning said we would talk about my rudeness so I was expecting something like this. I’m trembling. I never get into trouble.
‘Ella,’ says Phipps. ‘Ella, I need you to come with me, please. Bring your bag and your coat.’
I widen my eyes at Lily and Mollie to hide the fact that I am cold all over. They are sending me home for being rude to a teacher. I pick up my bag and toss the long side of my hair and try to smile.
‘Coat?’ says Phipps. She is looking at me strangely. It’s unnerving. She normally loves me. She usually says things like: ‘Thank goodness for you, at least, Ella,’ which makes the others hate me even more.
‘Actually – I don’t have one?’ I say. I talk in the slow, slightly Australian way I’ve heard other girls do when they want to annoy the teachers. They hate a sentence to sound like a question. I don’t know what else to do. My heart is pounding.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
She starts to say something but then stops. She’s wearing a horrible dress, and Lily points at it behind her back and makes a face to the others, who snigger. I appreciate her support.
Everyone in the room is looking at me and I want to bolt. I keep my head down and follow Phipps out of the room. Tessa the bully looks up and rolls her eyes at me as I walk past.
I find myself going slightly out of my way to kick her bag.
Bella is stirring.
I am out of the common room and heading straight into trouble.
My mother is in the head’s office. She is sitting on a chair, and Mrs Austen, the head teacher, is, as ever, swigging from the bottle that says ‘water’ on it, which everyone knows really contains vodka. Neither of them looks happy.
This does seem over the top, considering.
I imagine myself saying: It wasn’t me. It was Bella. She’s a kind of demon who lives inside me. She’s been there as long as I can remember but you thought I was just having tantrums, and when I was about seven I realized I had to hide it. And actually I can’t remember much anyway from before I was six or so, which probably means I was such a vile child that you had my mind wiped. That would make it all kinds of worse. My parents would send me away to some upmarket asylum and I’d be forced to sit quietly in group therapy until I could convince someone I was ‘better’. Everyone in the school would talk of nothing else for weeks, like they do when someone goes away to have their anorexia treated, and I would never go back.
‘Here she is,’ says Phipps, standing in the doorway, a hand on my shoulder. I know it must be a stop-her-running-away grip, though it feels more like a don’t-worry one. I want to push it off violently, but of course I can’t. In fact Bella has already scoped out the House Cup sitting on a shelf behind Mrs Austen and wants to use it to smash everyone in the room, but she’s just about under control at the moment. ‘Apparently the pounding hail outside is no reason for a sixth-former to bring a coat to school, but she’s got her bag.’
‘Thanks, Sarah,’ says Mrs Austen, and the door clicks shut and there are just the three of us there.
My mum is in the room. I was a bit rude to a teacher, which admittedly has never happened before, but it wasn’t that bad. I was defending my friend, and all I actually said was ‘Your hair looks nice.’ They called my mother. They have no idea how mu
ch worse it could have been.
No
idea
at
all.
Mum is looking at me with the strangest expression. Her hair is plastered down with rain. She hasn’t brought a coat with her either.
I wait for someone to say something, but they don’t. I’m certainly not going to be the first to speak. I feel the moment stretch out. We are all suspended, waiting. Something is about to happen, but if no one says anything, then it won’t. I’m good at not speaking. This is easy for me. Bella’s happy just watching, for now.
‘Ella,’ says Mum, cracking first. ‘Ella. Darling. We have to go. It’s a bit sudden. Sorry, darling.’
‘I don’t know what I even did,’ I say, straight at Mrs Austen. My words tumble over each other. ‘It’s not fair. I was a bit rude to Mrs Browning but –’
I stop talking because I can see from both their faces that they don’t know what I am talking about. I have just confessed to something they have no idea that I did.
‘Were you?’ Mrs Austen says, inclining her head. She has helmet hair and looks like Angela Merkel. ‘That’s not like you, Ella. But this has nothing to do with Mrs Browning.’ There is a big question on her face, but she doesn’t ask it. ‘Your mother needs to take you away, my dear.’ She tilts her head towards Mum.
‘Yes. Darling. Ella. We need to go right now. It’s not in the least bit your fault. Of course it’s not. Though you shouldn’t be rude to teachers …’
Her voice drifts away somewhere. I see that she is hugely stressed. I feel bad for her but I have no idea what’s going on.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’ll explain on the way. Somewhere that will make you very happy. But we have to get going quickly or we won’t make the …’
I stare at Mum. She doesn’t meet my eye. I need her to finish the sentence, to tell me what we won’t make. All my muscles tense. I don’t know what’s happening but I’m terrified that she might have found my drawings under the bed, the dark, dark drawings of the inside of my head.
If she found them she would take me straight to some kind of psychiatrist. I know she would. This must be something big. We have to get going quickly or we won’t make the … appointment?
