Girl, 15: Charming but Insane (19 page)

So Fred had asked Jodie to write a column about the environment. Jodie’s idea of a beautiful environment was the shopping mall. And as for writing, well, Jess didn’t want to be mean, even privately in her own head, but she didn’t think Mr Shakespeare needed to worry about competition from Jodie Gordon.

Maybe if she strolled in a casual kind of way past what used to be Mr Fothergill’s office, Fred would be inside – with the door open – and he’d call out, ‘Hey! Jess! I’ve been looking for you all day! I want you to be our comic columnist – right on the front page. Five hundred words about anything you like, and we’ll have a photo of you as well, so get your hair cut!’

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 much 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