Rebel with a Cupcake E-Book

Anna Mainwaring

• Herausgeber: Firefly Press Ltd
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 293

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Jesobel Jones is bold and beautiful. The daughter of a hand model and a washed-up rock star, she sees no need to apologise for her rambling house, her imperfect family, her single status ... or her weight. Jess makes her own cupcakes and she eats them, too. That is, until Own Clothes Day when a wardrobe malfunction leaves Jess exposed, and a mean girl calling her the one thing that's never bothered her before: fat.From the author of Tulip Taylor with cover artwork from Niki Pilkington.'A beautiful and funny tale of friendship, lust, hunger and satisfaction.' Matt Killeen'Anna Mainwaring writes with brilliant humour and has created, in my opinion, a younger Bridget Jones in Jess.' Chelley Toy

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Anna Mainwaring

For Grace and Beth

Chapter 1

Invisible Rule№ 1: Sometimes being a girl sucks. And blows. All at the same time.

‘We’ve only got an hour,’ Hannah whimpers, grabbing the hair straighteners.

‘Actually, it’s 57 minutes and 39 seconds.’ Izzie peers at her phone. ‘38. 37. 36.’ Her bottom lip quivers and I think she’s going to cry. ‘I don’t think I can take the stress.’

‘I know,’ Hannah says. ‘Let’s all phone in sick. Or pretend we’ve been abducted by aliens.’

‘Stop panicking,’ I suggest. ‘I mean, all we’ve got to do is get ready to go to school.’

They both stare at me as if I’ve suddenly just grown an extra head.

‘Jess. Not now. Don’t start the whole “clothes are just clothes” thing. You may be right but surely even you can see that this is the worst day of the year.’ Hannah is now desperate, going through a pile of clothes on the sofa. We’re in the cellar of her house, where we all hang out, normally a happy place full of music, food, and a very strong wifi connection.

Not so happy today.

Today is Own Clothes Day, the most unimaginably nerve-wracking day of the year.

Izzie is in front of the mirror, putting on her fourth coat of mascara. She’s going for the wicked-fairy-who’s-fallen-on-hard-times look, but amazingly, she seems to pull it off. She looks like someone out of an advert – quirky yet glamorous all at the same time.

‘You’d never guess you were a Manchester City fan until three months ago,’ I say.

Izzie humphs. She doesn’t like to be reminded that she’s made the bizarre transition from football fan to white witch. Not quite like Jadis in Narnia – we’re short of polar bears and sleds round here – but she does think she can do magic. Worse still, most of our school believes her. But this means that she can go for the emo look and no one will hate her for it.

Next to her, with the dark red hair and pale complexion – that’s Hannah. She’s more conventionally dressed in a series of cunning layers that bring her in at the right places, and out and up at the right places. With her big eyes and ringlets, she looks a bit like a Disney princess. But whereas Disney princesses are never famous for having much going on between their ears, Hannah is on course for eleven A*s in her GCSEs. Clearly not just a pretty face…

Hannah turns around and stares at her backside.

‘Do my slag lines show?’ she asks.

I look closely, as only a best friend can at another friend’s behind, to see if her panties are visible. ‘Nope,’ I say, ‘you pass the slag test.’

She smiles contentedly and goes back to work on her eyebrows. I’m saying nothing, but in a few minutes, it’ll look like two slugs are sitting on top of her eyes. For an intelligent girl, she clearly doesn’t mind drawing on fake eyebrows that make her look – well, TBH – a bit stupid.

Then there’s me. Jesobel – Jess for short. I sort of like my name cos it sounds pretty. But older people always look shocked when they’re introduced to me. Apparently, the original Jezebel was some woman from the Bible who got executed for doing magic and then her dead body was fed to the dogs. Not really a lifestyle to aspire to.

But maybe it’s my name that’s marked me out as a bit different. Because whilst these two are in crisis, I’m just sitting here reading the latest post on my favourite blog: Fat Girl with Attitude.

That is until Izzie says, ‘And what are you wearing today?’

I look at her, bemused. ‘Er, this?’ I wave a hand in the general direction of my body.

‘You’re Year Eleven! That’s what Year Nine will be wearing!’ Hannah cries.

I look down at my so-called skinny jeans and Hollister top. She has a point – I have been wearing the same outfit for the last two years. (Don’t worry, it has been washed. I don’t mean LITERALLY wearing it for two years – that would be gross.)

Izzie grabs my bag. ‘Let’s see what else you’ve got. Did you bring the leggings?’ She rummages through it, tossing one garment aside and then grabbing the next with glee. ‘Yes!’ she cries, and I’m sent to the corner to change clothes. Apparently, layered T-shirts, short skirt and leggings are so much better than what I had on before. With a sigh, I add my prefect badge to my new and improved outfit. I get to stalk the corridors at lunchtime and report any bad behaviour.

‘That is so much better,’ Hannah reports back. I stare at myself in the mirror. A girl rather larger than Hannah stares back. But she’s smiling, so that’s okay. Some might say she’s fat, and on a bad day, I’d agree with them. I’m not a whale, mind, just, you know, curvy. And curves are good, aren’t they? I’ve read many blog posts telling me that, but then the photos of curvy women that go alongside them show women that have clearly never eaten ice-cream or even thought about a chip. My idea of curves is having boobs that actually wobble when you run upstairs.

I digress. You might be wondering why there’s so much fuss over what we’re wearing, and you know, I’m kind of with you on this one. But then again … let’s think it over for a minute.

Take an all-girls’ school and stick it in a reasonably posh area – South Manchester – stuffed full of football players (and their perma-tanned wives), doctors, dentists, lawyers, TV presenters, and artists, who all want their darling daughters to be the BEST. It’s likeThe Hunger Games without the bows and arrows – a fight to the death to be the cleverest, thinnest, prettiest, most popular girl in the school.

So, it’s bad enough on a normal day when we have to wear regulation uniform – grey skirt, grey blazer, grey socks. (I think they want our souls to be grey.) Own Clothes Day is worse, much worse. Every detail of what we wear will be noted, analysed and posted online within seconds of us arriving at school, accompanied by mean comments if we’ve got it wrong. This is why Hannah and Izzie are freaking out. But even though I know all of this, I’m still not that bothered. I mean, there are more important things in the world than clothes, aren’t there?

And by that I mean food. Now that I’m dressed, I’m feeling a bit hungry and thinking that food might lighten the mood.

‘I know what will make things just tickety-boo,’ I say. (I know it’s an old-fashioned word. I was brought up mostly by my grandmother. This shows from time to time.) I pick up the plastic container that I have carefully carried from my house, a few streets away, and tease open the lid.

Izzie and Hannah simultaneously sigh as if they have both just seen the most beautiful sight in the world. Which they have, if I do say so myself.

I know what you’re thinking – we’re girls and food is bad because food makes us fat. That’s the invisible rule, isn’t it? If you’re a teenage girl, you should hate your body, hate food and hate yourself.

Well, I don’t think like that.

I don’t get why food is the enemy. Have you noticed that people are often nicer when they’re sitting around eating and talking, rather than not eating and being miserable? Yes, Cat, if you ever get around to reading this, I do mean you.

And also food never lets me down. And there aren’t too many things you can say that about.

Cakes eaten and clothes sorted, it’s on to hair and make-up. Within seconds, the cellar is full of the familiar smells of teenage girls: scorched hair, body spray and scented lip gloss.

Finally, Hannah stops looking terrified. ‘Okay, we’re fine for time and we all look great. Result.’

We stare at our reflections in the mottled mirror that hangs on the wall of the cellar. Three cool but different girls smile back.

‘Come on, time to go,’ Izzie says, and that’s that. Let the games begin…

Chapter 2

Invisible Rule№ 2: If a girl has curly hair, she wants it straight. If she’s short, she wants to be tall. If she’s got no boobs, she wants huge ones. You’re never allowed to be happy with what you’ve got.

We head down the high street as slowly as possible. No one wants to look too keen, and the walk to school is the best opportunity, today of all days, to see who’s wearing what and whether anyone is really way out there. Like the year Sonia Fitzherbert came wearing her mum’s wedding dress and full white body make-up. Apparently, she was being some weirdo from a book by Dickens who never got over not getting married. Online dating didn’t exist back in the dark ages.

As a team, Hannah, Izzie and I attempt to check out Ruth Mulholland and Sara Ejaz, also from our year, who walk parallel to us on the other side of the road. They look at us, we look at them. We’re wearing the same kind of stuff. But not exactly the same. That would be the Worst Thing That Could Happen.

We wave at each other and give thumbs up. We try to be nice, whereas we know that some other girls will just do THE LOOK. You know, where they scan you up and down with a pinched face like they’ve got a mouthful of sour sweets and you know they’re doing a checklist of your faults.

Recipe for the Perfect Girl (according to fashion shoots and celebrity sites):

1. Legs – thigh gap required. Also absolutely NO suggestion that hair ever grows on these babies at all. Ever.

2. Boobs – need to look like small firm jellies that point up, absolutely NO hint of nipples.

3. Skin – airbrushed perfection.

4. Hair – must look natural in a way that only three hours before a mirror and twenty products can create.

5. Stomach – flat and hard enough to roll pastry on.

I could go on – but I can’t bear to. Far more interesting are two boys from the boys’ school who are our FRIENDS but not our BOYFRIENDS. We are invited over by those most romantic words, ‘Hey, wenches.’

Dominic Hall and Fred Cormack are lounging on a bench. We’ve known each other for years. In fact, I married Dom in the playhouse one lunchtime back in Year Two, so I’ll assume that the ‘wench’ comment is ironic. We do mess around at parties if there’s no one else we fancy. I like him, but he doesn’t make my heart race.

‘Looking good, girls,’ Dom says as he checks us out, up and down, apparently appreciating all our efforts.

‘Of course,’ Hannah says with a well-practised flick of her hair, ‘we always look good.’

Which is weird. Even with our friends-who-happen-to-be-boys, Hannah has suddenly changed from a normal person into a smirking robot.

‘So, did you hear about…’ Fred leans in with the latest news. Boys may say they don’t gossip, but they’re just as bad as us.

While I’m half listening to what Girl B might have done or not done to Boy A, I can’t help thinking about all the time we three have put into our appearance this morning (the clothes, the hair, the make-up), when Dom and Fred have clearly just squirted on the Lynx and they’re good to go. I don’t think Fred has even brushed his hair – this year – and Dom has spots. A girl would struggle to leave the house without twenty layers of concealer on them, but Dom clearly still loves himself. If reincarnation does exist, I want to come back as a boy. At least then, when I fart in public, everyone will find it funny.

Then I notice how Dom stares at my boobs. There are a variety of ways to look at this.

a) I’m getting male attention. In public, for all to see. Which is good and makes me look good in the eyes of all the girls walking past, who WILL be taking notice.

Or

b) How rude – there is more to me than my mammary glands. But given that I am, you know, on the large side, some girls would think that I’m lucky to get any guy to notice me. Weirdly, it’s girls who give me grief for being fat, not boys.

‘You can look at my face, you know,’ I say to him.

He laughs and hits me on the arm.

‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘but I’m a boy. I’m just a testosterone machine, hard-wired to look at breasts. And yours are just amazing. Are you sure that you’ve not had a boob job this year?’

I sigh and then I blush more than just a bit, not sure how to take this. I mean, this is good, isn’t it? But do I want to be liked just for some random genetic factor that means I’ve not seen my feet for the last year?

‘How many times do I have to tell you? I haven’t had a boob job – all my hormones just kicked in at once!’

‘Well, my hormones like what your hormones are doing to your body,’ he says cheerfully, punching me on the arm again to show that this is just joking and not flirting. I think. Or am I missing something? I could just do with my arm being punched less.

As he turns back to the others, I carefully glance around to see if a certain boy is there. A boy who makes my heart, face and other parts of my anatomy tingle if I see him. You see, I have a bit of a secret crush on this guy called Matt Paige. Who, unfortunately, is not in sight.

I do mean secret. I would actually rather die than tell anyone. And I do mean crush because the amount of times I think about him puts me into the category of Scary Stalker Girl.

And this is how it happened. How I fell ridiculously head over heels for him. It only took a second.

He lives near me. About a year ago, he was walking home and I was in my room, doing my homework in a distracted sort of way – well, I was just looking out of the window. And I looked down at him. He looked up at me.

And he smiled.

At me.

That was it. That was all it took.

All of a sudden, I realised that under that mad mop of hair, he was fit. With a good smile. And I sort of glowed inside. It was one of the first times ever that a boy actually looked at me and smiled. As if I was pretty. It was lovely!

Of course, reality kicked in later and I realised that I’d been sitting down and so all he saw was my face. And if you just see my face, I don’t look fat. If you just see my face, I look a bit like my mum. But I can’t just be a face. The rest of me is attached. I can’t push myself to school sitting on a wheelie chair with a desk in front of me to disguise the rest.

But for months now, he’s been all I can think about. He’s in Year Twelve at the boys’ school, so he’s an older man! You can tell a lot from a boy’s A-level choices, and his are: Psychology (in touch with his feelings), English Literature (you have to be a real man to do English at the boys’ school – imagine the piss-taking), French (swoon) and, wait for it – Art (double swoon). What a combination – perfect or what? He’s interested in human nature; he’s creative, bilingual and actually confesses to reading books! I know all this because Hannah’s elder brother, Alex, is in his year and she found all this out for me. It took me ages to ask all the right questions so that she told me everything without realising that I fancied him.

Even though I’m fine about – well, the way I look – I’m also a realist. I’m me and he’s him and there’s very little chance of anything happening. There might be if I looked a bit more like that girl over there – a vision of female perfection, lounging on a low wall, surrounded by tall, fit boys. All of our group are suddenly staring at her.

She’s the girl that every girl wants to be, and every boy wants to have. She’s thin, she’s pretty, and she has those huge eyes that look too big for her face. She’s wearing shiny leggings and manages that winning combination of sexy and vulnerable. The boys competing for her attention are perfect. Tall, hot, old, but not too old. And guess what? They look her in the eye. Because somehow, being attractive means that boys make more effort with you. You’re worth it.

Her tinkling laugh chimes out and, for a split second, her dark eyes break away from the group and scan lightly over us. I have a strange feeling when I watch her. Since I was little, I’ve watched all the films, happy in the knowledge that all I have to do is to be myself and I will be loved. Except, in films, ‘being yourself’ also means being impossibly thin, with ridiculously large eyes and perfect hair.

A bit like that girl on the wall.

Dom sighs deeply. He looks back at me and shakes his head, polite enough for once not to say what I’ve heard so many times: ‘How can you two be sisters?’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I say. ‘But Cat’s out of your league.’

‘Not in my head, she’s not.’ He grins wickedly and winks, and I’m not sure whether to be shocked or to laugh. I laugh – it’s generally the best way to handle anything.

According to the big clock over the row of shops, we have seven minutes to get to school. If we move up a gear from dawdle to walk, we’ll get there in time. The boys drift off, casting longing looks at Cat. She doesn’t look at me again. She pretty much ignores me all the time. This has been going on for about a year, since around the time she stopped eating. This was about the time she left St Ethelreda’s and went to sixth-form college. With boys. St Ethelreda’s is only for girls, because apparently, we can’t be trusted around the opposite sex.

Hannah catches my eye and I shrug. We’ve talked about Cat so many times that there’s nothing more to say. But as we stroll up the hill to school, I do fantasize about force-feeding her a whole plate of my very best cupcakes until she balloons to – OMG – my size. Would boys still look past me to her the way they do now?

As I’m about to enter the school gates, Hannah puts a warning hand on my arm. It’s Mrs Brown, Assistant Head with Special Responsibility for Child Intimidation, standing by the main entrance. She can normally be found striding down corridors like the Snow Queen, sucking the life-spirit out of all who cross her path. I swear even teachers hide behind corners to get away from her.

I’m not usually so horrible, but she is the nastiest person who ever lived. It’s not just that she’s mean, but that she seems to enjoy being mean. The more the Year Sevens cry when she screams at them for forgetting to button up their blazers (I know, what a terrible crime – an undone button!!!), the more she smiles. And there are no rules against a teacher who’s a bully.

So there she is standing guard at the gate, nostrils flared, looking for trouble, sniffing out anything that’s visible that shouldn’t be. Cos that’s one of the many things that drives her crazy – female flesh on show. Just behind her, her latest victims stand cowed. Their crimes are easy to guess. Quivering Amy Dutton? Too much cleavage. Snivelling Julie Macdonald? Midriff visible. Defiant Catherine Temple? Skirt like a belt. Likely punishment for dressing like this? Well, at the end of the school year, we have a Leavers’ Ball. It’s the highlight of the year where we all celebrate the fact that we can finally leave this fascist institution. But these girls – they can kiss goodbye to going to Leavers’. And that means that their social lives have just died.

Just as we get close, one of the younger teachers walks past. Mrs Brown’s eyes rake her like a laser, taking in the pencil skirt, the high heels and the fitted cardigan. I see her eyes narrow. ‘Miss Farrow. See me after registration,’ Brown bellows.

Poor Miss Farrow bites her ruby lips and looks petrified. We sigh for her. She’ll learn. Even female teachers have to avoid any suggestion that they might be attractive. Not that I really want to go there – I mean, they’re teachers, after all. As we rush past Mrs Brown, we hear an intake of breath as she looks at Izzie, but we’re saved. A scream and a whimper break out behind us.

‘Charlotte Harrison, are those FISHNET tights? FISHNETS? Get yourself over here.’

And another is sacrificed so we can go free.

Izzie sighs. ‘She’d prefer it if we all wore burkas and then nothing would be on show.’

‘We wouldn’t even be safe then,’ I reply. ‘Remember Safia Iman? Brown got rid of her just coz her headscarf wasn’t in school colours.’

So it’s 8.49 a.m. and we seem to have survived so far.

But I speak too soon because as we climb up the stairs to our form room, Izzie spots danger ahead. ‘Oh no,’ she says, ‘here they come.’

And the next trial begins.

So, we’ve just got past the psychopath teacher. Now meet the students who are most like her. Just a bit prettier.

Meet Zara, Tara, Lara, Tilly and Tiff.

I could try to describe their individual characteristics but they all get confused in my head. Just imagine a many-headed Hydra from a horror film, each snake’s head with perfect make-up and straightened hair. Once upon a time, I was quite friendly with Lara. But this was before she discovered Tara and Zara, and their personalities merged, and all Lara’s nice bits got lost in the mix.

Let me sum them up:

1. They stalk through the corridors as if on a catwalk, trailing perfume, money and attitude as they pout and pose, making lesser girls leap out of their way.

2. They talk loudly so everyone has to overhear the precise details of their interactions with boys, all designed to make you feel inferior if your last close encounter with a member of the opposite sex was buying a skinny hot chocolate in Starbucks.

3. They tease you if you haven’t had sex #virgin.

4. They tease you if you have had sex #slut.

5. They don’t like anyone. I don’t think they even like themselves.

They file past us on the stairs, sniggering.

‘Nice look, Izzie,’ Tara simpers. ‘You’ll need a love potion to get anyone to fancy you in that get up.’

Hannah they merely ignore.

Zara checks me up and down with a deliberate stare. ‘My oh my, we all know you like your sweets, Jess, but it’s really starting to show.’

‘Wow,’ I say, and as they walk on, giggling, I shout, ‘Oh, by the way, you should ask Tilly what she was doing with Jamie in the park last night.’ (You have to use whatever ammunition comes your way.)

Zara spins around, her eyes like a snake, while poor Tilly begins to shake.

Then Zara lightly runs down a few steps and stands, staring, over me. ‘You fat cow,’ she says, sneering/hissing. I laugh in her face and turn away from her. Then I’m not quite sure what happens. Does she push me? Does someone push her into me? All I know is that I’m flying backwards and I land hard on my backside.

‘At least you have a soft landing,’ Zara purrs. As she turns, she flicks a glance back over me. ‘As I said, it’s starting to show.’

I look down and see that my leggings have ripped at the seam, from halfway down my thigh to my calf, revealing a huge expanse of white flesh. Zara stares at me in triumph and waltzes off. At least waxing my legs last night was a good idea.

Even so: Bullies – 1, Jess – 0.

Chapter 3

Invisible Rule№ 3: If a pupil doesn’t do their work, they get detention. If a teacher doesn’t mark work, nothing happens. There is no such thing as teacher detention.

Hannah sits down next to me on the stairs as I rub my sore backside.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks. ‘Shall we tell Mrs Carroway?’

I give her a Look. ‘I’m not going to a teacher about anything. We are not Year Sevens. I’ll get my own back on her somehow, don’t you worry.’ With that, I hoist myself back up, my ego hurting more than my arse. And THAT is killing me.

Other girls filter past, some with soft whispers, others calling out, ‘Okay, Jess?’

Sporty Amy T jogs by. ‘Don’t worry, Jess, I’ve got General PE with Zara this afternoon. I’ll take her down then! She can run but she can’t hide.’ She trots on with a wink.

The three of us look down at my ripped leggings. The intake of breath from Hannah and Izzie confirms that it’s worse than I thought.

‘Shall we try the Textiles room?’ Izzie says hopefully, but I can see straight away that the material is too frayed to sew back together properly. There is just a sea of bare white leg. I didn’t think the leggings were that tight.

Then a thought hits me like a thunderbolt. A calorie-laden, carb-enriched, fat-loaded thunderbolt. What if Zara is right? What if I’ve just gone from ‘Well I can just about live with that’ to ‘We don’t stock your size here. Why don’t you try the FAT shop next door for FAT people?’??

While I’m thinking the unthinkable, my friends are attempting to sort out my problem. ‘Let’s ask around. Someone’s bound to have something spare to wear, and leggings, well, they fit anyone,’ Izzie says helpfully.

I look at the legs filing past and notice, not for the first time of course, that they’re all a lot thinner than mine. The difference is that this time I care.

The school bell rings and now we’re officially late for registration, but that’s okay because Mrs Carroway is ALWAYS late. So I go to the toilets and take off the leggings. I wish I’d worn my jeans. As I look in the mirror, I feel horribly exposed. This skirt is too short to wear without tights or leggings. I can live with my legs when they’re covered up. But au naturel? I think not.

The door of the loos bangs and who should come in but Catamaran Caroline (so-called because she was once overheard saying, ‘Daddy’s thinking of buying a catamaran this weekend’ in the same way your or my dad might think of buying a Meatloaf album. In case you don’t know, a catamaran is some kind of weird boat that not even idiots can capsize. They cost A LOT.) She gives me the once-over, then makes a face like she’s seen some sick. How many more people are going to look at me like that today?

As a result of all this, I am three minutes late for registration.

And guess what? Just this once, Mrs Carroway’s on time. She usually swans in ten minutes late with a Starbucks in her hand, but today, she’s already sitting at the computer, logged on and ready to go. She attempts to give me (queen of the stare) a hard stare.

It fails.

She starts calling out the messages for the day and doesn’t seem to notice the amount of leg that I’m showing. So, I just sit down.

That’s when she sees me. ‘Jesobel, it’s not like you to be late. I’ll let this one go but you’ll be getting a letter home if it happens again.’

Oh God, I’m quaking in my Vans. A LETTER. In the twenty-first century, the school attempts to communicate our sins to parents via paper letters. They don’t seem to notice that no one ever replies to these letters. Because parents never actually get them. Cos we steal them. There you go: School – 0, Students – 1.

My other friends try to offer help. There’s Sana – small, huge eyes, constantly readjusting her headscarf, and trying to copy homework. She’s always drawing manga when she should be studying. Then Suzie – funny, long legs, never hands her homework in on time. Never listens to her parents from what I can see. Finally, Bex. She finds school hard. She finds life hard. Give her a hockey stick and she’s transformed. But even she feels sorry for me today.

The bell rings. So, with naked legs, it’s off to English. I hope it’s not one of those lessons where you’re made to put Post-its on the board.

There are generally two kinds of teachers – young ones who’ve been on courses and try to make you do stuff in an ‘interesting’ way, and old ones who just get on with it with as little fuss as possible, unless the inspectors are in. Fortunately, Mrs Lewis is one of the old ones. She just puts some questions on the board and leaves us to work through them, so my legs can stay safely hidden behind my desk.

Unfortunately, this gives her time to check who’s done their homework.

‘Jesobel, I’m still missing an essay from you from last week.’

What I really want to say is, ‘I’ll give it in when you mark my controlled assessment, which you’ve had for four weeks.’ I mean, I’M in trouble for not doing MY work, but I’m not allowed to say to her, ‘That’s not good enough, Mrs Lewis. You’re in detention.’

I just don’t buy that line teachers give us about being so busy. I whisper to Izzie, ‘Funny how when we walk past her house, she’s always drinking white wine and watchingCome Dine With Me.’

I might have whispered this too loudly, because now Mrs Lewis is looking at me as if I’ve just said Shakespeare is overrated.

‘What did you just say, Jesobel?’ she snaps.

‘I was just saying how moving I found this poem,’ I lie. Then I put on the wounded puppy expression. ‘Sorry about the homework, miss. I’ll hand it in tomorrow.’

‘I expect better from one of my prefects,’ she says sharply.

And I feel like screaming, cos today’s been quite trying and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. But I smile sweetly while I imagine her drowning in a vat of crisp white wine, her little arms waving as she bobs pathetically, sinking deeper and deeper into the alcohol. Just cos I’m a prefect – a dubious honour at the best of times – I’m supposed to be bloody perfect.

‘Well,’ she says with a cold smile, ‘if I can’t mark your work, I can’t tell if you’re on target for your predicted grade. So, you’d better go and sit with the girls who are below target.’

The whole class draws in a deep breath.

Thing is, in our school, you sit in order.

Those who are pretty perfect (you can tell by their neat handwriting and beautifully selected stationary items) and are going to get As or A*s are in one group. I’m always in this group, partly because I work hard and partly because I really do love those cute Japanese erasers shaped like kittens. Then there are the more normal girls who are going to get Bs and, hell, maybe a few Cs. And there’s the rest – Ds or below. The untouchables. The girls who just don’t get it. They look sad, like rescue puppies that no one wants. This system is supposed to encourage us to stay out of the bottom group.

I can feel words bubbling up inside me like lava in a volcano. But I don’t say a word. I just move myself, my books, my bag, my pencil case with all its lovely colour-coded pens, and sit down at the Fail Table. With Ellie Unwin, who smells, and not in a nice way. And Rosie Sherwood, who cries all the time. Shall we review the situation?

1. I’m wearing a skirt that makes me feel ridiculous #fashionfail.

2. Most days I don’t feel fat. Today I do.

3. The hypocrisy and double standards today have gone from ‘mildly annoying’ to ‘this place is driving me crazy’.

4. Normal Me would just go, ‘Hey, having a bad day? Then eat an amazing cake!?’ Current Me doesn’t want cake. This situation is going from bad to worse.

Chapter 4

Observation№ 1: Doing what you’re told is often overrated.

I put my head down and answer a series of devious questions on a poem that seems to me to be a random swirl of words on a page, but apparently is a work of genius because some dead white guy wrote it.

It makes me feel slightly better that Ellie and Rosie, my fellow public failures, really can’t do this. I know what the exam board wants and can puke up pages of it, but Ellie is chewing her pen in a sad sort of way and adding smiley faces to all the ‘i’s in her work while Rosie is weeping into her homework planner. I push my book so that Rosie can see it and nod to her to copy. She almost smiles but not quite.