For T.K. and Babs. C.W.
Saturday 16th February
ERIN
When she was my age, Charlotte Brontë had already written her first poem and was about to leave school to teach her younger sisters at home.
I think I’d be terrible at teaching Kiera, she never listens. I mean, we get on fine – she’s only two years younger than me. But if Mum ever asks me to help her with her homework, we end up fighting.
Mum’s had it in her head that I’m “the clever one” ever since Mrs Wilson first mentioned that I might go up to the top set in English. We’re due to get a letter after the English departments’ faculty meeting or whatever. I really don’t want to go up.
And Kiera isn’t remotely stupid anyway. She just doesn’t care about homework.
I hope Kiera doesn’t read this diary.
GET LOST KIERA!!!! (If you are.)
But seriously, there’s nothing you would find interesting here. You’re always saying I’m boring anyway, and this is literally a diary that Mrs Wilson MADE me keep, to help with my writing, so POOP OFF!!!!!! (Yeah, I went there.)
God, this is why I don’t keep diaries! There is no privacy in this house. We’re all on top of each other, even though there’s only the three of us.
And, I say house, it’s a flat really. A tiny, tiny flat that we’ve lived in since the divorce.
Kiera and I share a room (with bunk beds – retro AND space-saving). SHE is on the top because I didn’t say “bagsy” quick enough and apparently Mum preferred the law of the playground to listening to “one more ruddy argument”.
If I was trying to sell you my flat, I would tell you it was a cosy, one-and-a-half-bedroom apartment with an intimate kitchen-come-lounge and a bijou bathroom.
But I live here, so I can say the living room has a cooker, sink and fridge in it, and the bathroom – and this is true, we measured it – is smaller than my best friend Nic’s actual bath.
Now, to be fair, my best friend Nic does have quite a big bath in her family bathroom. Like slightly bigger than average. But still.
And my bathroom still has a bath in it. A tiny, tiny short, thin bath you can sort of sit in, to which we have added a Poundland showerhead attachment for a crouched, one-handed shower.
The sink is roughly the size of my hand, so you can squeeze past it to get to the toilet. The toilet is normal-sized. Whoever built this didn’t care how we washed, but they wanted to make sure we could poo in relative comfort, which is something.
Because the sink is so tiny, if you turn on the tap too fast water goes everywhere. There’s a knack to it that visitors often don’t possess. And if more than one person wants to brush their teeth at the same time … well, it’s basically like a Cirque du Soleil performance.
I don’t hate my flat or anything. I actually kind of like it. It’s ours. And we get along. For the most part. We’re kind of all in it together. Not that it was ever us vs. my dad. Not exactly. He just has this weirdly competitive streak. Anyway.
I was supposed to write about why I like Charlotte Brontë. But instead I got distracted, and now Mum’s calling me and – OH NO!!!! The letter came. I’m going up a set in English.
GRACE
When she was my age, Charlotte Brontë had written one poem and was about to leave school (at fourteen!!) to teach her sisters.
I’d be brilliant at that. (Not leaving school at fourteen – I love school.) I mean the teaching. I’m an excellent communicator. I don’t actually have any sisters, or any brothers, but in theory I’m pretty sure I’d nail it. And I’ve written loads of poems.
Here’s one, just off the cuff:
I’m Grace the writer,
My words can kill.
If you haven’t heard of me yet,
Then you soon will.
And that’s just freestyle. I can do even better ones than that.
I’m not saying I’m better than Charlotte Brontë. Not yet anyway. Ha ha. I am genuinely kidding. I love Charlotte Brontë.
I do a lot of joke-boasting in my friendship group. Everyone gets it. You’ll get it when you get to know me, diary, but I’ve been told I can come across as up-myself at first. (But you know, only by losers who are jealous of my greatness.) Ha. Love and support to any enemies. #lovetomyenemies
This is the first writing exercise that Mrs Wilson has set. I mean it’s not even really homework, it’s just for me.
Basically, Mrs Wilson (my awesome English teacher) has spotted that I have the makings of a very talented writer and so she said I should start keeping a diary.
At first, I thought it was to document my early years as a writer (presumably as material for the museum that will one day be built about me). But it turns out she meant that it’s good practice for writing. And for the short story competition I am going to enter (and win!).
The prize is amazing: you get to go and visit the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Yorkshire and see the house that the Brontës lived in! And do a week’s writing course and some nature walks on the moors!
I think Mrs Wilson is probably very impressed with how mature and sophisticated my tastes are. I don’t think that many people my age have read Jane Eyre, it’s not on our syllabus until G.C.S.E.
So anyway, as per Mrs Wilson’s suggestion, to “get me going” here are some of the reasons why I love and identify with Charlotte Brontë:
She’s an amazing writer who really conjures up a scene and makes you feel as if it happened to you.
She worked really hard and was very clever.
She spoke French and spent time in France, and I’m really good at French and J’adore la France!
I think I have a similar inquisitive mind and thirst for knowledge to Charlotte Brontë, because in her book, Jane Eyre, the young Jane Eyre preferred the more grown-up Gulliver’s Travels to babyish fairy tales.
Her mum died of cancer when she was five, and my mum died when I was a baby, in a skiing accident.
That’s enough listing for now.
Monday 18th February
ERIN
Mum has some nerve calling me silly. Just because I don’t want to go up to the top set in English.
“Wanting to sit next to your stupid best friend Nicole is not a good enough reason!” she screamed at me this morning. “Who knows if you’ll even be best friends in two months? This is not how you make life decisions.”
Like she can lecture me about life decisions.
Also, it’s not a decision. Well, it’s not MY decision. It’s the school’s decision. I have no say in it.
I’m annoyed Mum called Nicole stupid, too. She probably just has bathroom envy.
Actually, I’m pretty sure Mum doesn’t like Nicole’s mum because Nicole’s mum only works part time, and once picked Nic up in her tennis outfit, and after they’d gone Mum kept remarking sarcastically how nice that must be.
So she also has tennis envy.
But it seems unfair to dislike someone just because they get to play tennis and you don’t.
GRACE
I’m so gutted for my friend Chloe. Just found out she’s moving down two sets in English. So unfair. Our little group won’t be the same without her. First day back after half-term and this happens.
She group-messaged us this morning, while I was brushing my teeth. (I’m writing this as Daddy’s car drives me to school.) I was having feelings about it, so I thought I’d write them down. Because that’s what writers do, and I am a writer.
Apparently, she’d had several warnings that her grades just weren’t good enough to be in the top set. I wonder why her parents didn’t just get her a tutor at the first sign of trouble? That’s what Daddy would have done. Not that he’d ever need to with me.
I think Chloe is feeling quite down because we normally always sit together and she’ll miss us (and, let’s face it, all the gossip). No one wants to be left out. Even if we make an effort, there’ll still be stuff she’ll miss.
And, ALSO, she doesn’t want to sit with the numpties in that group. She belongs with us. The whole thing is just really cruel.
I wonder if I should have a word with Mrs Wilson? Explain how we’re a group, and we belong together?
I mean, I’m not saying I have that much clout, but maybe they haven’t thought about it from Chloe’s point of view? And maybe if she promises to work extra hard? And Mrs Wilson loves me, I’m top of the class.
And if Mrs Wilson says no, maybe we could still have a goodbye party or something? Or like, buy her a cupcake at lunch … if they have cupcakes today.
ERIN
“All right, swot? Five days to go!” said Nic, instead of “hello”, when we were waiting for registration. (Nic sometimes calls me swot as an affectionate nickname, and I’m totally fine with that.)
She was talking about the number of days till The Gig. (We’re seeing one of her favourite indie bands, The Crumples, on Friday.)
I’m really lucky to be going, because Nic’s parents have paid for my ticket too. And they’re driving us and everything.
“Monobrow!” Theo Remis suddenly shouted across the form room at me. A few people sniggered. I looked away and pretended I hadn’t heard.
Nic caught my eye. I thought she might say something comforting, like, “he’s an idiot” and “there’s nothing wrong with your eyebrows but instead she grinned and went, “Don’t worry, I like your monobrow.” Which didn’t really help.
I sat there for a moment, feeling sorry for myself, and then I watched Grace Abella across the room, over-reacting to a fly. She was squealing and running about for maximum drama and shouting that it was a wasp. Eurgh. That girl is extra.
Her friends indulged her lunacy, and I caught Nic’s eye again and we both laughed, shaking our heads. And then I felt a tiny bit better.
I wish Theo would stop calling me “monobrow” though. Why are boys so horrible? Well, probably not all boys, just most of the ones I come into contact with at school.
I know there must be nice boys here too. Like … how Pete Hannan and Si Adoki sometimes high five each other in the corridor in way that looks quite friendly and non-threatening.
And Nick Brooker seems quite nice and civilised, and once maybe smiled at me in music – or he may have been wincing at the music being played, it’s hard to say for sure. (I did a wincey smile back to cover all bases, so it’s possible he thinks I’m weird now anyway.)
I don’t fancy anyone. But if I was going to fancy someone, it would probably be one of those three boys, who have never shoved me or called me names. It’s important to have standards. Haha. Sheesh.
One of the many reasons that I love Charlotte Brontë is that she gets it. She knows (knows?) knew what people are like.
What I mean is: sometimes I feel down and alone, and like I don’t have very much in common with anybody else. And it’s a sad, scary feeling, and it makes me feel a bit sick. Like I’m invisible, or that I might just float away.
And then I read Jane Eyre, with all her trials and tribulations, and how she learnt to depend on and trust herself, and I know I’m not alone, and other people feel the things I do, and it’s like a tether, keeping me connected to the world, so I don’t float off. And then I feel better again.
Like, I love how spirited ten-year-old Jane Eyre is – and funny! My favourite bit in the book is when this really horrible, religious (and hypocritical) headmaster (Mr Brocklehurst) comes to meet her, to see if she can come to his school. (He’s been told all these lies about her because her cousins and aunt are horrible too.)
So he wrongly suspects her of being bad, and starts quizzing her about burning forever in a fiery pit in hell. And he asks her what she must do to avoid it, and she says, “I must keep in good health, and not die.” I LOVE that!
And I also like the bit where she stands up for herself to her horrible cousins and shouts: “They are not fit to associate with me!”
I guess I like reading about characters that have the odds stacked against them, but still learn to stick up for themselves to their bullies. Maybe it gives me hope.
And if Jane Eyre can survive all that, I can survive school.
Oh look, I accidentally actually did the assignment. I’m not sure “reading Jane Eyre stops me feeling like a lost helium balloon” is exactly what Mrs Wilson intended.
I like and identify with Charlotte Brontë in other ways, too…
There’s the whole Irish thing. What I mean is we’re Irish. Well, we’re a bit Irish.
Charlotte Brontë’s dad came from Ireland and his name was originally Brunty, but he changed it to Brontë in the UK.
My dad’s dad came from Ireland. We used to visit there a bit when I was younger. Then the relative who liked us died, so we don’t go there very much any more.
Some of my Irish family don’t really like English people. Which is historically understandable. But we’re technically Irish.
At least Theo isn’t in the top set for English. Just all the snooty people in my year, whose parents are doctors and bankers and whatever.
I’m not loving keeping this diary so far. It just feels like a list of bad things that are happening to me. Maybe as a writer, I’m supposed to put a more positive spin on things…?
I’m really not sure I’m a diary person. But if Mrs Wilson says it will help my writing, I will try for a bit longer. Especially as I want to enter that competition. I would LOVE to visit the Brontë Parsonage Museum. And I’d never be able to afford it otherwise.
GRACE
What a day! First a wasp attacks me and then I can’t convince Mrs Wilson to let Chloe stay in our English set.
I can’t believe Mrs Wilson didn’t listen to me. I mean, I can. But I still think she was a bit dismissive.
I certainly didn’t interrupt her lunch with “childish nonsense” like Mr Porter said I did. That man is just rude. I am so glad I’m not in his group for P.E. And why was he even eavesdropping on our private conversation in the first place?
I came and politely found Mrs Wilson at an appropriate time. It’s hardly my fault we don’t have English on Mondays; I didn’t want to wait.
Poor Chloe.
It was kind of nice in the form room after lunch, before registration at least.
As a sort of joke, I started singing, “I will remember you, will you remember me?”
I started off low-key but everyone liked it, so I got a bit louder and did more dramatic actions.
Then the rest of our group joined in and we spontaneously sort of almost serenaded her.
I happen to be a really good singer, so shoot me. (I refuse to hide my light under a bushel, just because the world isn’t ready for my greatness.)
But we’re all quite good singers, so as we got louder and louder, there were actually some surprisingly nice harmonies going on.
At the end we all laughed and group-hugged Chloe. I think it was probably quite moving.
The rest of the form must have enjoyed it, because they clapped, and so I bowed. And someone even decided to show off that they could do that whistle noise.
Everyone had loved it. Well, almost everyone. That grumpy girl with the mousy dark hair, whose name I can never remember – Erica? – was frowning at me.
She quickly looked away when she realised that I’d noticed her. Then she and her friend Nicole exchanged this smirk and rolled their eyes, shaking their heads. ABOUT ME. And my singing. The cheek!
Oh, sorreee little emo kids that probably listen to “cool” bands I have never heard of. Sorreee for liking classic mainstream pop music that doesn’t make people depressed. Sorreee for caring about my friend and sharing my talent with the world.
Not that I care what those smug losers think. Ha! #lovetomyenemies
E
RIN
Oh noooooo. I was about to go to sleep, but Nic just texted to remind me that Grace is in top set English. Of course she is. I should have known that. Miss attention-seeking-behaviour herself, and the meanest of the crew of basic Barbies in the whole school. FAN-TAS-TIC.
Nic is finding this way too funny. I mean, she has sympathy too, but she just seems to think I’ll have a laugh watching them be pretentious. But it’s only fun watching them be pretentious when Nic is there too. Otherwise I’m just a loner sneering at people.
It’s hard enough trying to zone out Grace’s exhibitionism in the form room. Now it’s going to be ruining my favourite subject too.
She was singing in the form after lunch today, for no reason, at the top of her lungs. So annoying. Like, we get it, you’re amazing at everything, Grace. Leave some crumbs of activity for the rest of us.
Aaaaaarrrrggggghhhhhh!
OK. I’m starting to worry that my diary (and my attitude?) is too negative. So I am going to attempt to redress the balance and focus on something good in my life every time I have to write about something bad.
So, I will say this…
Dinner was excellent.
Comparatively anyway.
Mum brought home (or stole, depending on your perspective) loads of the “leftover” sandwiches from the meeting room at her work today.
It must have been an important client because there were also four bits of cake, three pieces of quiche, two scones and one huge packet of crisps. So basically, we ate like some kind of carb-obsessed Hungry Caterpillar.
Waaaay better than last night’s dinner, when we had to share a tin of spaghetti hoops between three. Or would have, but Mum said she wasn’t hungry.
At first Mum was embarrassed she’d had to stoop to this to feed us. But now she’s sort of made it into an art form. She takes a massive handbag to work, full of empty Tupperware.
And it’s not really stealing, because it would just be thrown away, or eaten by the temps, and they (probably) don’t have kids to feed.
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