Let's Get Lost

by Sarra Manning

  People kept saying that all the way through summer. All the well-meaning relatives and neighbors trooping through the house with food that tasted of the Tupperware containers it had been stored in. And that was how they phrased it, “lost your mother,” like I’d left her on the bus and she was propped up in a corner of some Lost Property Office waiting for me to claim her.

  Mrs. Greenwood was still waiting for me to prostrate myself on her office carpet, so I shuffled around on my chair. “I’m going to be late for French,” I reminded her, and she gave this gusty sigh that fanned through the papers in my case folder.

  “Fine,” she said, straightening up from the head tilt and losing the “I’m your friend, not just your headmistress” expression pretty damn quick. “Fine. And though it might not have been your phone that that disgusting picture was sent from, I’m under no illusion as to who was behind it. You’re on your last promise, young lady.”

  I could feel her eyes boring into me as I walked out of the room and shut the door with just enough force to let her know that she hadn’t totally whipped me.

  I walked into class as the register was being called. There was a moment of perfect silence as all heads swiveled to see my entrance. And for once, it wasn’t to see what the most popular and feared girl in the school was wearing or what color I’d dyed my hair. They thought I’d changed over the summer because life had crapped all over me and that they’d be able to see it on my face. Like the tracks of all the tears that I didn’t cry would have worn grooves into my cheeks.

  The minute you show any sign of weakness, they start circling around you like sharks who’ve just smelled blood in the water. So I pasted on my trademark supercilious smile and sauntered over to the empty seat next to Ella. There was an audible sigh of disappointment.

  The fierce whispers trailed behind me for the rest of the week. I was kind of used to that. Not because I was the prettiest girl in school or the funniest or even the cleverest. Those A-grades were the result of serious slog and staying up past midnight with ink-stained fingers and a mound of boring textbooks.

  No, my place at the top of the school pecking order, heading up the inner clique of all inner cliques, is a result of being the biggest bitch to ever stalk down the hallowed halls of Brighton School For Girls.

  The way I see it, school is like one of those documentaries about big cats on the Discovery Channel. It’s maul or be mauled. It’s not fair. It’s not right. It just is what it is. I spent two years of middle school having my lunch money stolen and my clothes, hair, and teeny, tiny, almost unnoticeable lisp mocked by a bunch of girls who were bigger and uglier than me. So when I got to senior school, it was beyond time to reinvent myself.

  I’m the queen of the rumor. Of the veiled insult. Of the nudge and a wink and a smirk. And that’s how I rule the school. I have my three little minions. I decide who’s on the shit list for that week, and they make that poor girl’s life a misery, and the rest of the school follows suit. Maybe they’re not big cats, but stupid, mindless sheep.

  It’s not like I enjoy it. It’s just what I do to get myself through school. I can’t wait to leave, to head off to University and be someone else. Because my whole queen of mean shtick is exhausting. I can’t let my guard slip or show my true face for even a second. And I’ve paid such a high price for my status that I wonder whether it’s really worth it.

  But then I remember how it feels to sit at the loser table in the canteen. Or what it’s like to have to skulk in the cloakrooms until everyone’s gone home in the faint hope that this won’t be the afternoon that I get chased through the streets. How it feels to have someone shove your head down a toilet and then pull the chain—not that I’d ever go to those kinds of extremes— and so I do what I have to.

  And what we did to Lily Tompkins—she so had it coming. She’d been shooting her mouth off about Nancy getting knocked back by one of the boys from the local grammar school. I don’t even know all the details. Just that if I hadn’t nipped it in the bud, she’d have weakened my power base. So when Dot saw her disappear into the bathroom at a party with Nancy’s brother’s friend, who always wears a baseball cap back to front, like he’s so bloody ghetto . . . well, she brought it on herself.

  I’d sidled up to Nancy, who was staring at the heir to her heart while he macked on some giggly blonde. “I’d love to know what Lily’s doing in the loo with Pimp My Ride,” I’d muttered. “Maybe she’s showing him where her navel piercing went septic. I can’t think of another reason why he was peering down her top.”

  I didn’t tell Nancy to go charging in there, though taking a picture on her camera phone had shown initiative I didn’t know she had. “God, I wish Dot was here, she’d love to see that. It’s so very Paris Hilton,” I’d said when she showed me the surprisingly clear picture of Lily on her knees.

  In a lot of ways, I was entirely blameless. It wasn’t my idea to send the picture to everyone in Nancy’s address book, who all promptly sent it on to everyone in their address books. Lily had the photo sent to her before she’d even come out of the bathroom, surreptitiously wiping her mouth with some toilet tissue. But even if she hadn’t seen it, the fact that everyone was making “gobble gobble” noises might have clued her in.

  She’d stormed out in tears and took, like, five junior Disprin and went to hospital and had her stomach pumped because she’s such a drama queen. My last week at school was all letters home and disciplinary warnings and then the meeting that never happened. So if Lily was on my shit list before, now she was right there at the top with her name in six-foot-high letters.

  I’d been keeping my head down for the week—I was still coasting the wave of my newfound notoriety as “The Girl Who Lost Her Mother™ ”— which meant people stayed away from me if they knew what was good for them, so I was a little surprised when Lily herself came tripping over to our table Friday at lunchtime.

  I lifted my head from my plate of wilted chicken salad, gave her a bit of my patented evil eye, and went back to talking to Dot.

  “It’s blue with this tiny geometric print,” I explained, trying to describe the skirt I was planning to buy on the weekend. “It’s Marc Jacobs via New Look.”

  “Sounds cool,” Dot said, slanting her eyes over at Lily who was shifting from foot to foot.

  “It is, but I don’t know if I’ve got anything that goes . . .”

  “Isabel, can I talk to you a minute?”

  I could hear Lily perfectly, but I carried on extolling the virtues of the skirt to Dot, like it was the finest example of haute couture.

  “Look, Isabel, I think we should try to clear the air or something. ”

  Dot smiled thinly. “Hey, Is, did you just hear this weird squeaking noise?”

  I’ve spent years perfecting the nonchalant shrug that I gave. “Maybe it was just your imagination.”

  Lily must have had a total death wish because she pulled out the empty chair next to me and sat down. Worse than that, she touched my arm. I stared at her stubby fingers curled around my sleeve and very gently shook my wrist.

  “What happened last term . . . We both did stuff . . . Y’know, and I thought . . .” She was giving me nothing but word salad, before she exhaled angrily. “Isabel, I’m trying to apologize!”

  “Are you going to manage a complete sentence before the bell goes?” I rested my chin on my hand and watched her bottom lip tremble. “What exactly do you want to apologize for?”

  I could see her mentally count to ten, though she got stuck around five. “I thought we could forget what happened and I wanted to tell you this all week, but well . . . I’m sorry about your mum.”

  “What about her?” I asked flatly. “What are you sorry about?”

  She laughed nervously and looked at Dot for some clarification but Dot was staring at her bag of crisps like they were about to break into song.

  “I’m sorry about your mum,” Lily repeated. “About what happened.”

  “You should be,” I said gently. �
�� ’Cause, if you think about it, it was your fault really.”

  It was really fascinating to watch the color drain out of her face as if someone had adjusted her contrast button. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” she gasped, her pink lip gloss even more garish against her blanched skin. “I thought you’d be different.”

  I knew she did. Everyone did. They wanted me soft and weak so they could stop being scared of me. They were going to have a long wait.

  “Well, I’m not,” I said, feeling my top lip curl with disdain and that bitch-goddess tone edge into my voice. “Business as usual. Now why are you still sitting there?”

  Lily scrubbed her hand over her eyes, which were leaking tears, as usual. “Your mum died!” she screeched, ensuring that everyone in the canteen was now giving us their undivided attention. “And if you weren’t such an evil cow, then you’d be upset about it.”

  I put my hand to my heart and made an “ouch” face, like I was bothered. “Listen, sweetie, so I’m one parent less—that doesn’t change the fact that you gave that baseball cap-wearing twat a blowjob and everyone knows you’re a skeevy ho. Sucks to be you, huh?”

  She was rooted to the spot, opening that famous mouth of hers as wide as it would go. Didn’t look like she was going to be moving anytime soon, which just made it easier to nudge my half full can of Diet Coke with my elbow as I got up so she was drenched in a sticky deluge of brown droplets that soaked into her white top.

  “You should really wear more black,” I advised her, gathering up my jacket and bag. “Doesn’t show the stains quite so much, does it?”

  “You bitch,” she breathed as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d just had a Diet Coke shower.

  Dot bumped her shoulder as she brushed past. “I should totally go and see Mrs. Greenwood and tell her what you said about Is’s mum,” she hissed.

  As I slowly made my way through the canteen, it occurred to me that I had something to thank Lily for because now the other girls weren’t sorry for me. They were looking at me as if they were scared that it would be their turn next. And that, I knew how to handle.

  Let'sGetLost

  Let's Get Lost

  4

  One minute it was all still and silent, the next the curtains were being yanked back with a deafening swish so that the room was flooded with retina-burning light.

  My hands groped for the pillow so I could pull it over my head, but Felix was already bouncing on the bed. “Get up, Is! It’s nine, I’ve been awake for ages.”

  I felt fragile and English Patient-y. Dot had come over after school yesterday and totally outstayed her welcome. First she’d freaked out because all we had in the fridge was a jar of artichoke hearts and some moldy cheese so she wouldn’t be able to keep her Diet Coke levels topped up. Then she’d wanted to TALK, or rather she’d wanted me to talk about my feelings and shit so she could coo sympathetically. In the end, I’d had to push her out of the front door and shut it before she’d had time to register what was going on, her aggrieved little face peering at me through the frosted-glass panel.

  And it had taken me hours to persuade my body that it wanted to snuggle down and get some sleep. I’d even hauled the Henry James out of my bedside drawer to see if his turgid sentence structure would make me drop off. Eventually, I’d flicked on the TV and watched late-night poker until the cards had gone blurry.

  I opened one eye in time to see Dad snap off the TV, which was emitting static, and then turned over so I could get a few more minutes snoozing in.

  Alas, it was not to be, as I felt hands snatching the covers off me as I made like a ball and whimpered, “On fire? Are we on fire?” I was sure I could smell burning, but that might just have been the dream I was having before I was so rudely awakened. This time she’d walked into our old house in Alfriston, and as she disappeared through the front door, the whole building burst into fierce flames.

  “No, Isabel, no one’s on fire,” he bit out, and what do you know? He’d actually managed to shave, though he had a wicked-looking nick under his chin. “Is it too much to expect you to get up at a reasonable hour?”

  I didn’t say anything. I certainly wasn’t going to raise the issue that medical research proved that teenagers needed to have long lie-ins.

  “I’m going to have a shower,” I mumbled, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and waiting for the dizzy feeling to stop. Then I swiped at Felix, who’d picked up my pillow and was trying to whack me over the head with it. We really needed to start cutting down on his sugar intake.

  “I had the most appalling woman—your friend Dot’s mother—on the phone,” Dad said querulously, as I rubbed a big piece of sleep out of the corner of my eye. “She was remarkably shrewish for a Saturday morning and informed me that I had no food in the house and that you and Felix were on the verge of malnutrition.” He sniffed contemptuously, as if the lack of five pieces of fruit and veg every day was beyond his control. “But then I tried to do some washing, and we have none of those strange little ball things.”

  I felt like . . . well, like I’d managed two hours sleep punctuated by really horrible nightmares and he just. Would. Not. Shut. Up.

  “I’ve been using washing powder, in the drawer . . .” I mumbled vaguely. “I’m going back to bed. I feel like crap.”

  “Isabel.” He has this special way of saying my name like he can’t even bear the sound of it. “You’re to have a shower, get dressed, and then we’re going to the supermarket.”

  “Come on, Is, it’ll be fun,” Felix cried, and gave me an expectant look that roughly translated as “Please, for the love of God, don’t leave me alone with him.”

  “Fine, whatever . . .”

  And obviously his mission in life for today was to work my last nerve, because Dad gave me his most condescending smile (I think it might have been a personal best) and said, “A little less petulance, please.”

  As trips to the supermarket go, and they don’t really rate too highly on my list of fun things, it started off all right. Since . . . well, he never drives unless he really has to, he decided that we’d walk to Waitrose, even though Felix and I did try to point out that lugging heavy shopping up the hill was unpaid child labor.

  “Nonsense, it will be good for you,” he scoffed, setting off down the road at a brisk pace. I clamped my iPod earbuds in so I didn’t have to listen to Felix crapping on about all the stuff he craps on about.

  There was a tense moment when Dad became slightly baffled by the whole concept of shoving a pound coin into the slot before you could take a trolley, but he adapted pretty well, and soon we were freewheeling around the fresh produce aisle like we were born to it.

  I wasn’t exactly sure who was going to be cooking all the squash and leeks and broccoli that he was blithely selecting while Felix pulled agonized faces at me behind his back. But really, I didn’t want to do anything to break the fragile peace treaty, so I concentrated on fruit because you just eat it as it comes and it stops you from coming down with a severe case of rickets.

  It wasn’t until we hit aisle 18—crisps, nuts, and snacks—that our family bonding excursion turned ugly. I innocently snatched a variety pack of Walkers from the shelf, but you’d have thought I was trying to do a trolley dash through the cigarette kiosk.

  “Oh no,” he hissed, tugging them out of my hands. “I’m not having junk food in the house.”

  Felix already had his arms full of Wotsits. “But we can’t live just on vegetables,” he exclaimed, his voice rising with indignation. “Mum always let us . . .”

  It was kinda weird to hear him say the “M” word, like someone swearing in church. None of us had said it out loud in weeks.

  “I beg your pardon?” Dad demanded, permafrost coating every syllable.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.” Felix’s bottom lip was trembling like a kite on a windy day. “Why aren’t I allowed to . . . ?”

  “Just leave it.” I gave him a warning punch on the shoulder.

 
“Obviously potato snacks are right up there with crack cocaine and, oh, I don’t know, drinking yourself into oblivion every night.”

  Dad grabbed hold of the trolley, his knuckles white as he gripped the bar. “Is there something you’d like to say, Isabel, or are you happy to continue with your barbed remarks?”

  And the thing is, I never know when to keep my mouth shut. I don’t. I can’t. I never could. So I shrugged, and I knew the smile I was wearing was so smug that if I’d seen it on my face, I’d have wanted to smack it right off.

  “Nope, just y’know, if a couple of bags of salt and vinegar are going to bring down Western civilization, then I guess we won’t be loading up on bottles of red wine, either.”

  Apparently, discussions about the huge amount of booze he guzzles were forbidden, too. His eyes narrowed so much, it was a wonder he could still steer the trolley round the corner. “You really are incredibly obnoxious,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder at Felix, who was trailing miserably behind us. “Oh, go and get your sodding crisps, then.”