Vote for Effie

by Laura Wood

  I suppose “fine” is a word I don’t use that often. I’m much fonder of “brilliant” or “amazing”. Dad moves over the kitchen counter and plucks a pack of Penguin biscuits from the top of one of the bags, tearing the packet open with his teeth and chucking two right at me. He always knows how to cheer me up.

  “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” he says. “Then you can tell me all about it.”

  “OK,” I say, summoning up a smile. “Sounds good.”

  After I’ve filled Dad in on the various injustices at my new school, like the restrictions on uniforms and the fact that no one seems very worried about welcoming new students, and helped him to unpack a couple more of the boxes, I head upstairs and stick my head around the door to Lil’s room. She is lying on her bed dressed up as Olaf the snowman. We couldn’t afford the proper Olaf the snowman costume so Dad made this one for her on his creaky old sewing machine and I think it’s even better, apart from the slightly wonky nose, but Lil says that adds character.

  “All right, Lil?” I ask.

  She sits up and turns to me, a rather sinister grin spreading across her freckled face.

  “Just in time for a duet!” she tinkles, heading for the battered CD player that Dad gave her in what would prove to be the biggest mistake of his life.

  “Can’t stop,” I say swiftly. “Homework, you know?” I spread my hands in front of me and arrange my face in an expression that I hope conveys plenty of regret.

  Lil raises one eyebrow, a trick that she mastered surprisingly early in life, and one that she employs regularly to let her family know that she is wearied and unamused by them.

  “How was the first day of school?” I ask.

  Lil shrugs. “Good, I guess.”

  “Did you make any new friends?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Lil’s attention returns to the CD player, and she holds her finger down on the skip button so that Idina Menzel sings out all squeaky and in reverse. Lil chuckles.

  “So the other kids were nice?” I press.

  Lil shrugs again, totally unconcerned. “They’re OK. Treena, Kayla and Nadia all want to be my best friend. I told them I’d let them know my decision by the end of the week. We’re doing auditions tomorrow.”

  “Right,” I say, weakly. Of course Lil has everyone under her spell already.

  “Did you make any new friends?” Lil asks.

  “Oh, yeah, loads,” I reply quickly, fixing a smile on my face.

  “Never mind, Effie,” Lil says pityingly. “It just takes a while for people to get to know you.” She comes over and pats my arm reassuringly. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to choke out. Wonderful, I think. Even my eight-year-old sister thinks I’m a loser.

  “If you want, you can borrow my lucky purple glitter scrunchie,” Lil calls after me as I leave the room. “That might help.”

  CHAPTER Three

  A few days later I am starting to think the lucky scrunchie might be my only option. I’m still wandering the school halls like a complete loner, and it’s really starting to get me down. Where are all my fellow outcasts? I wonder. Shouldn’t there be loads of us, searching for each other? Am I looking in the wrong places? It’s not even as if people are being mean to me … they just don’t seem to notice me at all, and in some ways that feels worse.

  After grabbing my lunch I’ve been escaping to the quiet safety of the library. At least the books don’t judge you or make you feel like a loser. The only bright spots in my days have been the particularly good slices of cake that the canteen have been serving. My old school didn’t do puddings that were anywhere near as nice. That’s something, I guess.

  Last night when my mum came home from the university I have to confess I had a moment of weakness and cried a little bit into her shoulder. She was really nice about it, reassuring me that I’ll get used to the new school and that of course I’ll make friends, and that I’m brilliant and all that, but the point is she WOULD say that, wouldn’t she? After all, she’s my mother. She’s genetically conditioned to like me so that she doesn’t, like, accidentally wander off and leave me to be eaten by wolves or something. That’s science.

  It’s not the people who are related to me who are the problem. Not to be dramatic or anything, but THEIR BLOOD RUNS IN MY VEINS. It’s the people who don’t share my DNA that don’t seem terribly interested. I’ve tried striking up conversations with strangers, but mostly I just get funny looks and cold shoulders. I had a pretty promising exchange with a girl when I asked if I could borrow her Tipp-Ex (a cunning ruse, of course; as if I would come to school so unprepared), but after I complimented the viscosity of her chosen brand and there was a silence that lasted over ninety seconds (I counted in my head), that blossoming friendship fell by the wayside.

  The school seems full of the usual cliques and gangs, and I’ve been observing them like I’m David Attenborough in the Sahara. The alpha males make their presence known, I narrate silently in my head as I watch a load of footballer lad types jostling and honking insults at each other in the corridor. They’re getting ready to go and practise on the pristine AstroTurf. Though physically strong, this particular baboon pack displays a worrying lack of intelligence. Communication seems to take place through a series of grunts and fart noises. I pass by them and, as per usual, no one even seems to notice.

  And here we see the birds of paradise. I stroll past a group of girls and boys who have somehow managed to make their school uniforms look cool. I recognize a couple of girls from my classes, including one called Katie who is flouting the rules by blowing bubbles with bright pink gum. Their brightly coloured feathers and twittering music attracts plenty of attention. This group is rowdy, yelling and laughing at each other. They slouch against the lockers and sprawl out on the floor like they own the place so that people have to step over them, which they do without comment.

  “Would you mind moving your bag?” I ask a boy with curly golden hair. He is sitting with his back against the lockers and his legs spread out in front of him, taking up loads of space and not moving an inch when people have to keep scrambling around him and his backpack. I try to keep my voice polite but his whole attitude is annoying.

  The boy squints up at me in surprise as though I am a piece of furniture that has suddenly started talking. “What?” He blinks.

  “Your bag,” I say slowly, pointing to the pristine designer backpack that is slumped a little way from him in the middle of the corridor. “Can you move it?”

  The boy looks at it like he’s never seen it before. “Can’t you just step over it?” he asks, and then he turns to the person next to him and starts talking like I’m not there.

  “Um, NO, ACTUALLY,” I say loudly, disbelief fuelling my rage. “Your bag is blocking the hall and everyone else needs to be able to get past. You don’t own the corridor, you know, it’s really rude of you.”

  The boy rolls his eyes. “There’s no need to shout,” he mutters. “Is it really that big a deal? You’re too lazy to walk around it?”

  I gasp at this. Folding my arms tightly and trying to keep my voice even, I channel Lil at her most withering. “I am not shouting,” I bite off. “And the only lazy one here is you. Is it so difficult to locate your manners? Now, please. Move. Your. Bag.” I glare at him.

  With a sigh the boy leans over and grasps the strap on his backpack, giving it a half-hearted tug that moves it a couple of inches, just enough for me to get by. I sweep through, my nose in the air, trying to ignore the gaggle of students who have stopped to watch our conversation.

  I suppose part of me was hoping for someone to start clapping slowly at the fearless way I was standing up for the masses. Then they would gradually be joined by others until a roar of applause and cheers would bounce off the walls and the crowd would start chanting my name, lifting me on to their shoulders and carrying me away on a tide of gratitude…

  But I am sorely disappointed. Apart from a few mutterings and nervous looks in my direction,
nothing else happens.

  The confrontation leaves me shaking. As I trudge into the canteen for another lonely lunch, there is precisely one thing I’m looking forward to … that slice of particularly good chocolate cake. Picking up my tray I hurry forward, noticing that the last piece is sitting temptingly on its little dish. I open my mouth to ask the dinner lady behind the counter for it when I am shoved slightly to one side and confronted by a large expanse of black blazer. It is the back of a boy who has just pushed in front of me in the queue, and he is … the horror of it begins to dawn inside my foggy brain … he is actually ordering the last piece of chocolate cake. My piece of chocolate cake. The world seems to move into slow motion as the dinner lady scoops up the chocolatey wedge and hands it over to him.

  “Noooooooooooooo…” I hear my own voice shrieking as if it is coming from somewhere far away.

  Now, I’m not exactly proud of what happens next. I know in the grand scheme of things it is just a piece of cake, but to be fair to me, I am not having the best time; I’ve just had an argument with another horrible, rude boy, and that piece of cake was something I was really looking forward to, so the scene I am making is – at least a bit – outside of my own control. Also, if you think about it, that piece of cake was MINE, destined for me in a fair and square world if that horrible jerk hadn’t pushed in front of me. You’ve got to stand up against these kinds of wrongs because before you know it people are stripping away your human rights left, right and centre. Yes, today it’s a piece of chocolate cake but tomorrow it could be my right to a fair trial and then I could find myself rotting away in a prison cell, dreaming of chocolate cake while the rats gnaw on my weekly crust of bread and I maintain a dignified vow of silence and write searing letters that get printed in all the newspapers and start a revolution and then people camp outside the prison campaigning for my release.

  Anyway, now is not the time for daydreaming, and my screech certainly seems to have made an impact. An uneasy hush falls over the canteen as curious eyes slide in our direction and the black blazer turns around to face me.

  It belongs to a tall, and, I notice angrily, very good-looking boy. He has dark, silky hair, that sort of flops around his face like he’s stumbled out of a boy band poster and smooth, acorn-coloured skin without a single spot on it. His dark eyes are widened in surprise, and I notice that he has a little mole at the side of his mouth like Marilyn Monroe. For a second I stand, stunned, my mouth hanging open as I stare into his perfect face. He is, I notice, surrounded by the baboon-ish football types. Fantastic.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asks in alarm.

  “You pushed in,” I say, recovering my sense of dignity and righteous anger. My hand goes to my hip as I glare at him. “I was next in the queue but you pushed in. And now you’ve taken my piece of cake.”

  “Your cake?” the boy says, looking down at the slice of chocolatey goodness. A smirk seems to be tugging at his lips, and I’m starting to think maybe he’s not so good-looking after all. “I think you’ll find it’s my cake.” His voice is smug.

  “Yes, but only because you pushed in,” I say, mulishly. “It’s not fair.”

  The boy seems to consider this for a moment, tipping his head to one side and elaborately tapping his cheek with his finger. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “I see what you mean … except, of course…” He reaches into his blazer pocket and pulls out a little laminated card. The words LUNCH PASS glare back at me in red ink.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  The boy’s smile grows and there’s a giggle from one of the people behind him. In fact, there are quite a few people taking an interest in our conversation, I notice. And quite a lot of them seem to be staring moonily at the boy in front of me.

  “It’s a lunch pass,” he says slowly, as though explaining something to an idiot. “It means I can go to the front of the queue without waiting.” He’s really enjoying himself now.

  I fold my arms across my chest. The queue behind me is getting restless, but I’m not moving. Not even when a voice from behind me yells, “Come on! Get out the way! Let us eat!”

  “That’s not fair,” I say again, my attention focused on the boy. “Why do you have that?”

  “You must be new,” is the answer that I get.

  “So what if I am?” I ask.

  “Then you obviously don’t know how this school works.” The boy is starting to look bored now. “I’m the junior class president on the school council. I was elected last December. The lunch pass is one of the things you get when you’re elected.”

  “A lunch pass?” I ask, my eyes narrowing “Why? So you can cut the queue? Why do you need one of those?”

  The boy shrugs. “I don’t know why you get one,” he says. “You just do.”

  “But that’s so stupid.” I snort. “If you don’t need it then why do you get it?” And then the rest of what he said sinks in. “You?” I say, taking in his pretty face, the football boots hanging from his bag. This is a classic “cool kid”. I know all the signs. I’ve seen it all this week. My eyes narrow. “You’re the junior class president?”

  The boy shrugs again. It seems to be very much his go-to gesture and he doesn’t seem at all worried by my growing rage. “Yes,” he says. “What’s so funny about that?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I say sweetly. “I’d love to hear some of your policies.”

  The boy looks confused. “Policies?” he mutters. “What are you talking about?”

  Exactly as I thought. This boy so obviously doesn’t care about the student council; all he cares about are the perks that come with it – the kinds of perks that let you steal other people’s cake. My indignation fans the flames of my anger even more. “Well, what do you actually DO then?” I ask.

  There is a moment of silence and the boy looks at me. Then suddenly he smiles. “This,” he says, and he grabs a fork off the side and digs it into the piece of chocolate cake.

  My own eyes widen. I can’t believe he’s doing this. But he does. He loads up the fork with a huge chunk of cake and crams it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he says, swallowing. “Delicious.”

  “I— I…” I splutter.

  “That really is good cake,” the boy says. “Shame you didn’t get a piece.” He licks his lips, catching a few stray crumbs. “I suppose you should have run for student council.”

  “WELL, MAYBE I WILL!” I hear a voice yell defiantly, and with a jolt I realize it is my own. I can’t believe it’s my voice. MY voice. A wave of hysterical laughter rises inside me and I push it down as fast as I can. Maybe this is actually a great idea, I think; maybe this is how I can make my big stand. How I can change things. How I can SET THE WORLD ALIGHT WITH MY ENTHUSIASM AND DEDICATION. As I grin up into this boy’s face, I can feel my eyes going all wild like they did after that big cup of coffee.

  My heart is thundering in my chest, and I draw myself up as tall as possible.

  “Yes!” I say, and I wave my finger in his face. “Maybe that’s exactly what I’ll do. You said the elections were in December, right? Well, I’ll run against you … and I’ll win!”

  The boy looks so flabbergasted that I laugh … the laugh comes out a bit high-pitched and manic sounding, but I’m really flying now, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. “SEE YOU ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL!” I cry, dropping my tray back on the side with a loud clatter and turning on my heel, walking briskly out of the now silent canteen on trembling legs.

  CHAPTER Four

  I steam through the corridor towards the girls’ toilets. As I do so I can’t help but notice that I’m passing a lot of people openly staring at me. It seems I had quite an audience inside the canteen … and outside it, if the volume of my rage was as high as I think it was. Pushing through the swinging door into the toilets, I surprise a group of girls clustered around the mirror, fluffing their hair and applying lip balm.

  “What is the junior class president’s name?” I gasp without thinking, my voice desperate and demanding. I sound l
ike one of those people in time-traveller films who stumble around screeching, “WHAT YEAR IS THIS?”

  The girls turn to stare at me, their mouths hanging open.

  One of them is still frozen with her hairbrush embedded in her long, shiny hair. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my cheeks are red, my eyes a bit wild, my hair has reached critical levels of enormous. It’s … not great.

  I clear my throat and raise a trembling hand to try and smooth down some of my curls. “Sorry,” I say in a more normal voice. “Um, I was just wondering if any of you know the name of the boy who is the junior class president on student council?”

  The girls continue to stare, but the one with the dark hair retrieves her hairbrush and speaks to me in a slow, soothing voice, as though I am a skittish horse.

  “His name is Aaron Davis,” she says, and for a second I think the mere sound of his name is going to make them all swoon.

  “Everyone knows that,” one of her friends puts in here. She is looking at me like I am something nasty on the bottom of her shoe.

  “Right,” I say, turning to grasp the sink and looking at myself in the mirror. “Aaron Davis.” I turn his name over in my mouth. It’s not a great name for a nemesis, to be honest. It doesn’t sound sinister enough. I’d rather he was called Evilborg Skeletrix or something like that. “Aaron Davis,” I say again, making it sound as evil as possible. Over my shoulder I see the girl with dark hair mouthing the word “WOW” at her friends and they begin to edge carefully out of the room until I am left standing there alone. “I will defeat you, Aaron Davis.” I make the vow to my own reflection, still imagining the terrible smirk on his face.

  By the time I find myself walking home later that afternoon, the adrenaline has rubbed off and my stomach is rumbling loudly. It seems that I have gone from anonymous loner to notorious weirdo in the course of one lunch break. Wherever I go people whisper behind their hands and giggle. I’m not exactly sure what they’re saying, but I think I get the gist. The scene I caused in the canteen has created quite a stir, and, whoever Aaron Davis is, he seems to have quite a following. I gnaw my lip nervously as I make my way along the street towards my house, trying to banish the image of his smug face from my thoughts.