All About Mia

by Lisa Williamson

  ‘All about my jewellery,’ she says.

  Kimmie wants to study jewellery design at university and have her own label one day. I crane my neck to try and see exactly what she’s written, but she’s hunched over her work and all I can make out is the odd word through the gaps in her fingers.

  Ugly Tie Man makes his way round the classroom as we work. He stops by our desk and asks to take a look at Kimmie’s statement. As he reads, he smiles and nods through his smeared glasses.

  ‘Great stuff,’ he says, handing it back. ‘Very passionate.’

  Kimmie beams.

  He cocks his head to one side so he can read my name off the top of my piece of paper.

  ‘Mia,’ he says. ‘Having a bit of trouble there, are you?’

  I shrug.

  He pulls up a chair and sits down next to me. I can smell his breath – coffee and Rich Tea biscuits. Classic teacher.

  ‘Let’s see if I can’t give you a bit of inspiration. How about you start by telling me a bit about your interests, Mia.’

  ‘What kind of interests?’ I ask, fiddling with the zip on my pencil case.

  ‘Well, do you play an instrument, Mia? Or do any sport?’

  ‘Nope.’

  I played the clarinet for about three weeks in Year 7.

  ‘Are you in any school clubs or societies, Mia?’

  I think of Miss Linden bugging me to join the Feminist Society and shake my head again.

  ‘Do you write or draw or paint, Mia? Sew? Bake, maybe?’

  God, he’s really clutching at straws now. Plus, I hate the way he keeps using my name at the end of every question, like he knows me, knows what I’m about.

  ‘Perhaps you collect something, Mia?’

  ‘Like what? Stamps? I’m not ninety.’

  ‘Do you have a part-time job?’

  ‘I sell sausages,’ I mutter.

  Owen, who is sitting in front of me, snorts with laughter. I chuck my pen at his head. It bounces off and rolls under the desk. ‘Ow!’ he cries, clutching his skull with both hands.

  ‘Oh, calm down,’ I say. ‘It was only a biro.’

  Ugly Tie Man retrieves my pen from the floor, setting it down on the desk with a deep frown.

  ‘OK, so you sell sausages, perhaps you can expand on that.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say. I. Sell. Sausages. The end.’

  ‘Do you work as part of a team?’ he ventures.

  I think of smug Jeremy.

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Look, it’s just a stupid Sunday job, OK?’

  Ugly Tie Man sighs. ‘Please, just help me out here, Mia, and perhaps tell me what you are interested in?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Anything you think you’re particularly good at?’ he prompts.

  ‘Going out with my mates? Having a laugh?’

  He sighs again and takes off his glasses. They hang on a long chain round his neck.

  ‘You asked,’ I say, my body fizzing with irritation.

  ‘Mia, your personal statement is your chance to sell yourself, do you understand that?’

  ‘Of course I do. I just don’t see what playing a musical instrument or baking cakes has to do with any of it.’

  ‘Engagement in extra-curricular activities demonstrates relevant qualities, like resilience, problem solving, leadership, teamwork, creativity, critical thinking,’ he says, ticking each of them off on his fingers.

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see Kimmie listening in on our exchange. She looks sorry for me. I roll my eyes in an attempt to show her I don’t care, but her expression stays the same.

  ‘Mia, you have to see it from the university’s point of view,’ Ugly Tie Man continues. ‘Who are they going to award a place to? The applicant with a full and varied personal statement, or the applicant with nothing to say for herself.’

  ‘Look, I’m not even applying to uni,’ I say. ‘So this is all pointless anyway.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ he says. ‘What about job applications?’

  I close my eyes and will him to move on to someone else.

  ‘What is it you think you’d like to do for a living?’ he asks. ‘Because I dare say there’ll be an application process you’ll need to go through, whatever path you choose to go down.’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  More people are listening now, turning round in their chairs and leaning in. I wish they’d all just piss off and mind their own business.

  Ugly Tie Man frowns. ‘Oh, come on, Mia, you must have some idea.’

  Obviously not. Why can’t he just get the message and bloody leave me alone?

  He asks me to go through my A-level subjects and tell him why I chose each one.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘They just seemed like the subjects I’d be the least rubbish at.’

  ‘You’re making my job really hard here, do you know that, Mia?’ he says, rubbing his eyes now, like it’s paining him to even talk to me.

  That’s when I finally lose it.

  ‘Look, I didn’t ask you come over here and interrogate me,’ I explode. ‘If I’m such a headache, then why don’t you piss off and ask someone else your stupid questions?’

  The classroom falls silent while Ugly Tie Man’s face turns an unhealthy shade of deep pink.

  ‘Head’s office,’ he says, standing up and pointing at the door. ‘Now.’

  ‘But I’m a sixth former!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Ugly Tie Man says. ‘I won’t be spoken to like that. Take your things and go.’

  I screw up my empty sheet of paper and flick it off the edge of the desk before scooping up my bag and stamping out of the classroom. I don’t look back.

  Outside Ms Parish’s office, I find Stella, Kimmie and Mikey sitting in a line on the seats outside. It’s sweet of them to wait, but they’re the last people I want to see right now. What I really want is some time to brood alone.

  The second they see me, they jump up.

  ‘What are you guys doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Kimmie told us what happened,’ Stella says, swooping in to give me a hug. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, wriggling out of her embrace. ‘The stupid supply teacher just wound me up a bit, that’s all. No big deal.’

  ‘Did you get into trouble?’ Kimmie asks.

  ‘Nah. Ms Parish was on my side actually, says he was bang out of order speaking to me like that.’

  This is a complete lie. Ms Parish gave me a long lecture about respect, and ordered me to deliver a handwritten apology to Ugly Tie Man (whose real name is apparently Mr Montague) first thing on Monday morning.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, not wanting to remain on the premises for a second longer than necessary. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  21

  We hang out at Stella’s that evening. Her mum is having a girlie night in the living room, forcing us to camp out upstairs, eating kettle chips by the handful and arguing over what to watch on Netflix.

  I argue even more enthusiastically than usual, to the point that Mikey, the undisputed reigning king of arguing over what to watch on Netflix, tells me to ‘calm the fuck down’. I don’t actually give a monkey’s about what we watch; it just feels good to let off a little steam.

  In the end we decide to watch some old episodes of Pretty Little Liars so we can chat over them without having to worry about missing any vital plot points. I’m doing an impression of my favourite character, Aria, when I accidentally knock Kimmie’s glass of Diet Coke out of her hand. And of course, because I’m clearly having one of those days, it goes absolutely everywhere – on the duvet, up the walls, on the carpet.

  ‘Mia!’ Stella cries, jumping off the bed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say grumpily. ‘It was just an accident.’

  Stella flies out of the room, returning a minute later armed with two sponges and a bottle of carpet cleaner. While Mikey and Kimmie strip the bed and Stella tackles the walls, I get down on my hands
and knees and scrub at the irritatingly cream carpet.

  ‘You’re so clumsy sometimes, you know that?’ Stella says.

  ‘God, I said I was sorry, what more do you want from me?’

  ‘It better not stain.’

  ‘It won’t. It’s only Coke.’

  She doesn’t answer me. I roll my eyes at the back of her head and keep on scrubbing. That’s when I notice them, underneath Stella’s bed.

  A stack of shiny university prospectuses.

  They’re pushed back quite far so that you’d only see them if you were on your hands and knees. I note the names on the spines – Canterbury Christ Church, Bath Spa, Sheffield Hallam, Manchester Met, etc. It’s clear from their dog-eared corners and broken spines they’ve been read multiple times.

  I realize my heart is beating very fast.

  I look up. Stella is standing with her back to me, tutting at the wall, even though the Coke has come off just fine.

  ‘What should we do with this?’ Kimmie asks, the soiled duvet bundled up in her arms.

  Stella turns round. ‘Just leave it on the floor. I’ll stick it in the wash in a bit.’ She glances down at me. ‘How’s it looking?’

  ‘All gone,’ I say, sitting back on my heels.

  She nods, although it’s clear from her folded arms that she’s still annoyed at me.

  ‘Told you it wouldn’t stain,’ I add quietly.

  Part of me wants to say something about what I’ve just seen, but what if Kimmie and Mikey already know? What if the three of them have already discussed Stella’s post-school plans behind my back? A horrible image of them plotting to apply to the same university pops into my head. I imagine them coming back in the holidays, talking incessantly about people I don’t know and cracking in-jokes I’ll never have any hope of understanding.

  Stella rewinds the episode and we all get back onto the bed. Ordinarily I like to quote along with the bitchiest lines, but I’m suddenly not in the mood, glazing over as the others chorus along in their rubbish American accents, wondering exactly when Stella was going to tell me her plans had changed. I think back to the last time we were on the Right Move app, how Stella managed to discount every single property I suggested. The idea that she’s been humouring me all this time, just playing along to keep me happy, makes me feel hot and stupid.

  Before the next episode kicks in we press pause so Stella can go downstairs to replenish our bowl of kettle chips and put her duvet cover in the washing machine.

  ‘Where are you applying for uni again?’ I ask Mikey while she’s gone.

  Mikey has wanted to study psychology for as long as I can remember.

  ‘Not sure yet. Definitely Sussex,’ he says. ‘A few others. Why?’

  I try to remember if Sussex was one of the universities featured in the stack of prospectuses under the bed.

  I’m about to ask Kimmie the same question when Stella returns with more crisps and a bag of popcorn.

  We watch another episode but I can’t concentrate. The moment the credits start to roll, I jump off the bed and start searching for my trainers.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Stella asks as I sit on the rug and loosen the laces.

  ‘Where do you think? Home.’

  ‘But aren’t you staying over?’

  ‘I can’t. We have our final dress fitting first thing.’

  This is a lie. The fitting isn’t until midday.

  ‘My mum could drop you off in the morning,’ Stella says.

  Her offer coincides with a burst of female laughter from downstairs.

  ‘Like your mum is going to want to do that. Anyway, my mum and dad are expecting me.’

  I finish lacing my trainers and stand up.

  ‘Is it about what that teacher said?’ Stella asks.

  ‘Of course not,’ I snap. ‘I didn’t even care.’

  I’m sort of telling the truth. Because my bad mood isn’t entirely about my conversation with Ugly Tie Man. It’s also about Kimmie’s embarrassment and pity as he grilled me. And Ms Parish’s humiliating lecture about what a disappointment I am to the Campbell-Richardson name. And Stella’s silence over the hoard of prospectuses under the bed. And the fact that, rolled into one, all these things have made me feel totally and utterly shit about myself.

  By the time I get home, it’s gone ten. I discover my parents sitting on the living-room floor, surrounded by a sea of Post-it notes.

  ‘What are you doing home?’ Mum asks in surprise. ‘I thought you’d be sleeping over at Stella’s.’

  ‘I’ve got a headache,’ I say, flopping down on the sofa behind them.

  ‘You should have called me,’ Dad says. ‘I would have come to pick you up.’

  ‘I didn’t think,’ I reply truthfully. Mum and Dad’s schedules are so mental I rarely rely on them for lifts anywhere. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘The table plan,’ Mum says. ‘It’s a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Why don’t you just let everyone sit where they want?’ I suggest.

  ‘I’m tempted, believe me,’ Mum replies. ‘But I think that might just give your grandmother a heart attack. You know how she is.’

  This is true. Grandma Jules (Mum’s mum) is just about the most organized person on earth and regularly despairs at the state of our messy house.

  ‘Come on, Nikki, hang on in there, we’re so close,’ Dad says.

  ‘No thanks to your family,’ Mum replies. She turns to me. ‘Did you know Great-auntie Joyce isn’t speaking to Great-auntie Winnie?’

  ‘No. Why?’ I have about a thousand great-aunts on Dad’s side.

  ‘Apparently Winnie booked tickets to see The Bodyguard: The Musical on tour and didn’t ask Joyce along and Joyce took offence,’ Mum says. ‘Fair enough perhaps if this happened last week, but it was two years ago. And now I’m having to give up my Friday night moving Post-it notes around so neither of them feel “uncomfortable” on my wedding day!’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be our wedding day?’ Dad suggests, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  ‘Oh, shut up, you, you know what I mean,’ Mum says, poking him in the belly.

  ‘Do I now?’ Dad leans in and kisses her on the cheek and, before I know it, they’re full-on snogging, Post-it notes sticking to their clothes as they roll about on the carpet giggling.

  ‘I’ll be leaving then,’ I say, heaving myself off the sofa.

  Mum and Dad stop kissing and look up at me, surprised.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Mum says.

  I make a face. As if I’m going to stick around to watch while my parents dry hump on the living-room carpet. ‘I’m tired anyway,’ I say.

  ‘OK, sweetheart. There’re pills in the medicine cabinet if you need one.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For your headache.’

  ‘Oh, right. Thanks.’

  ‘Night, darling.’

  ‘Yeah, night.’

  22

  After the dress fitting on Saturday, instead of going home with Mum, Grace and Audrey, I head to meet Sam at Waterside. Ever since she caught us together in the bathroom last weekend Grace has been asking constantly about the ‘surprise’ we have planned for her and the baby, piling on the pressure for us to come up with something decent.

  ‘Six quid for two pairs of socks that look like they could barely fit on my thumb?’ I say. ‘Are they having a laugh?’

  ‘Very possibly,’ Sam admits. ‘Although you have to admit these definitely have the “aw” factor.’

  I pull a face. I’ve never understood why people get all gooey about baby clothes. They’re just little, that’s all. We’ve been in the baby-clothing department of John Lewis for over thirty minutes now and I’m slowly losing the will to live.

  I put the socks back and pick up a pair of denim dungarees. ‘How come you haven’t found out whether it’s a boy or a girl?’ I ask, looking at the price tag and quickly returning the dungarees to the rail.

  ‘We want a surprise,’ Sam says.

&nb
sp; We. Ugh.

  ‘I’d want to know,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You don’t like surprises?’

  ‘Only if they’re good.’

  ‘Call me cheesy if you want,’ Sam says. ‘But I really want to experience that magic moment where the midwife looks up and says “it’s a girl” or “it’s a boy”, like they do on TV.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask, picking up an embroidered sunhat that fits almost perfectly on my fist.

  ‘I honestly don’t mind,’ Sam says. ‘As long as it’s healthy.’

  I mime a yawn. ‘I knew you were going to say that. Come on, don’t be such a boring cliché. You must want one more than the other.’ I pause. ‘I won’t tell Grace,’ I add in a sing-song voice.

  Sam glances behind him as if he expects Grace suddenly to leap out from behind the display of dribble bibs like a trained sniper.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘But you can’t tell Grace I said this …’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘… but I’d secretly quite like a boy.’

  ‘I knew it!’ I cry, stabbing him in the chest with my index finger. ‘I know you were lying when you said you didn’t mind.’

  ‘I’d love a girl too, of course I would, but … I don’t know, I’ve just always had this stupid fantasy about having a son I can impart all my “manly” wisdom to. I suppose there’s a part of me as well that wants to do right all the things my dad did so wrong. Does that make sense?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  We drift into the toy department. I gravitate towards a huge wooden box filled with cuddly toys.

  ‘So how about you?’ Sam asks, absentmindedly playing with the ears of a pale grey bunny rabbit. ‘Do you want a niece or a nephew?’

  ‘God, I don’t care,’ I say, digging to the bottom of the box, tossing aside teddy bears and stuffed monkeys. ‘Half the time you can’t tell the difference anyway.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. Until they start walking and talking and stuff, all babies are basically just dribbly lumps.’

  ‘Harsh words.’

  ‘But true.’