by Julia Bell
Reading it back, it sounds wrong. I Tippex over great and write weird instead.
I don’t post it.
On the wall, behind her seat, along with all the sparkly packets of transfers and jewels, and gilt-edged Spanish fans and postcards of flamenco señoras and pictures of matadors, is a photo of a girl with purple hair and silver eyeshadow. She’s holding her nails up to the camera, silver swirls over a purple colour the same as her hair.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask.
‘Debra,’ Lisa says. ‘Taught me everything I know. This was her stall before, but she went off to Jamaica on me.’ She sucks her teeth. ‘I’m saving up to go and visit.’
I’m not supposed to be here. Mum thinks I’m in the flat watching TV on my own. I’m sat up on the high stool, at the Nail File. Around us the market is closing up for the day. There’s not many shoppers, and boards are being put up against the stalls and padlocked.
‘When d’you start school?’ Lisa asks.
‘Next week.’
I bite my lip; I’ve been trying not to think about it.
She asks me which school I’m going to and when I tell her, she laughs. ‘Broadhurst in Kings Heath, is that where she’s sending you? She always wanted to go there when we were kids because it was posher than Moseley School.’
She picks a bottle of green polish from the rack and rubs it between her palms. ‘I’ll do your nails in their colours then. Ready for the start of term.’
To get an even coat of polish on your nails it’s best to do several thin coats rather than one thick one. Any oil or grease on the nail will make the polish chip off more easily, and when it’s done, you have to sit still and wait for it to dry. Moving too quick, trying to pick things up, putting your hands in your pockets, or lighting a fag will spoil it, put scars in the soft lacquer. You have to be patient, learn to meditate, take time out from the rush and bustle. Lisa tells me these things, while she tidies up. ‘Watching nail polish dry is a fine art.’
She collects up a few nearly empty bottles and puts them in a bag. ‘I was going to throw them away, but I thought you’d like them, for practice.’
She gives me some spare tips and a set of stencils. She tells me to have a go at doing some myself. To bring them back to her and show her how I’m getting on.
‘You’re a poppet,’ she says, stroking my hair. I want to give her a hug. Instead I blush and look at my shoes. ‘Say hello to your mum for me.’
Mum opens a packet of dried fruit.
‘Prunes,’ she says. ‘Want one?’
‘No ta.’
‘C’mon, they’re good for you, keep you regular.’
She only wants me to have one because she’s been eating them. I take one and push it in my cheek like a hamster. I concentrate on drawing a straight silver line diagonally across my nail tip. Mum punches me on the arm, making me wobble and mess up. ‘Oi, I was talking to you. Where d’you get all that stuff from? You’ve been visiting Lisa, haven’t you? What did she tell you? Don’t you listen to her. She’ll tell you anything to get back at me.’
The trouble, she announces, is that Lisa thinks she’s still a pop star. Her long nails are hideous, vulgar. ‘Much better to have a tidy French polish. So much more discreet,’ she informs me.
I start again with another nail and try to ignore her. She opens a packet of crisps, eats a couple and then throws the packet away. All the while she talks about Lisa, going on and on about what a waste of time she is.
‘I suppose it’s sad,’ she says, ‘at her age, not to see how ridiculous she’s being.’
9
We should’ve tried it on in the shop but Mum was in such a mad rush she just grabbed it off the rails as we swooshed past. Now it’s too late, I’ve got to be at school in half an hour and we’re already miles behind.
‘It doesn’t fit!’ she says angrily as I wiggle it up my legs. ‘I can’t believe it. You’re too big for a size ten!’
She stands over me, yanks the skirt over my hips. I breathe in while she struggles to do it up, tearing her nail on the zip. She swears and leaves it half undone. ‘I’ll have to fix it with a safety pin. If you pull your shirt out over, no one’ll notice.’
On the sign by the school drive – Broadhurst School for Girls – someone has scribbled out the Broad and written Slags in black marker pen. Slagshurst School for Girls. Est. 1898.
I am being marched down a corridor at high speed by the form teacher. She is talking at me too quickly, her red lipstick flashing. I can feel my skirt stretching over my hips. I hope she won’t make me tuck my shirt in.
‘I’m sure you’ll fit in fine here, Carmen. Just remember to hold your own for the first few weeks and you’ll be swimming with the swans in no time, eh?’ She laughs at herself. ‘I do love a little alliteration, don’t you?’
Before I can answer I am projected into a classroom. A wall of faces looks up.
‘Three C, this is Carmen.’ She nudges me in the back. ‘Say hello, Carmen.’
‘Hello.’ The word slips out of me like a whisper.
‘This time moving your lips, please.’
There are giggles at the back of class.
‘Hello,’ I say again, my cheeks turning purple.
‘Here you are then,’ she says, her voice gone quiet like she’s talking to a baby. ‘You can sit next to Kelly.’
Someone giggles, a snort hidden in hands across the face. I look at Kelly: she is fat, enormous even, much much bigger than me, and her large, owl glasses with pink rims don’t make her look any better. When she smiles I can see her braces, big globs of metal in her mouth.
Osmosis. I roll the word around my mouth. Osmosis, the way that nutrients spread through plant cells. Miss Burton draws diagrams on the board, big round circles and arrows. The density of water pushing through semi-permeable membranes. ‘Permeable? You know what that means?’ she asks. We shake our heads. Permeable, she says, means that you are like a sponge. It means you can absorb things. So semi-permeable means that you can absorb some things but not others. Like having a filter. It lets some things in and keeps other things out.
She shows us slides of cells under the microscope. They look like blobs of jelly.
Kelly’s a Girl Guide. She tells me about it at breaktime. I can tell that she is a major square. I hang out with her because there isn’t anyone else to talk to. The other girls in class don’t even look at me.
Kelly takes me to the paper shop by the school gates. The man who serves us has a long, furrowed forehead, as if someone has scratched their fingers through his face to make the lines. He looks like Freddy in Nightmare on Elm Street, that’s what I tell Kelly. I ask her if she’s seen it, and she says yes, even though I bet she hasn’t.
Kelly buys fistfuls of Fruit Salads and I get a Twix. We sit on the steps looking down into the playing fields. I eat my Twix slowly, chocolate first, then the caramel and finally just the biscuit, soggy where I’ve sucked it. Kelly puts so many Fruit Salads in her mouth she starts to drool; a long drip of spit sliding down her chin.
‘Ick,’ she says, wiping her face on her cardigan. ‘I can’t eat properly with these braces.’
Everyone’s waiting outside class for registration.
‘Oi you, new girl.’ I look up. Two blonde girls are eyeing me like I’m a specimen in biology. ‘Watcher doing with her? She’s a lez.’ They laugh.
I can’t look at Kelly, I know her face is burning. I move away from her, stand on the other side of the door. The girls are laughing, saying, ‘Smelly Lezzie Kelly,’ over and over until the teacher walks round the corner. I push myself against the wall, pressing my shoulder blades into the over-painted sickly green, wishing they would all go away.
I’M SORRY she writes on my notebook in pencil, pressing so hard that when I rip the page out later it shows through on the other side.
WOT FOR? I write back.
She chews the end of her pencil. I’M NOT A LEZ.
NEVER SAID YOU WERE.
She tri
es to write an answer but I push her arm away; we’re supposed to be copying off the board.
Mum is coming to get me from school. I try to get away from Kelly but I don’t know where I’m going and she catches up with me.
‘This way,’ she says, her hand on my elbow. I shake her off. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you.’ She looks at me, her head cocked to one side. ‘Dontcha want to come an’ play PlayStation?’
She follows me to the school gates where Mum is waiting, leaning against the gateposts, smoking. ‘God, I hate these places. Makes me feel fifteen again. How was it then? You making friends already?’ Kelly hovers, so I have to introduce her.
‘Mum, this is Kelly.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mum says, nodding.
‘Put her on a diet if she was my daughter,’ Mum says once Kelly’s waddled off to get the bus. She looks me up and down. I suck my stomach in.
I’m new so they’re giving me time, waiting to see how I’m going to react. Paisley and Maxine. They have smooth skin, blonde highlights and boyfriends who wait for them after school. They’re a bit older than me, both fifteen. They think they are sophisticated. We’re waiting in the queue for lunch.
‘Hey, Carmen, what kind of name is that?’
‘Spanish,’ I say. ‘My dad comes from Barcelona.’
‘Are you mental?’ Paisley asks. Maxine snorts and bites her lip.
‘No.’
‘Well, people will think you are if you hang out with Kelly. She’s retarded.’
‘You wanna sit with us? Can if you like.’ Maxine is being generous. I am expected to be grateful.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
Paisley has salad so I pick a salad too and a Diet Coke.
Maxine unpacks a Tupperware box from her backpack. Her Tupperware box is full of smaller Tupperware boxes. ‘I’m on Weight Watchers,’ she says, ‘One protein, two carbohydrates, and one treat.’ She shows us a tuna salad, two wheat crackers and a Milky Way.
‘We watch what we eat,’ Paisley says, fluttering her mascaraed eyes at me. She is the leader because she is the prettiest. She nibbles on a lettuce leaf to prove her point. ‘Too much saturated fat in chips. Gives you spots.’
I bring my hand to my face without thinking. There is a big angry zit developing on my chin.
‘Like your nails,’ Paisley says, holding my fingers. ‘They’re way cool.’ Her eyes widen, I can tell she’s impressed.
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘my aunt’s a technician.’ I push my salad away. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Paisley makes a face. ‘Me neither, the food here’s, like, totally disgusting.’
‘Look, it’s Kelly.’ Maxine points to the till, where Kelly is paying for her dinner. ‘State of her.’ She curls her lip.
‘Hey lez,’ they say, loud enough for her to hear as she walks past. ‘Kelly belly.’
Kelly looks over, eyes magnified by her lenses. I stick my tongue out; she flinches and looks away.
Maxine has a copy of Vogue, stolen off her mum. The pages are crumpled and sticky, the cover curling at the edges.
‘Paisley’s going to be a model,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you, Paisley?’
Paisley flicks her long highlighted hair and smiles slowly.
I smile at her. ‘You’ve got good hair,’ I say.
‘Thanks.’ She touches her fringe self-consciously.
I decide that being friends with Paisley will be easy. All she wants is an audience.
I get the bus from school on my own. I eat a bag of cola cubes, crunching them until my teeth hurt. At the back someone’s smoking weed; the thick smell drifts down the aisle, sweeter than cigarettes.
It’s sunny, with big cartoon clouds and the trees are just starting to turn. I finish the cola cubes and lick my teeth to get all the flavour off.
I get off in town and go to Burger King on the way home. I get a Whopper and a chocolate milkshake and eat them really quickly as I walk down the street, keeping an eye out in case Mum is in the crowds of shoppers. I stand outside the flat, wiping ketchup off my lips with my sleeve and suck a Polo in case she smells it.
But when I get in she’s not even there.
10
We’re doing photosynthesis. Looking at geranium leaves. Light turning to energy. Kelly is sucking pear drops that make her smell like nail polish. Her braces make her lips stick out and she snuffles when she sucks, breathing loudly through her nose like she’s mental or something.
I give her a spider nip on the leg. She squeaks and dribbles on her exercise book.
‘Whaddya do that for?’ she whispers. ‘I haven’t done nothing.’
She looks pathetic. ‘Lezzie,’ I hiss. ‘Lezzie Kelly.’
She shifts away from me, hiding her book with her arm. ‘Piss off,’ she says.
After class we wait for her: me, Paisley and Maxine.
‘Hey Kelly,’ Paisley puts her arm out to stop her from passing. ‘We think you should apologize.’
‘Wha’?’
I wish she’d shut her mouth. Her braces make me feel ill.
‘Yeah, lezzie, say sorry.’ Maxine stands close to her, her breasts pushed forward.
‘I haven’t done nothing.’ Tears begin to wet the corners of her eyes. ‘Whadd’ve I done?’
‘You’re fat,’ I say. ‘And you’re ugly.’ I can see the whites of her eyes, glossy, like boiled eggs. Apologize.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She’s really crying now.
I suck in my cheeks, pool saliva in my mouth and spit it at her. Strings of white soak into her cardigan.
Paisley tugs my arm. ‘Teacher,’ she hisses in my ear. ‘Teacher.’
We pull back, flatten ourselves against the corridor. Kelly waddles off. ‘I’m gonna get you, smelly,’ I whisper at her back. Paisley giggles.
‘You’re mad you are, Carmen. You wanna come to my party? We’re going uptown on Saturday to get outfits.’
‘Paisley,’ Maxine nudges her and makes a face.
‘’S all right, Carmen doesn’t mind if we’ve got boyfriends, do you? You got a boyfriend, Carmen?’
‘I had one before, where I lived,’ I lie.
Paisley makes a face, ’Aww, ju miss him? I miss Carter. Wanna see a picture?’ She gets her purse out of her bag and flips it open to show me the photo inside. ‘Isn’t he adorable?’ It’s a blurry picture of a man on a beach. ‘That was when he was in Ibiza. He’s a DJ.’
‘Gorgeous,’ I say, though he could be deformed for all I can see.
‘She’s going out with his best mate,’ Paisley nudges Maxine. ‘’Nat right, Maxine?’
Maxine looks at me sulkily. I don’t think she really likes me, I think she wants to be Paisley’s best friend.
They’re waiting for me outside HMV. Mum’s given me a tenner and told me not to get lost. ‘Come to the shop if you don’t know where you are.’ I’ve got my tracksuit on, my Adidas trainers and the Nike baseball cap that Dad bought me for Christmas. Mum moaned when she saw me in it, she said I should make more of an effort if I’m trying to make new friends.
‘Hi-ya,’ they wave at me from across the street.
It’s cold, the sky a concrete grey. Maxine has dyed her hair. It’s supposed to be blonde but in the glare of the shop lights it looks a bit green.
‘Whatcher think?’ she asks, tugging at a strand. ‘Did it myself. You should get streaks done, you know, Carmen. I can do it for you, my sister’s a hairdresser.’
Paisley is smoking a fag, puffing it out really fast like she’s blowing away dust. ‘Wanna fag?’
‘No ta.’
We walk around the split levels of HMV looking at the CDs. Paisley’s into boy bands. She runs her fingers over the cellophane casing.
‘Look at his muscles,’ she says.
‘Oh no, he’s vile,’ Maxine says, pointing to another one with a thick face and a little goatee beard. ‘He’s the one I like.’
They all have brown skin and white teeth and earrings in their ears.
‘What kind of musi
c you into, Carmen?’
I look at the wall of CDs. Madonna pouts out at me. I point to her.
Maxine makes a face. ‘She’s so old.’
‘Look, it’s Kelly,’ Paisley says, pointing to a picture of Mr Greedy on a T-shirt. We laugh.
‘C’mon, let’s look in Top Shop.’
We walk down the street arm in arm, Paisley in the middle. Maxine keeps giving me snidey looks, until I have to pull my cap down to shade my eyes from her gaze.
Top Shop is heaving. Maxine elbows a couple of ten-year-olds out the way to get to the clothes on the New Season rail. She picks out a T-shirt made out of glittery material that looks like it should fit a Barbie doll, and holds it up to herself.
‘Whaddya reckon?’
Paisley turns up her nose. ‘’S a bit cheap looking. What about this one?’ She picks out a furry leopardskin jacket.
‘Paisley, I’m not going in that, it looks like something my nan would wear.’
‘Who’s going to be there?’ I ask.
‘Oh, everybody,’ Paisley says, flicking her hair. ‘It’s gonna be wild.’
We go to the changing rooms together.
‘Aren’t you going to get anything, Carmen?’ Maxine asks. ‘Sportswear’s a bit out now.’
‘No it isn’t,’ Paisley says, ‘it was everywhere at the Clothes Show. Madonna wears them trainers.’
Maxine makes a face. She can’t contradict Paisley because she’s more beautiful than her.
The fitting rooms are small cubicles, two rows, facing each other, with thin orange curtains for privacy. We huddle together in one at the end.
‘Shut the curtain will ya,’ Maxine says, elbowing past me and yanking the curtain. It rips off its hooks.
‘Maxine, you broke it,’ Paisley whispers, giggling.
‘Oh, sort it will you, Carmen?’
She gives me the ripped end and I hold it up to try and cover the gap.
I can see into the cubicle opposite. The woman hasn’t even bothered shutting the curtain. She’s got bright blue streaks in her hair and black clothes, and she’s taking off a leather jacket. Distress ’79 – Out of Control it says on the back in faded white paint. Her arms are thick as hams and covered with tattoos. A thin T-shirt clings to her figure, showing up all the places where her body bulges. She’s got a leather choker round her neck and her tight skirt exaggerates the curves of her bum. Her boots are high, snakeskin and pointed at the toes.