Whatever. I look right through them as if they don’t exist.
‘Last year was good, but Year Eight is going to be fantastic,’ Shannon says now. The buzzer sounds, and about a million Year Sevens swarm towards the main entrance. Shannon pulls a face and hooks my arm, leading me along the side of the music block, where there’s another way in. ‘We’re going to be teenagers… I can’t wait!’ she says. ‘We’ll be all sophisticated and worldly and wise, and boys will fall at our feet…’
That’s not such a big change for Shannon. Boys fall at her feet all the time, or look at her with big, moony eyes and try to chat her up. Shannon plays it cool. She just tosses her hair and smiles to herself and walks right past. She’s waiting for someone special, she says. Someone a bit cooler, a bit different, a bit more mature.
She may have a long wait, at Kinnerton High.
Or… not.
As we pass the bicycle racks and head for the steps that lead up into the side entrance, we can see that our path is blocked. A long-legged boy in a black trilby hat is sprawled out across the steps, writing something on to his skinny black jeans with what looks like a white Tippex pen.
Shannon squeezes my arm. ‘Hey,’ she whispers, and that one tiny word is loaded with all kinds of possibilities. ‘He looks… interesting!’
I scan the hat, the jeans, the lazy way he’s sitting across the steps, Converse trainers trailing their bootlaces. This boy is no Year Seven, that’s for sure.
Shannon drops my arm and walks right up to the boy. He may not have fallen at her feet, exactly, but he’s sitting at them. He looks up from under the hat brim, revealing dark brown eyes, a crooked grin and a tangle of curly hair.
‘Haven’t seen you around here before,’ she says softly. ‘I don’t think I’d have forgotten.’
The boy studies Shannon carefully, silently, the way you might study a page of algebra. Then his eyes slide past her and focus on me. A smile flickers across his lips, and suddenly the ghost of a blush seeps up across my cheeks. I drag my eyes away, hide behind a curtain of hair.
‘So,’ Shannon is saying. ‘Are you new? What’s your name?’
His eyes flick back to Shannon. ‘Just joined Year Eight,’ he says. ‘My name’s Sam Taylor.’
‘I’m Shannon Kershaw,’ my best friend tells him, twirling a length of golden hair round one finger and fluttering her lashes. ‘You’d better get into school, Sam – the buzzer’s already gone. I can show you around, if you like. I’m Year Eight too.’
But Sam is looking at me again, brown eyes laughing. ‘How about you?’ he asks. ‘What’s your name?’
Shannon frowns. ‘This is my friend, Ginger,’ she says carelessly.
Sam grins. ‘Nice one,’ he says. ‘It kind of fits!’
‘So,’ Shannon cuts in. ‘Shall I show you around? You don’t want to be in trouble on your first day, do you?’
Sam looks like he doesn’t much care, either about Shannon or about being in trouble. ‘No thanks. I’ll be OK,’ he says.
I see Shannon blink, as if she can’t quite believe her own ears. Well, maybe she can’t. Boys don’t generally turn her down – for anything.
‘What are you doing to your jeans, anyway?’ she asks, glancing down at the scrawl of spidery white Tippex writing on his jeans. ‘Miss Bennett won’t be too pleased.’
Sam shrugs. ‘They’re not school uniform,’ he says. ‘So I thought I’d customize them, make them look more the part.’
The scribble of Tippex reads: School days are the best days of your life.
Shannon rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, right,’ she says. ‘Whatever. You’re in my way, OK?’
Sam Taylor gets to his feet, stepping to one side, still grinning at me from underneath the hat brim. Shannon huffs, hooks an arm through mine, and marches me up the steps.
‘See ya,’ Sam Taylor calls after us, raising his trilby hat. ‘Gingersnaps.’
It just doesn’t happen, usually. Boys do not notice me, not when Shannon is around. This is a first, and I can tell she’s not happy about it. By breaktime, Shannon has rewritten our encounter on the steps – and Sam Taylor has gone from possible crush material to all-out freak. Did she really flirt with him, flutter her long lashes, offer to show him around the school? Maybe not.
‘What a weirdo,’ she says. ‘That kid with the hat.’
We’re holed up in the girls’ loos, hogging the mirror, sharing strawberry lipgloss and smoothing our hair. I’m not scared to look at my reflection these days – the puppy fat has long gone, and so has the anxious, don’t-pick-on-me look.
‘Yeah… Sam Taylor is dodgy, I can tell. It’s not even like he’s good-looking, is it?’
‘Er… no,’ I say loyally. ‘Not really.’
But Sam Taylor made my cheeks burn, my heart beat faster.
‘Not good enough for us,’ Shannon declares.
She laughs, leaning towards the mirror to wipe away a smudge of eyeliner. ‘We’re looking for cool boys, this year,’ she goes on. ‘Forget Year Eights… I’m thinking Year Nine or Ten, minimum…’
She trails away into silence as a gasping, snuffling sound drifts out from the cubicle behind us.
‘What’s that?’ The sound of sorrowful nose-blowing can be heard, and then silence.
‘Hello?’ Shannon prompts. ‘Are you OK in there?’
‘Just… leave me alone,’ a small voice says, and then the buzzer erupts to signal the end of break, and Shannon shrugs and heads for the door.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We’ll be late for maths.’
The door swings shut behind her. I’m just about to follow when the cubicle door creaks open, and Emily Croft peers out. Her face is blotchy and streaked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
I should be gone, along with Shannon, but I look at Emily and somehow I can’t walk away.
I’ve avoided Emily Croft, pretty much, ever since I started Kinnerton High. She was never one of my tormentors – but she witnessed it all, she knew how things used to be, and I don’t need any reminders of that. I can’t really ignore her now, though.
‘What’s up, Emily?’ I say.
She just shakes her head, blotting at the tears with a sleeve.
Whatever the problem is, I don’t really want to know – I’ve had enough of tears and hurt to last me a lifetime. But I remember Emily crouching beside me on the ice, at that birthday party long ago, telling me not to let Chelsie win. She took my hand and helped me to my feet, helped me off the ice, and I owe her something for that, I guess.
‘Hold on,’ I tell her. ‘Wait there.’ I push out into the corridor, where Shannon is waiting, leaning against the noticeboard.
‘Er, maths?’ she reminds me. ‘Remember?’
I bite my lip. ‘Rescue mission,’ I explain. ‘It’s Emily Croft… she’s really upset. Tell Mr Kelly I’m on an errand of mercy. I’ll be there as soon as I can…’
‘Emily Croft?’ Shannon asks doubtfully.
I shrug. ‘She used to go to my old school,’ I explain. ‘Look, I won’t be long. Just cover for me…’
She rolls her eyes and tells me I’m crazy, then ambles off to maths. Back in the girls’ loos, Emily Croft is slumped on a toilet seat lid, wiping her nose with a long banner of scratchy loo roll. I fish out a clean tissue from my bag and hand it over.
‘So,’ I say. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s up?’
Fresh tears well up in Emily’s glassy blue eyes, spilling down over apple-pie cheeks. ‘Is it something at home?’ I ask gently. ‘Something to do with your parents? Is somebody ill?’
She shakes her head. I sigh. Am I supposed to go through every possible problem until I hit on the right one? It could take all day.
‘Look, Emily,’ I say. ‘Can I get someone else for you? A teacher, maybe? Or Meg?’
Emily starts to wail. I’m horrified. I wish I was in maths – I wish I was anywhere, really, anywhere but here. I put a tentativ
e hand on Emily’s shoulder, and she grabs on to me, sobbing, making a damp patch on my shirt. ‘Emily?’ I appeal, a note of panic in my voice.
She pulls back abruptly. ‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m really, really sorry, Ginger. I just… well, I’m just being silly.’
‘Silly?’
‘It’s Meg,’ she says, her voice a little wobbly. ‘Meg’s gone. Her dad got a new job in Scotland, and they’ve moved north. I’m going to miss her so, so much…’
I blink. Emily and Meg have been best friends since birth, just about. Serious, swotty, boring best friends, but still. And now Meg has gone?
‘Emily, I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘You’re bound to miss her, but you can stay in touch, and you’ll make new friends. It’s the start of a new school year, a fresh start…’
Emily looks uncertain.
‘Come on,’ I tell her. ‘I did it, didn’t I?’
She takes a deep breath in, dredging up a smile. ‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘Like I said, I’m just being silly. I’ll be fine. Look, thanks, Ginger.’
‘It’s OK. Look, let’s get you cleaned up…’
Emily splashes her face with cold water from the sink, combs back her straggly brown hair and straightens her tie. ‘I look terrible,’ she says. ‘My head’s splitting too. I might go down to the office and see if I can see the school nurse. What an idiot.’
‘You’re not,’ I tell her. ‘You’re really not. Want me to come to the office with you?’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine now,’ Emily says. ‘Honestly.’ We head out into the corridor, and Emily turns one way, me the other.
‘It’ll all work out OK,’ I call after her. ‘I promise.’
It’s kind of a rash promise, but I feel sorry for Emily Croft. She’s on her own now. Maybe she’ll find out how it feels to hang around on the fringes of a friendship, the way I used to with her and Meg, hoping that someone will look up and smile and notice you’re alive.
Still, that’s not my problem, is it?
I am seriously late for maths, and when I do finally get there, I find Sam Taylor sitting on the floor outside the maths room, still doodling across the legs of his jeans with the white Tippex pen.
He grins up at me from beneath the trilby hat, and a whole flock of butterflies start swooping around inside me.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How ya doin’?’
‘I’m doing OK,’ I say. ‘But I’m running late, and you’re in my way…’
Sam shifts his long legs to one side, and I look a little closer at the spidery white graffiti. A whole collection of maths formulae and equations are scrawled across his legs, along with the school days are the best days of your life motto.
‘What are you doing?’
Sam shrugs. ‘Maths is not my best subject,’ he says. ‘I’m trying to impress the teacher.’
‘It’s not working very well, is it?’ I ask. ‘How come you’re out here and everyone else is in there?’
He looks crestfallen. ‘A small difference of opinion,’ he admits. ‘Mr Kelly wanted me to take my hat off in class.’
‘So, why didn’t you?’
‘Religious reasons,’ Sam says.
I stifle a laugh. ‘What religion would that be then?’
‘Mine,’ Sam explains. ‘Hats are revered, worshipped, even.’
The classroom door creaks open and Mr Kelly appears. ‘Is this a private conversation, or can anyone join in?’ he asks.
‘Kind of private, actually,’ Sam replies, but Mr Kelly pretends not to hear.
‘Ginger Brown, at last,’ he says. ‘Good of you to join us. No sign of Emily?’
‘She’s gone to the office, Sir.’
‘Fuss over nothing, I expect,’ he huffs. ‘Next time you decide to do a good deed, do it in your own time, not mine. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘The world needs more good deeds,’ Sam Taylor chips in. ‘Random, unexpected acts of kindness–’
‘Would you like a random, unexpected trip to the Head’s office?’ Mr Kelly asks pleasantly.
‘No, Sir,’ Sam says.
‘Good. Inside, Ginger. I’ll expect you to catch up on everything you missed…’
I step over Sam’s legs and he grins and tips his hat, revealing a mess of unruly dark hair and brown, twinkly eyes. The door swings shut behind me, and I slip into a seat beside Shannon.
‘What was up with Emily?’ she whispers, the minute Mr Kelly’s back is turned. ‘Big drama?’
‘Meg Walters has gone to live in Scotland,’ I explain.
‘Meg? Was that her friend?’ she asks, and I realize the two plain, geeky girls from my old primary were barely even on her radar. ‘Too bad.’
I bite my lip. ‘I sort of feel sorry for her, though,’ I say. ‘I’d hate to lose you.’
‘Not gonna happen,’ Shannon says, steering the conversation away from Emily Croft. ‘So. Did you see the kid with the hat? Sam Taylor? He lasted about five minutes, seriously, and Mr Kelly lost the plot with him. I don’t see him fitting in around here…’
If I could say one thing to Sam Taylor, I’d tell him exactly what Cass once told me. First impressions count – you have to look cool, but you don’t want to stand out from the crowd. Then again, perhaps Sam Taylor doesn’t care about fitting in?
‘He looks… kind of interesting, though,’ I say carefully.
Shannon laughs. ‘Ginger,’ she says. ‘Don’t go there, seriously. The boy is weird!’
I frown. I don’t exactly know what to make of Sam Taylor. He’s not quite hot and he’s not quite cool, but he’s something, that’s for sure. He’s different from anyone I ever met before.
‘Well, yeah, obviously,’ I reply, without missing a beat. ‘Weird. That’s just what I was thinking…’
Shannon is right – Sam Taylor is clearly wired to the moon. As we file out of maths, he is telling Mr Kelly that hats help to focus the mind, trilby hats especially. ‘It’s something to do with the brim,’ he is saying. ‘It filters out the background noise, helps concentration.’
I struggle to keep my face straight. OK, Sam Taylor is weird, but he’s kind of funny too. He catches my eye as we pass, winking slowly, as if to let me in on the joke. ‘Hey,’ he grins. ‘See ya later, Gingersnaps…’
Shannon hooks her arm through mine and we head off to English. ‘Come on,’ she says, the minute we’re out of earshot. ‘Gingersnaps! ’
‘Watch it,’ I warn her.
‘Oh, I’m watching,’ Shannon says. ‘Seriously, Ginger. He’s just so… dodgy!’
‘He’s not my type,’ I argue, although suddenly I know that if I had a type, it would definitely involve trilby hats and twinkly eyes.
Shannon laughs. ‘Well, no,’ she says. ‘Obviously. But I think you might be his! Sweet!’
I laugh, and try to tell myself I’m not laughing at Sam Taylor.
Shannon consults her timetable. ‘Room 17. Yessss… Miss Booth again!’ We had Miss Booth last year, and we didn’t learn a thing, unless you count perfecting the art of reading teen mags under the desk, and painting our nails while flicking through Animal Farm. This made her Shannon’s favourite teacher, just about.
As we trail into Room 17, our eyes open wide. The place has had a makeover – it’s barely recognizable. Jungly pot plants line the window sill, arty film posters are pinned to the walls and an old Killers track is wailing away in the background.
‘Not Miss Booth then,’ Shannon says, flopping down at a front-row table. ‘Maybe we’ve got a new teacher?’
I slide into the seat beside her. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘A teacher who likes The Killers. That has to be a good sign, right?’
She shrugs. ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ she says. ‘Even my mum likes The Killers. It doesn’t mean anything.’
Kids flop down into the seats around us, flicking at the potted plants, laughing at the retro film posters. Emily Croft appears, her eyes still slightly pink. There’s a space beside me, two empty chairs, and
for a moment, I wonder if I should ask her to sit with us, but I know that Shannon would think I was crazy to even think of it. I ditch the idea almost at once and settle for a friendly grin. ‘Hey, Emily,’ I say. ‘Feeling better?’ She nods and smiles and finds herself a seat in the corner, alone.
The classroom door swings open and a teacher we’ve never seen before walks in. You can just about hear the class holding its breath. Shannon digs me in the ribs. ‘Now that,’ she whispers, ‘that’s more like it!’
This teacher is young, cool and good-looking. Enthusiasm fizzes around him, an invisible force field, and we’re fascinated, silent, a captive audience. We just don’t have cool teachers at Kinnnerton High. This is a first.
Mr Hunter writes his name up on the whiteboard in red marker pen, and sits on the desk instead of behind it, grinning. He has smiley eyes and light brown hair in a spiky cut, and his skinny cords and soft, suede jacket look stylish and expensive.
Young, cool, enthusiastic… could Mr Hunter have wandered into the wrong school by mistake? He tells us this is his first real job since leaving college, and that he knows we’re all going to get along brilliantly.
‘Yes, Sir!’ we chorus.
‘So… who likes English?’ he asks.
A few hands go up… the usual suspects, Josh Jones, Robin West and, of course, Emily Croft. The rest of us look guilty, because already we want to please Mr Hunter, whether we like English or not.
‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘Anyone into reading?’
The same three hands shoot up.
‘Does the Beano count, Sir?’ Jas Kapoor shouts from the back, and Mr Hunter laughs and says that of course it does. ‘Everything counts,’ he tells us. ‘War and Peace, Heat magazine, the back of a brown sauce bottle…’
A few more hands straggle up, including Shannon and me. We are big fans of Heat magazine.
‘How about writing?’ Mr Hunter asks. ‘You have to write at school, of course – but does anyone here like writing in their own time? Maybe some of you are writing stories, poems, plays, books even?’
Emily’s hand is first up again.
‘I bet a few of you keep a diary or a journal,’ Mr Hunter continues, and a few more hands are raised. ‘Perhaps some of you have your own websites or blogs – even a mild addiction to MSN messenger?’
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