“Yeah, I had to clean out his garage and everything. He said the physical labour would do me good.” It wasn’t completely untrue.
“Oh my goodness!” Gina said. Everyone stared at me like I’d won first prize for Fat Club’s Worst Parent.
I shrugged. “It’s just what my dad’s like.”
Brandon gave me a weird look, but what did he know? He hadn’t seen my dad for years. He could easily have turned into a dictator since then.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jemima,” Gina said. “I’m sorry to hear what you’ve all said. Those letters weren’t supposed to get you into trouble. Quite the opposite. The aim of the class is to empower you, all of you, to make good decisions about your life and your body. I truly believe the key to doing that is appreciating how amazing you are. I’ve worked with all kinds of people, with all kinds of different bodies, from world-class athletes to primary-school children. And I’ve never failed once. Never. Maybe, right now, you’re feeling like you’ve failed. But, I promise, after a few weeks, you’ll be feeling stronger and healthier and happier than ever before.” Then she clapped her hands. “That’s the GGB effect!” She stood up and pointed to the back of her T-shirt. “See?” It had a picture of the British flag and the Olympic logo on it. Underneath it said Team GGB in black letters.
“It’s spelled wrong, Gina,” I said. “It’s supposed to be GB for Great Britain.”
“Ha!” she said. “No, it’s GGB! Gina Grantley-Bond! You’re on my team now!” She smiled another gigantic smile.
And no matter how hard I tried, it was literally impossible not to smile too. It was like she’d cast a magic spell over us, making it seem normal to have your own initials printed on the back of your T-shirt.
“Oh! I almost forgot!” She picked up a metal flask and poured a dark-green liquid into paper cups. “I’ll also be teaching you about different types of nutritious drinks, including plant milks.”
Brandon scratched his head. “Plant milks? How do you milk a plant?”
Gina stared at him and blinked a few times. “Why don’t you have a look on YouTube later, Brandon? Now, this small cup of wheatgrass juice will do wonders for your body and mind! And, not only that, it tastes delicious!”
I held mine up to the light. It looked like pond water. If Gina’s drink gave me dysentery, I would definitely sue the school. Gina tipped her head back and gulped it down in one.
“Delicious! Wheatgrass is one of the most nutritional liquids on the planet. It will give you an immediate sense of well-being.”
I watched Maya and Heidi eyeing their cups suspiciously. I peered into mine. Could a cup of wheatgrass really make me feel better about myself? I took a deep breath and poured the whole cup down my throat.
Immediately, a memory popped into my mind – when Dad took me and Jasper to this city farm ages ago and Brandon and Alina came with us. We all had a go at milking this gigantic cow with huge, swollen udders. It was terrifying. And unhygienic. Brandon kept pushing me until I was squashed up right next to it. Suddenly, the cow stepped sideways and there was this loud, squelching noise. The next thing I knew, my legs were covered in cowpat. I could feel its disgusting warmth absorbing into my socks. I cried for the rest of the day and made Dad clean my wellies off with a hose. Brandon called me “Cowpat” almost every day at primary school after that. I remembered the cow’s hot grassy breath, the saliva dripping from its mouth, and the stench of fresh manure on my feet.
That was exactly what Gina’s wheatgrass drink tasted like. Like being breathed and pooed on simultaneously by a cow.
Brandon held his cup to his lips. “What’s it taste like, Jemima?”
I looked at him for a moment, then smiled my best smile. I tried to get it to exactly seventy per cent of my face. Just like Gina’s. Then I said, “Delicious!”
Obviously, I went home that day and lied to Dad about what happened in Gina’s class. There was no point in being forced to do Fat Club if I couldn’t get some sympathy about it.
“She made you do laps of the hockey pitch?” Dad asked, wide-eyed. “How many?”
“Thirty!” I said. I knew it sounded like a lot. The perimeter of the school hockey pitch must be about three hundred metres. Which meant I’d just told my dad that Gina made us run over five and a half miles. I looked at Dad’s face. I was pretty sure he had no idea. Anyway, he’d never feel sorry for me unless the class was extremely bad.
“Thirty! My God!” He shook his head in horror.
It was going so well, I thought maybe if I carried on, he’d stop me doing Gina’s class altogether. Then I could watch Miki’s rehearsals on Friday lunchtimes like a normal person.
“And she made us lift weights!” I said. “And do press-ups.”
“All in one lunchtime?” Dad tutted. “I’m amazed you’re still standing!” The tiniest hint of a smile flickered in the corner of his mouth. I needed to make it sound a lot worse.
“My legs are kind of aching.” I rubbed my calf muscles. “It was like a boot camp. She didn’t let us have a break, or any water.”
Dad’s mouth dropped open. “No.”
“I told you the class was illegal, Dad. You should have listened to me.”
“Yeah, maybe I should have. The class definitely breached your human rights, I’d say.”
“I know!” I smiled. My dad actually agreed with me about human rights for once! Or maybe he was just being extra nice because he’d shouted at me this morning. “It’s a miracle I’m not in hospital with dehydration.” I took off my rucksack and collapsed onto the sofa, trying to look as dehydrated as possible. “I did warn you about Gina, Dad. But it’s okay. You can just send Mrs Savage an email saying you don’t want me to do the class any more and we can both just forget about it.”
Dad smiled. “It sounds—”
“Torturous!” I said, putting my feet up. “Just like I knew it would be.”
“Torturous, exactly!” Dad said, leaning forward. “In fact, even a prisoner wouldn’t be subjected to that sort of treatment. And, what with you being grounded because of the class, and forced to clear out the garage, and your belongings confiscated, that must make it even worse.” Dad leaned back and folded his arms.
My heart sank. I should have known his sympathy wasn’t genuine. He raised his eyebrows like he was expecting an explanation. But I didn’t say anything. It’s called the right to remain silent.
“That’s right, Jemima. You see, Gina phoned me after the class.”
“What?” I sighed extra loudly. “School will literally be FaceTiming you soon.”
“And what was it Gina said to me? Oh yes, she was concerned about you being in so much trouble over the class.”
I screwed up my face. “I seriously don’t know where she got that from.”
Dad took a deep breath. “She got it from you telling her, Jemima. She said you made me out to be some sort of tyrant!”
“Well, she’s lying.”
He sighed full volume. “Right, an ex-coach of the Paralympic team of Great Britain is lying.”
I thought for a moment. “She could also be lying about that.”
“Jemima!” Dad shook his head about a million times, then his shoulders started shaking with laughter. He walked over and rubbed my head. “Oh, what am I going to do with you, hey?” He was in an extremely good mood. Which was extremely weird. “Anyway, I had a good chat with Gina! She seems great! She said you did really well today!” I eyed him suspiciously. “Listen, I’m sorry about shouting this morning. I should have known you were just worried about the class. Oh, and the eyeliner thing.” Dad held out his hand and Luna’s gold eyeliner dropped onto my lap. “If you want to wear a bit of make-up now and again – not to school, and not that I think you need to – then that’s okay by me.” He must have had a lobotomy at work or something.
“Thanks, Dad!” I said, picking up the eyeliner pencil. “Guess I’d better ask Luna if I can borrow it then.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “Jemima! Yes,
you’d better!”
“How come you changed your mind?”
“Let’s just say that Gina Grantley-Bond might share some of your thoughts on self-expression. And that reminds me…” Dad pulled an old photograph out of his pocket and handed it to me. “That was taken in 1908.”
And there she was. My Great-Great-Auntie Lilian, the famous fortune-teller. She was wearing a huge dress with flowers around the collar, like an old-fashioned nightie. She was staring into the camera with stone-cold eyes, dark hair piled high on her head, and a full beard.
I peered closer. “That’s stuck on!”
“Not according to your nana. Anyway, we’re seeing her tomorrow so you can ask her about it.”
“Great, so I inherited Mum’s brains and Great-Great-Auntie Lilian’s body type.” I felt my chin. “Maybe I should start shaving.”
Dad laughed and headed into the kitchen. “You know, Jemima, your Auntie Lilian was widely celebrated in her lifetime. She was an astute businesswoman and toured the country with that fortune-telling beard. I think she had something like twenty proposals of marriage!” He stuck his head through the bead curtain. “She was a smart, strong woman, and you could do a lot worse than having her blood running through your veins.”
“Not her blood, Dad,” I called. “That’s not how genetics work!” I studied the photo of Auntie Lilian. Her dark eyes seemed to pierce right into my soul. “But,” I said to myself, “maybe I got some of her DNA.”
The next day we went to visit Nana Small. She lives in this special village for old people about ten miles outside Clifton-on-Sea. It’s called Pacific Heights. It’s approximately eight thousand miles away from the Pacific Ocean, but Dad said the developers probably thought the English Channel Heights didn’t have the same ring to it. Everyone who lives there has grey hair apart from my nana. Hers is platinum blonde. It sits in a huge bun right on the top of her head. She always wears sunglasses, even in winter, has a tattoo on her wrist of a hand with an eye in the centre, and some of her back teeth are made out of gold.
When we arrived, Nana said she wanted some fresh air, so I helped her into her wheelchair and tucked a blanket around her. Dad pushed her through the courtyard and over the little bridge by the lake. We stopped at her favourite spot, next to the weeping willow trees. Nana said the leaves were turning brown, which signified a time for reflection and calm. I said it signified their chlorophyll breaking down, but Dad gave me The Look so I stopped talking.
Jasper circled the lake with this tiny putt-putt boat he’d made from an old Coke can. He’d called me Auntie Lilian approximately fifty times that morning, and said he could see stubble growing on my chin. I watched him light the candle on the boat and carefully place it on the water. I secretly hoped it would sink. I sat on the bench next to Nana’s chair and took out the old tin of photos from my bag.
“Goodness me!” Nana said. “Wherever did you find these?”
“Dad forced me to clear out the garage because of an accident.”
Nana tutted. “He’s worse than your grandfather.”
I opened the tin and placed it on her lap. She picked up a photo of her mum, my great-grandmother. She had the biggest hair I’d ever seen, like she’d walked head first into a beehive.
Nana looked at it for a minute, then held it to her heart. “Oh dear, old age sends you daft!” she said, wiping her eyes with a hankie. “Now, your dad said you took a special exam for a TV show!”
“Yeah, Brainiacs. I’ll find out if I’ve qualified for the Selection Day soon. We watched it last Christmas, remember?”
Nana thought for a moment. “Is that the one with the nice lady who picks the letters?”
I smiled. “No, Nana. That’s Countdown.”
“Oh, maybe I was resting my eyes when Brainiacs was on,” she said.
Actually, I did kind of remember her snoring through the maths round.
We looked at the old photos as Jasper watched his boat sail across the lake and Dad stood on the bridge half watching, half looking at his phone.
“Now, will you look at her!” Nana said, picking up a photo.
I looked closely. It was my Great-Great-Auntie Lilian, minus the beard. I recognized the stony eyes. “See, Dad! Auntie Lilian’s beard was stuck on!”
“Oh no, love,” Nana said. “That’s not Lilian. That’s her twin sister, Mabel.”
I looked at Nana.
“I’m telling the truth, young lady!”
I forgot Nana was a professional mind-reader. “So, Auntie Mabel didn’t have a fortune-telling beard as well then?” I asked.
“Oh no,” Nana said, popping a soft mint in her mouth. “Mabel was a bare-knuckle fighter.”
Dad stood on the bridge, typing on his phone, while Nana told tales of my great-great-aunts that were stranger than anything I’d read in a fiction book.
“Oh, look at this, Orion! One from your birthday! You look just like Jasper. Thank goodness you both grew into your ears!”
And Jasper looked so annoyed, I had to try really hard not to laugh.
“Thanks!” Dad walked over and peered at the photo in Nana’s hand. “Looks like you cut my hair that year too. God, look at the size of that cake!” He tutted and dropped the photo back in the tin. “It’s almost time to start thinking about your birthday, Jemima! I expect you can tell us precisely how many days it is until you become… a stroppy teenager!”
“Very funny,” I said. “Twenty-nine.”
Dad sat down and squeezed my shoulders. “Exciting times, hey? Turning thirteen, this brilliant new class with Gina—”
I folded my arms. “Not the adjective I’d use.”
“And I’m sure you’ll get through to the next round of Brainiacs.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t.”
“Why ever do you say that, love?” Nana asked, leaning over the photos to look directly into my eyes. It was a mind-reading thing. Like your eyeballs had to be practically touching hers before she’d believe a word you said.
I shrugged. It was impossible to lie to my nana, but it was impossible to tell her the truth sometimes too.
Jasper shouted from the far edge of the lake, “She thinks she’s too fat for TV!”
“Jasper!” Dad shouted back. “What were we talking about just this morning?”
So, now I knew they’d been secretly talking about me.
“I wasn’t calling her fat.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Nana said, squeezing my arm. “Have a soft mint.”
That day, I thought being in a family where no one understood how you felt was the worst thing that could happen to you. But it’s not. Some things hurt even worse than that.
On Monday in form, Mr Nelson reminded us about the camping trip, and read out a list of people who still needed to bring their permission slips back, even though it was still six weeks away. I put my hand up and asked how it was legal for us to sleep outside in tents in late October. He told me I was welcome to come back at lunchtime and read the school’s 250-page health and safety policy document that explained the answer. Miki giggled as I shook my head.
Then Mr Nelson showed us pictures of the camping site. It looked like the set from a horror film. Afzal made a joke about werewolves, and Lottie asked innocently about Bigfoot. Mr Nelson told her it was American folklore, then Lottie looked directly at me and slowly mouthed, “Bigfoot.”
Maybe it was getting compared to a mythical ape-like creature that inhabits the forests of North America, but I spent the rest of the day hoping I’d break my leg over half-term so I wouldn’t have to camp with Lottie Freeman.
For the rest of the week, if people weren’t talking about Camp Go Wild! and how funny it would be to capsize into freezing water, like they’d never heard of hypothermia, they were talking about Brainiacs. People who took the test had attached the lightning-bolt key chains to their pencil cases or bags and used their special yellow pens in class. I kept mine in my pencil case. Miki distracted me by singing
Mary Poppins songs, and every lunchtime we went through his lines. By the end of the week, I knew his part so well I could probably have auditioned to be his understudy.
On Friday morning, Erin sat next to me in maths, talking about how hard the Brainiacs questions were, and playing clips of last year’s show on her phone before Mrs Lee arrived.
“It would be so cool to be on it!” Erin said. “Apparently, Mrs Savage is going to announce who’s got through in assembly on Monday! I can’t wait! I’ve got no chance. I couldn’t even answer half the questions. But everyone’s saying you’ll get through, Jem. You get full marks in everything!”
But I felt sick thinking about it. I dreaded the idea of standing up in Lower School assembly, so how could I stand up in front of hundreds of brainy strangers at the Selection Day? Or millions on national TV? I wished they recorded Brainiacs on the radio instead.
As I walked into the sports hall that lunchtime, Gina was dragging a mat from a pile in the corner. She greeted me with a gargantuan smile.
“I hope you’re ready for a relaxing class!”
“We’re doing a meditation,” Brandon said as I put my bag down.
I’d heard of meditation from Auntie Luna. It helps clear your mind and restore your energy levels. And sometimes it makes you fall asleep. Last time I meditated with Luna, I was so bored I practised my twenty-six times tables. It wasn’t really meditation, more like homework.
I helped Gina pull a green mat into a space near Heidi’s and lay down with my arms by my sides.
“First, I would like you to breathe,” Gina said.
I rolled my eyes. Like I wasn’t already doing that.
“Take a really deep breath in, and out. Put your hands on your tummy and fill it up as big as it will go!”
I wanted to tell Gina it’s your diaphragm that fills up with air, not your tummy, but you’re not allowed to talk during meditation. I could hear Heidi slowly breathing in and out. She had her eyes closed and her belly was going up and down. I looked the other way and saw Brandon’s feet twitching. One of his toes was poking out of a hole in his sock. The only good thing about Gina’s class was being about the same size as everyone else. For once, I didn’t worry about how far my belly stuck out, or how much space I took up.
Jemima Small Versus the Universe Page 9