by Holly Smale
In tropical and subtropical oceans all over the world, you can find a frogfish of the family Antennariidae. It is bright red and silent, and notable because of its penchant for creeping slowly along the sea floor on its pectoral fins.
We’re now basically indistinguishable.
I’m so embarrassed, I am literally centimetres away from dropping to the floor and shuffling off on my belly too.
India’s standing under a bright yellow umbrella, and she gives me a little What’s going on? frown.
I respond with an I did a bad thing wince back and shrink a little smaller.
“Right,” Mr Collins says angrily, blowing a whistle. “We are all grouped here together today to practise sampling and classification for your Biology AS-level coursework.”
“Yes, sir,” everyone says, still staring at me.
“But some people seem to think they have more important, exciting things to talk about right now. Apparently this is an inconvenient distraction from their social calendar.”
My biology teacher points at me unnecessarily: the entire department is already focused on the middle of my forehead.
I stare at the floor, suddenly grateful it’s raining.
I’m so humiliated, it’s the only thing that’s going to stop me bursting into spontaneous flames.
“If you can’t show this class and your teachers the respect and focus they deserve,” Mr Collins continues clearly, “then you can stand in the rain with Harriet Manners. Am I crystal?”
“Yes, sir,” say thirty-three students.
Water drips off the end of my nose and my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
I’m just trying to work out if there’s a way of harnessing the rain and dissolving completely like the Wicked Witch of the West when a throat clears.
And a hand goes up.
just have a quick question, sir.”
There’s a short pause as Mr Collins frowns and peers at the speaker through his glasses. “Yes, Miss … Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“India,” she says smoothly. “India Perez. I moved here from Leeds at the start of term.”
“Ah.” Mr Collins nods. “Yes. I’ve heard your name in the staffroom. What would you like to know?”
“Sir, are your atoms, molecules or ions arranged in a highly ordered, microscopic structure?”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Have you ever known yourself to form a lattice shape, and under a microscope are you largely geometrical?”
“Sorry?”
“Are any members of your family a) a snowflake –” India’s now ticking off on her fingers – “b) a diamond or c) table salt?”
“India,” Mrs Harris whispers nervously.
“I’m sorry, but this teacher wanted to know if he was crystal. I’m simply trying to find out by means of classification. We are in a biology class, aren’t we?”
All three classes have started sniggering, and Mr Collins is slowly turning the same colour as India’s hair.
“Oh, another funny one,” he snaps. “We’re a veritable stand-up comedy show round here, aren’t we. Get in the middle too, Miss Perez. Go on. In.”
India slowly closes her umbrella and walks towards me through the rain.
I watch her approach in bewilderment.
Honestly, I kind of thought India didn’t like me very much. I’ve caught her looking at me with disdain way too many times for it to be a coincidence.
“I don’t think he’s crystal at all,” she says as she stands next to me. “It’s extremely disappointing.”
I smile soggily at her. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Her hair is getting steadily darker and a raindrop is collecting on her nose ring.
“Yeah,” she says flatly. “I kind of did. He shouldn’t have picked on you like that.”
In the meantime, Mr Collins’ temper seems to be slowly winding down again. “Right,” he says sharply, picking up his clipboard once more. “Anybody else fancy getting wet today? Or can I get on with my class now?”
There’s a moment of silence.
The kind of silence you could slide down, should you be interested in sliding down silences.
Then two of the boys put their umbrellas down. “Yeah, go on then. It’s getting a bit dry here anyway.”
“Yup.” Another umbrella disappears. “I fancy a bit of rain action.”
“Me too. Mutiny!”
“Well, if everyone else is then …”
One by one – slowly at first, and then with increasing speed – all three classes close their umbrellas and start walking towards me through the rain. My heart is now expanding so quickly it feels like it’s going to squeeze out between my ribs in ribbons, like the red plasticine in a Mr Potato Head.
Because it doesn’t seem possible. It can’t be possible.
But it is.
Slowly but surely, the entire playground moves from one side to the other until every biology student in the year is in the middle of the playground, soaking wet.
Standing behind … me.
ll but one.
I didn’t even know Jasper did biology until this moment. That’s how quiet he is, and how far at the back he’s been standing.
“Oh for the love of …” he sighs from his solo position by the fence. “Seriously, what is it with this girl? Is she made of chocolate or something?”
And without warning, a hot, red firework of anger starts fizzing inside me like a spinning Catherine wheel.
I hate this boy.
This is one of the most triumphant, glorious moments of my entire life and Jasper’s ruining it. Again. He’s already taken Toby away from me. Why does he have to try and take the rest of the year too?
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
“Actually,” I snap, folding my arms furiously. “There is a direct correlation between the amount of chocolate a country consumes and the number of Nobel laureates they produce. So there.”
Yeah, I know.
Everyone is looking at me: I panicked.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Jasper exhales. “You literally just took one word out of what I said and attached an unrelated fact to it.”
Sugar cookies. That’s exactly what I did.
“So?” I manage, the firework fizzing again. “What do you know about chocolate?”
“An average of eight insect parts are found in each bar,” he says flatly. “Which makes it a lot less nice than everyone thinks it is. Hey – maybe you’re made out of chocolate after all.”
My cheeks flame. That is very hurtful.
And scientifically accurate, which makes it even worse.
“Well the compound theobromine is found in chocolate and it can be lethal in large quantities. So maybe you have something in common with it too.”
Yup: I panicked again.
“I am so confused right now,” somebody whispers. “What are they talking about?”
“Now …” Mrs Harris says, stepping forward and gripping her hands together anxiously. “Let’s be nice, you two. We’re here to … to … study ecological diversity, so why don’t we all grab a clipboard, a white tub and a bit of rope and …”
There’s a cough.
“Just hang on a second,” Mr Collins says, stepping between us and rubbing his chin with his hand. “Am I right in thinking that you, Jasper King, do not like Harriet Manners?”
“No,” he agrees, glowering until something inside me does an angry little flip backwards. “I think it’s fair to say I do not.”
“And would I be correct in assuming that you, Harriet Manners, are not terribly fond of Jasper King?”
“Correct,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him until my eyebrows hurt.
Mr Collins breaks into an enormous grin: as if all his Christmases have come at once, along with half his birthdays and a couple of Hanukkahs too.
“Excellent,” he says, zipping up his jacket triumphantly. “That saves me giving the entire class a detention. Harri
et Manners, maybe you need to spend a little time with somebody who understands what kind of behaviour this sixth form expects from its students.”
Jasper and I glance at each other in confusion, and then my stomach goes rigid.
No. No no no. No no no no NO.
“Harriet and Jasper will be working together for the rest of the day,” Mr Collins confirms cheerfully. “Have fun. Class dismissed.”
ere are some classic enemies in popular culture:
1. Captain Hook and Peter Pan
2. Shere Khan and Mowgli
3. Maleficent and Aurora
4. Ursula and Ariel
5. Scar and Mufasa
And yes, they’re also all Disney characters but I still think cartoons perfectly reflect the modern world and all its conundrums and aren’t just intended for young children at all.
Whatever Nat might say.
Or the British Board of Film Classification.
But as Jasper and I silently grab our roll of string and clipboards and start heading into the long, wet grass at the bottom of the field, I can’t stop wondering which one I am: the villain or the hero.
After all, I’m the one in trouble and he’s the one I’m supposed to be trying to emulate.
But I’d know if I was the bad guy, wouldn’t I?
“Would Your Highness like me to take my coat off and throw it across a puddle for you to tread on?” Jasper growls as I pick my way precariously through the muddy grass. “Or should I carry you on my shoulders while playing some kind of celebratory trumpet?”
This is so typical.
I’ve spent the majority of my life stomping across mud in supermarket trainers, looking for flowers to press/dandelions to wish on, and now I actually have to do it for grades: now is when I’m wearing soggy cotton and little leather slippers with no grip at all.
By comparison, Jasper is dry, warm and comfortable in waterproof boots, jeans and a light blue anorak.
I really, really despise this boy.
We reach a particularly thick section of grass next to a big oak tree and stop. The rain has finally slowed down, and everything is starting to sparkle slightly.
“First of all,” I snap, unrolling a piece of blue string and pinning it to the floor with a metal spike. “I am not Queen Elizabeth the First, despite similar colouring. Second of all, you wish you were the famous explorer Sir Walter Raleigh. And third of all, the cloak across the puddle story is fiction made up by clergyman Thomas Fuller so …”
So what?
“Stick that in your face and stuff it,” I finish lamely.
“That’s the worst comeback I’ve ever heard. And why would I want to be Raleigh, anyway? He had his head embalmed and given away in a bag.”
“Well, I don’t know about everyone else,” I retort, forcing another stake in the ground, “but my fingers are firmly crossed for a repeat performance.”
“Ouch. Historical burn.” Jasper glares at me as I start stalking off with the roll of string. “Where are you going, princess? That’s not a right angle. You know we need to section off a perfect square to get an accurate area.”
“This is a right angle.”
“It’s seventy five degrees, at best,” he says, taking the string off me. “Do you even understand what a right angle is?”
Oooooh.
“How dare you,” I snap, taking the string back off him. “I knew what a right angle was before you were born.”
“When were you born?”
“… August.”
“Right. So you must have been one of those genius unfertilised eggs everyone talks about.” Jasper pulls the string into the final fourth side of the square. “Why don’t you just sit on a log and contemplate how amazing you are while I start measuring the diversity of species in our area?”
Another little flash of fury pulses through me.
Made significantly worse by the fact that my feet are now so cold and wet that sitting down for a bit actually sounds quite appealing.
“I’ve found an insect,” Jasper adds sharply, crouching on the floor. “Wings.”
I look at the key we’ve been given. “One pair or two?”
“Two.”
“Membranous or hard and leathery?”
“Membranous.”
“Covered in a kind of white powder?”
“Think so. The wings are held over the body, not lying flat to the sides.”
“Then it’s a lacewing. A Neuroptera, actually.” Then – before I can stop myself – I blurt: “Did you know that lacewings can detect bats using hearing apparatus in their wings?”
“I did, yes,” Jasper says, unrolling the string to its final corner. “Because I, too, am a sixth form biology student. But thanks for the patronising information.”
Another little dagger of anger flashes through me.
“Why are you even doing biology?” I bend down and peer into the grass. “I thought you were an art student. Write down frog.”
“What kind of frog?”
“Smooth moist skin, green, stripes on back legs, hops. Frog.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s a Rana temporaria,” I snap. “I know a common frog when I see one.”
“Maybe you should try kissing it then, Your Highness. See if another prince pops up.”
My cheeks go bright red. I have no intention of kissing anything, frog or otherwise.
But I resent the implication that I might.
“And I like biology,” Jasper adds, kneeling into the grass. “Write down earthworm.”
“Maybe you should kiss that,” I say fiercely, scribbling it on my clipboard. “See if yet another slimy creature without a proper functioning heart pops up.”
Jasper makes a weird snorting sound, and I glance up. It sounded like a laugh, but his face is completely composed again.
“Work on that one,” he says sharply, standing up. “One day it could develop into an actual joke.”
Oooh.
We’re only a metre away from each other now, and I’m so angry I’m trembling slightly. For the first time, I’m close enough to see that there are six freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and his eyes aren’t two different colours at all. They’re both bright blue, but one has a large splodge of brown in it. As if somebody dropped a little splash of the wrong paint on wet paper.
It’s really pretty, actually, which makes me even angrier. Jasper doesn’t deserve interesting, genetically rare eyes. This horrible boy should have boring matching ones, just like everybody else.
We stare at each other for a few seconds.
A line of blue string is running round us in a perfect square, and we’re in the middle: tense and pulsing with anger.
Exactly like a boxing ring.
Any minute now a man in a tuxedo with a microphone is going to jump out from behind a tree.
3. 2. 1. FIGHT!
At that precise moment the whistle blows – calling us back for our first round of results – and Jasper turns abruptly, rolls the string back up and hands it to me.
“Torture’s over,” he says sharply, before pounding across the grass towards school. “I hope that lesson was as illuminating for you as it was for me.”
And I’ve had just about enough.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I say angrily, running after him. “Is there a particular reason, or is being nasty just a fun extracurricular hobby?”
Jasper keeps walking.
“I don’t hate you, Harriet. I just don’t like you very much.”
I know that should be a relief, but for some reason I don’t quite understand, it feels kind of worse.
“But why?” I say breathlessly, still running to catch up. “I know we didn’t get off to the best start but—”
“Everyone in the entire world doesn’t have to worship you, Harriet,” he sighs. “Gliding through life surrounded by fans, with your I’m-so-cute-and-quirky dinosaur biscuits and random facts. I just find you a bit full of it, that’s all
. I’m only one person and very much in the minority. Why does it matter?”
I stop running and flap my mouth a few times.
Full of what, exactly?
And I can’t believe I’ve spent my entire life being ostracised and now I finally have lots of friends it’s being used against me. Plus – I’m not trying to be cute. I just really, really like dinosaurs.
This is so unfair.
“Well I may not be your cup of tea,” I say, trying to run past him, “but I’ve always been Toby’s. So why have you told one of my best friends not to play with me any more?”
Then I flush.
Great: I just made myself sound about six years old. As if somebody took my favourite teddy bear off me and I’m getting a bit hysterical about it.
Probably because that’s exactly how it feels.
“If somebody doesn’t want to be part of your fan club,” Jasper says tiredly, “it has absolutely nothing to do with me.”
He pointedly lifts an eyebrow.
And that does it.
The little angry firework stops twisting in my stomach, and – with an abrupt whoosh – bursts up through my chest, into my head and out of my ears in a shower of sparks.
“I hate you,” I hiss, spinning round and whipping the blue string through the air at him. “You mean, horrible, unkind—”
But I don’t get a chance to find the right noun.
Jupiter has the fastest spinning rate of any planet in our solar system at 28,273 miles an hour. Not for the first time this term, I may have ended up there.
Because as I watch the string sail through the air – two metres to Jasper’s left – I just keep right on rotating.
Round and round and round.
And as my hand clutches at nothing and my silly slippers try to find some traction, I give a little squeak and slip forward, still spinning slightly.
Straight into the mud.
here have been a lot of embarrassing moments in my life.
The time I walked around the supermarket with my skirt tucked into my knickers until a sales assistant had to point it out to me. The time I had cinnamon powder on my top lip and everyone thought I’d grown a “little ginger moustache”.
Peeing myself during storytime when I was five because I got too excited about The Faraway Tree.