My Friend Miranda

by Im Griffin

  “Janet, you know the talent competition...”

  I was concentrating on the drawing in Sinead’s rough book.

  “Mm...”

  “My mum said I should enter to do my dancing. What do you think?”

  Miranda attended some kind of modern dance class, which always sounded absolutely hideous to me. However, I had never seen her in action, and had no idea whether it was suitable for a talent competition.

  “There’ll be loads of people. It could be a bit embarrassing.”

  “Are you two not doing anything?”

  Sinead snorted derisively. “No way! Not with the whole school watching.”

  Miranda was looking slightly crushed, and I felt a bit sorry for her.

  “But there’s nothing to stop you doing it. Go for it if you want to Miranda.”

  I drew out the blanks for Sinead’s next word, and when I looked up again Miranda had gone.

  The talent competition was the Friday lunchtime before half-term, starting at half past one. Miss Moody had conceded that as it was nearly holidays we could miss the first half of the lesson after lunch, which meant a full fifty minutes of unsurpassable entertainment, or so the luridly coloured posters claimed. Miranda and I got down to the dining hall early and were served the first pizzas as they came out of the oven, but Miranda was really nervous and could hardly eat anything; she had a tape player she kept fussing around with, and a carrier bag containing her ‘dancing clothes’. I couldn’t help giggling a bit at the idea of Miranda in a tutu, but she haughtily informed me that ‘you wear a leotard for modern dance’. She left after a few minutes to get ready, so I went to sit with Rachel and Sinead. I had them in stitches with my impressions of Miranda doingThe Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

  It was only 10p to get in, including a free drumstick lollypop. We went up to our usual seats in the balcony to get a good view, and found that most of our class had hit upon the same idea. Vikki and Trisha had pulled off bits of the silver bunting from around the stage, and were wearing it as ear-rings. There was a panel of teachers sitting behind a table on the stage, who had been elected to act as judges. They were the nice teachers everyone liked – no sign of Mrs Trotter or Miss Heaney.

  A loud cheer rose from the audience accompanied by catcalls and wolf-whistles as Jules Walker, 5N’s most popular pupil, bounced onto the stage, resplendent in a gold lamé catsuit and bright pink Doc Marten boots. She did a little shimmy and yelled confidently into the microphone.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls...hello and welcome to the 5N talent competition! And what a show we have for you today! There’ll be dancing, singing, music and more! So without further ado, let me introduce you to our panel of celebrity judges.”

  The teachers smiled modestly and looked at their knees.

  “We have the lovely Miss Piggot, the dazzling Mrs Donaldson, the glamorous Miss Rose, and the charming Mrs Bentley. Oh, and you’ll note that she’s remembered her glasses, which is helpful!” Everyone laughed; Mrs Bentley was famous for leaving her glasses lying around.

  “They’ll be choosing the lucky winner at the end of the evening, who will walk away with this stunning trophy...” From backstage came a wobbly trumpet fanfare, and Sophie Smith teetered on in a skin-tight black dress and stilettos. She carried a creation clearly of 5N’s making: a huge heart-shaped sculpture decorated with silver tinsel, Christmas decorations and foil-wrapped chocolates. Jules feigned delight and amazement, and the audience ooh-ed and aah-ed appreciatively.

  “Thanks you, Sophie. We’ll be seeing more of you later.” Sophie blew a kiss towards the audience and teetered off, waving the trophy from side to side.

  “So let the show begin! The first act I have for you is ‘The Latino Babes’ from 2B, and they’ll be playing...Tequila!”

  The curtains jerked abruptly, and then slowly opened to reveal a group of girls with percussion instruments clustered around the piano. They burst into a raggedy version of ‘Tequila’ which began slowly but then accelerated rapidly, and although the pianist did her best to keep them together, it was clear that most of them were in it more for a chance to wear a flower in their hair and pose around on stage than to show off their musical talent.

  The competition continued with acts of varying degrees of awfulness and hilarity. Far and away the best act was a group of girls who poked fun at various aspects of needlework lessons. They sang two songs; the first was called ‘You are a lemon’, and featured a Mrs Trotter look-a-like, complete with absurdly long false nails, and false eyelashes to imitate the mascara-clogged originals. She was chastising a cowering group of pupils, and the chorus was simple but catchy.

  “You are a lemon

  A silly lemon

  You are a lemon

  A silly silly lemon.”

  In between choruses the verses recounted the pupils’ misdemeanours.

  “I let you on the best machine

  And then what did you do?

  You slammed that blooming zipper foot

  And broke the thread in two!”

  The lemon song was followed by a ‘needlewarp’ version of the ‘Timewarp’ from the Rocky Horror show, performed by the pupils, and led by Mrs Trotter at the front.

  “It’s just a stitch to the left, and then a stitch to the right.

  Cut your diamonds out, and pull your gathers tight.

  Do the zipper thrust, it really drives me insane

  Let’s do the needlewarp again.”

  On the third or fourth repetition of the chorus, Mrs Trotter was down in the audience pulling girls to their feet and shouting encouragement.

  “Come on you lemons...anyone not dancing will stay behind to sweep the floor!”

  The atmosphere in the balcony was fairly restrained in comparison to the girls bopping around in the aisles down below, but most of us were on our feet and shuffling around on the spot, inspired by Vikki and Trisha who stood on the bench to demonstrate the actions. There was one encore and the audience clamoured for another, but the unfortunate teachers supervising the event ruled that we should move onto the next act to avoid running out of time, and were booed mercilessly.

  By the time Miranda’s turn came there was a general feeling of silliness among the audience, and Miranda had only to walk onto the stage clad in leotard and tights for the peals of laughter to begin afresh. She set down her tape player, scuttled off again to hand someone the plug, and then returned to take up her pose in the centre of the stage. There was a painful silence punctuated by a few titters from the balcony. Miranda stayed stock still with her arms flung up behind her head and her chin pointing outwards for a good ten seconds, but she was eventually forced to turn and mouth something to someone off-stage. Sophie Smith minus her heels scampered on to press play, prompting further giggles from the audience.

  The music began, some kind of experimental piece with shimmery percussion noises and long drawn-out pauses in between. Miranda moved from one dramatic pose to another, first crouching crab-like on the floor with her elbows stuck out, then lying on her side with a leg in the air and an arm pointing towards the audience. It was the kind of thing you see on the highlights from the Edinburgh festival, performed by some fierce-looking woman with her ribs protruding and lashings of black eyeliner. It was hysterical.

  The noise in the hall was incredible; all around me people were doubled up on the benches, shaking and releasing great whoops of laughter. Some had tears rolling down their cheeks, and had to clutch their companions for support. I honestly tried not to laugh for Miranda’s sake, but just as I felt I had got myself under control she would do something else – now, for example, she was doing a slow, exaggerated hand-clap and swaying from side to side, in time to cymbal crashes on the music – and it would set me off again.

  It was to Miranda’s credit that she managed to keep going for several minutes. She was too far away for me to see her face clearly, but her expression appeared to be grave and impassive. However, the final straw came when she had to t
urn, bend over, and stare at the audience through her legs. The sight of Miranda’s upside-down face with her pigtails sweeping the stage was just too much for most people, and the peals of laughter began afresh.

  Miranda swivelled upright and abruptly fled the stage, leaving us to the soothing sound of a rain maker and various cheeping birds. The music continued for a minute or two until Sophie Smith came on to collect the tape player, her flushed cheeks evidence of her amusement. She held out her hands in a pleading gesture and looked about to say something, but her giggles got the better of her and she wandered off helplessly.

  Jules waited until the audience had subsided a little before stepping up the lectern. For once she too was lost for words.

  “So...top act eh? Um...perhaps we should move swiftly on. A big hand please, for Cindi Lauper!” The audience adjusted their positions and clapped weakly.

  Sinead nudged me guiltily. “Do you think we should go and see if she’s ok?”

  The stage had been taken over by my sister and a gang of her friends, who were miming to Cindi Lauper’sGirls Just Wanna Have Fun. I really didn’t want to miss it; Nancy’s outfit and dance routine had been the topic of conversation at dinner for weeks, but I knew Sinead was right.

  “Oh God, alright then.”

  We couldn’t find Miranda anywhere backstage, just a lot of giggling girls from 1O who were struggling into kilts in preparation for a rendition of ‘Donald, where’s your troosers?”

  “Perhaps she’s gone to the PE changing rooms?” suggested Sinead.

  At first we couldn’t see Miranda there either, but then we heard a sobbing from inside the toilet cubicle. I knocked on the door.

  “Miranda, is that you?”

  There was no reply, but the increase in the volume of the sobbing confirmed our suspicions.

  “Miranda, let us in,” I pleaded. “We’re worried about you.”

  There was a choking sound. “Go away! Just leave me alone.”

  Sinead and I exchanged glances.

  “Miranda, you were really good.”

  “Yeah, Jules said you were a top act.”

  “You might even get one of the prizes.” Sinead giggled nervously, and Miranda flung open the toilet door and glared at us, her face blotchy with tears and the underarms of her leotard stained with sweat.

  “You hypocrites! I bet you were laughing with everyone else! I bet you thought it was hysterical! Even Mrs Donaldson was laughing...”

  At the memory of such comprehensive betrayal she broke down again, and Sinead and I guided her over to one of the benches. Through sobs, it emerged that she had entered the competition on her mum’s suggestion.

  “She said it would be a good way to show people what I can do! To stop them being so horrible to me. I’m going to kill her!”

  My stomach twisted at the thought of Miranda’s kindly and well-meaning mother, who had always been so nice to me whenever I visited. I had not seen her for a few weeks now, since I started spending more time with Sinead.

  “Oh Miranda, it wasn’t really her fault. She didn’t know what it was going to be like. None of us did...they should have told us it was a comedy thing.”

  “And you...you said I should go for it. Yeah, go for making a complete fool of myself!”

  “I thought you were great!”

  “It doesn’t really matter if people thought it was funny,” Sinead suggested. “At least they enjoyed it.”

  Miranda ignored her. “Trisha will be worse than ever, won’t she?”

  There was no denying that this was probably the case. “We won’t let her be...”

  Miranda looked wearily up at me, betrayal written all over her face. She didn’t say anything, but I knew what she was thinking: yeah right, like the last time and the time before? I felt suddenly sick, and to make the moment pass I gathered up Miranda’s school uniform and started to pass items to her.

  “Come on, you’d better get changed. It’s already quarter past two, and we don’t want to be late for mathsagain.”

  “I’m not coming. You go.”

  “You can’t just stay in the changing rooms. Someone will be here soon for PE.”

  “I know that, but I want to be on my own a bit first.”

  I looked at Sinead for advice, but she just shrugged vaguely. I knew that Miss Heaney would be in a bad enough mood already because we had missed half the lesson, and I decided we’d better get moving.

  “Look Miranda, we’re going to head off now. Shall I tell Miss Heaney you’re ill?”

  Miranda shrugged apathetically. “Whatever.”

  We picked up our bags and set off. At the doorway I turned to give Miranda an encouraging smile, but she was picking at something on her leotard, and didn’t see me.

  Miss Heaney and the rest of the class were already there when we arrived, and Miss Heaney scrutinized us disapprovingly.

  “You’re late, Janet and Sinead. It’s just not good enough when I’ve already let you miss half the lesson. Do you know where Miranda is?”

  I had hoped to say something quietly to Miss Heaney, rather than talking about Miranda with the whole class listening. Still, it looked as if I didn’t really have a choice.

  “She’s in the PE changing rooms. She doesn’t feel very well.”

  There were various sniggers from around the classroom, which only added to Miss Heaney’s irritation.

  “If she’s not well she should be in the medical room, not skulking around the changing rooms. What’s wrong with her?”

  “I’m not sure. I think she feels sick.”

  Miss Heaney recognised that she was flogging a dead horse, and angrily waved me to my place.

  “Well sit down before you waste any more time. You’ve got ten questions on the board to get through.”

  I got my book out and started scribbling down the quadratic equations. Gillian Mailer passed me a note on paper torn from her rough book: IS MIRANDA OK? I was touched by her concern; Gillian was one of the quieter girls who I had never had much to do with, but thinking about it, she had always steered well clear when people started picking on Miranda. Miss Heaney still had her eye on me and I didn’t dare risk much of a response, so I winced and shrugged a bit, in a ‘not really’ sort of way.

  There were only five minutes to go when Miranda finally turned up. The class was doubtless hoping that Miss Heaney would get stuck into her, but she took one look at Miranda’s tear-stained face and gently told her to sit down.

  “Come and see me at the end and I’ll explain what you’ve missed.”

  When the bell rang I gathered up my books and stopped at Miranda’s desk. “I’ll wait outside for you.”

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and nodded.

  Out in the corridor, I leaned against the radiator and picked idly at my fingernails. We only had religious studies with Mrs Mackintosh next, so I wasn’t really worried about being late, and in any case, I could say I’d been looking after Miranda. Inside, I could hear a low questioning voice and Miranda’s sobs. Miss Heaney wouldn’t know the full story of the talent competition, but she had probably worked out that Miranda was being picked on. Five minutes passed, and then ten. I knocked on the door gently and stuck my head round.

  “I just wanted to let Miranda know that I haven’t abandoned her, but I’d better get going to religion.”

  “Yes indeed,” said Miss Heaney. “You seem to be making quite a habit of being late for lessons!” I could tell she wasn’t really cross with me, and I had another of those realisations that Miss Heaney was actually not too bad.

  Miranda didn’t come to religion at all. She was in science, the final lesson, but we had to do individual experiments and so I didn’t talk to her until afterwards. As we walked out of school there were a few wolf-whistles and calls of ‘Hey Sturdy, show us your leotard’, but it could have been much worse; I think they realised she’d been pushed far enough for one day. We got a seat on the bus, and when Miranda was settled with her huge bag wedged on her
knees, I asked her what Miss Heaney had said. She stared out of the window and scratched her hands, and I noticed that her eczema was getting worse.

  “Miranda!”

  “Oh! Sorry, did you say something?”

  I sighed and repeated the question. Miranda looked shifty.

  “She wanted to know what was wrong with me. She asked if I was having problems with other girls in our class.”

  “So did you tell? She could get Vikki and Trisha into loads of trouble.”

  Miranda didn’t reply.

  “So did you?” I repeated impatiently.

  “Of course I didn’t! I mean, what’s the point? Telling them off only makes them worse. And anyway, it’s not as if today wastheir fault.”

  I knew from the way she said this that she still held me partially responsible for what had happened, but I tried not to let it get to me.

  “Well no, I know they didn’t do anything today. But in general...”

  “Look what happened when Mrs Oldershaw told them off about shutting me out of the classroom! They were awful for ages. I just don’t think it’s worth it.”

  Miranda had a point and I couldn’t really think of a convincing argument against it, but it seemed stupid that she was turning away teachers who tried to help her. I gave it one last attempt.

  “Perhaps you could make an anonymous complaint...”

  Miranda treated this remark with the contempt it deserved, and we sat through the rest of the journey in silence. It was only after she had wandered off to her next bus-stop in Piccadilly that I remembered it was traditional for us to get sweets at half-term, but by then it was too late.