by Liz Rettig
Yes. White splodges of toothpaste dotted about my now scarlet face made me look like a tomato infected with a fungal disease – but worse, much, much worse, were the Winnie-the-Pooh pants on my head. I took them off and stuffed them in my blazer pocket but it was too late now. Way too late. I’d worn my knickers on my head when talking to the Prince of Wales, heir to the throne. I had to be in trouble. Big trouble.
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 16TH
Yeah, I was right. The head told my parents and me to meet him in his office today. Mum couldn’t make it as she was too busy at work so it was just Dad and me.
Mr Menzies said I had brought the whole school into disrepute and that I was a disgrace. He was only thankful that the press photographer had been late, so this outrageous event had at least not been publicized in the media, but that was no thanks to me. What I had done was unforgivable.
Dad tried to reason with him, saying that it was just a kid’s mistake and no offence was meant, but the head ranted on some more about how I’d shamed myself, my fellow pupils, the entire staff and even my country, which I thought was a bit OTT. Then he said it would be better for all concerned if my parents set about finding another educational establishment, otherwise I might be formally expelled.
Oh my God. Hoped Dad would start pleading with the head to let me stay, but instead he got totally up himself. ‘Aye, well, you can keep your sodding school. I never thought it was good enough for my Kelly Ann anyway. I wouldn’t let my daughter spend another minute here if you got down on your knees and begged. C’mon, Kelly Ann. I think we’re about finished here.’
Oh my God.
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 17TH
Mum went mental at Dad last night, but the damage had been done. I’m suspended until I find another school. I don’t want another school. Not that I’m all that mad keen on the one I had but at least all my friends are there.
Dad rang my now ex head teacher to say he’d maybe been a bit hasty in the heat of the moment yesterday but it was hopeless. I’m out. For ever.
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 18TH
Mr Smith has turned out to be helpful for once, maybe because he thinks our head has been a bit harsh, but he can’t say that of course. But anyway, he says I’ve already missed too much school with absences and suspensions, especially as I would be sitting my standard grade exams next year. He offered to help us cut through the red tape and has rung round schools to see if anyone can take me, but the only school near us that has a place, or admits to having a place anyway, is Blackhart Academy, which has an awful reputation.
Told Mum, ‘I can’t go there. They’ll steal my dinner money to buy methadone and carve out my tongue with a broken beer bottle if I tell anyone.’
Mum said, ‘You’ll be fine. If not, blame that eejit of a father of yours.’ But for once she didn’t sound very sure of herself and kept glancing at me anxiously all evening. She wasn’t even able to concentrate on EastEnders and switched it off. Things must be bad. Now I was really worried.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 19TH
Dad took the morning off work to go with me to (maybe) my new school and meet the head teacher. On the drive there he tried to calm me down.
‘You’ll be fine, love. I’m sure the reputation of the place has been exaggerated. In fact, I’ve heard things have improved a lot since the new head took over. Mind you, he’s the third one this …’
Dad’s voice trailed off as we approached the school. There was barbed wire around the walls and a notice on the gates saying BEWARE OF THE DOGS. We went in anyway and Dad parked the car. Immediately a hooded ned appeared and offered to ‘look after’ our car for a fiver. Dad told him to away and boil his head, which I thought was a mistake, but he wouldn’t listen to me.
The school office buzzed us in, then, after passing through a metal detector like you do at airports, we were allowed into the head teacher’s office.
The head seemed quite normal, except for a twitch under his left eye and the way he looked over his shoulder at the wire-meshed windows behind him.
Dad said, ‘I was a wee bit worried about your sign outside. You know – the one that says BEWARE OF THE DOGS.’
‘Ah yes. Nothing to worry about. We used to keep guard dogs to patrol the school grounds at night as we’d had some bother with breakins. Had all our computers burgled once and our funds for disadvantaged teenagers taken. But we don’t use the dogs any more.’
‘Right, good,’ Dad said. ‘Things improving round here then? Crime going down?’
‘Erm, well, not necessarily. No. On the last breakin they stole the guard dogs.’
‘Oh.’
Dad didn’t say much after that. The head prattled on for a while, then suggested that the head girl give me a tour of the school while he and Dad had a private chat.
The head girl was called Destiny Charmaine McCluskey. She had most of her face pierced and set off the metal detector when we went through, but nobody bothered. She also had joined-up chunky gold rings on four of the fingers on each hand, which looked a lot like – and probably were – knuckledusters.
Destiny seemed quite friendly to me though, showing me where all the CCTV cameras were placed and advising me on which ones were not working if I ever needed to have a snog or a smoke in private.
She stopped at one of the broken ones and lit up a fag, generously offering me one. I said, ‘No thanks.’ But, worried in case she thought I was a snob, added, ‘I’m trying to give up.’
She shrugged. ‘Me too.’ Then took a deep drag.
A skinny ned in dirty grey trackies and hoodie passed close by, nodded ‘Hi’ to Destiny, then hurried off.
She called after him, ‘Oi, ya scadgy wee bam, come back here and geez the purse over. Can ye no’ see Ahm looking efter her.’
Bloody hell, he was good. I hadn’t noticed him nicking my purse out of my pocket.
He handed it back and Destiny gave him a swipe with her ring-knuckled hand, so that his lip started to bleed.
Oh well. Maybe I’d be all right here if Destiny was looking after me.
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a couple of quid on ye by any chance?’ she asked. ‘The thing is, Ahm running oot o’ fags and Ahm a bit short this mornin’.’
Hmm. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t be OK here. I handed her the contents of my purse and we continued our tour.
Afterwards I met Dad at the exit. We made our way to the car without saying a word. I was surprised to see that it was still there and in one piece with no broken windows or scratched paint. Only the hub caps were missing. The boy who’d offered to ‘look after’ our car was also still there and was perfectly polite and helpful to us. He promised to ‘find out’ who had nicked the hub caps and return them to us for a tenner. Dad paid up.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 22ND
It’s been decided that I’ll not be going to Blackhart Academy. Instead Mum gobsmacked me by saying I’d be going to the Catholic school, St Ann’s.
‘I can’t go to a Catholic school. I’m not a Catholic.’
‘Aye, well, you are now. That’s what I’ve told them. And that’s what you’ll be. We’re going for an interview tomorrow. Keep your mouth shut and leave the talking to me. Unless you want to go to Blackhart Academy and come back in a flaming body bag.’
Good point.
Called Liz and Stephanie, who came over to discuss the move. They agreed it would be much better than Blackhart. Anything would.
Stephanie said, ‘Let me know if there are any hot Catholic boys there. But make sure they’re OK about using condoms first. Some Catholics are weird about stuff like that.’
‘Yeah, right, Stephanie. Fine. So, like, I’m really going to go up to some boy and say, Hi there, I’m new here, but you look OK. So, I was just wondering, how do you feel about using condoms?’
Stephanie sounded puzzled. ‘Why not?’
Liz told me it’s rumoured that Jason went to the exact same Catholic school for a couple of years.
Oh my God. Just imagine. If I go there, I
might end up sitting on a seat that Jason once sat on. Seems so intimate somehow. Yeah, I’ll go.
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 23RD
The head teacher seemed nice. Much friendlier than my last one and not nearly as snobby. The priest, Father O’Reilly, was also there. I stayed quiet, like Mum had told me, while she talked about why I wanted to join St Ann’s.
Father O’Reilly said, ‘So, Kelly Ann, according to your mother, you’ve both been lapsed Catholics for … let’s see now, nigh on ten years, but have seen the error of your ways and want to rejoin the Holy Mother Church, and that’s why you left your previous school to come here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Father.’
‘Um, Father.’
‘And you’ve lost your baptismal certificate but will send us one in due course – however, this may take a wee while, given your mother can’t remember which parish issued it.’
‘Um, yes.’
‘So your wanting to join St Ann’s would have nothing to do with your having flashed your knickers at the heir to the throne then decided that the ethos of Blackhart Academy is a bit too exciting for your taste. Word gets round, you know.’
I flushed. ‘No, Father.’
‘Well’ – he turned to look at the head teacher – ‘I see no reason why she can’t start right away then.’
The head nodded his agreement and Father O’Reilly turned to me again.
‘Right then, we’ll see if we can make a good Catholic out of you. Haven’t managed that with any of the rest of our pupils but, well, you never know. Miracles do happen.’ He laughed at his own joke, then continued, ‘Mind you, you don’t have to be Catholic to join the school. We have quite a number of non-Catholic pupils here.’
Now he tells us. But what could I say?
‘Oh, right. Thanks, sir – Father.’
The head teacher added that Father O’Reilly was likely to be around the school more than usual over the next few weeks as he was monitoring the delivery of RE and also collecting funds for the church roof.
He looked at the priest. ‘So, Father, you’ll help keep an eye on our new pupil and deal with any concerns she may have in adapting to a Catholic education?’
‘Certainly, I’d be glad to.’
Mum left me to it then. I was given a timetable and Father O’Reilly escorted me to my first class.
There were loads of holy statues in the school, mostly of Jesus’ mum Mary, but some of Jesus too. Seemed odd to see them in maths and geography classes, instead of just in a church, but I didn’t mind until I went into the school dinner hall, where there was a gigantic cross with a lifesize figure of Jesus nailed to it.
I mean, really. How was I supposed to enjoy my lunch with the image of a person being horribly executed stuck in front of me? Why do Catholics do stuff like that? They wouldn’t show people being hung, or guillotined, or strapped to an electric chair, would they? Why show someone being crucified?
Unfortunately I mentioned all this to Helen and Theresa, who were supposed to be looking after me for the first week. They told me I was weird and left me alone. Yeah, right, so I’m the weird one. They’ve got a nerve. They’re the ones who can pig out on chips with macaroni cheese while watching someone being crucified.
Was beginning to feel uncomfortable sitting there all by myself when a group of boys sat down next to me. Great, I have no problem talking to boys. I kept my eyes off the huge cross and joined in their conversation about football. Unfortunately they were talking about an old firm match last week where Rangers won one–nil and I stupidly disagreed with them when they said that the goal was offside.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it was definitely OK.’
‘Rubbish. The Rangers striker was offside. Anyone could see it. Referee was blind.’
‘Wasn’t blind,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you see the replay? Ref made the right decision. Definitely. Rangers won fair and square.’
There was a long silence as the boys looked at me; then one of them said, ‘You’re that new girl from the Protestant school, aren’t you? Bet you’re a bloody Rangers supporter as well. Why don’t you just shove off?’
Oh God, my first day was not going well.
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 24TH
Took sandwiches to school today but still had to eat them in the dinner hall as it was freezing outside and they don’t have a social area. I sat with my back to the crucifixion and tried not to think about it. Succeeded in that but then started to feel uncomfortable as no one sat at my table. I might as well have had a notice stuck to me saying, SAD PERSON WITH NO FRIENDS. DON’T COME NEAR HER OR YOU MIGHT CATCH THE UNPOPULARITY DISEASE AS WELL.
After lunch I wandered about on my own, the shame of my friendless state obvious to everyone. Tried smiling at some people but they didn’t smile back – just ignored me or scowled back in a ‘what are you smiling at, you idiot?’ way, so I felt like a retarded person smiling at nothing.
Wanted to shout, ‘Look, I’m not weird. I’ve got loads of friends – well, some anyway. People do like me. Normal people. Quite normal people anyway.’ But that would have made me look stupid and I’d be even more unpopular if that were possible.
Since I’d nothing better to do, I found out from a passing teacher where my next class was, then just went and waited outside the door, even though the bell hadn’t gone. It was a personal and social development class taken by a guidance teacher called Mrs McKind. She came along early too, I suppose to prepare things for the class. She had a nice, kind-looking face like her name, but I hated the pitying look she gave me as she said, ‘You’re the new girl, aren’t you? Haven’t you made any friends yet?’
But it got much worse when the lesson started as she went on at the whole class for being ‘uncharitable’ in excluding me. She even said, ‘Now I hope you are all feeling thoroughly ashamed of yourselves and will make sure Kelly Ann has someone to play with next lunch time.’
Play with! I mean, for God’s sake. But, whatever, I was socially doomed anyway. Mrs McKind had just guaranteed my status as the saddest, most pathetic person in the whole school. For ever.
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 25TH
Decided to eat my sandwiches in the toilets today so no one would see that I was too unpopular for anyone to sit beside. Went to the quieter ones, which were tucked out the way behind the science block. There was another girl in the cubicle next to me and, oh, thank God, she talked to me.
‘No one wants to sit beside you either?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Me neither. People say I’m too boring.’
‘Yeah, well, what do they know?’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’re really interesting if they bothered to get to know you properly.’
I decided to do exactly that.
Her name was Bernadette Donnelly. Asked her if she liked Jason from Smashed and told her how gutted I was that I was going to miss the concert, but she told me she wasn’t really interested in bands. She also didn’t like sport and never watched TV or listened to music. She wasn’t keen on boys, movies or games. This made finding something to talk about a bit difficult but in the end we had quite a long conversation about her lunch.
Bernadette always has her lunch in the same cubicle, the second from the end. She has tuna and mayonnaise sandwiches every day except Fridays, when she has ham and tomato. She prefers ham and tomato to tuna mayonnaise so Friday is a treat. One time, by mistake, her mum made her ham and tomato on a Thursday. It was such a surprise. How her mum and she had laughed and laughed about it when she got home. And guess what? Her mum made her ham and tomato sandwiches on Friday again anyway. So she’d had ham and tomato sandwiches twice that week. Wasn’t that amazing? But not as amazing as her birthday lunch, when she always had roast beef sandwiches and two fairy cakes.
Yeah, amazing. Seems like I’d done the impossible and found someone in the world even more boring than my sister.
Liz, Stephanie and Chris rang me tonight to ask how I was getting on. They’d done this every day since I started,
and like every other time, I just said I was doing fine.
Don’t know why I’m lying to my best friends like this. I suppose I feel a bit embarrassed about being such a loser. Also, if I admitted to them how awful things were, it would make it more real somehow.
I get the feeling Chris doesn’t believe me as he keeps asking questions about my day and ends every call by saying, ‘You sure you’re really OK, Kelly Ann?’
However, Liz and Stephanie don’t seem to have guessed there is anything wrong and I just listen to them babble on about school. How boring double maths had been and how Conner is refusing to do the Cinderella pantomime this year because the story is sexist, trivializes extended stepfamily problems and glorifies monarchy.
Tonight Liz also told me that our head teacher read out a letter from Prince Charles saying how much he had enjoyed his visit, particularly meeting the wonderful young people with interesting ideas and refreshing candour.
‘The head is really pleased now, Kelly Ann. Bloody snob. And it seems that Prince Charles was impressed with the pupils after all. Especially you. If only he’d said this sooner you wouldn’t have had to leave school.’
Yeah, if only. But it was too late now. Finished the call quickly before I started to cry.
FRIDAY 26TH NOVEMBER
RE is even worse here than in my last school – all they talk about is Catholic stuff. We also have a really awful teacher, Sister Mary Benedicta, who is so old she makes Miss McElwee look like a teenager and so badtempered that Mr Smith now seems as jovial as Santa Claus in comparison. And we have five periods with this fossilized penguin person every week.
It doesn’t help that she’s taken a dislike to me. Just because I had the nerve to correct her when she got my name wrong. Not that she paid any attention to my correction and insists on calling me Mary Ann.
Today she was banging on about hell. ‘Don’t listen to these people who tell you hell is a myth. Hell is real. As real as I’m standing before you. It’s where God sends all those evil souls who die in mortal sin to be tormented for all eternity.’
And dying in mortal sin seemed scarily easy actually. According to her anyway. Miss Mass on Sunday, then get knocked down by a bus, and that was you. Thought this was a bit harsh and said so, which earned me a punishment exercise for insolence. Then she just went on about what happened to sinners.