“Hey, how come you’re entering the Easter bonnet competition?” asks Joshua, arriving at my side.
“Why not?”
“Bit beneath your talents, isn’t it?” he says. I chuckle. At least he didn’t say it was babyish.
“Well, there aren’t that many competitions that reward drawing. I thought I might as well,” I say.
“Don’t waste your time with this,” he continues. “I’ve got a better idea. I was going to talk to you about it in art.”
I briefly ignore Joshua and finish signing my name. I don’t care what he says, I’m still entering this competition.
“Right,” I say as we walk towards the art room. “I’m all ears.”
It turns out Joshua wants to start some kind of regular fanzine or comic thing with me. Blimey!
“And each issue could have a new caricature,” he says.
“Caricature?” I look puzzled.
“Yes, caricature,” he grins. “You do know what a caricature is, don’t you?”
Um … “God yes, I’m not an idiot,” I say hotly. OK, so I think a caricature is a cheeky cartoon making fun of someone’s appearance. Like when people exaggerate how big Prince Charles’s ears really are.
“Good, ’cause that one you did about snobby girls in our year being fashion victims was really funny.”
Ha! I’m right! And I’ve already done one. My fashion-victim sheep is a caricature. Who knew? Bloody Joshua, thinks he knows everything. And he’s still talking …
“We could do that to all the other groups. You know, you could draw funny pictures of the sporty people and the nerdy people and that. Could be a series. Could be, like, our last year of Hillfern Juniors legacy.”
Blimey! On the one hand – what an exciting idea! But on the other hand – really? Would there really be a demand for that?
“And we could do other comic strips and stuff,” he continues. “I’ve got some mates that would love to do those. And we could do funny articles, and news about the school, but the real stuff, not the fluffy stuff.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, nodding.
“And then we could charge for it,” says Joshua with a flourish. This seems to be the end of his speech. We take our seats at our table. “What do you think?” He looks at me.
I’m not sure what to say. I’m just not sure. I suppose really I’m scared that we’ll go to all that trouble and no one will want it.
“Um. It kind of sounds like a really cool idea …” I trail off.
“Is there an and or a but coming?” asks Joshua.
“Well,” I say.
“Or a well?” he asks without missing a beat. I can’t help but laugh.
I suppose really it would be fun to spend more time with him. And I love drawing and making stuff. And this would be a brilliant way to do all those things. And whoever gained anything by not taking chances?
I mean, just yesterday Mrs Cole was telling me to do more trying. Or something. So in many ways, making a cartoon comic strip mocking the school would be obeying my teacher’s orders …
Oh, you know what? I think too much.
“I’m in,” I say, grinning.
“Brilliant,” says Joshua. “Now we just need a name.”
Oh no, not the name thing again. It took me ages to think of ACE. Here we go again … But apart from that, this is blimmin’ brilliant.
So what would you say if I told you a miracle happened at the spelling bee, and I won? That’s right, that I was lying.
Of course there was no miracle. I didn’t put the work in and I’m terrible at spelling. C’est la vie. (That’s French for such is life. It’s a shame it wasn’t a French test, really. I’m better at that.)
Anyway, the silver lining is that Amelia didn’t win, either. She came second. I appreciate that this is a small, pyrrhic victory. (That means empty and hollow victory – can you believe that came up as a word we had to spell? I had no chance. But on the plus side – I learned a new word.)
I sort of found the spelling bee funny in the end. I couldn’t help it. I think partly I feel quite excited about doing cartoons with Joshua, so other stuff that used to scare me just doesn’t faze me at the moment.
And I’m off the hook about the sheep cartoon. Not one person thought it was of Amelia, apart from Amelia. She’s had absolutely no hassle at all. People just think it’s a joke about a type of person. A caricature.
Plus, I got more answers right in the spelling bee than I thought I would (I remembered how to spell remember – result). Then I messed up (seriously – pyrrhic – come on). And Amelia did quite a lot of gloating.
But I don’t care. (OK, I mainly don’t care.) Spelling is just not where my skill set lies. We can’t all be good at everything. And the world would be boring if we were all the same. And it’s not my fault that the things I am bad at are considered more important by the world than the things I am good at. It’s just one step away from fascism to say otherwise. (Maybe I’ve been hanging around my sister too long?)
Anyway, the point is, this spelling nonsense is over now and I can move on with my life.
An even weirder thing happens at the end of the day than the weird thing that happened at the end of yesterday. As the bell goes in our form, and we’re all about to stampede out in our coats, Amelia comes up to me.
“I want to talk to you,” she says.
Oh God, I think. I bet she’s prepared a really vicious speech to shout at me for drawing that cartoon. It probably contains loads of jokes about how I can’t spell, and am illiterate and stupid or something …
“Um. Do you?” I manage, as our classmates file past us. Apart from Natalie, who stands just behind Amelia.
“Yeah,” says Amelia. “I … um … I think we should be, um … friends.”
Nothing had prepared me for this turn of events. (What fresh trickery is this?)
“What?” I say.
“Look, it can’t have been easy for you today when I beat you in the spelling bee,” begins Amelia. (Actually, it was surprisingly easy.) “But you took it really well. And, well, I just wanted to say, in some ways, it … seems like a shame that we’re fighting.”
What the what? What? Seriously. OK, either this is a new trick or I am hearing things. “What are you saying?” I ask Amelia. (I mean, not actually sorry by the sounds of things, but what on earth is going on?)
“I’m trying to say,” falters Amelia, “that we—”
“Look, you know what,” I interrupt tiredly. “I’m really not in the mood for more tricks. I’m sure whatever you had planned is hilarious, but I’m bored of you now.” I go to start moving.
“No!” says Amelia. “It’s not a trick this time. Look, I think things have got a bit silly between us, competing in the way we have …”
(Competing? To see who’s got the meanest streak? Not a very close competition, that. You win hands down, I think.)
“… And I know I’ve been just as bad as you …”
(No, worse, Amelia, you’ve been much worse than me. And you started it, I think.)
“… But it’s silly to keep going against each other in little competitions, like the spelling bee. Which I won. And I just wanted to say, it’s … it’s a silly competition … And I’ve won, and …” (Blimey, could she get the fact that she won into that sentence any more? Especially as actually, she came second.)
Amelia is struggling for words. “Um … And we should … be … friends,” she finishes finally. But she says the last two words much more quietly, as if she’s uncomfortable saying them. It’s a struggle to hear them.
“Pardon?” I say.
“We should be friends.” Amelia says it again, much louder this time, and with a touch of annoyance in her voice. She glances at Natalie.
Now, I’m no detective, but if I had to hazard a guess here, I would say that Natalie has put Amelia up to this. I don’t think Amelia has had a change of heart, or really wants to be my friend at all. This is odd.
On the surface, it
looks a bit like Amelia is trying to quit while she’s ahead. Like she feels like she’s beaten me, and wants our feud to end on her terms. Or maybe because she’s sick of Tanya Harris attempting to trip her up in the corridor all the time.
But actually, from her body language, and occasional glances at Natalie (who looks kind of nervous) I’d say that Amelia may very well still hate me and that she is doing this for Natalie.
Which means that (a) Natalie has finally stuck up for me; and (b) Amelia must really like Natalie, if she’s prepared to be nice to me (who she doesn’t like) for Natalie’s sake.
Hmm. I’m really not sure what to do. Is it a good idea for two people who clearly hate each other to lie and say they don’t hate each other, that they in fact like each other, for the greater good of their other friend?
“Um, so you want to be friends?” I say finally.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” snaps Amelia, who then recovers herself and adds, “Because I do.”
Hmmm. I’m really not sure I can see this working. I mean, for one thing, I’m not sure Amelia will be able to go an hour without calling me stupid and unfashionable. But on the other hand, Natalie clearly wants to be friends again. Hmmm.
“Um, Amelia, that’s really nice,” I lie. (It isn’t nice and you don’t mean it, I add silently.) “Let’s try and be nice to each other and see how that goes.” I mean, that’s at least honest. Saying you’re friends doesn’t mean anything. It’s how you behave that counts.
“Brilliant,” says Amelia, holding out her hand. We shake.
“Oh, I’m so glad you two have finally put this behind you,” says Natalie, coming forward. (Honestly, sometimes I wonder about Natalie’s perception of the world.)
“Jess, I’m so sorry about that trick we played about the bowling,” she continues. “I’ve been feeling awful about it. It might be the worst thing I’ve ever done. It’s just, I was so hurt. That day I rang you, I really felt I’d gone out on a limb, and it was really hard to say all that stuff, and I so thought we were going to be friends again, and then you rejected me and hung up. I was devastated. But it made me really angry. I know it’s no excuse. We didn’t even go bowling.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, too,” says Amelia.
“Thanks,” I say. (I suppose I should apologise as well). “Er, I’m sorry about that sheep cartoon, by the way. But honestly, no one was meant to see it. Tanya Harris photocopied it without my permission.”
“That’s OK, no harm done,” replies Natalie, though Amelia doesn’t say anything. “Come on, let’s get the bus,” says Natalie. We all walk out together. It’s all gone a bit formal and weird.
“Oh yeah, so Amelia had this idea,” says Natalie, when we reach the bus stop.
“Yeah, I was thinking,” says Amelia. “If ever you want to make any more cartoons for badges, we can put them through Cassy’s badgemaker. If you want.”
“Isn’t that a nice idea?” says Natalie brightly.
“Er, yeah, cool,” I say.
I mean, I suppose it’s cool. They probably think they’re being really nice to me, and including me or something.
But what they don’t realise is that now I’m a famous cartoonist (to upwards of fifty people) and have been invited to have my work published (in a home-made fanzine), I’m just a lot harder to impress. But fame hasn’t changed me. Ha ha. Hmmmmm.
I still can’t believe I’m sort of friends with Natalie again. I mean, I am. I am friends with her. It doesn’t quite feel real. Well, I’ve said I’m friends with her again. I don’t completely feel like I am, though. But I am. We are friends.
I’m kind of weirdly bamboozled as I reach my house and I don’t notice the VanDerks in their front garden, chatting to my mum over the fence again.
This time the VanDerks have been boasting that their kid, Harriet, won the Year Six spelling bee. She’s the one who beat Amelia. Predictably this has awakened my mum’s competitive streak and she is annoyed that I didn’t even mention that I was entering. (Blimmin’ Harriet – what’s she telling everyone I entered for?)
“I wish you’d mentioned you were doing it,” says my mum. “We could have helped you last night. And then you might have won!”
“Mum, I think we should stick to reality,” I say. “I would never have won a spelling bee.”
“That’s not the attitude to have,” says my mum. (Honestly, I could really do without this.) I’ve got important things to do, like worry if I am really friends with Natalie again.
“Your mum’s right,” says Mr VanDerk unhelpfully. “You have to think like a winner if you want to be a winner.” I’m not on trial here. Why can’t they drop it? Just ’cause their stupid kid won.
“Well, it’s all in the past now,” I say dismissively, trying to sweep this conversation aside. “And it’s only a spelling bee.”
“There’s no such thing as only,” says Mr VanDerk. “An achievement is an achievement, whatever it is. It’s always something to be proud of.”
Yeah, yeah, I think. I end up agreeing with him out of politeness and we say goodbye soon after that. My mum continues to make references to how I should try harder as we go inside.
I think there’s a real danger that my mum has had her head turned by the VanDerks’ weird, overachieving children, and that it’s coloured her vision of what’s normal. I mean, I am actually really hard-working compared to loads of the kids at my school. (I bet if I introduced her to Tanya Harris she’d appreciate how academic I really am.)
When we get inside, we find my sister has really upped her game in the “how to convince my parents to get a rescue dog” stakes. And this time it’s almost theatrical.
As my mum and I enter the kitchen, we see a pile of freshly bought groceries, including salad, cheese and fajita sauce. On top of it is a note and a picture of a really cute dog, its big sad eyes looking straight at the camera.
The note says:
Dear Morris Family.
Please accept this gift of fajita ingredients as a token of my appreciation of what I hope you will do for me in the future. I know you have been on an economy drive, but I want you to know I would be no trouble at all, and I already love you as if you were my own. Yours sincerely, Fido.
PS, I would totally protect the house and I could be trained to bark at the VanDerks.
I think this is quite funny, but I’m not sure my mum does. “Your sister is an absolute nut job,” she states.
So what has two thumbs and the most delicious fajitas dinner ever? This guy. (You can’t see me but … my thumbs … yadda yadda – you know the drill.) I wish my sister would try to convince my parents to do stuff through the medium of food more often.
I feel quietly happy as I sit in my room later that night, drawing and shading in my Easter bonnet for the competition. I’ve decided to use one of my last really big bits of paper from the giant pad that I got for Christmas.
I draw quite a traditional-looking bonnet near the bottom of the page, with a blue ribbon tied in a bow. Then on top of the bonnet, I draw loads and loads of piled-up fruit. There’s pineapples, bananas, grapes, oranges – basically all the fruit I can think of. It goes up like a pyramid, and on the top of the very peak is a strawberry.
I use my felt tips this time, so it looks really vibrant and colourful. I think it’s quite eye-catching. It takes ages. My hand is starting to hurt towards the end, from all the shading. But I think it’s worth it. I’m quite pleased with it.
Every now and then Joshua texts me a funny message, and I text one back. I told him I am drawing loads of fruit, and he said he’d heard Mr Scot (one of the teachers judging the competition) was a fan of “big melons” so I was in with a good chance. Sometimes he’s very rude. He almost makes me look polite! But he is funny. I like him a lot.
When I’ve finished, I try and tidy my desk a bit and knock some paper on to the floor. When I pick it up I realise that one of the bits of paper is an MBlaze poem that Natalie and I wrote together. It reads:
<
br /> Oh Ricky, Chesney, Baz and Dave
We’ve got advice that you should save
We don’t know why you sing of dating
When all your girlfriends sound like Satan
No one gets a Nobel Prize
For smashing chemistry sets before our eyes
We don’t know why you sing of failing
And have people reward your constant wailing
If you’re not good with women you should move on
And stop singing such boring songs
We don’t know how you have careers
We really can’t believe our ears
So maybe take some time out rest in bed
And give other musicians a chance instead
I giggle as I read it, remembering how much fun we had writing this. Natalie kept making some of the words rude and we had to keep scribbling them out in case our parents saw it.
On the back of the piece of paper, it says,
“Dear Jessica, keep this poem to remember the day we wrote MBlaze poems XXXXXXXX” Then at the bottom it says, “N&J Best Friends Forever. If Destroyed Still True.”
I feel kind of choked up as I read it. I’m transported back to the day we wrote this, and how close we were, and how much fun it was. I realise there is no way I’m not going to be proper friends with Natalie again. I’ve missed her too much. Everything is going to be brilliant. We can make this work.
Ryan comes in just as I am putting the poem away carefully in my desk drawer, wanting to play Lego pirates again. He seems quite impressed with my bonnet picture, saying, “It makes fruit look much nicer than it really is.”
I figure I just about have time to play – I mean help, nah, play – Lego pirates with Ryan, so he goes and gets his stuff (and Winnie the Pooh for good measure) and brings it all into my room.
My Best Friend and Other Enemies Page 10