by Jean Ure
Martin Milliband – yuck! Two would be generous.
Aaron Taylor – OK, but a bit of a dork. Five at the most.
Christopher Pitts – the pits. Zero. Double zero.
Wazir Mohammed – probably wouldn’t come. But five or six.
Carl Pinter, Mark Aller, Ben Sargent … I think I went through every boy in our year. I’d been out with quite a few of them and I wouldn’t have wanted to invite a single solitary one. I knew who I’d like to invite. I’d known it the minute I started my list – the minute Mrs O’Donnell asked me. The one boy who made my heart beat faster and turned my insides to jelly …
There was only one problem: I didn’t know his name. I’d never even spoken to him! But I made up my mind, right there and then: I was going to be selected, and he was the one who was going to come with me!
This is the first entry in my diary which mentions the Gorgeous Mystery Boy:
Mrs Wymark said to me today that she was really pleased with my progress this term. She said, “There’s been a marked Improvement, Scarlett. Keep it up!” She said she wasn’t the only member of staff to have noticed. They all have! So maybe I was right when I pictured Miss Allen singing my praises in the staff room …
I really began to feel that all my hard work might be starting to pay off at long last. I said this to Hattie, who said, “I told you so!” Adding rather grimly, however, that it was no excuse for slacking. “You need to keep it up, you still have a long way to go.”
Honestly! Hattie is so bossy, I’m sure she’ll end up as a head teacher. Either that, or prime minister. I don’t know what I shall end up as. I wouldn’t mind being a fashion model, or a TV presenter. If I was a TV presenter and Hattie was prime minister, I could invite her to come on my show! But we wouldn’t talk politics, cos politics are BORING.
Gorgeous Mystery Boy at the station this morning. He got on the same train as me, but it was so crowded there was a huge wodge of people between us. Really annoying! I wonder if he’s there every day? If he is, then going by train won’t be so bad!!!
We were four weeks into the winter term when I wrote that. Dad had proved so unreliable about getting me to school on time that now I just got him to drop me off at the station, instead. When I was at Juniors, Mum used to drive me in, but the minute I hit Year 7 she said that I could get there under my own steam.
“There’s a perfectly good train service. Why not use it?”
I told her because it was a whole lot of hassle and I’d probably have some ghastly accident and fall on the track. Mum, in her cold unfeeling way, said, “Well, that’s up to you. I don’t propose adding to pollution levels by ferrying an able-bodied twelve year old to and from school five days a week.”
Was that any way for a mother to talk??? I went grizzling to Dad about it.
“Mum says she’s not going to take me in any more and I’m going to have all these books and things to carry, cos they give you absolutely masses of homework, plus there’s my hockey stick, plus that stupid violin, which was Mum’s idea, not mine, plus it takes for ever to get to the station … I’m going to be worn out before I even get there!”
Dad said we couldn’t have that; he said that he would take me. But Dad isn’t one of the world’s great timekeepers. I don’t think builders are, cos I once heard two woman talking on a bus, saying what a nightmare it was when you “had the builders in”. How they never turned up when they said they would turn up, and never finished a job when they said they’d finish a job, and how they were “all alike … they simply have no concept of time”.
That’s my dad! I used to think it was probably me, as well, but it is amazing what a bit of an incentive can do. A double incentive, in my case, cos once I’d spotted the Gorgeous Mystery Boy I couldn’t get up to the station fast enough each day. Dad didn’t know what had hit him. There was me going, “Dad, come on, I’ve got a train to catch!” “Dad, please, I’ll be late!” and Dad going, “All right, all right! What’s all the big rush? So you miss one train, you get the next.” It’s true there are trains like about every ten minutes from Ritters Cross to Hayes End at that time in the morning, but the way I saw it, the earlier I was there, the more chance I had of Catching a Glimpse. I mean, let’s face it, there aren’t so many gorgeous boys knocking around that you can afford to let one slip through your fingers, as it were.
Bullying Dad really paid off. I not only arrived at school on time, thus earning merit marks for punctuality (me! Merit marks for punctuality!!!) I also got to catch not one but several glimpses of the divine being. The Gorgeous Mystery Boy. I relayed it all excitedly to Hattie. She was like, “Tell me, tell me! Colour of hair?”
I said, “Gold … really gold, you know?”
Hattie said, “Gold like gold, or gold like yellow?”
I said, “Gold like gold! Not yellow. Yuck! And not just ordinary blond. Gold like … molten sunshine!”
Hattie said, “Ooh! Nice. Go on! Eyes?”
“Blue,” I said.
“Blue. Wow! Tall or short?”
Proudly, I said, “Tall!”
“Fat or thin?”
“Athletic.”
“Which school?”
“Grove Park.”
“Mm …” Hattie pulled a face. “Could be worse.”
I said that it could have been a lot worse. Grove Park might have a bit of a tough reputation but at least it’s all boys. I said this to Hattie and she said, “I take your point … no opposition!”
Although Hattie isn’t – well, wasn’t – into boys in as big a way as I was, it’s never stopped us having these long heart-to-hearts on the subject. For all her great brain, Hattie can get just as girly and giggly as I can. She begged to be allowed to see my new “dream guy”.
“Where can I get a look at him?”
I said she should wait for me next morning at the ticket barrier. We don’t usually meet up, as Hattie comes in from the opposite direction and the trains don’t coincide, but she said that tomorrow she would catch an earlier one and hang about.
“I’ll just hover. I won’t be obvious!”
“You can’t miss him,” I said. I got this hot fizzy feeling inside me just talking about him. Zing, pop, sizzle, like a bottle of Coke exploding. I told Hattie that sometimes he was with a friend, another boy from Grove Park. I think I sort of half had in mind that maybe the friend would do for Hattie. She could sigh over him, and I could sigh over the Gorgeous Mystery Boy. It would be more fun if we could sigh together; I didn’t like the thought of Hattie being left out.
She wanted to know what the friend was like. I said he was OK, but the truth was I hadn’t really paid much attention to him.
“Hair?”
“Dark.”
“Eyes?”
“Dunno.”
“Tall or short?”
“Tall. Ish.”
“Fat or thin?”
“Thin.”
“You mean … thin like weedy, or thin like athletic?”
“Not athletic. I think he’s got something wrong with him.”
“Wrong how?”
“I dunno, he has this trouble walking.”
“Like … sprained ankle, maybe?”
“Dunno. Don’t think so. Think it’s more than that.”
“Hm.” Hattie crinkled her brow, as she considered the problem. “Congenital?”
Whatever that meant. It sounded vaguely rude to me.
“Something he was born with,” said Hattie. “Like a club foot or something?”
I said again that I didn’t know. I didn’t find the subject anywhere near as fascinating as Hattie appeared to, but she tends to be a tidge on the ghoulish side. She loves to dwell on morbid details, like when they have medical programmes on the telly and she is absolutely glued to them.
“Be there tomorrow,” I said, “and you can see for yourself.”
Hattie promised that she would. She said that I needed an eye kept on me and that she was the person to do it, but really and truly
, I could tell, she was just bursting with vulgar curiosity!
Hattie has caught her first glimpse! She was there by the barrier this morning – loitering with intent – and he walked right past her. Literally within centimetres. They might even have touched. Hattie agrees with me that he is totally out of this world! We have been trying to work out which year he is likely to be in; we think probably Year 10. Hattie says he has to be at least fourteen and could even be fifteen. In other words, just right! I don’t go for little boys. This is why there is no one In our class that I would even consider asking to partner me on Founders Day. If I am selected, that is. Oh, but I have to be! I just have to be! Especially now. I mean, now that I know who I am going to ask … cos I will ask! I’ll find a way.
His friend was there this morning, the one who walks with a limp. Hattie had a look and says it is not a club foot. She wonders if perhaps he has had polio, but I didn’t think people got polio these days. Whatever it is, it makes him walk in a very odd way, so that he has difficulty keeping up. We have christened them Peg Leg and the Sun God!
In fact it was Hattie who thought up the name Sun God and me who thought of Peg Leg. I am quite ashamed of it now, but I didn’t know his name and I had to call him something. Hattie disapproved even at the time. She said he hadn’t got a peg leg, just a limp.
“And you don’t refer to people with disabilities by their disability!”
I said, “I don’t see why not, if you don’t know their name.”
“Because it’s rude and insensitive,” said Hattie. “It’s discriminatory.”
She’s always using these words. She doesn’t do it to show off, it just comes naturally to her; she’s like a talking dictionary. It is very educational, having Hattie for a friend. But that doesn’t stop me arguing with her!
“I’m not being dis— ” Damn. I couldn’t say it properly. “I’m not being!”
“Yes, you are,” said Hattie. “You just don’t realise it. It’s like when the police describe suspects as black. That’s discriminatory.”
She is always so politically correct! It gets on my nerves at times. I told her that it wasn’t discriminatory at all. “It’s just a way of identifying people … I wouldn’t mind if someone called me the girl with red hair.”
Hattie said that was because I was secretly proud of having red hair.
I said, “Well, black people are probably proud of being black.”
“Yeah? I don’t expect they’d be proud of walking with a limp!”
I said, “All right, so how would you describe him? Like when we’re talking, what would you call him? Friend of Sun God?”
Hah! That stumped her. I don’t very often get one over on Hattie, but this time she didn’t have an answer. She came back to it later, when we were walking round together at break. Hattie is like a dog with a bone. She can worry a subject to death.
“I wouldn’t just call him Friend of Sun God. He’s a person in his own right. He has to have a name of his own.”
“OK,” I said, “so what would you call him?”
“I’m going to call him Hermes,” said Hattie.
I said, “Who’s Hermes? Pardon my ignorance.”
“Pardon granted,” said Hattie. “Hermes was the messenger of the gods. It’s kind of how I picture him … thin, and dark.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a messenger,” I said. “Wouldn’t get anywhere very fast!”
I suppose it wasn’t really funny. Hattie gave me this withering look. “Ever heard of mass communications? I bet he’s a computer whiz. He looks like he’s got a brain.”
“What, and Sun God hasn’t?”
“Did I say that?” said Hattie.
“You implied it.”
“I did not! He might be an academic genius, for all I know.”
“But you don’t really think he is … just cos he’s totally gorgeous you think he’s a moron! Now who’s being discriminating?”
We argued – quite amicably – all through break. Me and Hattie are always having these kind of spats. It’s mostly Hattie who starts them. It has to be said, she’s a very disputatious sort of person; really quite opinionated. But I do enjoy the cut and thrust of intellectual debate.
The name Hermes didn’t really stick, though it was strange Hattie should have chosen it. (For explanation, see later!) Privately, in my diary, I still referred to him as Peg Leg, while in conversation the Sun God mostly became “you-know-who” – accompanied by a lovesick sigh. Hattie either called him Apollo or sometimes just God, when she wanted to be sarcastic or make fun of me.
I guess I did get a bit drippy. Very tiresome, as I know from experience. Hattie once got drippy over this beastly boring cricket person that she couldn’t stop going on about. I mean, cricket, for heaven’s sake! Fortunately it was just a phase she was going through; she’s out of it now. But I was still at the stage where I had these mad explosions going off every time I opened my mouth, like a thousand sparklers all fizzing and hissing.
“I just wish I knew his name,” I wailed.
Hattie agreed that knowing his name would be an advantage. “Unless, of course, it turns out to be something like Wayne, or Kevin, or— ”
“It won’t, it won’t!” Please let it not be. Not Wayne or Kevin!
“Marmaduke. Alistair. George— ”
“Shut up!” I said. “You’re making me feel ill!”
“How about Sebastian? How about— ”
“Oh, Hattie, do be quiet!” I said. “Listen, guess what? I got a merit mark for history! That’s ten already … if I get selected – if I get selected – I could invite you-know-who to be my partner!”
“Well, yes,” said Hattie, “if you ever get around to talking to him. Or would you just go waltzing up out of the blue and say, ‘Hi! Want to come to Founder’s Day with me?’”
“I’m going to get to know him,” I said. “Don’t worry! I’m working on it. In any case, there’s ages to go. They don’t do the selection till some time next term.”
“Omigawd,” said Hattie. “Don’t tell me … another three months of inane burble!”
Although I’d said that I was “working on it”, the truth was I didn’t have any sort of strategy in mind. I guess I was secretly hoping that just being around, on the platform, every morning at the same time would be enough to get me noticed. I mean, I’d noticed him; he could notice me! This probably sounds extremely conceited, but I knew I was noticeable cos my hair is not just red, it’s more like flame coloured. And our school uniform is green, which really suits me. Dad always said that if I’d been sent to Hayes High he’d have paid for me to go private rather than see me in their puke-making get-up. It is bright purple!!!
Still, you can’t always rely on boys taking note of things like clothes. The fact was, I needed a plan. Some way of drawing attention to myself. Maybe I could … stage a fainting fit right in front of him?
No! That was stupid. I’d learnt enough about boys to know that he wouldn’t find it in the least romantic. Boys don’t like girls who flake out on them, and anyway, I wasn’t the type. I despise people who faint!
Tanya fainted once, during assembly. She had to be carted away to the side of the hall and sat on a chair with her head between her knees. Not very becoming!
OK. No fainting. So maybe I could … tread on his foot and apologise? Abjectly, and with great charm. “Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry!”
He probably wouldn’t even feel it. Or if he did, he’d just think what a clumsy idiot I was. I didn’t want him thinking I was clumsy!
How about if I actually went up to him and asked him if he knew … who? Anyone! Make up a name … Miles Bailey!
“You don’t happen to know Miles Bailey, do you?”
And he would say no, why? And I would say … what would I say? I would say, “His sister’s a friend of mine! He used to go to your school.”
That would be even more stupid than fainting. That would just make me sound desperate.
But I was
desperate! I had to find some way of getting to know him. And then, while I was still agonising, chance came to my rescue, as chance so often does. What I am saying is, I think you have to be prepared – like in my case being on time every single day for positively weeks; but then in the end you need a bit of luck, cos it’s luck that creates opportunities. You just have to be ready to jump in at the right moment!
This is what I wrote in my diary:
I have broken the ice. I have spoken to Peg Leg! We sat on the train together and talked. His name is Simon, and the Sun God is Matt. Such a relief! I was getting really scared in case it was something naff, like Wayne or Alan. I HATE the name Alan! But Matt is cool. He’s off school at the moment on some field trip, so I won’t see him for a while. How am I going to survive??? Two whole weeks without him! But at least now I’ve introduced myself.
Don’t you just love the way I said that? “Introduced myself, like it was so polite and formal? Like, “Good morning, how do you do? I’m Scarlett Maguire, I don’t believe we’ve spoken before.”
It wasn’t like that at all! What happened was, I was late. For the first time in weeks. It wasn’t Dad’s fault, there was an accident on Lansdowne Road and we had to make a detour. Pure chance! So Dad dropped me off at the bottom of Station Parade, and there I was, churning my way through a sea of bodies, arms flailing, legs going like piston rods, when lo and behold I tripped over a bit of broken paving stone and went crashing headlong into …
You’ve got it! Peg Leg. I mean, Simon. (I’m not going to call him Peg Leg any more. I only wrote it because that was how I still thought of him. But I don’t any longer: it makes me cringe, now, to remember that I ever did.)
Poor boy! He was sent flying. It’s not that I’m particularly heavy (I take after Mum, I’m naturally quite slim) but when you have one leg that is shorter than the other you are not very well balanced. God, I felt so awful! He dropped his bag and stuff went shooting off in all directions. It was very embarrassing. But as I scrabbled around, collecting things up, I couldn’t resist a quick peek at his name on one of the books: Simon Carson. Year 10.