by Juno Dawson
She and I
by Victoria Grand – Year 9 – Ilkley Grammar School
She says home, I say go.
I say wish, she says bone.
She says friends, I say best.
I say please, she says test.
She says fun, I say pain.
I say stop, she says again.
She says work, I say drone.
I say listen, she says phone.
She says smile, I say teeth.
I say woman, she says bleed.
She says eat, I say starve.
I say whole, she says half.
She says words, I say noise.
I say girls, she says toys.
She says saying, I say said.
I said she said, she saw red.
Stop pain, teeth bleed
Half-woman, starve again
Listen! Fun! Test friends
Phone home, words work
Toy bone, smile please
Best wishes, whole drone
Go. Eat girl’s noise.
The poem that won was written by some private-school kid pretending to be the Unknown Soldier. I never really stood a chance did I? I used to write my poems in a vintage notebook I’d rescued from my grandma’s attic: sepia-tinged pages bound in skin-soft brown suede. It smelled musty, like libraries and cleverness. I inhaled a lungful. Rereading it, it wasn’t quite as cringe as I’d remembered.
The next weekend, which somehow scraped into the crap underneath the bottom of the barrel to be even MORE boring, I was called on to accompany Mum and Dad into town ‘to help’. I think, in truth, they felt sorry for me so were trying to keep me occupied, although they didn’t say so.
The high street was a pretty sad affair. A lot of shops had shut altogether to be filled with temporary tourist tat shops that would no doubt be clearing off now the summer season was over. Thankfully there was a comic shop with a pretty good selection, although the guys behind the counter stared at me like I was a shoplifter, or worse, a lost girl looking for the make-up counter.
While Mum went into the traditional butcher’s (Worst. Hindu. Ever), I waited outside because I didn’t like the smell of raw meat. My Spidey Sense tingled. I heard them before I saw them: Summer and the other Pot-Pourri girls tottering down the high street, their hot-pant legs the colour of briny frankfurters. God, I really hoped they didn’t see me out shopping with Mum. I turned my comic-store bag around so they couldn’t see the logo.
The Pot-Pourris advertised their presence with whooping, laughing and shrieking. They swung held hands, spreading out to take up as much space as possible. They were hard to ignore and I suspected that was the intention. Their colourful petals had already attracted a couple of guys I recognised from school. One of them gave Becca Ferguson a piggyback.
It would be pretty easy to hate them, but they weren’t doing any harm. They looked to be having a really good time. I didn’t want to be with them but I did wonder when my life was going to begin and what I’d do if it didn’t.
The answer came about three weeks into the first half-term. I’m skipping to the good bit, I promise. It was a weirdly sunny day for late September and so, instead of going into the common room, most pupils congregated outside, enjoying a final outing for the shorts and flip-flops. This made life harder because no one had told me where ‘the gang’ was going to be. That felt a lot like I wasn’t invited – Daisy and Beasley both had my mobile number – but I nevertheless set off in search of my new acquaintances, aimlessly wandering the outdoor areas like a Bedouin. Moreover, I still hadn’t successfully broken in my new Docs. I’d basically bound my feet with plasters, but they were still rubbing.
It didn’t take long to find Freya, who was sat alone on the grass verge next to the football pitch, you guessed it, reading. A group of uniformed Year 9s at various lay-bys on the puberty highway were giving her a hard time.
‘I’m telling you man … she’s deaf or something,’ said one cockroach.
‘Boil!’ Freya’s surname was Doyle. ‘Show us your tits.’
They howled with laughter. The first spoke again. ‘Boil, I’ll give you ten quid if you show us your tits.’
Behind her book and behind her hair, Freya blushed. I’d had enough. I wasn’t scared of spotty stoat-faced Year 9s. I strode up to Freya’s side and yanked up my T-shirt to reveal my bra. Today, a purple one with tiny pink dots.
‘Happy now?’
‘Oh my god!’ The little boys didn’t know what to do. One laughed, one blushed, another walked briskly away, caught in the act.
I carried on. ‘You said you wanted to see some tits! Here you go. Something to wank over, you little tosspots.’
‘Freak!’ the littlest, spottiest, yet noisiest one said before pelting in the other direction.
‘Nice!’ I turned to see Polly ambling down the slope. ‘And nice tits too.’
I chuckled (I do have nice boobs – they make up for the total lack of arse) but I was still fuming. ‘Dicks.’
‘That was inspired, by the way. I’d have punched them, but yours was funnier.’
‘Thanks.’ She joined me alongside Freya and we sat on the grassy embankment.
‘There isn’t an initiation, by the way, but if there was you’d have just passed it,’ Polly told me. ‘We’ve been talking about you a lot. We couldn’t decide if you thought we were freaks and if you’d run off and join the Pretty Girl Gang at the first opportunity.’ Today she was wearing a torn-up T-shirt with a Kewpie doll on the front.
‘God, no way. I spent an evening at Summer Perkins’s house. That was enough.’
‘Is her hair a wig? I heard her hair was a wig and that she’s secretly bald.’
I laughed. ‘No. I think it’s attached.’
‘What? A **** Brompton rumour that wasn’t true? I guess that means I’m not a hermaphrodite then. Shame.’
This was the first time I’d had a one-on-one conversation with Polly. It felt good. I was a little in awe of her, but determined not to show it. ‘If you’ve been talking about me,’ I said, feeling brave, ‘does Alice, like, properly hate me? She’s been giving me the stink-eye since I arrived.’
Polly unwrapped a bagel from her satchel. ‘No, that’s just Alice. She’s only happy when she’s depressed.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘She’s a drama addict, not to mention self-styled Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Her and Alex are very … melodramatic. She thinks that Alex fancies you, but she’ll come around.’ Polly smiled. ‘I’ll make her, because I want you in my friend bag.’
‘“Friend bag”?’
‘Where you put the keepers.’
I smiled, despite not wanting to seem too eager. ‘Good. I very much want to be in the friend bag.’
Polly’s eyes blazed – a little manic almost. ‘Good! What are you doing tonight?’
‘Homework.’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that because tonight is going to be the night of your ******* life.’
‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’
‘Tonight, ************, you’re coming with us to play crazy golf.’
Chapter Three
Him
It probably sounds like I’m gushing about Polly, and I am. There is nothing better than New Friend Feeling™: when you realise there’s someone you totally get and totally gets you. It’s way better than finding someone you fancy, because New Friend Feeling™ is more honest without all the sex stuff and hormones getting in the way and convincing you that good arms are actually a shining personality.
Polly’s not some wish-fulfilment fantasy I invented; I really did think she was wonderful. For those first few weeks, she could do no wrong. I knew it wouldn’t last, and it didn’t.
But more on that later.
When Polly first invited me to play crazy golf, I assumed she was joking. I’d seen the shabby ‘Fantasyland’ on the seafront a couple of times when I’d ventured into town during the holidays, but it had been overrun by little kids and tourists. Like ev
erything in Brompton, it was ‘faded’.
Still, Polly assured me it was ‘theirs’ after dark. While I’d been up in my room on my laptop, that’s where everyone else had been, apparently. Of course I agreed to go. For someone so aggressive, Polly was oddly magnetic – people stuck to her like paperclips.
After school I went home for tea, or as southern people called it ‘dinner’. Dad was working late, as usual, so it was just Mum and me and a third plate wrapped in sweaty cling film. Since we’d moved to Brompton, I’d noticed Mum’s designated ‘uncorking time’ had steadily crept back from six to four. Now I think about it, there was no way of knowing if the goblet-sized glass of red wine Mum had when I got home was her first of the day. I suppose I wasn’t meant to notice. They seem to think I’m still upstairs playing with my Barbies.
Grumble. I almost can’t be bothered to get on to my parents – it feels too much like I should be lying back on a leather couch. I’m also aware that one day they might read this and I don’t want to feel like I’m chucking them under the bus. They did MAKE me. I suppose I should be a little bit respectful. OK, a lot respectful.
You know that moment where you realise The Awful Truth about your parents? I’d had that about two years earlier. Up until I was about fourteen, my dad was goofy and funny, and my mum was beautiful but strict. Now all I saw was a mean woman and an ineffectual man. Harsh, I know, but it works both ways. My dad always said I’d been a ‘happy accident’ but I, of course, now knew that translated as: I was a mistake.
Pre-me, my parents had this hip life. Young cool music journalist and cute indie librarian. Predating the hipster movement by about ten years, they met at a Pulp gig in Manchester and fell madly in love. So in love I guess they didn’t trouble themselves with silly things like contraception. Sometimes Mum looks at me and I swear I can see her blaming me for stealing the last sixteen years from her.
These days, my dad has a great job but no common sense, so my mum is in charge of money. Although I’m pretty pale-skinned, I look loads more like Mum than Dad – all cheekbones and raven hair – which means as I age I’m only going to look more severe, like bloody Maleficent. Something to look forward to. Personality wise, I’m more like Dad, affable and chill. At least, I hope I am.
‘How was school?’ Mum asked, now on her second glass of wine (that I knew of).
‘Fine.’
Standard answer. We always ate at the dining table with the TV off. It’s a house rule.
‘Fine. All I ever get is fine. It’s OK to not be fine, Vicky.’
‘Please don’t call me Vicky. I hate it more than olives and prejudice.’
She held up her fork to silence me. ‘Oh dear god, don’t overreact. I’m not having this stroppiness, I’m just not, so put a lid on it right now, please.’
‘Mum! I only said …’ There was no point. She was spoiling for a fight and I wasn’t going to give her one. ‘Whatever, sorry,’ I said, sounding exactly like the stroppy teen I’d just been warned about.
‘Have you made any new friends yet?’ she asked in the way you’d ask a four-year-old on their first day of nursery.
I can’t put my finger on when I stopped liking my parents. You don’t stop loving them, but I didn’t like them any more. I used to think my mum was this beautiful Princess Jasmine figure. There’s a photo in the hall from years ago – my mum and dad in super-fancy clothes at an awards thing. Mum’s wearing this amazing peacock-blue sari and I used to want to be her. When I grew up I’d wear that sari and dance and drink champagne and be just like her. But Aladdin wasn’t what I wanted any more. I was working on being anything but her.
‘Maybe.’ I poked a slug-like mushroom off my chicken chasseur. ‘I’m going to meet some people from school tonight.’
‘Oh, OK.’ I could see she wanted to ask if it was at a crack den in a way that wouldn’t stifle me. I’ll give her this, she’s at least read the Good Parenting books.
‘Don’t worry. We’re only playing crazy golf.’
Relief, followed by disbelief. ‘You’re going to play crazy golf ?’
‘Yep. I know.’
I arrived late to make sure I wasn’t the first to get there. I hate that. Brompton Front glittered like a miniature Vegas with arcade lights. As I walked past the machines were busy with kids I recognised from lower down the school. They huddled around claw-grab games while a pair of hard-as-nails-looking girls were so good at Dance Dance Revolution they could do it backwards without facing the screen.
There was a bijou funfair on the pier but, out of season, it had shut at six thirty. With the lights all off it was straight out of Scooby-Doo – I could make out the silhouette of the ghost-train skull and the roller coaster was like a ribcage. The crazy-golf course was underneath the pier, but set back from the beach. Down there it smelled of sea – that smell the sea has … sea-y? How else would you like me to describe it? Luckily, it was masked by the scent of freshly made fish and chips, vinegar, doughnuts and candyfloss. Heaven.
The tide shivered over the shore but there was tinny music coming from the crazy-golf sound system. It wasn’t the Eurodance of the arcades, it wasn’t even English – it was K-pop. They were playing Korean music in Brompton? Maybe this really was Polly’s space after all.
The wooden sign over the entrance featured a NOT MICKEY MOUSE welcoming kids in. Basically a poorly painted imitation Mickey Mouse with a much creepier smile – his tongue poked out of the edge of his mouth like he’d had a stroke. His manic leer seemed to say ‘Roll up! Roll up to the circus of nightmares!’ The sign actually read ‘Fantasyland – Fun for All the Family!’
I saw the others already waiting on the other side of the archway near the ticket booth. They were sprawled over the children’s play area like a Vice magazine spread, drinking cheap fizzy dessert wine straight from the bottle.
Polly stood on a swing straddling Daisy. Alice, as ever, sat on Alex’s knee on the roundabout. Tonight he was dressed like Sherlock Holmes (and not the foxy Cumberbatch version). Beasley teetered in the centre of the see-saw, waving his golf club like a majorette. Were they waiting for me? That was sweet.
‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘No worries,’ said Polly. ‘Wine?’
I actually hate wine, I think it both looks and smells like cat wee, but I accepted the lukewarm bottle so I didn’t look loserly. ‘Thanks.’
‘We were in the middle of a heated debate,’ Beasley explained. ‘If you had to have sex with someone from Sesame Street who would it be and why?’
‘Oh my god!’ I exploded.
‘I said Elmo,’ said Daisy, climbing off the swing to hug me. ‘And now everyone says I’m a paedo. Tell them I’m not, Toria.’
‘That is so wrong!’ I laughed. ‘You can’t have sex with them, they’re … Muppets!’
‘Cookie Monster is quite sexy, don’t you think?’ Polly grinned.
‘No, I don’t!’
‘Come on, you have to pick … or, like, your mum dies.’ Beasley dropped his club on his foot.
‘I’ll opt for my mum dying. The Muppets are more important. Which would you pick, Beasley?’
‘It was my question, so I don’t have to answer. When I lived in America I went to Sesame Street. I got to meet Big Bird.’
I would later learn that was a lie. Sometimes Beasley lies.
‘Cop out.’ I perched next to Alice and Alex. ‘So what’s this all about?’ I said, waving an arm at the golf course. ‘Do you actually play crazy golf?’
‘Well, of course,’ said Alex, continuing to chew, or indeed masticate, a dictionary. ‘It’s the most sublime pastime in all the kingdom. We take it very seriously.’
‘We don’t,’ Alice droned, more interested in filing her nails.
‘We jolly well do. It’s a fight to the death.’
Polly swung out and delivered a gentle kick in Alex’s face, which he ducked. ‘We don’t keep score but we do play.’
‘We’re just waiting for Nico and Zo
ë to arrive and then we’ll get going,’ Daisy said with an adorable kitten-like yawn.
Beasley explained. ‘Nico and Zoë go to the other sixth-form college in Brompton. They couldn’t get into Brompton Cliffs because they live too far away.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Polly sprang off the swing, bumping Daisy into the woodchips. ‘**** it, let’s get going. We need to teach Toria what to do anyway. Let’s get you a club. You got money?’
She led me to the kiosk. There was one hatch for clubs and admission and another for ice creams and stuff. Tonight both were operated by one guy: a stoned-looking rodentman with greasy hair. He reminded me of the drunk teacup mouse from Alice in Wonderland. ‘Oh look, a new one,’ he said, deadpan.
‘Ignore this ****,’ said Polly. ‘This is Jamie and he is what happens if you fail your exams.’
He glared at her with dewy pink-rimmed eyes. ‘Thanks, Polly. Love you too.’
‘That’s why we come here. Jamie makes us all work harder.’ Clearly used to Polly’s shit, he handed me a club and a score card as I slipped him the money. ‘You won’t need the score card,’ Polly reminded me.
‘There is only one rule,’ Alex explained as we pushed through a turnstile to the first hole. The course was set in a synthetic tropical garden with lanterns strung between imported palm trees. ‘You can’t move on to the next hole until you pot your ball and you can’t steer it in with your toe, Polly Wolff.’
‘I’ll do what the **** I want.’
‘No cheating, Pol.’ Daisy gave her the most serious glare such a pixie could manage.
‘OK, I won’t. Unless I get really ******* bored.’
With a vaudevillian flourish, Alex welcomed me to the first hole. ‘Welcome, dear lady, to Brompton’s finest crazy-golf establishment.’
‘God, why don’t you just whip it out for her?’ Alice muttered, not nearly quietly enough.
Let me talk you through the golf course. It’s important. Not to the story, but to me.