‘You have a five-year plan.’
‘Sure. First, do the IB. Then, study history and politics – probably in the UK, but I’m also applying to the States. Then after that, I wouldn’t mind doing a political internship. Ideally I’d gather enough experience so that I could be really useful when I went back to Pakistan.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s the current plan, anyway. In five years’ time I’ll make another plan.’
I nodded and tried to look as if I had my life under equal control.
‘You think it sounds too much?’ he said. ‘Priscilla says I’m like Stalin with my five-year plans.’
Hm. This was the second mention of his girlfriend today. If he was making a point of it, there was really no need. He was cute enough, with his green eyes and his glossy black hair that kept flopping over his forehead. But he was far too smooth for me, even if he hadn’t had a girlfriend. Nonetheless, I did think he was a nice guy. I couldn’t understand what Vee had against him – or Priscilla.
‘Maybe we should join the others,’ I said, and we turned towards the pavilion. Two kids, a brother and sister, ran past us shrieking. I felt a surge of envy at Lenny again, but not for the Segway. Because he got to be at home.
‘So have you joined any clubs or anything?’ Tariq asked.
‘None really. I’m so busy catching up with the IB stuff.’ That must be why Tariq kept talking to me; he couldn’t get enough of my sparkling repartee. If there was a Boring Club, I could probably join that.
‘Why don’t you get involved in the Student Council?’
I hadn’t been expecting that. The obvious answer was ‘Because I’m a fugitive and I don’t want to draw attention to myself,’ but I didn’t say that.
‘I know that the Entertainments Committee could do with someone to publicise the Spring Ball.’
‘Their what?’
‘The Spring Ball.’ He grinned. ‘It’s only the biggest thing to happen in Jean Monnet since the …’
‘Winter Ball?’ I hazarded.
‘Exactly! That’s just the kind of quick thinking they need. It’s at the end of May. The fact that you haven’t heard of it tells me they need more help with publicity.’
Publicity! Posters, flyers, maybe a web page. Meetings, committees, decisions, oh my! I was tempted.
But they would want me to go online. I’d have to have my photos in the yearbook. Or I’d end up on a web page … In any case I would be drawing attention to myself, which I didn’t want to do.
‘Fletcher is the Entertainment Officer,’ Tariq said. ‘She’s doing a great job, but I’m seeing the whites of her eyes a lot these days. If you did change your mind, I’m sure she’d love the help … No pressure though.’
Damn. He was a good politician – giving me the same charming, lop-sided smile that he had given that teacher in order to get the sick slip from her. This was obviously the whole reason he’d wanted to talk to me – to inveigle me into helping.
But it sounded like such a nice idea. I couldn’t hide away forever. I would have to start living my life at some point. And this time I would be more careful.
Don’t give into impulse again, Delilah, I warned myself. But something told me this would be a good impulse.
‘OK!’ I said. ‘I’ll do it.’
Chapter Twenty-One
On Monday morning, we had assembly in the main hall – known here as a ‘community meeting’. Unlike the room in my school, which doubled as the gymnasium and always smelled faintly of deodorant, this was a big, vaulted space with an enormous painting of someone carrying an enormous cross up the steps of a building. Who that was, I had no idea, obviously.
I got there early, hoping to catch Vee or Kiyoshi in a way that wasn’t too obvious. But they weren’t there yet. I saw Fletcher arrive, late and out of breath, with her boyfriend Hunter in tow. I’d noticed her earlier from my window, trotting across the courtyard in her running gear while I was barely awake. I turned round before she could spot me. I had decided who I wanted to be friends with; getting involved with other people would only confuse everyone.
In order not to look conspicuous, I killed the time by examining the student artwork hung at one end. My eye was caught by two or three drawings of landscapes – ruined tower blocks overgrown by trees and flowers. I leaned in and saw Kiyoshi’s name. He was so talented – was there anything he couldn’t do?
‘Yo,’ said Vee, behind me. ‘How’s it going? How was your weekend?’
She was wearing a tattered tweed overcoat with several badges on it. One of them said ‘Ni putes, ni soumises’ which I didn’t understand; the other said ‘Kill the Bankers’ which was clear enough.
‘It was good! I went to the Louvre… .’ I decided not to mention agreeing to get involved in the Entertainment Committee. ‘I got to know some of the other boarders. It was fun.’
‘Oh, good. I was worried that you might have been lonely during the weekend. Kiyoshi and I went for crepes on Sunday. We would have messaged you but you’re not on Snapchat or anything …’
I nodded, feeling sad at how I’d missed out. It was true that she had my phone number, but that was way too formal – like a written invitation. ‘How was your weekend?’
Her face darkened. ‘Don’t ask.’
I could tell she did want me to ask, so I was going to when we were interrupted by everyone being called to sit down. The director of the school went up to the podium. He was a short, powerfully built Belgian guy called Monsieur Mougel, and apparently he’d been in the UN peacekeeping force before becoming a teacher. He didn’t look as if he wouldn’t make us do drills or dawn marches.
‘Welcome everyone. As you know, this week is International Autism Awareness Week.’
I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. But it was interesting; we watched several videos about autism, and heard from one of the maths teachers whose son was autistic.
‘Now we’re going to hear from someone in our community who’s going to talk about his own experiences. Please welcome Felipe.’
I was amazed to see a tanned, skinny boy from one of the years below make his way up to the platform. With his huge glasses, and his trousers belted way too high up on his waist, he looked incredibly vulnerable. He went up the stairs so slowly and reluctantly, my heart was in my mouth for him. Vee and I exchanged anxious glances.
When he got to the podium, he could barely look up. When he finally did, his face froze into an expression of horror as he took in the size of the crowd before him. There were a few moments before he could speak, and when he did it wasn’t what I’d expected.
‘Shit!’ he said.
Everyone burst out laughing – but not in a mean way; you could feel the goodwill. The whole room clapped and cheered, which made the boy smile uncertainly. After a few quiet words with one of the teachers, he started to speak again.
‘Hi,’ he said, reading from a piece of paper. ‘My name is Felipe. I have autism. This means that I find some things difficult that other people find easy.’
In his quiet voice, Felipe went on to talk about how he found loud noises and crowds overwhelming, how he got anxious when his routine was disrupted, and how difficult he found it to make eye contact. He was obviously painfully nervous, but you could feel the entire assembly willing him to make it through to the end – which he did.
‘So if I avoid your eyes,’ he concluded, reading from his sheet, ‘It doesn’t mean I don’t want you to talk to me, because actually I do. Thank you.’
As he hurried back down the steps, the whole room erupted in applause. Beside me Vee was clapping and cheering Felipe. I felt very strange suddenly.
‘That was amazing,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘But won’t it just get him bullied?’
Vee looked at me in surprise. ‘Of course not. We don’t really have bullying here. It’s because we share our stories. We’re honest.’
I nodded, feeling more ashamed. The idea of being honest was obviously so foreign to me, I didn’t even recognise it whe
n it stood up and talked at assembly.
The meeting ended with an announcement from Tariq and Priscilla, about a collection of old clothing for charity. They were obviously quite a practised double-act.
‘We’ll accept anything clean that’s still in good condition,’ Priscilla said.
‘Even if it’s from last season,’ Tariq quipped, to general groans. Vee was right – he did look a bit smug.
As we all filed out, Richard, my Trekkie friend, gave me a wave. ‘Live long and prosper!’ he said, holding up his hand in a Vulcan salute.
‘Live long and prosper,’ I muttered, blushing as I saw Tariq approach.
‘Still on for Wednesday?’ he asked.
‘Yes – see you then!’ I said, knowing that I was going pink.
‘What’s happening on Wednesday?’ said Kiyoshi in my ear. ‘Hot makeout sesh with Tariq?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just a, um, class thing.’
I was paranoid that Vee would ask me more questions, but she was too deep in her own misery.
‘It’s my parents,’ she said, when we asked.
‘What have they done now?’ said Kiyoshi.
‘They don’t want me doing Art. At all. They’ve spoken to the school – without asking me – and I’m doing Economics instead.’ Vee looked close to tears.
‘Can you get one of the teachers to talk to them?’
‘No.’ For a second I thought she was going to cry, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. She blinked a few times and said through gritted teeth, ‘I’ll just have to work on my portfolio in my own time.’
‘And in the summer,’ said Kiyoshi, soothingly. ‘You’ll have time. I’ll help you.’
‘I’m really sorry, though,’ I said. ‘It’s horrible that they won’t support you.’
‘Thanks.’ She sighed, and scuffed the floor with her worn Nike. Suddenly she looked up. ‘What did Tariq want?’
‘Oh, nothing – it’s just a thing for, um … History class,’ I improvised. I felt bad for lying. But I wanted to keep it on the down-low for now. For one thing, the committee might not even want me, in which case the others wouldn’t even have to know. And if I did end up on the committee … I would just cross that bridge when I came to it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was nice to have a class that I liked on Monday morning. I walked into Greek and Roman literature feeling a bit less alien than I had the week before. Mr Gerardo was wearing a particularly spiffy dark blue floral shirt and braces. I lived in hope of seeing him crack out a bow tie.
‘I trust we all had a pleasant weekend,’ he said, ‘and that you’re all ready to be plunged into some nice eighth-century warfare? Good. Can you turn to Book One, line 200?’
After we had read a few pages, Mr Gerardo said, ‘This fight between Achilles and Agamemnon. Why does Agamemnon refuse to return the slave girl to her father?’
‘Because …’ I knew this. This was Iliad 101. I just felt flustered. ‘Um …’
‘Isn’t it because of pride?’ said someone at the back.
‘Yes, it is. And why is his pride involved?’
Priscilla frowned. ‘Well, Agamemnon sees this girl as his property. So if he gives her up – he’s losing face.’
‘Yes!’ Mr Gerardo said. ‘And another way of saying that is what? What emotion will he be feeling?’
This one was easy.
‘Shame,’ I said.
The feeling of so many faces turning round to look at me, once so familiar, was suddenly terrifying. I looked down again at my printout, remembering why I had vowed not to talk in class.
Mr Gerardo nodded. ‘Shame – fear of being shamed before society – is the driving force of the Iliad. If you think of it, the reason they all want Helen back isn’t because of any particular concern for her, but because of the shame of having her taken. Agamemnon refuses to give up his slave – because of the shame that would entail. So Achilles refuses to fight, again to avoid dishonour. And then, after Patroclus is killed …’
There was a gasp from someone in the back of the room. Everyone laughed. ‘Oh dear – I should have given a spoiler alert,’ said Mr Gerardo. ‘Anyway, Patroclus is killed, I’m afraid. And the shame of having caused his friend’s death is what drives Achilles back out to the battlefield to face Hector. Achilles knows that Hector will kill him – the goddess Thetis has told him so – but the shame of not doing it would be worse than death. In a sense, pride, honour and shame are what drives all the figures in this epic. Yes, Priscilla?’
‘They’re all just acting like a group of schoolboys,’ she said crisply.
Mr Gerardo laughed. ‘Yes, that’s certainly one side of it,’ he said. ‘It’s true that they could have sat down and worked it all out reasonably. But that would have made less of a story. And in any case, aren’t we all a mixture – with heroic qualities and less heroic ones?’
Nobody said anything.
‘It’s true that our standards are different now,’ he went on. ‘We don’t have such an emphasis on shame any more, in our society. What do we have instead?’ He sprang over to the whiteboard, and wrote Shame –> Guilt. ‘We have guilt. And this is a transition that you see in Greek literature. The Iliad deals with shame but by the time we come to read about the Peloponnesian war and Herodotus, we’ll have moved away from that towards guilt instead. Instead of having their behaviour dictated to them by society, Greeks will listen to their conscience to decide right and wrong.’
He paused. ‘Can anyone tell me the difference between shame and guilt?’
I certainly wasn’t going to say anything. Priscilla said slowly, ‘Is it that guilt is something you feel inside – and shame is something other people put on you?’
‘Yes. Exactly. Another way of saying that is that guilt is private, and shame is always public. Let’s go on with this passage.’
I felt my pounding heart settle a bit as the class went on. But I kept thinking about what Mr Gerardo had said – that we didn’t have shame any more in our society. I couldn’t help thinking he was wrong about that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I had done so well with staying off social media. I had stopped even wanting to passively scroll through all the gifs and selfies of friends-of-friends. But the uneasy feeling from my Greek and Roman class stayed with me, until on Wednesday afternoon, I cracked. I found myself going online and looking up my old friends. Nisha had posted a picture that said, ‘When all your friends come out with you on a Tuesday to celebrate your birthday!’ They were all in it, all smiling at the camera. Jules had changed her hair.
Of course I knew that Instagram only showed part of the picture. I knew it didn’t mean that they were having a great life all the time. But it wasn’t a complete lie either. They had had a good night out. Without me.
And they all looked better than I did. I really didn’t look great; the roots on my new hair were showing and my eyebrows were out of control. Why had I ever called myself Lola? Lola was the name of a minx. As opposed to a … a hamster like me.
‘Hey! Lola!’ said a voice. It was Fletcher.
‘Oh, hi!’ I said, flustered. I closed my laptop before she could see what I was doing.
‘I just came to get you, for the Entertainment Committee meeting!’
‘Oh yeah, of course.’ I looked at my watch. A quarter to five; how had I nearly missed that?
‘I feel so bad that I’m not doing all this!’ Fletcher said breathlessly, as we hurried down the corridor. ‘Are you sure you can manage it on top of all your school work?’
‘Well, of course. I mean we have the same amount of work, don’t we? You probably have more than me, since I’m doing the certificate.’ I still hated admitting this.
‘I guess! I just always feel I should be doing more.’ She laughed, but there was a sort of hysterical edge in her voice that made me think that if anything she should be doing less.
The Treasurer was a plump Swiss-American guy called Patrick, who had round glasses and an a
ir of quiet amusement. I’d seen him hanging around with Tariq. Then there was an English girl called Rose, who was Social Secretary. She had a very fruity, posh accent and a regal way of talking very slowly while staring into the distance six inches in front of her.
‘This is Lola,’ said Fletcher. ‘She’s offered to help us with publicity, isn’t that super awesome?’
Rose didn’t seem to think it was awesome, but she accepted my presence with a nod.
‘As long as Tariq and Priscilla agree … Where are they?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t see Priscilla in school today,’ said Patrick. ‘She might be ill. Good to have you on board, Lola!’
I beamed at him. As I took out my special designated notebook, I felt like I was home again. I remembered how excited I used to feel, sweeping down the corridors at school with my prefect’s badge. I felt like a real mover and shaker, and whenever we got to sit in on a staff meeting, I felt like I was in the West Wing. This wasn’t the same, but it was close.
Except that I had forgotten my pen. Not a great omen.
‘It’s OK!’ said Fletcher. ‘I have tons. Here.’ She passed me an expensive-looking rollerball pen.
‘Let’s start without them,’ Rose was saying. ‘So. I’ve drawn up a list, and one thing we should definitely have is a mani-cam.’
‘What is that? Is it some kind of surveillance unit?’ said Patrick.
‘No, no,’ said Rose. ‘It’s a way of filming peoples’ manicures. They have it at the Oscars. You get a cardboard box, put a little bit of red carpet inside it, and then you film people’s fingers “walking” inside it. So it’s like the mani is walking the carpet.’
We all looked at her doubtfully.
‘Also,’ Rose continued. ‘What about a VIP area?’
‘A what now?’ said Patrick – except in his Swiss accent, ‘What’ came out as ‘Vot.’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose.
‘We wouldn’t call it that obviously,’ said Rose. ‘But I think, since we’re doing all the organising, it’s only fair that we should have an area where we can relax and hang out with our friends and our dates.’
Lola Offline Page 7