2
Lost?’
Her hair is dyed bright red and blue and sticks out from her head in dozens of braids. She has a nose ring and ear studs.
I’m standing at the school entrance trying to work out where the admin office is, while dozens of kids mill around me, shouting, swearing, talking on mobile phones, punching one another. It’s a jungle, and now there’s this odd-looking girl grinning at me.
‘Hi.’ Her smile reveals teeth white and perfectly formed. ‘You’re new around here.’
I’m always the new girl.
‘I guess so.’
‘You got a name?’
‘Sophie.’
‘I’m Greta Murphy. Doing your final year?’
I nod.
‘Good luck. Teachers treat you like slaves here. But most of them are okay. Except for Jenkins. He’s the deputy principal. We call him Mud Guards: all shiny on the top but dirty as hell underneath. You don’t want to get on his bad side.’
She talks at a hundred kays per hour, almost without drawing breath.
‘Come on, I’ll take you to the office.’ She grabs my arm and proceeds to charge through the throng.
‘Outta my way, coming through!’ she yells. The crowd parts. As we move along, she’s greeted from all sides. A popular girl.
‘What school were you at before here?’ she shouts above the playground noise.
‘Cheltenham.’
Greta halts abruptly. I almost collide with her.
‘That private college? The one that charges thousands in fees?’ Her face is close-up and personal; her eyes are unsettling – blue as summer sky and burning into me.
Almost ashamed to admit it, I nod.
‘Ohmigod! Your parents must be loaded.’
It’s too complicated to explain about my ‘family’, not that I’d want to anyway, especially to a stranger in the middle of a crowd, so I just shrug.
‘Why’d you leave?’
How nosy is this Greta? I say the first thing that springs into my mind.
‘Expelled.’
She grins. ‘I like you already. I expect all the juicy details at recess. Don’t leave out a word.’
We’re now at the office counter.
Greta gives me a thumbs-up. ‘You should be okay now. I’ll catch you later.’
‘Okay.’
‘Give ’em hell!’ She smiles all the way to China and gallops off as a bell rings.
I wait. I seem to spend half my life waiting. Waiting in Department office rooms mainly, but also in new school reception areas. I figure with all of my fosters since Arlene and Dutch I’ve been to seven schools. There’s always paperwork: name, address, former address and so on. God, I wish they’d hurry up.
‘Sophie?’
It’s the office assistant.
‘Mr Jenkins is ready to see you.’
I enter the office. He’s sitting at his desk, eyes down, writing. He doesn’t look up for the next five minutes. Arrogant pig. What is it about some men in power? He knows I’m here. Is it too much for him to show me just the tiniest bit of respect? Yes, way too much, obviously.
Offices tell a lot about people. His is as tidy as. Everything at ninety degree angles. There’s a shelf full of books, every one of them in alphabetical order. He’s anally retentive, that’s for sure.
Finally his face. Smiling. Big phoney.
‘Sophie!’ He says my name like an emcee announcing a stripper. Sleazebag.
‘Welcome to Cromer High.’
He pauses. Susses me out.
I maintain a blank face.
‘I see from your paperwork . . .’ Head down again, he flips through the thick sheaf of my school records. ‘You’ve been to quite a few schools . . .’ Head bobs up. ‘It looks like you’ve had a few problems here and there.’ Smile like a barracuda.
‘Just a few.’ I do my Nice Girl act. It won’t hurt to get on his good side – if he’s got one.
‘Yes. Hmm. Despite this you’ve maintained a very high grade average.’ Another barracuda job. ‘We like smart students at Cromer.’
He sure is smooth, trying to appeal to my ego – and succeeding. Yes, I do well at school, and yes, they’ve said I’m bright. I really love the challenge of learning and so far getting good grades has been the one constant in my life.
‘Now, young lass, let’s go through a few things.’
I bridle at his condescending tone, but keep it together.
‘Yes, sir.’
We discuss my workload and the looming final exams. I want to go on to uni next year so I need high marks. Not that I’m quite sure what I plan to do with the rest of my life. I love writing, especially poetry, so journalism sounds like a good option. Though journalists don’t write poetry, do they? It’s all so confusing sometimes. School. Jobs. Life. I wonder how anyone gets through it.
My mind is drifting as Jenkins blabs on until he stands and says, ‘Right. Time to meet your classmates.’
It’s always this way: a blur of faces, every one of them checking out the new girl. And a welcoming teacher who has no idea who I am. I keep a stone face and sit where I’m told, staring ahead at the blackboard. I don’t make friends easily; in fact long ago I gave up trying to be liked. I’m always moving on pretty quickly – hello, goodbye. So why bother in the first place?
‘Hey, Sophie!’
It’s Greta. I hadn’t noticed her sitting a few seats away. Her face lights up and she winks. I wonder why she’s so friendly. Probably gay. Just my luck.
At lunchtime she latches on to me. ‘You’ve gotta meet my friends!’
This is different. During break times I’ve always lurked around alone, totally ignored. I’m not exactly shy, but charging straight up to complete strangers and expecting them to cheerfully include me in their group is just not my style. Greta’s a true original, doesn’t seem to give a stuff what others think of her. She insists that I sit with her and her friends in a grassy corner of the schoolyard.
‘Tell us,’ Greta says, ‘we’re all dying to hear – how did you get expelled from Cheltenham?’
My little white lie has snowballed into something huge. If I can keep it going I might end up a legend. But do I want to lie to Greta and these guys? No, not really.
As I’m working out what to say, a gangly Year 10 boy barges up and shouts, ‘Hey, Greta, I hear Brian Pausacker’s got the hots for you!’
‘That loser!’
My new friends all hoot with laughter, Greta the loudest. ‘Tell him I’ve already got a boyfriend, and even if I didn’t, I’d rather suck on a lemon than go anywhere near that gross face of his!’
So perhaps she’s not gay at all – maybe she just likes me . . .
The other girls also give the boy heaps, and he racks off as fast as his skinny legs will let him. Maya, who sits to my left, is the quietest and the most conservative of the group – the opposite of Greta. No studs or rings, no off-the-wall hairstyle. She shares her sandwiches with me because, in my anxiety about the new school, I forgot to pack lunch or bring any money. The others are friendly, too. One offers to give me a spare textbook, while another promises to photocopy English literature notes so I’ll be up to speed. I feel completely at ease with them all and can’t believe my good luck. At the same time, a small voice is nagging at the back of my mind, telling me not to get too involved. So many times I’ve been in relationships that break down. It’s hard to trust. Still, what matters is the moment, and the moment, for now, is good.