who else has put her name down? The Jelly!”
“The Jelly? You gotta be joking!”
OK, so that was when I should probably have emerged from my corner and shown myself, before Marigold could go on and say something nasty. But I didn’t, and I bet most people wouldn’t have, either. In that sort of situation, you just freeze to the spot and can’t move. The very last thing you want is for anyone to know that you’re there. It’s too humiliating.
I heard Ashlee’s voice again: “I’m not joking! I just saw her name on the list.”
And then Marigold, with her loud braying laugh: “That fat freak? Just cos her stupid old nan reckoned she was gonna be the next Judy Garland. Pur-lease!”
I could sense Indy next to me, holding her breath. Her hand reached out and dabbed at my arm, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I just felt so ashamed.
Someone said, “I think she fancies herself as some kind of rock chick.”
“Rock chick? Excuse me while I die laughing!”
Ashlee said, “Rock elephant, more like.”
“Rock jelly, more like!”
“What d’you think she’ll sing?”
“I know what she’ll sing, I know what she’ll sing! Like this, look… sh-shake, w-wobble and ROLL!”
Delighted shrieks of laughter, as from the sound of things Marigold hurled herself to and fro against the lockers.
“Sh-shake, w-w-w-WOBBLE and—”
“Drop dead, pea brain!”
I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t. But all of a sudden it was like this tidal wave of absolute fury crashed into me, and I leaped out from behind my locker and yelled:
“STUPID PEA-BRAINED BLUBBER-LIPPED MORON!”
There was a kind of shocked silence. Marigold was the one that dished it out, not the one that had it dished up. She stared at me like she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Then she took up a stance, her hands on her hips.
“What did you say?”
“I said” – I put my face up close to hers – “you’re a STUPID, PEA-BRAINED, BLUBBER-LIPPED MORON! And in case you don’t know what that means, which you probably don’t, it means you’re so dumb you’re practically a walking vegetable!”
Somebody tittered, rather nervously. Ashlee gave a little horrified squeal, and clapped a hand to her mouth.
“Why don’t you go and plant yourself?” I said. “Do us all a favour. Take root!”
With that, I flung open the door and prepared to stalk out. But Marigold had the last word. As I made my grand exit she bawled after me, “Get lost, you pathetic fag hag!”
That was when I bunked off school.
I didn’t do it on purpose. I mean, I didn’t actually say to myself, “I am going to bunk off school and never come back.” It was just something that happened. I got as far as the main corridor and was about to turn up the stairs when this feeling of absolute despair came flooding over me. I couldn’t take it any more! I had to get out. Now.
I muttered at Indy that I’d left one of my books behind – “You go on, I’ll see you up there” – then I turned and fled. Back the way we’d come, through the double doors, across the parking lot and OUT.
The only other time I’d done anything like it was in Year 4, when I got told off for something that wasn’t my fault, and when I protested that “It wasn’t me!” the teacher wouldn’t believe me, and I was so incensed that I slipped out of the gates when no one was looking and ran all the way home to pour out my tale of woe to Nan. Nan agreed with me that it wasn’t fair. She said, “Sometimes, chickabiddy, life is like that. You have to be strong, and take the rough with the smooth.”
Just knowing that Nan was on my side had made me feel better. But Nan wasn’t there any more; she’d never call me chickabiddy ever again, or pass on her words of wisdom. I was on my own, now, cos Mum would never take my side. When I’d told her about the teacher being so mean, all she’d said was that she didn’t blame her. “You’ve caused enough problems in your time.”
No point trying to cry on Mum’s shoulder. I wouldn’t, anyway; it was something too shameful ever to tell anyone. But I would have told Nan! She was the one who had faith in me, the one who made me believe in myself. Just that morning, rummaging about for a clean T-shirt, I’d come across the last birthday card that Nan had ever sent me. She’d chosen it so carefully! On the front it had a picture of a groovy guy with a guitar, belting out Happy Birthday. Inside, in her shaky handwriting, Nan had written, To my own little star, who one of these days is going to shine so brightly!
I’d hidden it away in my secret place, beneath the lining paper at the bottom of a drawer. I’d never shown it to Mum. It was something precious, and I couldn’t bear the thought that she might laugh. I think, actually, that was what made me finally turn on Marigold, the fact that she’d dared to bring my nan into it. Her stupid old nan. I wished I’d never, ever told anyone about Nan! But it was back in Year 6, when I’d sung the Christmas carol too loud and upset Mrs Deakin. Defiantly I’d told her that “My nan says I’m going to be a second Judy Garland!” Sometimes when you’re only ten you say things you later wish with all your heart that you hadn’t.
If I hadn’t been chosen to sing the carol – if I hadn’t sung the carol too loud – if I hadn’t boasted about Nan… if none of those things had happened then maybe I wouldn’t have yelled at Marigold and bunked off school. But I had, and all I could think was that it was fate. There’s nothing you can do about fate.
When I got back to the flats I ran into one of our neighbours, Mrs Henson. She said, “Got the afternoon off, have you?”
I gave her a sickly smile and said, “Gotta headache.” I hoped she wouldn’t mention anything to Mum but I feared the worst. She is a notorious gasbag.
The minute I was inside the flat, with the door closed against the outside world, I began to feel a bit less fraught. I spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the sofa, headphones clamped to my ears with the volume turned up as loud as I could bear, listening to all my favourite tracks played by all my favourite bands. Mostly Urban Legend, cos they are like my Favourite of Favourites. Mum can’t stand them – she says they’re foul-mouthed and violent. I say that life is enough to make you foul-mouthed and violent, what with wars going on all over the place, and toxic waste covering the earth, and the polar ice caps melting. Not to mention terrorism. To which Mum just goes, “Don’t give me isms! Give me tunes.” Mum isn’t what I would call musical.
Nan, on the other hand, used to really enjoy listening to rock. I don’t think she liked it as much as her beloved show tunes – Over the Rainbow, and Oh What a Beautiful Morning, and all that – but she did once say she’d like to come to a rock concert with me.
“I could scream and throw me knickers on stage! That’s
