the meantime, I’ve been practising my range in the mirror: biting my lip and smiling, looking enigmatic and adorably confused, etc. That photographer’s assistant is going to be kicking himself when he realises I exist, which is going to be literally any second. I am a freaking vision.
Glittering, I race over to my siblings.
They’re grouped tightly together, shimmering in front of the lights: Faith in gold, Mercy in silver and Max in bronze.
‘I’m here!’ I say breathlessly, shoving between them. ‘Sorry I’m late! Don’t worry – we can start now!’ Then I suck in my cheeks, push my chest out and turn at an angle so I look two-dimensional. ‘And … shoot!’
There’s a long silence while my siblings stare at me.
Then at each other, then at Grandma.
Then at each other, then at the photographer.
Then at me again.
‘Umm,’ says Max.
‘Po,’ says Faith.
‘Idiot,’ says Mercy.
‘Hope.’ Grandma frowns at me from her position directly behind the photographer. ‘I assumed you understood the situation. You won’t be in this shoot or the interview.’
I stare at her. ‘But—’
‘You know the rules. You’re not sixteen yet.’
It feels like my character’s been killed off seconds before the opening credits roll.
‘But I’m sixteen any minute,’ I blurt desperately, wiggling further into the group and sticking my elbows out so they can’t dislodge me. ‘Like, so very nearly. My birthday’s less than four months away. By the time the magazine comes out, I’ll be basically sixteen already!’
‘I’m afraid this is non-negotiable.’ Grandma looks round. ‘Margaret, please remove my youngest grandchild from the room before things get … emotional.’
‘No!’ I use Max as a shield. ‘Please, please, please, please.’
My big brother smiles sympathetically, but then peels me away and nudges me out of the group. I’m then dragged across the room by Mags, dropping my pre-signed photos on the floor as I go.
Emotional? I’ll give them emotional.
Pulling air into my diaphragm, I clench my fists, lift my chin high and prepare my vocal cords for maximum dramatic output: lights, camera—
‘THIS ISN’T F—’
The door is closed in my face.
LOCATION SETTING: THE CLASSROOM
It’s two hours later, and my friends and I are sitting together at the back of class, furiously passing indignant notes and discussing this absolute injustice. Olivia can’t believe it and Sophia is sympathetic; Madison’s calling for mutiny, but she always overreacts so we ignore her.
Finally, we simmer down and our conversation turns to normal topics: parties, clothes, teachers, the new boy who’s just started at school. He’s clearly very bad news (he has piercing green eyes), but he keeps staring at me across the classroom. We all suspect that, deep down, he has an interesting backstory and a secretly good heart.
And Olivia is all, ‘Oh, Hope, when are you going to realise?’
‘Hope.’
Sophia is all, ‘You two are meant for each other.’
‘Hope.’
Except I can’t see it, because—
‘HOPE.’
Jumping, I blink at Mr Gilbert. ‘Mmm?’
‘Are you listening, or shall I take this absorbing lesson outside and teach a squirrel to pass their fast-approaching exams instead?’
Umm, good luck getting them to hold a pen.
‘I’m listening,’ I ad-lib quickly: we world-class actresses have to be able to think on our feet. ‘And … in … ah … 1052 William of Normandy claimed that he was the rightful heir to the throne, and thus began the Norman Conquest!’
‘In 1052?’ Mr Gilbert frowns.
‘1053? 54? 55?’
His ancient bushy grey eyebrows are going up a fraction at a time.
‘56 … 57 … 58 … 59 … 60?’
They’re still going up.
‘61 … 62 … 63 … 64 … 65 … 66 …’
They stop moving.
‘In 1066!’
‘Excellent. I’m glad we finally got there, Hope. What a shame we’re studying chemistry this morning, not history.’
I stare at the red book in front of me.
If only Sophia or Olivia or Madison or New Boy had pointed this small technicality out to me earlier, but they didn’t. Mainly because I’ve never been to school. I study alone in our library with a tutor and none of my friends actually exist in real life … which makes it hard for them to warn me about stuff.
‘Ah,’ I nod.
What does Mum say when she’s not listening?
‘I’m just multitasking, darling.’
‘Let’s see if we can single-task first,’ Mr Gilbert says, closing his eyes briefly. ‘Then we’ll consider branching out to more than one. And please don’t call me darling.’
He looks tired, which is strange because up until two years ago he had to teach all the Valentine kids and now it’s just me. You’d think it would be a lot less hard work.
‘Shall we push on?’ Mr Gilbert coughs. ‘We write the molecular formula of the repeating unit in brackets, putting an n where—’
My eyes start wandering around the room.
I can’t believe I’m in here, surrounded by thousands of books in brown, beige and snot-green, when I could be out there, telling Variety my entire life story. What does a nearly movie star need with this information anyway? They’re not exactly going to quiz me on repeating units for a feature in Vogue Japan, right?
Bored,
