tacky it would have made my Nana Green wince and she had cataracts.
I was fluorescent with sweaty embarrassment myself by the time I finally sat down, thinking, Did I miss the ‘Meet snarky classmates’ page in the prospectus? At that precise moment I would’ve given my right arm with my vintage Biba bag slung over it to have Beth and Ayesha by my side.
Looked left: lad in a SpongeBob SquarePants T-shirt who smelled of rice cakes (or possibly wee), but at least he smiled in a friendly way. Then the teacher (‘Call me Phil’) came over and handed me a sticky address label, mouthing, ‘Pop your name on that.’
I wrote Daisy with a little flower on the tail of the y, same as usual.
‘Okaaay.’ Call Me Phil perched on the edge of the desk, swinging his flip-flopped foot. ‘As I was saying, you’ve all got a college email account and you should remember to check it every day. And now, here . . .’ He chucked a beanbag at a lad in glasses. ‘Tell the class your name plus three interesting facts about yourself. When you’re done, pass it on. It’s time for an ice-breaker methinks.’
Noooo! methought.
Every member of the class was eyeing the beanbag with horror. (Except the mouthy girl, who was almost exploding with all about meeee! ecstasy.)
The lad who’d caught the beanbag pushed his glasses up his nose. Not literally up his nostrils of course, because that would have been entertaining. No, instead he blinked a couple of times, then kicked off the I like football/pizza/telly/hate sprouts yawnathon which travelled round the room until it reached Scarily Handsome Guy, who practically had What the actual f . . . written across his perfect, modelsome features.
He picked the beanbag up carefully, taking his time, inspecting it. One side. The other. No rush. Then he pressed his hands on the desk and slowly levered himself to his feet.
It gave me a chance to get a better look at him. Tall, flawless, kind of Mediterranean-looking with his dark hair and olive complexion (as in tanned, not green or stuffed). From his sulky, fifties movie-icon expression to his very tight, very white T-shirt, he radiated this ‘Look at me’ subliminal command. An aura of awe. (An awe-ra?) Whatever it was, he turned fondling a manky beanbag into a mesmerising spectacle. The air zinged as we waited for him to speak and the bitchy American skankwomble began to drool.
‘I’m Toby Smith,’ Mr Incredible said eventually in a vaguely London accent. ‘I’m seventeen and, sorry, I don’t do ice-breakers.’
Then he slouched back down with professional-grade ennui and gently lobbed the beanbag at weedy SpongeBob who, judging by his face, urgently needed a clean pair of SquarePants. (And possibly a Sponge.)
‘Er, h-h-hello everyone. Nice to meet you all. My name is Humphrey Badger and I-I . . .’
Well, coming after Toby King of Cool, the poor lad had no chance. The tension instantly shattered into yowls of ‘Humphreeeeyyyyyyyy!’
‘Quiet please!’ Flip-flop Phil shouted. ‘Enough, thank you, guys, shhhh.’
Humphrey raised his eyebrows along with his voice. ‘So now you’ll understand why I prefer to be called Badger. And yes, my parents do love me. And no, I’ll never forgive them.’ More laughs, kinder this time, and he gave the hint of a smile as the room quietened. ‘OK, my three facts are: I’ve been home-schooled my whole life, I play the trumpet and the French horn, and I –’
But his last point was swallowed up by Miss Tanfastic screeching, ‘French WHAT?! ’ in a voice like nails scraping down an eardrum.
That did it. The room was in uproar again. I don’t think anyone even noticed Badger sit down, cheeks flaming fifty shades of red as he slid the beanbag over to me.
Poor SpongeBob. My hands itched to deliver a little slap-justice on his behalf and I briefly daydreamed about running round the room, smacking every single guffawing goon across the chops.
This of course should’ve been Flip-flop Phil’s job (maybe not the violence), but our tutor was being (in the immortal words of Nana Green) about as much use as an inflatable bloody dartboard. Flapping his arms, going, ‘Hey . . . quiet now,’ in an attempt to calm the cackles.
Yeah, like that was going to work.
With the beanbag in my hand and a blandly plastic smile on my face, I stood up as the howls faded to sniggers. Toby le Gorge was watching me, no trace of a smirk clouding those perfect features, but I hardly even noticed. I held out for pin-drop-level hush, then kept them waiting one beat, two beats, three beats more. Deep breath and:
‘Hi everyone, my name’s Daisy Green. My parents own a wedding business called Something Borrowed and I work part time for them. I love vintage clothes and playing football. And I absolutely, with a passion, hate bitchy people.’ Then I chucked the beanbag, hard, at the girl in the neon, doll-sized dress. I’ll give her this, she didn’t bat an eyelid as she got to her feet.
‘Thank you, Debbie. My name’s Brittany Bentley and three amazing facts about me are: my mom’s from England, but I grew up in Texas. I’m a cheerleader and my team made it to nationals in Atlanta this spring, which was awesome; I love competitive dancing, especially disco and Latin; I got into the televised rounds of America’s Got Talent last year and I want to be . . . famous!’
As she flashed a creepy pageant-princess smile, my immediate thoughts were: a) That’s not three things and b) Who the hell is Debbie?
No one else seemed to notice though, and loads of the boys started wolf whistling and awwwoooo-ing. (Toby and Badger-not-Humphrey earned instant brownie points for their non-joining in.) Brittany flicky-flicked her hair and did a fake aw shucks curtsy.
Famous? Yawn. Way to go, Stereotype Girl.
Me and Badger smiled at each other.
‘Daisy, yeah?’ he whispered, holding out his hand. ‘As in flower?’
‘Badger, yeah?’ I replied, shaking it. ‘As in vicious, striped woodland creature?’
‘Erm, yes. Hello.’
‘Hi.’
‘Did you hear the one about the beanbag?’ he said.
‘No?’
‘It didn’t break the ice.’
Arf arf. Lame cracker jokes aside, at least he was friendly, which instantly catapulted him above the rest of the people I’d met so far. Then he said bye he had to rush off to music, and I got my timetable out. Now, where was D Block?
By the time I’d worked out I was already in D Block (duh), the room was empty except for Scarily Handsome Toby. Odd. I glanced around, expecting to see a crowd of his mates lurking somewhere, but no. He was waiting for me.
His sulk-face had been erased by a smile so hot it probably had the power to vaporise knickers (Other girls’ knickers anyway. Mine were 100 per cent smile-proof thanks to Matt.) ‘Are you on a free now?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m just late for next lesson,’ I said. ‘Got my Spanish induction.’
‘No worries,’ he said with
