Good Me Bad Me(6)

Her voice, the way she uses it, musical almost. I feel better, a bit. My eyes travel up. Shins. She’s new to me. Be cautious, yes, my psychologist said, but remember most people are not a threat. Thighs. More hippy shit, dippy shit. A corduroy skirt, a paisley shirt, a walking project not quite finished, the kind of chaotic style you’d hate, Mummy. Colours and layers. Layers and colours. Hands twist round each other, oversized rings clink and collide, dodgem cars. Nervous? No. Something else. Anticipation. Yes. A moment between us. A bonding, she thinks. Her smell, less oppressive now. I make it to her eyes. Hazel and flicky, dark and light, her hand stretches out towards me.

‘Let me see.’

The bell goes so I hand her the poster, I don’t want to be late for class, another reason to be singled out. She attempts to smooth out the creases in the paper, flattens it on to her thigh, rubs it with her hand, an ironing motion. I look away. I hear her breath deepen as if trying to hold something in. How could they? she says. Reaches out to me, her hand on my blazer sleeve, not my skin. Thankfully.

‘I’d rather forget about it, Miss.’

‘No, I’m afraid not, I’ll have to get to the bottom of this, especially as I’m your guidance teacher. Do you have any idea who’s behind it?’

I reply no, though it’s not strictly true. Last week, on the street.

Izzy’s words: This should be fun.

‘I’ll be making sure I find out, Milly, don’t you worry.’

I want to tell her not to bother, there’s been worse, but I can’t – she doesn’t know who I am, where I’ve come from. As she looks down at the poster again my eyes are drawn to her neck. The pulse, strong and steady. Each time it beats, the surrounding skin quivers a little. The thought is shaken from my head when Phoebe and Izzy crash through the door, stopping short when they realize I have company. It’s clear they came to gloat, phones poised in their hands. Capture the moment. The edgy glances back and forth between the two of them, evidence enough. I never get why people aren’t better at hiding how they feel, although it’s fair to say I’ve had more practice than most. Miss Kemp clocks them looking at each other, comes to her own conclusion. The right one. Maybe she’s not as daft or silly as the girls think.

‘Surely not? And Phoebe, especially you, how could you? What would your parents say about this? They’d be furious. I don’t know, I just don’t know any more, you girls, the way you treat each other. I’ll need to think about this, both of you report to me in the art room after registration and –’

‘But, Miss Kemp, there’s a meeting about the half-term hockey tour, I have to be there, I’m captain.’

‘Please do not interrupt me, Phoebe, understood? You and Izzy will be in my classroom by eight fifty-five at the latest otherwise this matter will go further, much further. Got it?’

A silence, no longer than a few seconds. Izzy speaks.

‘Yes, Miss Kemp.’

‘Good, now go and sign in, then straight to my room. Milly, you’d also better sign in, and don’t worry, I’ll sort this.’

My heart hammers all the way to registration. Miss Kemp, too busy being ‘involved’, failed to see the gesture Phoebe gave me as we left the lockers. A single finger across her throat. Eyes fixed on me. Dead meat. Me. Dead meat.

As if.

Phoebe, darling.





5


Less than two hours later, outside the tuck shop, they approach from either side, press against me. A glossy, hair-flicking version of the game sardines.

‘How’s life as Miss Kemp’s new little bitch?’ Izzy’s hot breath in my left ear.

Phoebe, nowhere to be seen. She’s smarter than that. Step forward Clondine, her other best friend, keen to please, on my right, sleeves firmly rolled up. The toilets behind the science block, hardly ever used, spell trouble. Hands push me through the door. Push, shove, a final push.

They waste no time.

‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Telling your little Miss Kemp on us.’

‘I didn’t tell her.’

‘Do you hear that, Clondine, she’s denying it.’

‘Oh, I hear her all right, I just don’t fucking believe her.’

Izzy moves in, phone in one hand. Films us. Shoves me. Hard. A smell of strawberries on her breath, so enticing I could crawl into her mouth. Bubblegum visible through her clicky-clacky cheerleader teeth, no braces like Clondine, a mouthful of coloured metal. She rests her hand on the wall above my head, wants me to feel small. Threatened. A scene from a movie she watched. She blows a bubble. Pink and opaque. It connects with my nose, collapses over it. Giggles erupt. Izzy backs away, Clondine picks up where she left off.

‘Give me your number, and don’t say you haven’t got a phone, Phoebe told us Mike bought you one.’

Silence.

Your voice in my head. THAT’S MY GIRL, YOU SHOW THEM. THANKFUL NOW, YOU SHOULD BE, FOR THE LESSONS I TAUGHT YOU, ANNIE. Your praise, so rare, when it comes, rips through me like a bush fire swallowing houses and trees, and other teenage girls who are less strong, in its hot hungry mouth. I meet their stares, the remnants of Izzy’s gum hanging off my chin. Thrown by my defiance, they are, I see it. Fleeting. The twitch around their succulent lips, eyes slightly wider. I shake my head, slow and deliberate. Izzy, the hungrier of the two, takes the bait.