Rebel with a Cupcake Page 3

It’s then I hear a cold laugh.

  “Exactly what do you think you are doing, Jess Jones?”

  I look down and see her again. Zara. Her hair groomed to perfection, labels dripping off her extra-small clothing. Everything I despise. Smirking as she looks up at me.

  “How can you bear to look at yourself in the mirror?” she spits out. “You are just so fat now — you’re grotesque.”

  My heart starts to pound. Everyone is watching now. Before, it was just a spat, but now I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to say something good. Too bad my brain has stopped working, along with my mouth. Because the things she is saying are the things that I never say to myself. Except today.

  I’ve had enough.

  Adrenaline rushes through me and I’m spoiling for a fight. My backside still hurts and I’ve had a rubbish morning. All cos of her.

  Even prefects bite back sometimes.

  I march down the steps until I face her. I can sense a few others just behind me.

  “Grotesque, Zara?” I hiss. “That’s a big word for you — do you think you can spell it?”

  She starts to speak but I stop her.

  “I might be fat but I can change that if I want. But you, you will always be a bitch.”

  She starts forward — is she going for me again? God, this girl has anger issues.

  But I’m not falling for it this time. So, I just step back.

  Which means that Zara — arm outstretched to slap me, pull my hair or inflict some other girly form of physical abuse — flies through the air and lands on the floor at my feet.

  “Hurrah,” I say in mock triumph. “Fat Girls–1, Bullies–0.” And I put my foot on her arse before she has time to move, pumping my arms like I’ve just won a boxing match. Which I suppose I have. Around me, there are a few cheers and whoops. Zara pushes my foot away and leaps up, her face twisted in fury, mascara starting to run down her face in dirty rivers.

  I almost feel sorry for her. But she did push me earlier and she would have done it again. I just got out of the way.

  “I’ll get you for this.” With that, she shoves her way through the crowd, Tilly and Tiff trailing behind her.

  I look up at the small crowd on the stairs.

  “Okay — show’s over, people.”

  Most girls are laughing, smiling, giving me the thumbs-up.

  “Nice one, Jess. You showed her, for once,” Sana says.

  I can’t help noticing Hannah hasn’t said a word.

  “She deserved it,” I say defensively.

  “I know,” Hannah says, “but it just didn’t feel like you just then.”

  I grimace. I know what she means. I’m not one of the mean girls normally. It almost felt like I was being Zara and she was being me.

  This thought occupies me during most of Music and then break.

  And then, later, when everyone around me is telling me I did well, but I’m not so sure, that’s when I hear the shout of doom.

  “Jesobel Jones. Get. Yourself. Here. Now.”

  It’s Mrs. Brown, Assistant Head from Hell. She’s standing a few feet away from me in the hall and pointing to the place just in front of her feet. Without even meaning to, I wander over.

  At first, I’m not sure what she’s going on about. As I stand in front of Mrs. Brown, it’s like standing in a wind tunnel. She screams, she yells, she goes red. Spit flies in my face.

  “You. Are. A. Nasty. Piece. Of. Work,” she shouts. Apparently, she can only communicate in one-word sentences when angry.

  I turn to Hannah, who looks back at me in shock.

  “You. Are. A. Bully,” she continues.

  Okay, I think I need to introduce her to a concept called irony. I mean, she’s calling me a bully?

  “I’ve got Zara Lovechild sobbing in my office, bruises covering her arms. You did this to her.”

  I try to say something.

  “Don’t deny it. I saw it on the school cameras.”

  Zara might have been sobbing in her office a few moments ago, but now she’s standing just behind Mrs. Brown and smiling at me in triumph through her messed-up makeup.

  “Did you, or did you not, call her a bitch?”

  “Yes, but —”

  “I have no time for buts. You verbally and physically assaulted a fellow pupil. Get to my office now. And while we are there, we’ll discuss what you’re wearing. Because to put it simply: You. Are. Too. Fat. To. Wear. That. Skirt. You look ridiculous.”

  Two bullies are accusing me of bullying, when I was just standing up for myself. And now a fat woman is calling me fat.

  End of.

  That’s when I have my moment of madness.

  I turn and walk away.

  Then there’s more screaming.

  “Don’t. You. Walk. Away. From. Me. Jesobel. Jones.”

  I keep walking.

  “One more step and you’ll be suspended. You’ve got your national exams in a few weeks.”

  I take three more for good measure. I might as well be committing suicide but she’s just pushed me over the edge. As I dash up the stairs, I sense bodies behind me. The students of the school are somehow managing to slow her down. Even with a head start, I don’t fancy my chances. This is more exercise than I’m used to. Out of breath, I turn a corner and see a cleaners’ cupboard. Hiding suddenly seems a good idea so I open the door and dive inside. A little Year Seven, coming down the corridor toward me with the most enormous bag I’ve ever seen, looks at me in surprise. I put my finger to my lips as I close the door.

  Inside my cupboard, I hear the drumming of feet — Brown is in full chase mode. I’m almost sad that I’m hiding in a cupboard, as I would have liked to see her run. “Did you see her? Did Jesobel Jones come this way?” the voice of Brown booms.

  A trembly voice replies, “A girl ran that way, miss.”

  “Get. That. Ridiculous. Bag. Out. Of. My. Way. Now.”

  The footsteps fade away.

  I peer out and smile at the little girl, who grins back as she waves her bag in triumph. School–1, Brown–0.

  But then my smile fades quickly. I’ve run away from Brown. What do I do next? Opposite me is a huge cabinet full of trophies that celebrate everything girls have ever done in this school that’s worth celebrating. But all I can see is my reflection in the glass. This morning, I looked in the mirror with my friends and I smiled back. Now, I see myself full length, and let’s just say, I’m not smiling anymore. Is this how people see me every day? I wish I were invisible.

  But I am Jess Jones and I will not be beaten. Enough of feeling sad. I brush away my stupid tears and plan how to make this day better. It’s time for a prison break. I want to go home. It’s that simple.

  Once I’ve made my mind up, the rest is easy. I quickly find the back stairs, then run down the fire escape and out into the grounds. Frantic waving at the window grabs my attention. Sana and Hannah mouth at me, “What are you doing?” and “Come back.” Not a chance. I’ve had enough of being looked at. Sana furiously motions to me to come back in. I shake my head and then she points at me and pretends to cut her throat. She clearly thinks I’m crazy to do this. But this feels so good when I was feeling so bad before.

  So, I ignore my law-abiding friends and I push the recycling bins next to the wall and I climb up. The drop down to the road looks a bit scary, but not as scary as going back inside. If I don’t make a move, they’ll find me.

  I kneel on the wall, then sit on my bum and let my legs swing down. I take a big breath. I drop down and then I’m standing on the pavement. On the wrong side of the wall. With no way back.

  In the street, it’s calm and quiet. My heart is pounding.

  I look at my watch. 11:33 a.m. My phone is going crazy in my pocket, but I have a very unusual craving for home so I turn it off. Dad won’t be up yet; Mum will
be at the gym. If I walk quickly, I might just have time to get home to watch some black-and-white film with Gran before she has her first whiskey.

  And, today, I think I might just join her.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Observation #2:

  Ever noticed how childish adults can be?

  In the quiet street outside the school walls, there are no cars, a few trees and more dog poo than is necessary in any so-called civilized country. An old lady walks past and smiles at me. It is all very normal. Apart from me.

  I wonder how I appear to the old lady. Do I look like a fugitive from justice? Or a criminal, or worse, a bully? Or do I just look like what I am — a red-faced teenage girl who’s missing a pair of leggings?

  My heart is still hammering away. I remember learning something about cardiac arrests in Biology and I wonder if that’s what’s happening to me. I feel like I’m in one of those futuristic films where anything could happen. For a moment, I lean against a tree and concentrate on my breath coming in and out. We did some lesson on relaxation once, but the teacher just lost it cos Abbie Norman kept farting.

  No one from school has come to find me yet. So, I have four choices, right?

  I can go back to school and face the consequences now.

  I can go home and face the consequences later.

  I can go into town, draw out my entire finances (£245.31), get on a train and see how far that gets me. (I don’t have a passport on me, so that limits my options.)

  I can drop out of school and hang around some bus stops for the next year or two. Maybe have a kid or two and live on benefits. (If the Daily Mail can be believed.)

  After a bit of thought, I decide that number 2 suits me best at the moment. Number 1 is probably the most sensible, but being sensible is clearly not a course that I’m following today. I’m going for crash and burn. I left home a prefect, a student considered sensible and capable. At some point during the morning, I became a bully. And then I talked back to the teacher and left without permission. In other schools, this might be quite common. At our school, not so much. At our school, it’s considered outrageous not to open a door for a teacher and throw yourself down face-first so they can walk over your back.

  Part of me expects to see Brown staked out in front of the house with a black hood on her head, a noose in her hand and a smile on her face, ready to hang me from the nearest streetlamp.

  The more rational part of me knows that the phone call from school to home has already happened and it’s just a matter of time before it catches up with me.

  As I turn down my street, there’s an empty space outside our house where Mum’s car is normally parked, so she’s at the gym (even though she’s been running already) or “networking” with the SOWs (Skinny Old Women). Networking seems to involve the drinking of industrial amounts of prosecco, but it’s a bit early for that. Dad’s car’s there but I suspect that he’s not up yet. He was the guitar player in a band that was a three-hit wonder in the nineties. He’s not like a regular dad.

  But there’s no strange car outside the house. No one has tracked me back to my lair yet. As I open the front door, I hear Lauren’s voice. My little sister’s on the telephone. Still in her grubby pajamas, she has jammy toast in one hand (and mostly smeared over her face) and her soother, snuggly and the house phone in the other. She is deep in conversation with whoever’s at the other end.

  “Gran smells of wee,” she says with great confidence to the person unknown on the telephone. “And she’s a poo-poo head.” I can hear the person on the other end of the phone speaking slowly, but Lauren just keeps talking. “And she’s lazy cos she never gets out of her chair. I don’t like Gran cos she’s mean to Alice and I don’t like anyone who’s mean to Alice.” As she says this, her face crumples and tears begin to form in the corners of her eyes. It’s like she’s read a book on How to Make Grown-Ups Feel Sorry for You and Therefore Do Everything You Want.

  Lauren’s eyes well up, her mouth turns into an O and her shoulders start to shake. “She said Alice was silly and she had to stand outside. But it’s cold outside and I can hear Alice crying. And it makes me SAAADDD …” This final word turns into a wail and she drops the phone in her misery. A disembodied voice starts to ask questions. I hang up ASAP and I hug Lauren while enormous sobs rack her little body. She snuggles into me, all warmth and snot. Gross, yes, but she’s my little sister so it's sort of cute, too.

  “Do you know who that was on the phone?” I ask, hoping to calm her down.

  She wipes her running nose on my shoulder. I try not to flinch. “Someone for Mummy. But I told them that Mummy was out.”

  “Was it my school?” I say. I’m sure it was my school.

  “I don’t know,” she says sadly. “Was Alice outside? Will you let her in?” Fresh tears flood down her fat cheeks.

  I sigh, stand up, open the door and shout, “Come in, Alice,” to the empty street.

  Lauren’s face is transformed. “Alice!” she shouts with excitement. “Come and play cafés with me.”

  And with that, she runs upstairs with her arm outstretched as if she’s holding someone’s hand.

  Yep, you’ve guessed it. Alice is not real. And the reason that Lauren and Gran don’t get on is because Gran thinks that we humor Lauren too much. Which is true. Gran is a big fan of truth. She’s the only person in the family who thinks that way. I jump as the phone rings again and, like a trained professional in the art of avoiding unwanted phone calls, I disconnect the phone. Above me, a huge photo of an attractive young woman peers down seductively.

  “Hi, Mum,” I say.

  It’s a photo of her in her early twenties, at the height of her so-called modeling career. It’s a bit weird looking at it cos you can see a bit of me there — the eyes are the same. But whereas Mum’s face is all cheekbones and pout, I look like I’ve been slightly overinflated by a bicycle pump. How is it that I feel like I’m being judged by my mum and she’s not even in the house? Anyway, Mum doesn’t do much full-on modeling these days. She’s found this niche for herself. You know those close-ups in nail- or hand-moisturizing products? Well, that perfect hand with manicured nails probably belongs to her.

  “Having a good day?” I ask Mum. She doesn’t answer back. Obvs. Lauren’s madness is clearly catching. Assuming that my parents haven’t left a four-year-old at home alone, I track down any random adults who might be hiding in the house and may — or may not — have found out about my appalling crimes.

  Upstairs, I hear a mobile phone vibrating, knocking into things. Dad’s. I peek around the door into his and Mum’s bedroom. It’s a dangerous activity at any time (my parents still find each other attractive — eek!) but thank God, he’s in bed alone, fast asleep. His phone is buzzing like a demented bumblebee, spinning around and round on the shiny surface of the bedside table. He grunts. I grab the phone and turn it off.

  He opens an eye. “Whatsgonon?” he mumbles.

  “Nothing. You’re just dreaming, Dad,” I whisper.

  He nods and closes his eye again. I despair. Dad should be looking after Lauren, but he’s clearly hungover from some gig last night, which means that Gran has been left in charge. Which is a bit tricky cos she never comes out of her attic. The adults in this house leave something to be desired.

  In times like these, a girl needs her grandmother. I swear sometimes she’s the only sane one in this place, which — given her love of gin — shows the level of dysfunction I live with. I climb the steep wooden steps to the top floor where Gran hangs out. So yes, I do live in quite a posh house. Three levels, nice Victorian floors, original features, etc., but this isn’t my parents’ house. No, it belongs to Gran. She calls my parents “Fur Coat and No Knickers.” I think what she means is that Mum and Dad like look like they’re rich but it’s all show. My mum calls Gran Saggy Tits, but only when Gran can’t hear her.

 
I knock on her door.

  “Come in,” she calls with her firm voice. I take a deep breath of clean air and go in and sit next to the open window. It’s the only way to keep a clear head when visiting. Gran doesn’t smell of wee — but though she’s not smoking at the moment, her room does smell of weed.

  “Jesobel. Now what might you be doing at home on a school morning?”

  See, there’s nothing wrong with Gran’s brain, despite the constant consumption of illicit drugs. Meanwhile, her son is clearly addled and he’s less than half her age.

  “I walked out of school,” I say bluntly.

  Gran nods. “Wise girl. I’m not sure of the need to go every day. All it teaches you is to conform to an authoritarian regime.”

  I nod.

  “Now,” she says, “as you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. Scrabble or gin rummy?”

  Gran spent most of her life protesting about something. Nuclear power. Fascists. Men who treat women badly. Well, just men, really. And now, she just stays in her attic, listens to Radio 4 and draws. Weird, abstract things, but kind of cool at the same time.

  Gran peers at me. “Did something happen?” she purrs. “It’s not like you to walk out of school. You appear to be quite the conformist these days.”

  Ouch. That hurt. There was me thinking I was a bit of a rebel.

  “On the surface, Gran,” I say, “but today I didn’t feel like playing the education game.”

  “That’s my girl,” she says. “You only start really learning anything when you leave school. All these exams rot your brain.”

  This is all normal Gran stuff. She looked after me when I was little, when Dad was still vaguely famous, and Mum and he just cruised around London and the rest of the world. If you think I’m a bit odd, you know, for not starving myself until I’m a stick girl, then she is partly responsible. Just as I’m dealing out the cards, I hear the front door slam.

  “Jess!” Mum’s voice thunders up the stairs. How can someone so thin make so much noise? “I think it’s time we had a little chat.”