Girl, Going on 16: Pants on Fire (21 page)

‘We’ve got loads of scenes together, but I know he doesn’t fancy me. That girl with red hair was with him at break again yesterday. She’s my understudy, so she has to be at all our rehearsals, too. It’s so tight!’

‘She hasn’t got a chance,’ said Jess. ‘Don’t forget you are the most beautiful girl since Helen of Troy.’

‘Oh, so I’m not as good-looking as Helen of Troy, huh?’ laughed Flora. ‘Fine friend you turned out to be.’

They had a great time walking to school, so Jess did not mention her tragic heartbroken state vis-à-vis Fred. She knew it would destroy the atmosphere. It was lovely seeing Flora being happy and excited. If only she had auditioned for
Twelfth Night
herself. Then she could be having a ball with Flora and Fred instead of coming close to homicide with Mackenzie and Ben.

She arrived at Mr Powell’s office exactly on time, handed over her mobile phone, and went through her morning lessons in a virtuous manner. Indeed, her behaviour would not have disgraced the Virgin Mary when she was at Nazareth High. Last lesson in the morning was French, and Jess even wasted five minutes of her fifteen-minute lunch break helping Madame Sault to carry a box of French books back to the staffroom. She hoped God was watching.

However, now she had barely seven minutes left for lunch. She was checking her watch on her way to the tuck shop when she rounded a corner and bumped into somebody. It was Fred.

He looked startled and blushed bright red. Jess didn’t know whether to be encouraged or upset by this. At least it showed he had an emotional reaction when he saw her. But maybe it was horror and embarrassment. After a few moments of frozen awkwardness, Fred managed to switch into comedy mode. He executed a low bow.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said.

‘Tiresome, isn’t it?’ said Jess, her heart beating madly. ‘One would so much rather be having one’s fingernails pulled out by Spanish torturers.’

‘Indeed,’ said Fred. ‘Or possibly being forced to eat live worms like a celebrity in the jungle.’

‘Speaking of eating worms,’ said Jess, following a mad impulse, ‘are you doing anything on Sunday? Flora and I are planning a picnic in the park. Wanna come?’ It might just be the moment she had been waiting for. It might be the way back to paradise. Not to talk about their misunderstanding, but just to take a leap in the dark and start again.

But Fred’s body language was not encouraging. He winced. He cocked his head to one side. He shrugged.

‘Alas,’ he said. ‘My parents have got this trip planned. We’re going to see my uncle in Yorkshire. He lives in a freezing old farmhouse with three incontinent sheepdogs, so you can imagine how much I’m looking forward to going.’

‘You lucky thing! One would kill for such a weekend,’ said Jess, trying to look completely relaxed about the whole thing. The awful truth was, she would indeed kill for such a weekend. If only she could spend the weekend with Fred, she would gladly endure being peed on and pooed on by the whole animal kingdom. Even elephants.

‘Well . . .’ she managed to gather herself into some kind of order, ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a hot date with Mr Powell in the thrilling privacy of his office.’

‘Delightful prospect!’ said Fred. ‘You’re such a party animal. I, alas, will spend the lunch break being spat on by Jodie. Rehearsing, you know.’

And he gave a strange, ducking little nod and turned away. Jess could hardly contain her tears. How dare Jodie spit on him! That was
her
job. This
Twelfth Night
business was a total nightmare. If only Shakespeare had sprained his wrist that week and, instead of writing a play, pigged out on marzipan in front of the TV. No, wait, they didn’t have TV in those days. Well, he could have pigged out in a tavern somewhere. Never trust bald guys. They always feel they have something to prove.

She felt intensely irritated at the thought of Jodie and Fred within spitting distance of each other. But beyond that was a deeper gloom about the impossibility of seeing Fred this weekend. The picnic didn’t seem like such a good idea now. She would rather spend Sunday reading the Bible, eating gruel and listening to Granny reminisce about Great Blisters of the Past than attend a Fredless picnic.

She behaved with spotless virtue for the rest of the day. Mr Powell even said, ‘Have a good weekend’, when he dismissed her after school. He handed her mobile phone over. ‘I daresay your life will be in ruins without this,’ he observed.

‘My life is in ruins anyway,’ said Jess. It was quite a good moment, somehow.

Next day Flora came round. Mum had left for Brighton the night before and Granny had gone off to play cards with some fabulous old dears called Jenny, Irene and Deirdre. Jess had the house to herself. But she didn’t feel very festive when she let Flora in.

‘I haven’t got any money for a makeover,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got the motivation either.’

‘Never mind,’ said Flora. ‘I’ve got a new camera – look!’

Wow! It was state-of-the-art, totally amazing. Flora said her mum had given it to her just for getting into
Twelfth Night
. How the other half lived! Still, at least Jess had a rich best friend. Maybe in their future lives she could become Flora’s vivacious but vulgar maidservant. In fact, why wait till the future? That was practically the situation already.

‘I’ve had this fantastic idea,’ said Flora. ‘I want to do some photos which are a sort of parody of the Great Masters’ paintings. You know – like
The Scream
.’ She performed a perfect mime of the famous Munch painting. ‘And you could give it a caption, like,
Oh no! I left my tennis racquet on the bus!
’

‘It might be better without captions at all,’ said Jess. ‘We could make it a visual gag, you know. Like you could do the scream, but with an ice cream on your head.’

‘
I scream for ice cream
,’ said Flora. ‘Yessss!’

They went up to Jess’s mum’s bedroom, and ransacked her extensive wardrobe of dated clothing.

‘Mum can never bear to throw anything away,’ said Jess. ‘Hey! Guess the painting!’ She chose a blue scarf and wound it round her head, then searched through her mum’s jewellery box for a pearl earring. It was a clip-on, so she clipped it on to her nostril instead and then turned and looked at Flora over her shoulder.

‘
Girl with a Pearl Nose-ring
!’ laughed Flora, and took a photo. ‘Next?’

‘Well, as you so famously resemble the goddess Venus, it’s got to be Botticelli!’ said Jess. ‘No need to take your clothes off. Just do
The Birth of Venus
, you know. If only Mum had a blonde wig a yard long. But I’m afraid for that kind of thing we’d have to visit Dad, who, let’s face it, is three hundred miles away. Never mind – try to look like a goddess, only burping!’ Jess took a photo. ‘
The Burp of Venus
!
’ she said.

After that Jess did a Mona Lisa with her teeth blacked out (the old jokes are sometimes the best) and then they made up Flora to look like Marilyn Monroe, added some wacky captions and sent them to all their friends.

‘Shall we send one to Fred?’ asked Flora.

‘I don’t know . . .’ Jess hesitated. ‘I just don’t know right now. He’s so weird at the moment. I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s thinking.’

‘That’s OK!’ said Flora. ‘It’s a mystery. What is love without periods of misunderstanding and suffering?’

‘Much more fun, if you really want to know,’ said Jess.

Eventually Granny came back, and Flora had to go home, and the weekend sort of unravelled into an ordinary Saturday night in – though Granny and Jess did celebrate their solitude by getting an Indian takeaway.

‘While the cat’s away, the mice will play,’ said Granny with a wink.

‘While the mouse is away, the cats will play, you mean,’ said Jess. ‘No way could Mum ever be described as a cat.’

On Sunday, Jess watched
Brief Encounter
, a heart-wrenching old film that made her cry a lot, and then, right at the very end, the final moment was disturbed by the doorbell.

Jess growled and headed for the hall. She silently cursed whoever it was, knowing for sure Fred would not be back from Yorkshire yet. Although even if he was back from Yorkshire, would he have come round to see her? Would he ever come round again?

She opened the door. There stood Mackenzie, looking important, and Ben Jones, looking kind of furtive and anxious.

‘We’ve had lots of brilliant ideas!’ said Mackenzie. ‘Can we come in and talk?’

Jess could hardly say no. They came in and sat in the kitchen. Mackenzie described, in blood-curdling detail, how fantastic it would be if he presented the show in the style of Homer Simpson. Apparently he thought there was more mileage in Homer than there was in Bart. After two hours of Mackenzie doing bad imitations of Homer, Jess went into autopilot. She no longer heard or saw him.

She was reminded of Flora’s words yesterday: ‘What is love without misunderstanding and suffering?’ True, such a life really sucked. But what was suffering and misunderstanding without love? Even worse. How was she going to break the awful news to Mac and Ben that their ideas were atrocious? But even more urgent, how was she going to get them
out of the house right now
? In the end she had to resort to a false report of period pain. Nothing gets rid of guys faster. They simply flee.

Chapter 26

On Monday morning Jess met Fred by accident at the school gate. He was with Tom and Buster.

‘How was Yorkshire?’ she said. ‘I hope you were urinated on by all three sheepdogs.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Fred. ‘And how was your weekend? I hope you were urinated on by a team of Chinese acrobats?’

‘Oh, I’ve moved on from that kind of scene,’ said Jess. ‘I’m destined for higher things. I’m going to Downing Street next weekend to be pooed on by the prime minister.’

The bell rang. Jess ran off to Mr Powell’s office, which was, as usual, divinely peaceful – everything so tidy, so immaculate, so clean. Only Mr Powell’s rather wildly curly hair seemed a tad disobedient. Jess wondered if he ever shouted at his own hair. On the other hand, she had often shouted at hers. So perhaps it was the human condition. Maybe if Shakespeare had had more hair to shout at he wouldn’t have written so many plays.

Jess handed over her mobile phone as usual, and received a blank card for the signatures of every teacher after every lesson.

‘At the end of this week,’ said Mr Powell, ‘I shall ask for a report on your conduct from all of your teachers. If it’s satisfactory, you’ll stop being On Report and I hope that when we meet in future, it will be in happier circumstances.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jess. She was determined to be good. Being On Report really sucked. OK, so she finished her homework way before time – something Jess had never experienced before. It was rather pleasant. But Loss of Leisure and having her phone confiscated was a real pain. Flora had rehearsals and music lessons after school. And when Fred was not rehearsing he just seemed to disappear.

Jess did not dare to ring him at the moment. She decided she would wait until the weekend. If Fred said or did something upsetting, she could not trust herself. She might lose it big time and commit some awful new crime, and be back to square one with Mr Powell. And next time he would be sure to shout.