Only We Know (2 page)

The downstairs toilet stinks of bleach. Mum scrubbed it to death when we first moved in, but you can still see where the killer mushrooms were climbing up the wall.

‘Are you okay in there?’

I fumble for my mobile. ‘Yes, Mum, I’m … Two minutes, yeah?’

There are four numbers in my new address book. Big Moe’s is top of the list. I just hope he’s not too busy form-filling or refereeing fights. All I need is to hear his voice.

Mum’s
voice is getting higher by the second. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Lauren? Why don’t you open the door so we can talk properly about this?’

‘I’ll be out in a minute, promise.’

At last he picks up. ‘Hello, stranger.’

His gravelly Scottish greeting has a miraculously calming effect on my racing heart. ‘Hi, Big Moe.’

‘So today’s the day then, is it?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘I thought it might be. And how’s my favourite fashion victim feeling about that?’

I once told him I’d rather die than wear leopard-print jeans and he’s never let me forget it. ‘The uniform’s a disaster for a start.’

‘You poor wee thing. You’ll have me crying in a minute.’

‘Thanks, Big Moe. You’re all heart.’

Actually he really is. So he can’t quite conceal his concern when he starts getting serious. ‘And what about … you know … everything else?’

Big Moe’s the nearest thing I know to a human lie detector. It’s pointless trying to hide it from him. ‘I’m scared, Moe, really scared.’

He seems to find that pretty funny. ‘Of course you are. It’s not rocket science, Lauren.’ (What metaphor do you think rocket scientists use? ‘It’s not GCSE food tech?’)

‘Who are you talking to in there?’ calls Mum.

‘No one, I’m just …’ I lower my voice to an anxious whisper. ‘Supposing the same thing happens again, Moe? I don’t think I could —’

‘It won’t,’ says Big Moe, almost like he believes it. ‘It’s different this time.’

‘What if one of them’s heard about me?’

‘I hate to break it to you, Lauren, but you’re not exactly a celebrity, you know. And anyway, I hear you’re a blonde these days. Your own sister wouldn’t recognise you.’

I’m not sure about that, although she sometimes looks
at me like she doesn’t know me any more. ‘Yeah … I suppose.’

‘You’ve worked hard for this, Lauren. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.’

‘And can I call you if —’

‘Of course you can. I’m always here for you, you know that.’

‘Thanks, Moe.’

‘But you won’t need to. You’re tough, Lauren; tough as old boots.’

‘I don’t feel it right now.’

Somewhere in the background a female voice starts kicking off. ‘Sorry, got to go,’ says Big Moe. ‘Now you look after yourself, Lauren. And just remember, there are some people out there who’d like to see you fail. It’s up to you to prove them wrong.’

A few years back, I had quite a temper on me. Some people said I had ‘anger management issues’, but I never lost it with my sister.

When Tilds was born, Dad thought I might be jealous of the new baby, so the first time he took me to the hospital to meet her, he bought me a toy police car to keep me quiet. He needn’t have bothered, because apparently I loved her right from the start. When she was little we spent hours playing weddings and funerals with her Polly Pockets, and on her first day at primary school I told everyone in her class that if they were mean to my little sister they’d have to fight me. And later on, when we were both getting into fashion, we’d sneak a couple of Mum’s magazines up to my bedroom and make these huge collages of our ‘winter collections’. In fact, the only thing we ever argued about was hair wax.

All that changed, of course, although I’d kind of hoped that somewhere down the line we’d get back to the way
we were. And that’s why it hurts so much, the way she looks at me sometimes – the way my name seems to stick in her throat.

But I keep trying. Starting a new school together could be the perfect bonding opportunity.

‘You do realise it’s the school where that girl ran off with the drama teacher, don’t you, Tilds?’

‘Where do you think I’ve been for the last year? In a padded cell?’

‘Sorry, I just thought …’

We walk in silence as far as the roundabout. That’s when I can’t pretend any more. Suddenly there are blue uniforms everywhere, joking and laughing and spitting and farting, swearing and kissing and leering and hugging. And they’re all headed in one direction – towards the school gates at the top of the hill.

The blood drains from my face as my heart picks up speed. Even the tiniest Year Sevens, with their huge rucksacks and even huger fake smiles, seem to be handling it better than me. Sweating pig-like into my sixty per cent polyester blouse, I scan the conker trees at the side of the road for potential puking spots.

‘Are you okay?’ says Tilda, sounding suspiciously like she actually cares.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Try not to worry. I’m sure the teachers will be looking out for you.’

‘You reckon?’

Come to think of it, Tilda looks pretty scared herself.

‘You heard Dad,’ she says. ‘Keep your head down and you’ll be fine.’

It’s not exactly the way I imagined it, but right now I’d do almost anything for an easy life. ‘I just wish I didn’t need to.’

‘Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have needed to if you hadn’t —’

‘I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. It’s not fair that you’ve had to —’

‘No,’ says Tilda.

I move in closer and give her a hug. ‘You’ve changed your perfume, haven’t you?’

Tilda pulls away. ‘It’s a new start for me too, you know. I wanted something more … sophisticated.’

‘It’s nice, suits you.’ It may sound like small talk, but believe me this is massive. It feels like we’re kind of communicating at last. If we carry on like this, I might get my sister back.

Tilda touches me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Look, good luck and everything. I really hope it works out for you. But do you mind if I …’

‘What is it, Tilds?’

‘Do you mind if I walk the rest of the way on my own?’

‘Why?’ I say, realising immediately what a stupid question it is.

‘You know why,’ says Tilda.

I lose sight of Tilda as the school gates swallow her up. She doesn’t look back at me, and to be honest, I’d probably start crying if she did. But once I’m safely through the gates myself, the creeping paranoia gets a little less creepy and I calm down for a bit.

I mean, if you believed everything you read online, you’d never get out of bed in the morning, right? Dad self-diagnoses a hundred fatal illnesses a fortnight, but he still manages to drag the bins out every Thursday. And if you saw what they said about St Thomas’s Community College, you’d probably lock up your daughters and throw away the key. We’re not just talking dodgy drama teachers here. If there’s any truth in some of the stuff I’ve read on Twitter, I’d be better off hiring a couple of bodyguards and a personal tutor – and I certainly wouldn’t enlist on any war graves trips.

But so far, it doesn’t actually seem that bad. My old
school was really, well, old school – dark gloomy corridors and cold stone floors. This place looks like a cross between a trendy office and a modern art gallery: all rounded corners and windows, with a strange Pokémon-like construction in the middle of the playground and waste-paper bins with special holes for recycling your Coke cans.

Apart from the usual X-rated banter and a boy with personal hygiene issues, the kids don’t look that bad either. Tilda was right about Year Eleven hair – the messy bun I took so much trouble creating this morning blends in perfectly. I try to avoid eye contact wherever possible, but the harmless-looking girl I ask for directions to the main reception actually smiles at me. She doesn’t even direct me to the bottom of the school field, because after a right past the Learning Resources Centre (which I’m guessing is code for library) and straight on through the double doors, here I am in front of the reception desk.

‘Hi, I’m Lauren Wilson. I’m supposed to be seeing the Head of Student Welfare?’

And unlike my old school, where they practically dived for cover whenever they saw me coming, the receptionist greets me like a fanatical holiday rep. ‘Hi, Lauren, welcome to St Thomas’s.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’ll find Mr Catchpole next to the boys’ toilets. His new office, I mean. Just knock and walk straight in.’

‘Right.’

A man in an ailing brown jacket is watering the ailing brown pot plant on top of the filing cabinet. Alongside it is a photograph of a group of kids in front of a war memorial, flanked by a wild-haired woman in knee-length earrings and the man in the ailing brown jacket who appears to be smiling at her.

But the man in the photograph looks about ten years younger than the harassed specimen who turns to face me like an old-style Bond villain.

‘Ah … Lauren, I’ve been expecting you.’

‘Right.’

‘Welcome to St Thomas’s.’

‘Right … thanks.’

‘I’m Mr Catchpole – head of Student Welfare. Please, have a seat. Let me just …’ He takes a pair of bulging files from the Tesco bag on the corner of his desk. ‘Now I’ve read through your notes … most of them.’

‘Oh.’

‘Re-taking Year Eleven at a different school is certainly unusual. Then again, it’s fair to say that these are exceptional circumstances.’

‘Yes.’

On the wall behind him is a huge poster entitled
Our School Values.
Underneath is a row of random words in bright colours that are supposed to look like they’ve been scrawled on a whiteboard by a precocious Year Seven, but are almost certainly the work of one of those ‘overpaid design consultants’ that Dad’s always ranting about.

Mr Catchpole seems pleased that I’m taking an interest. ‘You’ll be hearing a lot about values at St Thomas’s, Lauren. It’s something Mr Edmonds, our head teacher, is very passionate about. Unfortunately he’s off sick for at least another month. But you’ll find a list in the back of your extended learning record. I suggest you have a good look at them.’

‘I will – thanks.’

‘I want you to know that we’re going to look after you, Lauren. If there’s anything you need – catch-up sessions or just a friendly ear, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

Underneath the unforgivable brown jacket, he seems like an okay bloke. Although I can’t help noticing that both friendly ears are in desperate need of a haircut. ‘I won’t – thanks.’

‘Now, before I send you down to meet your new tutor group, have you got any questions?’

Only one – and I hardly dare ask it. So I stare hopefully at
Freedom
, trying to find the right words. ‘Does everyone here … know about me? The teachers, I mean.’

Mr Catchpole coughs, grabs one of his friendly ears and starts twiddling. ‘We thought it was probably best if the …
exact
details of your past were only made available on a need-to-know basis. There’s myself and Mr Edmonds, of course, and two members of the senior
management team. Other than that, the only other person who’s been fully briefed is your form tutor, Miss Hoolyhan.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve deliberately put you in 11CH. Miss Hoolyhan is one of our most experienced teachers.
Should
you have any problems you can always —’

Two sharp knocks at the door put him out of his misery. A girl with virtually no make-up and her hair tied back in a pigtail walks in.

‘Ah, Katherine, good,’ says Mr Catchpole. ‘Katherine’s going to be your student mentor. She’ll make sure you know where all your lessons are and help you to settle in.’

‘It’s Katherine with a K,’ says the girl with the pigtail.

And I feel like asking if she’ll be giving me a spelling test. But the last thing I need is to alienate my student mentor, so I smile politely and try to get her onside. ‘Like Kate Middleton you mean?’ The thought that she could have anything in common with her royal deliciousness is enough to make me crack a smile.

But not my student mentor. ‘Like Katherine Mansfield – the short-story writer.’

‘Oh … right … So what do they call you – Katie or Kate?’

‘They don’t call me anything.’

‘Right.’

‘
Anyway
,’ says Mr Catchpole, taking a last despairing
glance at my notes. ‘I’ll leave you in Katherine’s capable hands.’

If that’s a smile, it’s not exactly what I’d call reassuring.

‘We don’t judge people here, Lauren. Life’s what you make of it. I’m sure you’ll bear that in mind.’

‘What was all that about?’ says Katherine, ignoring the sniggers that seem to follow her down the corridor.

‘How do you mean?’

‘The whole tragic backstory bit? You’re not one of those kids with cancer, are you?’

‘No.’

‘So why the special treatment?’

‘What special treatment?’

‘The breakfast conference with Uncle Colin. Most new kids get two minutes with their form tutor and a map that’s not even to scale. What did he say to you anyway?’

‘Not a lot. Just some stuff about values.’

‘Yes, Catchpole’s big on that these days. He knows the value of everything and the price of nothing – totally useless when he’s in Tesco.’

If that’s supposed to be a joke, I don’t get it. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘But it still doesn’t explain why I’m supposed to be babysitting you. Apparently it was Hoolyhan’s idea.’

‘Well, there you are.’

But the cross-examination continues. ‘So what are you doing at St Thomas’s? I don’t know if you read the newspapers, Lauren, but it’s not the type of school that education ministers are queuing up to send their daughters to.’

Luckily it’s a question I’ve been revising for. ‘We’ve just moved into the area. My dad’s got a new job. I think it was the only school with a free place.’ (The last part is actually true.)

‘Yes, well I can believe that,’ says Katherine. ‘Not exactly brilliant timing though, is it – right in the middle of your GCSEs?’

‘I suppose not.’

Paranoia is stalking me again. A school is a school after all, no matter how many recycling bins it’s got.

‘Are you shaking?’ says Katherine. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, Lauren, but it’s not exactly your first day at “big school”, is it? Unlike this sorry specimen.’

A Year Seven straggler has been cut off from the herd. He stands beneath the
Are You Getting Your Five a Day?
poster, staring forlornly at a photocopied map.

‘What’s the problem?’ asks Katherine.

‘I think I’m lost,’ sobs the pathetic Year Seven.

‘Where do you need to get to?’

‘My tutor base.’ He dabs his eyes with his map. ‘It’s in the science block.’

‘I wouldn’t let them see you crying if I were you,’ says Katherine. ‘And anyway, there’s nothing to cry about,
because you’re nearly there. Turn left at the end of the corridor and it’s right in front of you.’

He smiles like a lottery winner and starts running. ‘Thanks.’

‘It does get better you know,’ calls Katherine, waiting until he’s safely round the corner before adding, ‘by about the end of Year Nine.’

A moment later, we stop in front of a blue door.

I reach up and check my hair. ‘Is this it then?’

‘Yes, this is it,’ says Katherine. ‘Follow me.’

I try to delay her a few seconds longer. ‘What are they like? The other kids I mean.’

‘I won’t lie to you, Lauren. We’re not talking Hogwarts here.’

So what
are
we talking? As the door opens, I prepare myself for the worst. But no one takes much notice as Katherine crosses to the front table and I slip into the seat beside her.

The woman from the photo on Mr Catchpole’s filing cabinet is handing out timetables. She’s still wearing knee-length earrings, but the bright colours have been replaced by a layer of black. ‘Ah, Lauren, how lovely to see you. I’m Miss Hoolyhan, your form tutor.’

‘Hello, miss.’

‘Mind if I introduce you, Lauren?’ she whispers. ‘It might be good to get it over with.’

‘Okay, fine.’

‘You’d better stand up so everyone can see you.’

I rise reluctantly, turning to face my new tutor group with soggy armpits and a sickly smile. It might not be the moment of truth exactly, but it’s certainly time for the first reality check.

‘Listen carefully for a moment,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘I want you all to say hello to Lauren Wilson.’

They chant it back like mutant zombies, ‘Hello, Lauren Wilson.’

Everyone laughs, including Miss Hoolyhan. And so do I, because it’s not malicious, just silly. A couple of them are definitely smiling at me and there’s even a wolf whistle from the back. Katherine tuts and mutters ‘idiot’, but considering the doomsday scenarios I’ve been playing out in my head, it’s just an incredible relief.

‘Lauren’s new to the area,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘She doesn’t know anyone at all round here. So I hope you’ll make her welcome.’

‘I’ll make you welcome, babe,’ comes a voice from the back.

‘Yes, thank you, Conor,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘That’s quite enough of that.’

Conor obviously doesn’t think so. ‘Tall, isn’t she, miss?’

‘I don’t see what —’

‘Oi, Lauren, do you get dizzy up there?’

My sickly smile gets even sicker.

‘You know what they say about tall girls, don’t you, miss?’

‘No, Conor, I —’

‘They’ve got massive …’ He wiggles his hands in front of his chest. ‘… feet!’

I close my eyes and wait for the others to join in. But it doesn’t happen.

‘Give it a rest, Conor,’ says a girl with perfect blonde highlights. ‘No one thinks you’re funny, all right?’

‘All I’m saying is, if the lovely Lauren needs someone to hold her hand on her first day then Conor Corcoran’s your man.’

Miss Hoolyhan gestures at me to sit down. ‘Yes, thank you, Conor. I think we’ve got that covered.’

‘Don’t worry about him,’ says Katherine. ‘He’s just the latest in a long dynasty of dickheads. This school’s full of them. Believe me, it can only get worse.’

But it really doesn’t. Miss Hoolyhan hands out more timetables and our ELRs (we used to call them homework diaries, but they’re extended learning records here), and then makes a little speech about not making the wrong choices and starting Year Eleven as you mean to go on.

It’s brilliant. No one gives me a second look. And time passes so quickly that I can hardly believe it when the bell goes.

‘Just a second, Lauren,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘Before you charge off, can I have a quick word please?’

‘Yes, miss.’

Katherine is lurking like a sinister guide dog.

‘Would you mind waiting outside, Katherine? There’s something I need to say to Lauren.’

Katherine stands her ground. ‘Are you sure about that, miss? I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking after her. Wouldn’t it be better if you told me too?’

‘I don’t think so, Katherine. It’s only some extra admin anyway. Now if you don’t mind, I really do need to crack on.’

Katherine slinks to the door. ‘I’ll be right outside.’

Miss Hoolyhan clears her throat, shuffles some papers, and generally looks about as comfortable as a teacup in a field of bulls.

Eventually she speaks. ‘There’s something I feel I ought to mention.’

She wouldn’t, would she? I mean she
couldn’t
. It’s what they decided at all those meetings; that it was better for everyone if certain subjects were strictly off limits.

‘We’ve had some … situations at St Thomas’s – quite recently actually – where certain students could have come to me with their problems.’ She caresses the tassels of her black silk scarf. ‘But for various reasons, which I still don’t really understand, they chose not to.’

I’m relieved and confused at the same time. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘What I’m trying to say is that I hope if you have any difficulties – and I really can’t see why you should – I want you to feel comfortable talking to me. You would feel comfortable about that, wouldn’t you, Lauren?’

‘Yes, miss,’ I lie.

‘We won’t judge you here.’

(It seems like everyone judged that girl who ran off with the teacher.)

‘I just want to get on with it, miss. Start living my life again.’

‘That’s a great attitude, Lauren. Now, I think Katherine’s waiting for you. Enjoy your first lesson at St Thomas’s.’

(She obviously doesn’t know what it is.) ‘Thanks, miss.’

‘Oh and, Lauren …?’

‘Yes?’

‘I think you’re very brave.’