All of the Above Read online

  Also, Loud Boys. Why is it that popular guys are always noisy chimp-like creatures? It must be an evolutionary thing, but there was a lot of high-fiving and back slapping and just noise. Literally making whooping noises at one another like something from National Geographic. Perhaps there had been a local sale on checked shirts and preppy beige trousers, but in Brompton Cliffs common room it was practically a male uniform. Forget Stepford Wives, this was Hollister Sons. Summer-holiday tans and boy-band hair finished the look. Once more I got the distinct impression I was being evaluated for sexual purposes.

  They’d be sorely disappointed – they had nothing that interested me and I was hardly their type. I’m afraid this isn’t a story where the plain girl falls for the jock guy and they learn to overcome their differences through dance.

  Like any sixth-form common room, it was broadly divided up into social groups. These things are clichés because they are true. The horsey popular boys in their checked shirts gathered around the table tennis set. Some dick threw a ping-pong ball at one of the Pot-Pourri Princesses: ‘Oi, Grace, fire this out of yer minge.’ Charming. Grace, to her credit, told him where he could shove it.

  The princesses were sat together (apparently dipping carrot sticks in hummus was another thing they did) as were the music crowd. Having a Thing is so important at school. It pigeonholes you, and people like people in pigeonholes. That’s always been my downfall; I crash between stools – I’m Thingless.

  ‘Oh look,’ said Daisy. ‘There’s Freya.’

  Once again, Freya was hiding behind a book, in this case something with a witch on the front. We headed over to where she was squashed into the corner. She was with a couple – the guy was dressed in braces, a cravat and tweed trousers, while the girl was a punky East Asian in a baby-doll dress with pink tights. Daisy threw herself into their laps. I considered Daisy’s fur coat and torn purple fishnets. The penny dropped: these were the AltKidz.

  ‘OMG! How are you?’ Daisy gushed. They stood and wrapped her in broad hugs, squealing excitedly. They mustn’t have seen each other in a couple of weeks. ‘Alex and Alice, this is Toria, the new girl. She’s super nice. Can we keep her?’

  ‘Greeting and salutations!’ Alex bowed in greeting. ‘An honour, dear Toria, welcome to our fine seminary.’

  ‘Hi, nice to meet you.’ Was this guy for real?

  ‘Hey,’ said Alice, idly playing with her hair. There was a pink heart gemstone in the corner of her left eye. ‘I like your coat.’

  I was so pleased I wore that coat. ‘Thanks. You look … awesome.’ Her candy/pastel-goth look had clearly taken some work and I respected that.

  ‘Thanks.’ Alice seemed a little bored with me already, her face sulky.

  ‘Alice and Alex?’ I asked. ‘That’s cute.’

  ‘I know, isn’t it ghastly? I assure you it was entirely coincidental.’ Alex sat back down and pulled Alice onto his knee. Alice was instantly happier.

  ‘Hey, Freya.’ I sat down next to her. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘A book,’ came the muffled reply as she shied further away from me. I decided not to push it; she was obviously cripplingly shy.

  ‘So, Toria – divine name by the way – what brings you to this enclave? I can’t possibly imagine you opted to come here.’ Alex ran a hand through his wild reddish hair, no doubt styled that way to add to his mad professor vibe.

  ‘She’s in witness protection,’ Daisy said, sipping on a Diet Coke.

  I smiled. ‘Not true. I actually murdered my last school. All of it. Full-on high-school massacre. I served my time and they’ve given me a new identity.’ Daisy and Alex laughed but Alice rolled her eyes. Oh god, what had I said to piss her off? Was she a high-school massacre survivor or something? ‘Nah – my dad has taken a lecturing job at the university. We had to move. Sorry – boring.’

  ‘That sucks,’ Alice said.

  ‘What? My story?’

  ‘No. Like having to move and stuff. Sucks.’ She spoke as if moving her mouth was exhausting to her.

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so – but I’d have had to move in a couple of years for uni anyway.’

  ‘Glass half-full!’ Daisy said. ‘If life gives you lemons …’

  ‘Ask for tequila and salt,’ I said, smiling. The others laughed along and I wondered if this might be OK. I might be able to get through this.

  I became aware of one of the Hollister Sons sidling up to Freya, the way a tiger prowls through undergrowth towards its prey. He was holding his phone steady, evidently filming her as she read. ‘Boil,’ he said in a sing-song voice. ‘Boil, say something for the camera …’

  Freya pretended not to hear him. I latched on to the joke. Freya doesn’t speak much – let’s get her to say something. This school really was a clone of my last one. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t help but notice selective hearing had also befallen Alex and Alice – they pretended to hear only each other cooing into their respective ears.

  Daisy sighed. ‘Donovan, leave her alone.’

  He pretended not to hear her, crawling even closer along the bench, shoving the camera in her face and infiltrating her personal space. Not cool.

  ‘Boil … can you speak? Are you a mute?’

  I was about to say something when a bag swung down like some deus ex machina in a Greek tragedy. The canvas rucksack crashed into the side of Donovan’s head and he rolled off the bench onto the floor, dropping his phone in the process. Everyone laughed – both his horsey friends and my adopted crowd.

  The bag belonged to a girl who stood alongside Beasley. She had pink hair and a nose ring and she was the coolest thing I had ever seen.

  Chapter Two

  Her

  I think it’s important to make a disclaimer here. Polly Wolff, the girl who attacked Donovan, has the foulest mouth of any person I have ever met or am likely to meet in the future. She could make sailors and convicts blush and fluster. There’s not a lot I can do about this except try to edit as I retell my tale. If you don’t find swearing big or clever, I imagine Polly Wolff would tell you to **** right off anyway, so you would be unlikely to be friends.

  Back to the common room. ‘Go **** yourself, Donovan,’ said the girl with pink hair.

  ‘God, chill out.’ Donovan picked himself up, rubbing his head. ‘Psycho.’

  ‘That’s right, tell people I’m a psycho so you feel better when a girl kicks the living **** out of you. Now **** off.’

  Donovan skulked away and the new girl and Beasley joined us in our corner. Beasley turned to Freya. ‘You OK, Freya?’

  She pretended she’d missed the whole kerfuffle, lost in her book. She nodded for a moment before returning to the land of fiction. I sat awkwardly, waiting for an introduction.

  Daisy greeted the pink-haired girl with a hug. ‘This is the new girl, Toria. Toria, this is my best friend, Polly.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said. Polly was effortlessly cool: tall and willowy enough to be a model, wearing a baggy black jumper, the collar hanging off one angular shoulder. The pink hair was messy, pulled into a knot on the top of her head. It looked regal, like she was wearing a crown.

  ‘Hey there, Toria Grand. All I’ve heard about today is this new girl all the boys want to ****.’

  Say something filthy. We must have been to the same school of making a first impression. ‘Oh god, really? Daisy said I’d be fresh meat.’ I couldn’t think of anything filthy of my own, and I didn’t want it to turn into a competition.

  I was as wary of her as I was impressed. She had green-blue ocean eyes and they were definitely sizing me up. She didn’t trust me. Maybe she was right not to. I don’t know.

  ‘Don’t sweat it,’ Polly said, sitting down opposite me and tucking one long leg under the other. ‘You’re new genetic material and the rest of us are inbred. Your unspoiled DNA sings to us.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, at least I’m making a contribution. Although I think I’ll leave reproduction off the agenda until, you know, I know where the toilets ar
e.’

  More laughter. I hated myself for being Needella Needyson again but I really wanted them to like me. I don’t know why. It was my first day, I was probably feeling extra vulnerable or something. NEEDY FACE.

  Beasley added quietly, ‘I heard that Nathan Blue thinks you’re hot. That’s, like, a big deal.’

  ‘Which one is he?’

  Daisy subtly pointed out one of the checked-shirted masses. ‘The tall one. If we had a prom, he’d be prom king.’

  I could barely keep the disgust off my face. He looked like a slightly melted Ken doll. ‘Oh god no.’

  ‘Hmm, don’t rule it out.’ Polly smirked. ‘He’s got a massive ****.’

  I felt myself blush. I’m not great at sex chat. I knew I was meant to gather my sassy gal pals and discuss blow jobs at length at sleepovers but I had never had sex and, regardless of what friends had told me back home, I thought it was a big deal.

  ‘That’s gross!’ Daisy said, saving me the trouble.

  ‘If his penis is anything like his face, I’m not interested.’ I figured that was a safe bet.

  ‘I speak from experience,’ Polly said frostily and I wanted to die at once. I wouldn’t have put them together in a million years.

  ‘Oh sorry … I –’

  ‘Toria, I’m ******* with you! I’m kidding!’

  I exhaled, social/potentially actual suicide avoided.

  Polly addressed the whole group. ‘Now. The real question is: would it be tacky to blow off the rest of the first day and go shopping or is that actually quite cool?’

  I won’t lie. The first couple of weeks weren’t easy. I couldn’t decide whether I was imposing on Polly’s group or not. Without question it was ‘Polly’s group’. She and Daisy and Beasley had been best friends since Year 6; Alex had lived next door to Polly his entire life, and Alex and Alice had been inseparable since Polly had set them up two years ago.

  She couldn’t help it. When Polly walked into a room or down a corridor people stared at her, and it wasn’t just the pink hair. They were scared of her. Rightly so. During my first two weeks at Brompton Cliffs, I saw her twist a guy’s balls, almost snap someone’s thumb off and lead a guy down a hallway by his hair. Trust me, they all had it coming – they’d been having a go at Polly herself or one of her friends. She served as a protector for the whole group – a Robin Hood figure standing up for her personal band of Merry Men (and women). Eagle-eyed readers among you will have noticed that Polly is Mr Wolff’s daughter. Not that that made her life any easier; after every ball twist or truancy she was almost publicly flogged so the whole school could see she wasn’t getting preferential treatment.

  I’m aware I’ve bombarded you with a whole heap of people, but each and every one of them is important to what’s happened this year. Allow me to help out with a visual representation of how sixth-form life is here at Brompton Cliffs, which I carefully observed over the first couple of weeks. It works something like this. (Bear in mind, like I said, I am not a mathsy person):

  Figure 1. The Social Dynamic of the Group

  I didn’t quite belong. I sat with them at lunchtime and break time, but I couldn’t work out if Daisy had forced the others to tolerate my presence. I couldn’t even decide if Daisy really liked me or not – she was so relentlessly sunny with everyone she came into contact with. I was starting to feel like that bit of loo roll that gets stuck to your heel – I was just being dragged around with them.

  While the routine of school was comforting, evenings and weekends stayed much as they ever had been: online. I would get home, where Mum would be waiting to descend on me like a vulture. ‘How was your day? What were lessons like? Did you make any new friends? Have you got any homework?’

  Daily bombardment.

  I guess the problem was that, while Dad had started work at the end of August, Mum hadn’t even started looking for a new job yet. Back home, she’d worked at the university library, but there were no positions here. She had that caged-animal stir-crazy look in her eye that only someone who’d endured too much Jeremy Kyle and Loose Women got.

  Once I’d fended her off, she’d go and watch Pointless with a glass of rioja and I’d go to my room and stay there until it was time for bed, only pausing to eat. Here are some of the things I liked to do online:

  1. Catch up on my favourite vlogs. I subscribe to about eighty, so that takes some time.

  2. Commenting on said vlogs. Can also take up to two hours.

  3. Reblog cool stuff on Tumblr.

  4. Google stuff off Tumblr that I think I should get into.

  5. Sneer at popular people on Facebook. I’d have ditched Facebook years ago if it weren’t for the fact it’s holding half my photos hostage.

  6. Download American TV. It’s not my fault they don’t show it over here faster.

  7. Make my own gifs. I’m getting pretty good at this.

  8. Check my fandoms. I belong to several fandoms, but by far my favourite is manga and anime: Angel Beats!, Puella Magi Madoka Magica, some yaoi stuff, Neon Genesis Evangelion and, of course, Sailor Moon.

  Don’t feel bad for me, I came alive online. I reckon I was way funnier and cooler there than I was in real life. By that point, I’d established that Beasley and Alice also liked anime, but Alice was still being decidedly chilly. I didn’t know what her problem was.

  My mum and dad were renting a house not far from school while they sussed out the property market in the area. It was OK, I guess. It was on one of those toy-town housing developments full of identical dream homes. Lots of conservatories, built-in barbecues and BMWs – not a lot of soul.

  We lived next door to one of the Pot-Pourri girls. Within the first week I saw her leaving for school at the same time as me and recognised her from the common room. On the second Monday, we left at the exact same time and sort of walked next to each other. It was really awkward. Fortunately, she broke the ice.

  ‘Hi, I’m Summer. You’re Toria, right?’

  ‘Yeah. New girl.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ She had an aspartame voice. Her cloud of blonde hair was backcombed and her eyelashes were spidery with mascara.

  ‘Not too bad, thanks.’ We must have looked so weird walking together. I was in my army coat, flat black hair parted dead in the centre and she looked like a slightly neglected Barbie doll.

  ‘Cool. We think you’re really cool.’ I could guess who WE was. ‘Love your shoes.’ She pointed at my leopard-print Converse.

  ‘Thank you.’ I knew I should return the compliment but it would have been a lie. Thankfully we got talking about teachers – who was cool and who was evil – so that passed the fifteen-minute walk.

  A couple of nights later, we ended up walking home together too. Summer invited me inside her house because her brother had a load of French A-level stuff that her mum said I could have since she wasn’t taking it.

  It was so weird. Her room was a shrine to some boy band I’d never heard of. They’d only been around since the spring but Summer insisted the fandom was a ‘family’. Every spare inch of wall was covered with posters and cut-outs. If it was anyone else’s room but a teenage girl’s, you’d legitimately think you were in some psycho’s murder room. It was truly chilling; the eyes followed you wherever you moved. I made an excuse after five minutes and left, knowing that Summer Perkins and her friends were not my people. That was a watershed moment. If I was ever going to be one of the cool, pretty hair girls, it would have been then.

  I took the road less travelled.

  Weekends were the worst. My online friends all seemed to have their weekends planned out months in advance – either visiting family or attending cons in places I couldn’t afford to get to. My new friends at school, if that’s what they were, hadn’t invited me to anything and there was no way I was going to invite myself along. So I was stuck at home.

  I remember one Saturday morning Mum came to wake me up with a cup of tea. She plonked it on my bedside table and peeked under the duvet. ‘Victoria? Are
you getting up?’ Mum is the ONLY person left on earth who calls me Victoria.

  ‘No. Let me sleep until Monday morning.’

  She pulled the duvet back. ‘Up! It’s not healthy laying in bed all day. You should be outside! Getting fresh air! Meeting nice boys!’ I tutted in dismay. ‘Why don’t you text some people from school?’

  That really stung. No one ever texted me. I rolled back over. ‘Go away. I have chronic fatigue syndrome.’ I pulled the duvet back over my head. What was the point in getting up? There was nothing to get up for.

  I invented projects for myself to pass the time. One weekend I unpacked my box of Sailor Moon books and spread them out across my bedroom floor. I lined them up in neat rows, in the correct order, and took pictures of my collection for Tumblr. I dipped in and out of them, reminding myself of my favourite bits.

  I decided to sketch some of my favourite images, so this involved unpacking my box of art supplies. I painstakingly copied the poses, taking diversions onto the internet to look at cosplay ideas. When I came to colouring I found many of my felt tips had dried up so I started a new project, trying each one to see if it still worked. Somehow, whole days decayed in this manner.

  One long Sunday afternoon, Mum had caught the train to meet my Auntie Minna in London while my dad was watching Formula One. An endless angry wasp buzz came from the lounge, and rain fell like pins onto the conservatory roof. This was a new nadir of boredom. Unpacking the very last box from the move, I found my old poetry book in and among some old sketchbooks.

  I know. Yes, I had a poetry book. It sounds pretty lame, but for a while poetry was like ‘my thing’. When I was fourteen I entered a national competition and, while I didn’t win, I was a finalist in my age group, had my poem published and won fifty quid in book tokens.

  I wrote about Mum. I don’t know if she ever knew it was about her. I don’t honestly know if she ever read it. At the time we really weren’t getting on, even worse than now. That’s what I don’t get about her. In her time, she was meant to be like this major rebel who spurned Vishnu to run off and marry a white guy, but when I dip-dyed the ends of my hair she acted like I was selling drugs to kids or something. You’d think she’d cut me some slack. Anyway, here is the poem (don’t laugh):