Acting Friends

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Lou Kuenzler for her feedback on this story – and to Ciara and Nuala for talking to me about their first days at secondary school.

This story has been specially written and published for World
Book Day 2012. For further information please see www.world-bookday.com

World Book Day in the UK and Ireland is made possible by
generous sponsorship from National Book Tokens, participating
publishers, authors and booksellers. Booksellers who accept the

£1 World Book Day Token bear the full cost of redeeming it.

First published as an e-book original in Great Britain in 2012

by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd

a CBS Company.

Copyright © 2012 Sophie McKenzie

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

No reproduction without permission.

All rights reserved.

The right of Sophie McKenzie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road, London WC1X 8HB

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

E-BOOK ISBN: 978-0-85707-822-3

www.simonandschuster.co.uk

www.sophiemckenziebooks.com

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As we drove closer to the school, I saw more and more girls in the Langton Girls Grammar uniform of pleated navy skirt and pale blue shirt. I smoothed my own skirt over my knees, my hands clammy with sweat. The pleats made me look like a great dumpy blob.

I’d waited for so long for this first day at my new school – and now it was here I felt terrified. I’d been to the school before of course – once on the open day, once for the post-exam interview and once for the initiation day at the end of last term. But this was different.

We turned a corner and the throng of passing girls seemed to ease up for a moment.

‘Drop me here, Mum,’ I said. ‘Please.’ My voice came out slightly hoarse.

‘What?’ Mum glanced sideways at me. ‘But we’re 1

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still two streets away. I told work I’d be in late so I can drop you right at the door.’

‘You don’t need to, please.’ Girls were swarming the pavements on either side of our car now. It was going to be a warm day. Even now, at eight thirty in the morning, the sun was beating down and my shirt felt stuck to my back. High-pitched squeals and shrieks of laughter drifted in through the open car window. I gripped the handle of my new school bag. Regulation navy, just like the skirt and blazer I was wearing. I looked at the Langton Grammar girls outside. Only a few of them had their blazers on.

Most were carrying them in their arms, their bags –

none of which were regulation like mine – swinging at their sides.

These girls were so loud. And so tall. I would never fit in at this school. I shrank back in my seat and stared down at my bag. Inside was a stack of invitations to go bowling on Saturday, for my birthday. Mum had insisted I take them. She’d said that handing them out would be a great way to break the ice and get to know people. Right now, I couldn’t imagine daring even to mention them.

‘You’ll be fine, River,’ Mum said.

She tapped her nails on the steering wheel as she pulled the car over. I hesitated. Girls were walking past. I didn’t want to be seen getting out of the car.

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On the other hand, I could hardly sit here all morning. I peered into the wing mirror. A girl, much smaller than the rest, was shuffling along the pavement. Her movements were slight and delicate, as if she was trying to be invisible. She was wearing a blazer that was clearly two sizes too big for her, her tie was knotted tightly under her chin and she carried a regulation navy bag in her arms.

‘Bye, Mum.’ I opened the car door.

‘River?’ Mum’s gabbling voice trailed after me.

‘Don’t forget all the invites in your bag. Be careful. I love—’

I shoved the door shut as the small girl approached.

She slowed as she saw me and I took in her pale, heart-shaped face and wide, scared blue eyes.

Her white-blonde hair was tied back in the regulation low ponytail required for long hair. I touched my own thick, bushy bob self-consciously as a group of older girls barged past, shouting at the tops of their voices. They didn’t appear to notice us.

I turned and fell into step with the small, blonde girl. We walked for a few seconds in silence.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m River.’

I held my breath. Everyone at my primary school had got used to my name but I wasn’t looking forward to having to explain it today. Strangers often looked a bit confused when they heard it, but 3

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the pale-faced girl didn’t react at all. She just glanced at me with a shy smile.

‘I’m Grace,’ she said.

We carried on walking.

‘Are you new today, too?’ I said, though it was obvious she was.

‘Yes, year seven,’ Grace said. ‘You?’

I nodded. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Which primary did you go to?’

‘One in Brighton,’ Grace said. ‘We only moved here last month.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. I sensed she was even more nervous about today than I was. It made me feel slightly better. What was Dad always saying?
Everyone feels scared inside, River,
even if they’re not showing it.

‘So where d’you live now?’

Grace mumbled the name of a street I didn’t recognise.

We reached the school gates. Both sides were wide open: tall, iron bars with the sign
Langton Grammar
for Girls
just to the right. I looked through at the huge brick building beyond. How many times had I driven past this school in the past two years? I thought back to all the conversations, the tutoring, the tests that had led me here. Everything for ages felt like it had been about me getting into this school.

And now, here I was, on my first day.

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In spite of my nerves, a thrill of excitement shot through me. This was secondary school. A grown-up place to be.

‘We’re supposed to meet our teachers in the entrance hall, aren’t we?’ Grace said timidly.

I nodded. They’d mentioned this at the induction day – and in the pack of papers we’d received at home last month. We headed for the main school building. It was built around a central courtyard, with lots of smaller buildings on either side. The tarmac at our feet glistened in the sunshine.

All of a sudden I was aware of girls – taller girls –

closing in around us, crowding us, herding us forwards. I moved sideways, trying to get out of the way, and bumped into someone. She shrieked. I spun round.

The girl was open-mouthed. She was tall, like the others – and with a shock of dark red, curly hair. She was holding a can of something fizzy – I didn’t see the brand. All I saw was the huge stain from the drink that had splashed down her school shirt.

Had I done that by bumping into her?
Oh, no.

Giggles rose up around me.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I said, feeling myself blushing.

‘I’m really clumsy. It was a total accident. I—’

‘Shut up.’ The girl reached out and shoved my shoulder. I stumbled backwards, my heart racing.

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My bag fell to the ground, my purse spilling out of the front pocket. I bent down to pick them both up.

But the girl whipped down ahead of me. There was a flash of red curls in front of my eyes as she snatched my purse. My fingers closed on the warm, rough tarmac. The girl jumped up.

‘What the hell is
this?
’ she sneered.

I froze, still crouching on the ground. A circle of shoes surrounded me. They were all black, though none of them were as flat or as shiny as my own.

Clutching my bag, I stood up. About eight girls – all long-haired and hard-eyed – surrounded me. I had no idea how old they were, but each one of them was at least a head taller than I was. All their ties were ultra-thin and knotted well below their shirt collars. None of them were wearing their blazers. I glanced at Grace. She was standing beside me, shrinking down into herself.

‘I said . . . What. Is.
This
?’ the red-haired girl who had taken my purse repeated slowly.

I looked up into her face. Her thin lips were pressed meanly together and she was dangling my purse between her thumb and forefinger. It was made of pink plastic, with a square clasp on the side.

I’d had it for years and the original print of a kitten had long since worn off the front. I’d taken to taping pictures of singers and actors I liked over the plastic.

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The girl pointed to the picture currently on the front of my purse. It was a photo I’d downloaded and printed of Frankie Clarke, the teen actor. I didn’t gush over movie stars like some girls but I had a massive crush on Frankie.

‘I asked you why this is here.’ She was grinning now – a nasty, sneering grin.

I shrugged, my heart hammering against my ribs.

‘I don’t know . . .’

The girl raised her eyebrows. She had a make-up encased spot on her chin. ‘What a freak,’ she spat.

I wasn’t sure if she meant me or Frankie, but I didn’t say anything.

‘He wasn’t bad in
The Little Brother
,’ one of the other girls said with a sniff.