All That Glitters (35 page)

“An average of eight insect parts are found in each bar,” he says flatly. “Which makes it a lot less nice than everyone thinks it is. Hey – maybe you’re made out of chocolate after all.”

My cheeks flame. That is
very
hurtful.

And scientifically accurate, which makes it even worse.

“Well the compound
theobromine
is found in chocolate and it can be lethal in large quantities. So maybe you have something in common with it too.”

Yup: I panicked again
.

“I am so confused right now,” somebody whispers. “What are they talking about?”

“Now …” Mrs Harris says, stepping forward and gripping her hands together anxiously. “Let’s be nice, you two. We’re here to … to … study ecological diversity, so why don’t we all grab a clipboard, a white tub and a bit of rope and …”

There’s a cough.

“Just hang on a second,” Mr Collins says, stepping between us and rubbing his chin with his hand. “Am I right in thinking that you, Jasper King, do not like Harriet Manners?”

“No,” he agrees, glowering until something inside me does an angry little flip backwards. “I think it’s fair to say I do not.”

“And would I be correct in assuming that you, Harriet Manners, are not terribly fond of Jasper King?”

“Correct,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him until my eyebrows hurt.

Mr Collins breaks into an enormous grin: as if all his Christmases have come at once, along with half his birthdays and a couple of Hanukkahs too.

“Excellent,” he says, zipping up his jacket triumphantly. “That saves me giving the entire class a detention. Harriet Manners, maybe you need to spend a little time with somebody who understands what kind of behaviour this sixth form expects from its students.”

Jasper and I glance at each other in confusion, and then my stomach goes rigid.

No. No no no.
No no no no NO.

“Harriet and Jasper will be working together for the rest of the day,” Mr Collins confirms cheerfully. “Have fun. Class dismissed.”

ere are some classic enemies in popular culture:

1. Captain Hook and Peter Pan

2. Shere Khan and Mowgli

3. Maleficent and Aurora

4. Ursula and Ariel

5. Scar and Mufasa

And yes, they’re also all Disney characters but I still think cartoons perfectly reflect the modern world and all its conundrums and aren’t just intended for young children at all.

Whatever Nat might say.

Or the British Board of Film Classification.

But as Jasper and I silently grab our roll of string and clipboards and start heading into the long, wet grass at the bottom of the field, I can’t stop wondering which one I am: the villain or the hero.

After all,
I’m
the one in trouble and
he’s
the one I’m supposed to be trying to emulate.

But I’d
know
if I was the bad guy, wouldn’t I?

“Would Your Highness like me to take my coat off and throw it across a puddle for you to tread on?” Jasper growls as I pick my way precariously through the muddy grass. “Or should I carry you on my shoulders while playing some kind of celebratory trumpet?”

This is so typical.

I’ve spent the majority of my life stomping across mud in supermarket trainers, looking for flowers to press/dandelions to wish on, and now I actually have to do it for grades:
now
is when I’m wearing soggy cotton and little leather slippers with no grip at all.

By comparison, Jasper is dry, warm and comfortable in waterproof boots, jeans and a light blue anorak.

I really, really despise this boy.

We reach a particularly thick section of grass next to a big oak tree and stop. The rain has finally slowed down, and everything is starting to sparkle slightly.

“First of all,” I snap, unrolling a piece of blue string and pinning it to the floor with a metal spike. “I am not Queen Elizabeth the First, despite similar colouring. Second of all, you
wish
you were the famous explorer Sir Walter Raleigh. And third of all, the cloak across the puddle story is fiction made up by clergyman Thomas Fuller so …”

So what?

“Stick that in your face and stuff it,” I finish lamely.

“That’s the worst comeback I’ve ever heard. And why would I want to be Raleigh, anyway? He had his head embalmed and given away in a bag.”

“Well, I don’t know about everyone else,” I retort, forcing another stake in the ground, “but my fingers are firmly crossed for a repeat performance.”

“Ouch. Historical burn.” Jasper glares at me as I start stalking off with the roll of string. “Where are you going, princess? That’s not a right angle. You know we need to section off a perfect square to get an accurate area.”

“This
is
a right angle.”

“It’s seventy five degrees, at best,” he says, taking the string off me. “Do you even understand what a right angle is?”

Oooooh.

“How
dare
you,” I snap, taking the string back off him. “I knew what a right angle was before you were
born
.”

“When were you born?”

“… August.”

“Right. So you must have been one of those genius unfertilised eggs everyone talks about.” Jasper pulls the string into the final fourth side of the square. “Why don’t you just sit on a log and contemplate how amazing you are while I start measuring the diversity of species in our area?”

Another little flash of fury pulses through me.

Made significantly worse by the fact that my feet are now so cold and wet that sitting down for a bit actually sounds quite appealing.

“I’ve found an insect,” Jasper adds sharply, crouching on the floor. “Wings.”

I look at the key we’ve been given. “One pair or two?”

“Two.”

“Membranous or hard and leathery?”

“Membranous.”

“Covered in a kind of white powder?”

“Think so. The wings are held over the body, not lying flat to the sides.”

“Then it’s a lacewing. A
Neuroptera
, actually.” Then – before I can stop myself – I blurt: “Did you know that lacewings can detect bats using hearing apparatus in their wings?”

“I did, yes,” Jasper says, unrolling the string to its final corner. “Because I, too, am a sixth form biology student. But thanks for the patronising information.”

Another little dagger of anger flashes through me.

“Why are you even
doing
biology?” I bend down and peer into the grass. “I thought you were an
art
student. Write down frog.”

“What kind of frog?”

“Smooth moist skin, green, stripes on back legs, hops.
Frog.
”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a
Rana temporaria
,” I snap. “I know a common frog when I see one.”

“Maybe you should try kissing it then, Your Highness. See if another prince pops up.”

My cheeks go bright red. I have no intention of kissing anything, frog or otherwise.

But I resent the implication that I might.

“And I like biology,” Jasper adds, kneeling into the grass. “Write down earthworm.”

“Maybe you should kiss
that
,” I say fiercely, scribbling it on my clipboard. “See if yet another slimy creature without a proper functioning heart pops up.”

Jasper makes a weird snorting sound, and I glance up. It sounded like a laugh, but his face is completely composed again.

“Work on that one,” he says sharply, standing up. “One day it could develop into an actual joke.”

Oooh.

We’re only a metre away from each other now, and I’m so angry I’m trembling slightly. For the first time, I’m close enough to see that there are six freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and his eyes aren’t two different colours at all. They’re both bright blue, but one has a large splodge of brown in it. As if somebody dropped a little splash of the wrong paint on wet paper.

It’s really pretty, actually, which makes me even angrier. Jasper doesn’t
deserve
interesting, genetically rare eyes. This horrible boy should have boring matching ones, just like everybody else.

We stare at each other for a few seconds.

A line of blue string is running round us in a perfect square, and we’re in the middle: tense and pulsing with anger.

Exactly like a boxing ring.

Any minute now a man in a tuxedo with a microphone is going to jump out from behind a tree.

3. 2. 1. FIGHT!

At that precise moment the whistle blows – calling us back for our first round of results – and Jasper turns abruptly, rolls the string back up and hands it to me.

“Torture’s over,” he says sharply, before pounding across the grass towards school. “I hope that lesson was as illuminating for you as it was for me.”

And I’ve had just about enough.

“Why do you hate me so much?” I say angrily, running after him. “Is there a particular reason, or is being nasty just a fun extracurricular hobby?”

Jasper keeps walking.

“I don’t hate you, Harriet. I just don’t like you very much.”

I know that should be a relief, but for some reason I don’t quite understand, it feels kind of worse.

“But
why
?” I say breathlessly, still running to catch up. “I know we didn’t get off to the best start but—”

“Everyone in the entire world doesn’t have to worship you, Harriet,” he sighs. “Gliding through life surrounded by fans, with your
I’m-so-cute-and-quirky
dinosaur biscuits and random facts. I just find you a bit full of it, that’s all. I’m only one person and very much in the minority. Why does it matter?”

I stop running and flap my mouth a few times.

Full of
what,
exactly?

And I can’t believe I’ve spent my entire life being ostracised and now I finally have lots of friends it’s being used against me. Plus – I’m not trying to be cute. I just really, really like dinosaurs.

This is
so unfair.

“Well I may not be
your
cup of tea,” I say, trying to run past him, “but I’ve
always
been Toby’s. So why have you told one of my best friends not to play with me any more?”

Then I flush.

Great: I just made myself sound about six years old. As if somebody took my favourite teddy bear off me and I’m getting a bit hysterical about it.

Probably because that’s exactly how it feels.

“If somebody doesn’t want to be part of your fan club,” Jasper says tiredly, “it has absolutely nothing to do with
me
.”

He pointedly lifts an eyebrow.

And that does it.

The little angry firework stops twisting in my stomach, and – with an abrupt
whoosh –
bursts up through my chest, into my head and out of my ears in a shower of sparks.

“I
hate
you,” I hiss, spinning round and whipping the blue string through the air at him. “You mean, horrible, unkind
—
”

But I don’t get a chance to find the right noun.

Jupiter has the fastest spinning rate of any planet in our solar system at 28,273 miles an hour. Not for the first time this term, I may have ended up there.

Because as I watch the string sail through the air – two metres to Jasper’s left – I just keep right on rotating.

Round and round and round.

And as my hand clutches at nothing and my silly slippers try to find some traction, I give a little squeak and slip forward, still spinning slightly.

Straight into the mud.