Geek Girl (10 page)

he first thing any good metamorphosis needs is a plan. A nice, well thought out, structured, considered and firm
plan
.

And if that plan happens to be in a bullet-pointed list, typed out and then printed from the computer in Dad’s ‘office’ (the spare room) then so much the better.

It goes like this:

Plan for Today

• Wake up at 7am, and press the snooze button precisely three times.
  
• Don’t think about Nat.
  
• Find an outfit from my wardrobe suitable for a visit to a modelling agency.
  
• Go downstairs wearing said outfit. My calm and supportive parents say things like ooh and aah and tell me they didn’t realise I had so much inherent style.
  
• Blush prettily and agree because I probably do have inherent style.
  
• Don’t think about Nat.
  
• Leave the house at 8.34am on the dot, to catch the 9.02am train to London.
  
• Arrive just in time to eat a pain au chocolat and drink a cappuccino in the local café because this is what models do every morning.
  
• Get transformed into something amazing.
  

Admittedly, the last point on the list is a bit vague – because I’m not quite sure what they’re going to do, or how they’re going to do it – but it’s fine. As long as I have control over the rest of my plan, everything should go exactly as it’s supposed to.

Unfortunately, nobody else appears to have read it.

“
Richard Manners,”
Annabel is shouting as I come down the stairs. It’s already not going well: I pressed snooze fifteen times, and finally got out of bed to the calming, dulcet sounds of my parents trying to scratch each other’s eyes out. “I cannot
believe
you ate the last of the strawberry jam!”

“I didn’t!” Dad is shouting back. “Look! There’s some here!”

“What use is that much strawberry jam to anyone? Do I look like a fairy to you? With little tiny fairy pieces of toast? I’m five foot ten!”

“How do I answer that without accidentally calling you fat?”

“Be
very careful
what you say next, Richard Manners. Your life depends on the next sentence.”

“Well… I…
Harriet
?” and Dad turns to me. I’m not sure how the argument’s turned to me when I’m barely in the room, but apparently it has. “What the hell are you wearing?”

I look down indignantly. “It’s a black all-in-one,” I say with my nose as high as I can get it. “I don’t expect you to understand because you’re old. It’s called fashion.
Fash-ion
.”

Now it’s Annabel’s turn to look confused. “Is that last year’s Halloween outfit, Harriet?” she says, scraping some of the jam off Dad’s toast and putting it on her own. “Are you dressed as a spider?”

I cough. “No.”

“Then why do you have a leg hanging off your shoulder?”

“It’s a special kind of bow.”

“And why are there seven remaining circles of Velcro down your back?”

“Style statement.”

“And the cobweb stuck to your bottom?”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Fine,” I snap. It’s not that I’m unnecessarily emotional or worked up, but
why won’t anyone just stick to the plan
? “It’s my Halloween Spider outfit, OK? Happy now?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best choice for today,” Dad says dubiously as he starts stealing his jam back, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “I mean, there are other trendier insects. Bees, I hear, are very big this season.”

“Well, tough,” I bark again. “
Because it’s all I have, OK?
”

“What about a wasp?” Dad offers, voice breaking.

“Everything else I own has a cartoon on the front
.”

“Or a grasshopper?” Annabel suggests, winking at Dad. “I like grasshoppers.”

At which point I lose it completely. They’re not being calm or supportive at all. “
Why are you such terrible parents?
” I yell.

“
I don’t know,
” Dad yells back. “
Why are you such a naughty little spider?”
And then Annabel bursts out laughing.

“Aaaargh!” I scream in frustration. “I hate you I hate you I hate youihateyouihateyouihateyou.”

Then I run out of the room with as much dignity as I can muster.

Which – as my spare leg gets caught in the door frame until Annabel unhooks me in peals of laughter – isn’t much.

y door doesn’t slam nearly as loudly as it used to. I think my parents must have sanded it down. Which is very underhanded of them, and also suppresses my legal freedom to express myself creatively. I shut it three times to make up for it.

Once I’m lying flat on my bed, though, I start to feel ever so slightly ashamed of myself. The thing is I broke the plans myself before I’d even got down the stairs. I’ve been thinking about Nat all morning. It was the first thing I thought about when I woke up, and that’s what I was doing for fifteen snoozes. Picturing Nat’s face when I tell her where I’ve been today. Imagining Nat’s expression when she realises I’ve stolen her dream, for all the wrong reasons. Not because I love fashion, but because it’s my short cut out of
this
.

And I can’t get it out of my head.

So, yes, I’m pretty irritated with my parents for going on about insects, and I’m also a bit frustrated that the inherent style I was hoping I might have is either not there or is so inherent that it’s never going to come out. Like the last bit of toothpaste.

But mostly I’m just angry at myself.

“Harriet?” Annabel says as I’m huffing and puffing and helping myself to one of the chocolate bars I keep stashed in my bedside table. “Can I come in?”

She never normally asks, so this must mean she’s feeling quite sheepish.

“Whatever,” I say in a sulky voice.

“Now you know ‘whatever’ isn’t a grammatically correct response to the question, Harriet.” Annabel puts her head round the door. “Try again.”

“If you must,” I correct.

“Thank you. I will.” Annabel comes into the room and sits down on the bed next to me. Her arms are full of plastic bags and despite myself I’m curious. Annabel likes shopping about as much as I do. “Sorry we wound you up,” she says, brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes. “We didn’t realise you’d be so nervous about today.”

I make a noise that is intentionally ambiguous.

“Is something wrong?” she sighs. “You’re all over the place at the moment. You’re normally so sensible.”

Maybe that’s the problem.
“I’m fine.”

“And there’s nothing you want to talk about?”

For a few seconds all I can see in my head are thirty hands in the air. “…No.”

“Then…” and Annabel clears her throat, “I’ve bought you a present. I thought it might cheer you up.”

I look at Annabel in surprise. She rarely buys me presents, and when she does, they absolutely
never
cheer me up.

Annabel unfolds a large bag and hands it to me. “Actually, I bought this for you a while ago. I was waiting for the right moment and I think this might be it. You can wear it today.” And she unzips the bag.

I stare at the contents in shock. It’s a jacket. It’s grey and it’s tailored. It has a matching white shirt and a pencil skirt. It has very faint white pinstripe running through the material and a crease down each of the arms. It is, without any question of a doubt, a suit. Annabel’s gone and bought me a mini lawyer’s outfit. She wants me to turn up looking exactly like her, but twenty years younger.

“I guess you’re an adult now,” she says in a strange voice. “And this is what adults wear. What do you think?”

I think the modelling agency are going to assume we’re trying to sue them.

But as I open my mouth to tell Annabel I’d rather go as a spider
with all eight legs attached
, I look at her face. It’s so bright, and so eager, and so happy – this is so clearly some kind of Coming of Age moment for her – I can’t do it.

“I love it,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.

“You do? And you’ll wear it today?”

I swallow hard. I don’t know much about fashion, but I didn’t see many fifteen-year-olds last week in pinstripe suits.

“Yes,” I manage as enthusiastically as I can.

“Excellent,” Annabel beams at me, shoving some more bags in my direction. “Because I bought you a Filofax and briefcase to match.”

he entire plan was a total waste of time. And Dad’s paper and printer ink.

By the time I’m dressed up like some kind of legal assistant and my parents have stopped fighting about Dad’s T-shirt (“It hasn’t even been washed, Richard,”; “I won’t bow down to the rules of fashion, Annabel,”; “But you’ll bow down to the rules of basic hygiene, right?”), we’ve missed our train and we’ve also missed the train after that.

When we eventually get to London, there isn’t time for a
pain au chocolat
or a cappuccino, and apparently, even if there was, I wouldn’t be allowed to have one.

“You’re not having coffee, Harriet,” Annabel says as I start whining outside the window.

“But
Annabel
…”

“
No
. You are fifteen and permanently anxious enough as it is.”

To make matters worse, when we finally locate the right street in Kensington, we can’t find the building: mainly because we’re not looking for a blob of cement tucked behind a local supermarket.

“It doesn’t look very…” Dad says doubtfully as we stand and stare at it suspiciously.

“I know,” Annabel agrees. “Do you think it’s…”

“No, it’s not dodgy. I saw it in the
Guardian
.”

“Maybe it’s nicer on the inside?” Annabel suggests.

“Ironic, for a modelling agency,” Dad says, then they both laugh and Annabel leans over and gives Dad a kiss, which means they’ve forgiven each other. Honestly, they’re like a pair of married goldfish: squabbling and then forgetting about it three minutes later.

“Well,” Annabel says slowly and she squeezes Dad’s hand a few times when she thinks I won’t notice. She takes a deep breath and looks at me. “I guess this is it then. Are you ready, Harriet?”

“Are you
kidding
me?” Dad says, ruffling my hair. “Fame, fortune, glory? She’s a Manners: she was born ready.” And – before I can even respond to such a shockingly incorrect statement – he adds, “Last one in is a total loser,” and runs to the door, dragging Annabel behind him.

Leaving me – shaking like the proverbial leaf in a very enthusiastic proverbial breeze – to sit down on the kerb, put my head between my knees and have a very non-proverbial panic attack.