The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (3 page)

Her form tutor, Mr Phillips, strolled into the room and everyone settled down immediately. That was the thing about private school – people behaved.

“Alright, everybody?” he asked, putting his briefcase on the desk and opening it.

Nobody replied.

“I said, ALRIGHT, EVERYBODY?”

Calm down
, Bree thought.
You're not a rock star.

“Morning,” the class chorused.

“Right, UCAS form, UCAS form, UCAS form. I know you're thinking, ‘What? But we're only in Year Twelve!' but your parents spend a lot of money ensuring I get you into the university of your choice. And that means applying in good time with a personal statement that's been honed to perfection over a year. Now, does everyone know what subject they're doing and what five universities they want to put down? Oxford and Cambridge applicants, do you know which college you want to try for?”

Bree doodled in her notebook. She'd had her escape to Cambridge planned since puberty and a word-perfect personal statement and completed practice UCAS form had been sitting on her laptop for months, just waiting for the day she could hit
Send
. So she didn't really need to be listening to Mr Phillips right now. Which was just as well because she was writing another list.

Reasons why it is entirely unreasonable to fancy Hugo d'Felance

1. I have never heard him refer to the female species without using the words: gash, clunge, flange, pussy, bucket, windsock and the C-word that can definitely not be mentioned. Ever.
   
2. He is openly racist, homophobic, misogynistic and a massive bigot.
   
3. I have heard, from anecdotal evidence only, but lots of it, that he's had at least one STI.
   
4. He once referred to Shakespeare as “that boring dude”.
   
5. If Jassmine ever found out she would gut me with her nail file, burn my intestines and eat my eyeballs with a spoon…
   
6. I have self-respect. I have self-respect. I have self-respect.
   

Bree's continuous list-writing had become her coping device. She had a special notebook and everything. The lists weren't useful – just her views on the world at that moment. Sometimes she fantasized about them being displayed in a museum hundreds of years in the future, secured in glass, in a sell-out exhibition about her “early life”. A plaque next to her notebook would read:
Bree's unique insights on her sad teenage years were diarized here, in list form. You can already see her strong narrative voice beginning to emerge, soon to become the voi
ce
of her generation that would be treasured until far beyond her death.

Mr Phillips was still droning on.

“Now, university interviews. We'll be holding training sessions on interview technique closer to summer so you can practise over the holidays. The sign-up sheets will be posted after Christmas. Don't all rush to sign up at once, there are enough slots for everyone. But, in the meantime, I want you to be thinking about your extra-curricular activities. Remember – boring people don't get into Oxbridge! You need to DO stuff. Get doing!”

Bree heard Hugo and his mates laughing and looked over. Hugo had drawn a massive hairy penis on Seth's practice UCAS form and was showing it off.

“Hey!” Seth tried to grab it back. “I need that.”

Hugo put it behind his back. “Why do you want a picture of a knob so much, Seth?”

“Ha ha. Gay boy, gay boy,” the others sniggered.

“Shut up. You know what I mean. It's my practice form. I need it.”

At this point, the teacher noticed the kerfuffle. “Problem, gentlemen?”

Hugo shook his head, the paper still behind his back. “None at all, sir.”

“Good.” And Mr Phillips went back to harping on about university entry.

Hugo drank in the attention he'd provoked – mainly from two girls Bree knew only from form-time. They giggled at Hugo and flicked their hair. He winked and they giggled harder.

Bree added one last
I have self-respect
to her list.

After the bell rang, Bree navigated the corridors – doing her best impression of the invisible girl – towards English. Seeing Mr Fellows always put her on edge so she leaned against some lockers and took a couple of deep breaths before entering the classroom.

He didn't acknowledge her arrival. She took a seat right at the front. More pupils trickled in and sat down, begrudgingly taking their copies of Philip Larkin's poetry anthology out of their designer bags. Bree stared at Mr Fellows. He was marking, presumably, scribbling away on a sheet of headed A4. His conker-brown hair flopped over his eyes. She sucked her stomach in and uncrossed and recrossed her stripy legs.

Finally, Mr Fellows registered his class's existence and straightened up.

“Excellent, wonderful,” he said, to no one in particular. He stood with his back against the interactive whiteboard. “Right. Where were we?”

Bree put her hand up but didn't wait for him to call her. “We'd just read the poem ‘As Bad as a Mile'.”

She heard a groan. Bree wasn't sure if it was due to the poem or her overeagerness in class.

Mr Fellows picked up his battered copy of poems and skimmed through the pages. “Right you are, Bree.”

She shifted back in her chair, bathing in the praise, no matter how small and inconsequential it was.

He found the right page and read it aloud. Beautifully…

“Watching the shied core

Striking the basket, skidding across the floor,

Shows less and less of luck, and more and more

Of failure spreading back up the arm

Earlier and earlier, the unraised hand calm,

The apple unbitten in the palm.

“Right. So in this poem, Larkin tries to throw an apple core in the bin but misses. What did you guys all think about it?”

Some kid called Chuck raised his hand.

“Yes?”

Chuck had jet-black hair, definitely dyed. “I think that Philip Larkin shouldn't try and throw an apple in a bin considering he's such a bloody depressive who can't even breathe without whingeing about it.”

The small class twittered with laughter.

Even Mr Fellows smiled. “Is that right?”

Chuck, cocky now, nodded animatedly. “Yeah. I mean, sir, why have you given us something so depressing to read? No other English classes have to read this joker, moaning on and on about his sad life.”

This sort of backchat was completely unacceptable in any class other than Mr Fellows's. But Mr Fellows wasn't like the other teachers. He was like an air bubble in a nailed-shut coffin, an interval during a boring play, a palate-cleansing amuse-bouche during a heavy meal, a…er…Bree couldn't think of any other metaphors. Basically he had character. He was actually interested in the students as humans, rather than as high-grade-getters to use as ego-massagers, confirming what a great teacher you were. No one knew quite how he had got or kept the job. Especially as he regularly picked books not on the recommended list, used swear words in class and, rumour had it, once shared a spliff with students on results day.

“Does anyone else feel this way about Philip Larkin?”

Bree's hand shot in the air. “I don't. I love it.”

“Surprise surprise,” someone whispered and more laughter echoed behind her.

Bree didn't care. Not much.

“Nice to hear at least one of you is enjoying it.” Mr Fellows didn't even look at her and she felt worse. “How about the rest of you?”

“It's boring.”

“It's so miserable.”

“Why didn't he just top himself?”

“Yeah. Why did he have to write so much? Now we have to be miserable too.”

Mr Fellows shook his head. “Guys. This is so hard to hear! Philip Larkin is one of England's most treasured poets. Don't tell me you don't like him just because he's miserable.”

Bree's hand shot up again.

“Yes, Bree.”

“He was sexist as well. Lots of people don't like that he was sexist.”

“Good point.”

Bree glowed.

“But it sounds like you're all caught up in the depression of it all. Why do you think that is?”

Cocky Chuck put his hand up.

“Yes, Chuck?”

“Because no one wants to read about some miserable loner whingeing on about how crap his life is. I don't care how good his onomatopoeias are. Can't we do someone else, sir?”

“Not at all. Now, come on, let's dissect this poem and I'll get you all to change your minds.”

When the bell went for lunch, Bree dawdled next to Mr Fellows's desk. He was scribbling again, his hair flopping again. She waited for him to notice her.

“Yes, Bree?” He looked up eventually and she paced from foot to foot.

“I got another rejection letter.”

Mr Fellows pushed his chair back and gave her a sorrowful look. “I'm sorry. I know how hard you worked on that second novel.”

“I just don't understand why, sir. Like you said, I tried really hard. I put everything into it. And it's still crap.”

“It's not crap, it's just…”

She pounced on the pause. “What? What is it?”

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair – agitated. “Look, Bree, you know you're a hard worker…”

“I don't want to be a hard worker, I want to be a good writer. A published author!”

“I know, I know, I know. It's just…well…what you write… Have you thought about how commercial it is?”

Commercial?
She shuddered at the word. “You want me to sell out? To write some sappy easy-read?”

“That's not what I'm saying… It has to be commercial enough to be published, remember?”

“I know I can write. I got full marks in my English Language GCSE. The examining board even asked if they could use it as an example piece!”

“I know. I taught you, remember?”

“Well, what's wrong with my writing if it got full marks?”

Mr Fellows rolled back and forth in his wheelie chair some more. He wouldn't look at Bree. Not properly. He hadn't ever since…The Thing happened. But she needed his support. Who else could she ask for advice?

“Your creative writing piece for GCSE was good, Bree – but good for a GCSE creative writing piece. Books are different. They have to sell. And, no offence, but nobody wants to read an 110,000-word novel about a girl throwing herself off the end of a pier…”

She crossed her arms defensively. “Why not?”

Mr Fellows opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out some sheets of paper. He furrowed his eyebrows and began reading aloud.

“
Rose watched the deep frothing water foam under the cracked weathered wooden planks of the pier. She wondered how long it would take for her body to decompose at sea if she were to throw herself in. Would her body bloat? Would she get eaten by sharks? Or would she just decompose, parts of her body going soft and breaking off, like soggy Weetabix left at the bottom of a white ceramic bowl…
”

Bree stuck her lip out. Okay, so it sounded a bit silly when he read it aloud, but only because he was using THAT voice.

“What's wrong with that?”

He smiled. “Nothing at all, Bree. That's why you got such good marks. It's like a big vomit of metaphors – markers love that. Plus, they were probably so scared that the student who wrote it was suicidal, they gave you full marks in case you were thinking of throwing yourself off a pier for real.”

Despite herself, she smiled.

“But to read a whole book dedicated to such misery? Well, it's a little hard-going, don't you think?”

“But that's what life is really like.”

“What? All young teenage girls want to throw themselves off piers?”

Bree thought about it for a moment. “Yes!”

Mr Fellows looked at her properly for the first time in ages. His eyes were all wide and watery with sympathy. She felt a bit ashamed and wished he wasn't looking at her after all.

“Look, Bree, you're a very talented writer. You know I already think that. I'm not saying all this to be harsh. I know you're not happy, Bree…” She opened her mouth to object but he ignored her. “…You know you're not. You pretend you don't care but I know you do. Do you not think maybe your writing isn't going anywhere because you're unhappy? Because you're not living the life you could? A life worth writing about? You must know that cliché – write what you know – but what do you know, Bree, when you shut the world out?”

Her eyes started twitching. Couldn't he have just stopped at the “you're a very talented writer” bit? That was all she needed – reassurance. Not to have her life dismantled.

“What about Philip Larkin? He's mega-famous and he was miserable.”

“Yeah and look how popular he is with your classmates. They all hate it. It's
too
miserable. You want to write something people
want
to read, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, have you not thought about the possibility that not all your classmates are wretchedly sad? And, even if some are, they may want to escape it for a bit by reading something a bit more…upbeat?”

“No.” She scuffed her shoes on the carpet, feeling the heat of friction glow through the soles. She focused on that feeling over the eye-prickling.

“I think you need to make yourself, and your life, more open. Do more interesting things, Bree. Then your writing will follow suit. Be someone you would want to read about.”

Her next words came out as barely a whisper.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I said, would you want to read about me?”

He rocked in his chair again and cleared his throat.

“I don't really think that's relevant. I'm just trying to help you. I'm your teacher.”