The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (9 page)

She pulled at her new pair of tights. The pink stripes had gone, replaced by a daring pair her mother had picked out. There was a thicker denier at the bottom with fake seams up the backs, to give the illusion of suspenders. If they hadn't cost twenty-five quid, they would've looked a bit tarty.

“Are you sure I'll get away with wearing these to school?” she'd asked.

“Of course,” her mum said, tossing a duplicate pair into her hands, in case of ladders. “If they didn't kick up a fuss about those horrendous pink things, they must allow these.”

“Hey!”

Her mum smiled with her mouth closed. “Sorry.”

As Bree left the safety of her home, she decided she was most concerned about the reaction of two people – Holdo and Mr Fellows. And she would have to face them both before 9.30 a.m. She was walking in with Holdo and then had English first thing.

She tottered on her new heels as she walked to the usual meeting place.

Holdo was at the corner already, off in music land, and so didn't notice her at first. His giant headphones blocked out as much reality as technology could muster. His eyes were closed, so Bree crept up on him theatrically and grabbed them off.

“What the hell?” The moment he clocked Bree his jaw fell open.

“Hi there,” she said, trying not to laugh at the look on his face.

“Bree?”

“Yep.”

“Seriously? Is that you?”

Holdo liked to think of himself as a feminist. He was always agreeing with Bree's heated opinions about women's rights and shared her disgust at the rugby boys' banter that terrorized the school hallways. They'd spent many an evening together staying up late discussing rape culture, glass ceilings, how strip clubs should be made illegal. But it had to be hard to be a feminist and, well, a guy too. With urges and such. Because, moral as Holdo was, Bree had once found his porn stash. In a secret folder within a folder on his laptop, labelled
Research
. And Holdo's porn tastes were, erm…well, the women weren't spending a lot of their time making intelligent comments about the Israeli/Palestine conflict, put it that way.

Evidently, Holdo was dealing with the same moral compromise as he looked at Bree now.

The full-body checkout wasn't something Bree had ever experienced herself. She'd seen plenty of boys doing it to plenty of girls in her time. A quick up-and-down flicker of the eyes, resting a moment too long on the cleavage.

And here it was, happening to her, by Holdo of all people. You could see him fighting to look at her face, but his eyes betrayed him, dipping to her bulging top.

That was the thing about a diet of Pop-Tarts. Apparently, with the right bra, they gave you a bit of a rack.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?”

Bree shrugged and pulled her blazer shut. This new sensation of physical attractiveness was somewhat thrilling, but also somewhat uncomfortable.

“Just had a bit of a play with my appearance over the weekend. You like it?”

More inner conflict crossed Holdo's face. He was fighting between
I can't believe you've bowed down to the conformity of attractiveness in society, you are better than that
and
Hell, you look good. Please let me mount you.

“It's…er…different…that's all.”

Bree had secretly been hoping for a compliment. “Different?”

“Seriously, why, Bree?” The penis side of Holdo's brain had lost out this time. “You look…erm…good, but you also look like you're trying to be Jassmine Dallington or something. What's going on with you?”

“Nothing. I just fancied a change.”

“Is this something to do with the rejection letter on Friday?”

Bree bristled. “No. Why do you keep bringing that up?”

“It is, isn't it? What? You've given up on being a writer so you think you'll just become pretty and vacant like everyone else now?”

She was losing her temper. If only he knew what she was planning to sacrifice to become a writer. If only he knew about the scary rules she'd scrawled in her notebook, ready to live out, for the very purpose of being a great writer.

“Come on, Holdo. It's just a bit of make-up. It's not like applying mascara makes your brain fall out. Plus…” She tapped her finger on his new crop of spots that had popped up around his mouth over the weekend. “Maybe you could use a bit of make-up yourself.”

It was nasty. No excuse really – it was just sheer nastiness. And as Holdo's face fell, Bree felt the heavy drop of guilt blob into her stomach. He tried to cover the worst of the acne with his hand.

“Fine. You've made your point.” He wouldn't look at her.

They had always bantered. She'd teased him about his skin before and it'd always been okay. He would just say, “Think this spot is bad, look at that big oozer on your chin.” Or, “Well, I may be uglier but I'm much smarter than you.”

Back and forth. Back and forth. Swear words and teasing and name-callings and piss-takings. One after the other after the other. And it had been fine.

Why was it different this morning? Why did she suddenly feel like a massive bitch?

And Bree realized it was because a bit of make-up, some highlights, and nice-fitting clothes had changed the power dynamic. Attractiveness puts you automatically on a higher social plain. You're immediately winning some sort of invisible game. And though Holdo was, perhaps, just as smart as her, their relationship was now unequal just because she looked better. And piss-taking about his, now inferior, looks wasn't friendly banter any more. It was downright cruel.

They walked in silence – the journey slower than usual because of Bree's new shoes. She struggled to think of something to break the awkwardness.

“You got computer science this morning?”

Holdo just nodded.

“How's the game coming along?”

“Alright.”

“Watch any new films over the weekend?”

“Nothing new.”

Bree sort of felt like crying. But she couldn't. Today, and how she played it, was too important. She couldn't take him along on this journey, but she hoped, oh how she hoped, he'd understand at the end. Whenever that was.

You always need to make sacrifices for your art.

They reached the school gates and Bree stared up at them like they were the doorway to another world. They were really, weren't they?

“See you at lunch?” Holdo's voice sounded hopeful. She'd been forgiven, far too soon as usual. And she was about to hurt him again. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling emotion and loss gurgle up her windpipe.

“Er…I can't. I've got stuff to do.”

“Okay.”

He didn't even ask what stuff and that broke her heart even more. He just swung his bag heavily over his shoulder and walked sadly away from her into the sea of students queuing at security with their cards.

Bree stared after him sadly, wondering what the hell she'd let herself in for. And how she was ever going to do this on her own.

The corridors were the worst part of Queen's Hall. It was best to run through them, head down, trying to avoid predators, until you reached the safe(ish) sanctuary of the classroom where a teacher could tell people off.

Anything of any note – good or bad – was played out in the theatrical staging of that narrow strip of carpet, overlooked by the gold-framed antique portraits of headmasters and mistresses past. It was where fights broke out and losers were deliberately tripped over; it was Jassmine's catwalk for showing off her latest “look”. Hearts were broken there every Valentine's Day as hundreds of girls eagerly opened their lockers, only to discover that, no, Hugo hadn't written them a card declaring his undying affection. Drama, drama, drama.

Today, of course, the hallways were even scarier. Today it was Bree's turn to walk the catwalk. Would she be ridiculed? Ignored? Openly embraced into Jassmine's clique just because she had perfectly-applied eyeliner?

She swung her new designer bag over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and began to walk…

An immediate difference.

People looked. Heads turned. Whispers followed her.

“Who's that?”

“Does she go to this school?”

“I think I've seen her before.”

And most surprisingly: “Who's the fitty?” FROM A MALE VOICE.

Bree began to swing her hips with each step. She held her head high, flicking back her beautiful hair with a confident jolt of her head. A mate of Hugo's walked past, and she watched, almost in slow motion, as he did a double-take. Bree caught his eye, pushed down a bubble of insecurity, and gave him a sexy wink.

He walked into a locker.

It can't be this easy. Surely, it's not going to be this easy.

It felt a bit like Moses parting the Red Sea, walking towards English. Of course Moses wasn't just about to see the teacher he loved with his new look. Moses had it easy.

She sashayed her way into the classroom and set her new bag on her desk. Mr Fellows hadn't arrived yet, so she swept back her hair and practised her most
Oh? What? This old
thing?
face while the class whispered around her.

Chuck's voice was louder than the rest. “Is that the twat who's usually licking Philip Larkin's arse?”

“Shh. She'll hear you.”

Bree smiled.

“So? She's a loser. Just because she's wearing eyeliner now…”

“Shut up, Chuck.”

Did it…? Did that just happen? Did someone just stand up for Bree? Her smile stretched. She got out her poetry anthology and hid behind it, waiting for Mr Fellows…

He strode in just as the bell was going. He whizzed past Bree's desk and she caught a whiff of his smokey coffee smell.

“Okay, okay, okay. Yes I'm late. Massive double standards on my part, I know. But that's the thing about being a teacher, we can double-standard you to high heaven. But you'll forgive me when you see what I've got in store for you today, people…” He dropped his briefcase onto his desk and whacked out his anthology. “This poem is going to make you ADORE Philip Larkin. By the end of the next hour, you're going to be BEGGING me to study him further. And brace yourself, oh those of a sensitive nature…there are swear words. Actual real-life profanities. I know! ‘In Queen's Hall?' I hear you cry. Yes! Just don't tell the headmistress on me.”

He was pacing back and forth, lost in his book. Bree loved it when he got all fired up about literature. He became almost manic. Like the words stoked some sort of dying ember in him and reignited it into a fire, burning, making life worth living again.

“So, if you'll all just turn to page 74… This is it. Are you ready?”

He cleared his throat.

“
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do…
”

And he broke off. Because he had finally seen Bree.

Silence.

Silence as he stared at her.

Bree raised her eyes above her book and met his. She lifted her chin defiantly and flicked back her blonde fringe.

“Sir?”

He barely registered the interruption. All he could do was stare. Bree ran her tongue over her top teeth, like Sandy does at the end of
Grease
before she does that “Tell me about it…stud” bit everyone in the world loves so much.

“Er, sir?”

Mr Fellows shook his head like he was being disturbed by an unwanted hotel wake-up call. “Yes?”

“The poem?”

“Oh yes…right…of course.”

Stumbling over stanzas, Mr Fellows read the rest of the poem quickly before he snapped his book shut.

“So…class…what do you think?”

A silence descended on the room like a mist. This was the part where Bree was supposed to punch her hand in the air and start babbling. But the air above her remained empty.

“Anyone?”

Chuck raised his hand. “I quite liked it, sir.”

Mr Fellows jumped on his answer like it was the chemical equation for the elixir of life. Anything to distract him from her, Bree thought.

“Brilliant. Why did you love it?”

“Because it had the word ‘fuck' in it?”

Another hand shot up.

“Alison?”

“I like the bit about how your parents ruin your lives.”

“Yeah, that's cool,” someone else said.

“I'm gonna print it off and put it on my bedroom door for my mum to read.”

“Ha ha. Yeah, me too.”

“It's the best one by far, sir. It's like he finally gets us.”

Bree fought every urge to raise her hand. Idiots! They had got it so, so wrong. It wasn't about hating your parents – it wasn't about them screwing you up, not really.

Don't put your hand up. Don't put your hand up.

She had to make do with an insolent eye roll instead, but it wasn't as satisfying as monologuing all the reasons why her class were fools.

Mr Fellows took in this sudden surge of interest with a smug grin. “So am I right in saying you LIKE Philip Larkin now?”

Chuck shrugged. “He's alright.”

People nodded.

Mr Fellows blew out his breath with deliberate exaggeration. “I don't know whether to be delighted or ashamed of you all.”

“Ashamed?”

“So all this month you've hated him? His beautiful descriptions of how countryside morphs into industrialization? It was boring. Miserable. You wanted to change the syllabus. But now…he's said the word ‘fuck' and told you he hates his parents, and now you all love the guy?”

The class giggled.

“This is the saddest thing ever.”

“I thought you wanted us to like him?”

“Yes. But for the right reasons. But, hey, I know it's a crowd-pleaser. I just wished you loved ‘Whitsun Weddings' as much.”

Chuck raised his hand again. He was getting much more of an opportunity to vocalize his thoughts now Bree had given up on intellect.