Only We Know Read online

  ‘Yes. And much as I love talking to lavatory doors, you really need to get changed.’

  Panic attack over. My breathing returns to normal and I reach into my messenger bag for those dreaded shorts. ‘All right, give me two minutes.’

  By the time we get to the netball courts, the girl on her period is handing out bibs. She nods at me like a sister in arms. ‘All sorted then?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘You’re tall,’ she says. ‘You’d better go Goal Attack.’ She scowls at Katherine. ‘Wing Defence, and try not to get in the way.’

  Katherine’s still working on her comedy routine as we take our positions. ‘What a moronic game. Seven – or is it eight? – girls trying to avoid an inflated piece of plastic. And it’s highly sexual you know, Lauren? Balls in holes and all that.’

  Katherine doesn’t look like an expert on sex. I’d take a bet that her pasty features are as un-kissed by humankind as they are by the sun. And she’s certainly no expert when it comes to netball.

  The girl on her period charges about like an advert for sanitary towels. Katherine ambles down the wing, like a tortoise on tranquilisers. The rest of us take a leisurely stroll in the late-summer sun, occasionally shouting ‘footwork’ or ‘that’s an obstruction’ to make it look like we care. And when the boys start arriving back from the sports hall, I thank God that it’s nearly over.

  Talk about bad timing. By some fluke of nature, just as I’m wandering back into the goal circle, the ball magically materialises in my hands.

  ‘Come on,’ says the girl on her period. ‘Shoot.’

  Conor Corcoran presses his face up to the fence. ‘Yo, Dizzy, let’s see what you’ve got.’

  There’s something else you should know about me. I’m actually really good at this game. That’s why it’s so tempting to plop it straight into the net. But I’ll never make that mistake again. That’s why I trip and giggle, and let the ball bounce out of play.

  Conor Corcoran laughs his spiky-haired dickhead off. ‘Talk about throwing like a girl. My nan could do better than that – and she’s dead.’

  ‘Shut up, you sexist idiot,’ says Katherine. ‘Why don’t you go back to the Stone Age where you belong?’

  There was a time when it would have made me angry too. Conor Corcoran doesn’t know how lucky he is.

  7

  GRAND TOUR

  At second break I manage to give Katherine the slip for five minutes, so I can eat my sandwiches in peace. I’m good at finding hiding places, and the stairwell in the art block is perfect. But she sniffs me out in the end, and the next thing I know I’m taking the ‘grand tour’ with the least enthusiastic tour guide on earth.

  ‘Why, this is hell. Nor am I out of it,’ says Katherine. ‘But if you really want to know how I feel about the place, you should read my blog.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Dido’s Lament: 1,000 Things I Hate about School.’

  ‘Right, yeah, sounds interesting.’

  She takes me to all the ‘must know’ locations. The learning resources centre (‘What kind of a brainless bureaucrat wastes all that money on a ridiculous fingerprint system when they don’t even have the complete works of Jane Austen?’), the music block (‘Hoolyhan means well, but the wind band is worse than water torture’), and the ICT suite (‘Welcome back to the twentieth century’).

  We end up at the Millennium Pagoda in the playground (or courtyard as they call it here) – a sort of Chinese bandstand with picnic benches in the middle for the ‘lonely and talented’. Katherine introduces me to some of her fellow ‘endangered species’: two chess players and an astronomer, a cellist on a bad hair day and a boy who claims to read fiction for pleasure, ‘but never speaks’.

  ‘One day this lot will inherit the earth,’ says Katherine, ‘but for now, it’s the best place to keep away from the others.’

  ‘Where are they anyway?’ I say. ‘The rest of them. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone from our tutor group.’

  ‘The “ordinaries” you mean?’ says Katherine. ‘Whenever the sun comes out they have this cow-like weakness for loafing about on the field.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘Can we go and have a look?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Lauren. No point trying to run before you can walk – I’m talking metaphorically of course.’

  ‘Okay fine, tomorrow perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Katherine, exchanging a meaningful glance with the knotty-haired cellist. ‘Why not wait until you know what you’re up against?’

  And the mute fiction-lover nods his wholehearted agreement.

  But the rest of the day goes far better than I expected. Although I keep my head down, like Dad told me, that doesn’t stop a steady stream of kids from my tutor group coming up to introduce themselves, and when I answer a question in history (‘What were the principal conditions of the New Deal?’), the only reaction is a ‘Very good, Lauren, but don’t forget the Soil Conservation Act.’

  In fact, by the time the final bell goes, I’m starting to think that St Thomas’s Community College isn’t nearly as bad as it’s cracked up to be.

  8

  FRIEND REQUESTS

  It’s nine o’ clock by the time Dad gets home from work, so I have to go through the whole interrogation again.

  ‘And what about the teachers – no problems there, I hope?’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  It’s supposed to be one of her fasting days, but Mum’s already on her second glass of Rioja. ‘It couldn’t have gone better, Mike. She even answered a question in history.’

  ‘Good,’ says Dad, joining us on the sofa with a middle-aged groan. ‘Let’s hope it carries on that way.’

  Tilda is slobbed out in the armchair, one eye on her mobile, the other on Strike It Lucky. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I got on?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ says Dad. ‘How did it go, Tilda?’

  ‘Terrible,’ she says. ‘I told you I’d hate the place.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ says Dad, pouring himself the remains of the bottle and turning back to me. ‘So no one gave you a hard time, Lauren?’

  ‘No, why should they?’

  ‘And you’re quite sure you’ve done nothing to draw attention to yourself?’

  He can’t leave it alone, can he? ‘Look, I’m not hiding in the library all day, if that’s what you want.’

  Mum puts her arm round me. ‘No, love, course not. That’s not what we want at all. Is it, Michael?’

  Dad shakes his head.

  ‘It’s just important that you don’t get off on the wrong foot,’ says Mum.

  ‘I know that … And everything was fine, Mum, I promise.’ I grab the iPad and escape into cyberspace.

  Dad escapes to his glass of Rioja. ‘So come on then, Tilda. What was so terrible about it?’

  And you can see them relaxing as my sister tells them about her argument with the maths teacher, and a boy in her tutor group who she thinks is on drugs.

  Lucky I didn’t tell them about my panic attack. That would have freaked them out for sure. But the thing is, now that I’ve got the first day over with, I honestly think that school’s going to be okay.

  And the iPad more or less confirms it. ‘Oh wow, that’s amazing.’

  ‘What is it, love?’ says Mum.

  ‘It’s my new Facebook. Guess how many friend requests I’ve had?’

  Mum’s face takes a dive. ‘I didn’t even know you’d created a new account.’

  ‘You thought it was a good idea. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Come on then,’ says Tilda. ‘How many?’

  ‘Eleven,’ I say. ‘Not bad for my first day.’

  Dad is wrestling with a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. ‘It looks like you’ve made a good first impression then.’

  Tilda’s obviously desperate to say something. But she doesn’t come out with it until Dad follows Mum into the kitchen with the empty glasses.

  ‘No need
to look so pleased with yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘I mean, it’s not like they’re for real, are they?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, forget it.’

  ‘No come on, Tilds, what do you mean?’

  ‘Think about it,’ she says. ‘Do you honestly believe they’d still want to be friends if they knew what you’d done?’

  9

  STRANGE MEETING

  Day three and I’m starting to wonder what all the fuss was about. The other kids are way friendlier than at my old school (not difficult, it’s true), lessons are about as bearable as they could ever be (especially textiles) and by second break I’m so comfortable about the place that I even tell Katherine I’m going out to the field.

  ‘Well, I’m coming with you,’ she says. ‘Miss Hoolyhan told me to stick to you like superglue.’

  She’s been doing that all right. ‘It’s okay, Katherine, why don’t you stay and finish your book?’

  ‘It’s completely predictable anyway. And the main character’s so shallow I feel like slapping her.’ She stuffs the offending paperback into her rucksack. ‘Come on, you might as well see them in their natural habitat.’

  I love the smell of freshly mown grass. And I never thought I’d say this about a field full of eleven- to sixteen-year-olds, but it looks kind of inviting out there – almost as if the fine weather brings out the best in them.

  They certainly look a lot more human without their jackets and ties – laughing and texting, sunbathing and bantering, shoving grass down each others’ necks. If you look carefully there’s even some sneaky kissing going on – all played out to the sounds of the summer on a tinny orchestra of mobile phones.

  It gets better. She keeps saying how much she hates it here, but there’s Tilda demonstrating dance moves to some new friends. I raise my hand to wave at her, but she turns away at the last moment and I pretend to be sorting my hair.

  Katherine starts on the character assassinations. ‘See that lot?’

  ‘The girls from our tutor group, you mean?’

  Katherine nods. ‘Well, you see the two in the middle?’

  ‘What, the one with the cool creepers and the girl with expensive highlights?’

  ‘How should I know?’ says Katherine. ‘But if you’ve got any self-respect, you’ll keep away from them.’

  ‘Why, what for?’

  ‘Because Magda and Izzy are all the things that little girls are supposed to aspire to be – pretty, popular and practically perfect. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind betting there’s an eating disorder or two between them.’

  It slips out before I can stop myself. ‘Eating disorders aren’t funny, you know.’

  ‘Well, a brain tumour then. We live in hope.’

  The Year Eleven boys are playing football. Conor Corcoran is hogging the ball in the middle of the park, but he lobs it back to his goalkeeper the moment he sees me. ‘Oi, Dizzy, wanna come out with me tonight?’

  ‘Just ignore him,’ says Katherine. ‘He’s like a puppy. Give him any encouragement and he’ll be all over you.’

  The goalie’s worse than that Ukrainian guy Dad keeps on about. He can’t kick to save his life. The ball balloons up in the air and bounces towards me on the touchline.

  So does Conor. ‘Come on, Dizzy. Give it here.’

  And without thinking, I kick it back at him as hard as I can.

  Conor goes to ground clutching his most intelligent body parts. ‘Urghhhhhh.’

  I promised Dad I wouldn’t do anything silly, but that has to qualify as my dumbest move yet. Except maybe it isn’t. Because everyone who witnessed it seems to think it’s the funniest thing ever. One boy puts on a high-pitched voice and does castration jokes, I’m pretty sure Magda (or was it Izzy?) just waved at me, and the goalkeeper who can’t kick shouts, ‘Nice shot, Lauren – right in the balls.’

  I know I’m supposed to keep my head down, but I can’t help feeling pleased that he remembers my name.

  Conor recovers the power of speech. ‘Do me a favour. I’ve seen her throw. At least I know it wasn’t on purpose.’

  And I’m basking in the adulation that thumping a football into Conor Corcoran’s dangly bits obviously inspires when I see something that plunges me back into the dark ages.

  Perhaps he’s one of the footballers, or maybe he’s just come to laugh at Conor, but the fair-haired boy with the Mediterranean tan seems to materialise from out of nowhere.

  This time the tunnel vision kicks in almost immediately, as the only person on the school field still wearing a tie bares his teeth and walks slowly towards me.

  Oh my God. It can’t be.

  Back in the dark ages, he wore more make-up than me and his pale face was half hidden behind a jet-black fringe.

  But it’s the eyes that give him away.

  10

  LONG TIME NO SEE

  ‘Who’s that?’ I say.

  Even Katherine’s voice softens. ‘Oh that. That’s Harry Heasman. Fancy him, do you?’

  ‘What … no … course not.’

  ‘Why not?’ says Katherine. ‘Everyone else does.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Put it this way, Harry’s “good” popular. Not the kind of popular you are when you wear the “right” shoes and only talk to the “right” people – the kind you are from treating everyone the same and being a gentleman.’

  H a gentleman? It’s not exactly the first description that springs to mind. And now he’s so close I can smell him. But it’s not the stench of stale Benson & Hedges I’m expecting – more like soap and maybe even a hint of Calvin Klein.

  ‘Hi, I’m Harry,’ he says, in a voice about an octave deeper than the one I remember. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

  I can’t speak.

  Katherine speaks for me. ‘This is Lauren, Harry. Guess who’s supposed to be looking after her?’

  ‘Nice name,’ he says, glancing down at my legs, but pretending not to. ‘Suits you.’

  At first I think he’s trying to mess with my head. It’s the sort of thing that H would have found funny.

  ‘And how are you settling in at St Thomas’s?’

  But I still can’t speak.

  H speaks for me. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

  And suddenly I realise I’m not thinking straight. Okay it’s true, I want to believe it more than anything in the world, but actually, when you look at it rationally, it seems like a perfectly reasonable explanation: he doesn’t know who I am.

  Thank God for that.

  But it’s H all right, although of course I pretend not to recognise him. The trouble is, ‘playing it cool’ isn’t nearly so easy when you’re sweating like a triathlete and you’ve lost the power of speech.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ He smiles. ‘Are you all right?’

  The field starts turning somersaults; my head starts spinning in the opposite direction. But just as I’m surrendering myself to the inevitable sickly blackout, a powerful instinct for self-preservation enables me to stumble my way through half a sentence. ‘I’ve got to go. Miss Hoolyhan said I should …’

  And I turn on my heels and run.

  11

  PROFILE PICTURE

  I just about keep it together for the rest of the day. Katherine does most of my talking for me anyway, but even she remarks on how quiet I am. And there’s a nasty moment when I spot H walking towards us in the corridor. Luckily I have the presence of mind to duck down behind the lockers and pretend I’m looking for my ELR.

  The first thing I do when I get home is run upstairs and find him on Facebook. I stare at his profile picture, wondering how a face can have changed so much and yet still be so unmistakable.

  It’s the one doomsday scenario I’ve never even considered. There was always a slim chance that someone from my old school might track me down, but I haven’t seen H since we w
ere both into Pokémon.

  That was four summers ago. We only knew each other for about a month. Unfortunately, that’s all it takes. Because the whole idea of moving here was that no one would have a clue about me. What was the point of uprooting my whole family if there’s someone at school who already knows?

  And what do I do now? Track him down tomorrow and beg him to keep his mouth shut? Supposing he refuses? And even if he does go along with it, what are the chances of him letting something slip by mistake? This time next week it could be all round the school.

  Except.

  I’m forgetting the one good thing about the whole situation: I’m ninety-nine per cent certain he hasn’t recognised me.

  And it’s not that surprising. H could never hold eye contact. He spent most of the time staring at the floor. Even if he did sneak the occasional glance in my direction, I’ve changed far more than he has. There’s my hair for a start, plus I’m nearly two feet taller and wear make-up now. Like Big Moe said, even my own sister wouldn’t recognise me.

  Maybe it’s not such a big deal after all. If I could just act normally around him, there’s no reason he should remember me.

  Is there?

  That’s what I want to believe. The truth is, I’ve done enough running away to last a lifetime. I like it here. I’m starting to feel almost human at last. Why let one little setback ruin everything? I can do this, I know I can.

  And that’s the mantra I repeat to myself as I stand in front of the mirror, checking my eyelids for telltale signs of eczema. ‘You can do it, you can do it, you can —’

  ‘It’s the first sign of madness you know.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Mum is standing in the doorway. ‘Talking to yourself.’

  ‘Oh, no I was …’

  ‘Is everything okay, Lauren? You ran upstairs so quickly we didn’t get time for our usual chat.’