Being Me

‘An innovative, impressive and well crafted narrative that strikes a chord for young and old alike.’
Carol Leeming FRSA

For Gina

(which you can skip if you like)

Hi, I’m Adele Vialli and this story is made up from my diary when I was fourteen. Sometimes, the words are taken straight out of my diary, but mostly I’ve made the notes into chapters. I know the story is jumpy and nobody is going to accuse me of being Jacqueline Wilson or Hunger Games in disguise. Too bad. I also know that it begins with three – you will probably think boring – essays I wrote and it doesn’t have everything tied up neatly at the end. I’m sorry about that, too. Unfortunately, the way this stuff happened, there was no neat and happy ending. Anyway, I hate long introductions so this one ends now. Here come the essays. You can skip them if you want (turn to page 7 to miss them out) or copy them and use them for your own school work – I won’t charge you extra if you do that. Ha ha.

Oh, and you should check out my web page –

www.hoperoadpublishing.com/adele-vialli

and follow me on Twitter –
@adadelevialli

Colours.

What do we mean when we say people are different? What do we mean when we say people are the same? Every Egyptian Pharaoh was different and yet every Egyptian Pharaoh we imagine to be the same. But that’s all boring History. Let’s talk about my favourite subject. Me. There are many things that are the same about me and you. Maybe you like bananas like I do, maybe you hate them. Maybe you have two wobbly back teeth like I do, maybe you have an annoying brother like I do. What is more unlikely is that we share any of the next stuff. I look white but I have an (half) Ethiopian grandmother so actually I am black. This leads to the question what is black? Who decides who is black and who is not? My friend Mikaela has two black parents and is dark skinned, has a big African booty, lightly curled Afro hair and can bogle. Does this make her more black than me? My dad says he is all white – as pure as the driven snow, even though, as mentioned above, his mum is half black, something his sister confirmed to me when she visited one time. And my mum is white English, from Liverpool. Also we are very rich and less black people are rich than white (though Mikaela is rich because her mum and dad are both lawyers and they have a Bentley car). So if black is a scale of 1 to 10, how many do I score? We all come from Africa originally so everybody scores at least one. We are all related to the Egyptian Pharaohs. End of Essay.

Teacher’s Comments:

5 out of 10.

A good try, Adele that is spoilt by your sloppy use of punctuation, the absence of any paragraphs and needless repetition. Also, think about using the third person (‘he’ and ‘she’) rather than writing essays which focus on yourself.

Happy Families. Discuss.

Everyone wishes their family was like the card game, Happy Families, where every family is complete and complimentary. In my opinion there are two problems with ‘Happy Families’ and these problems are the word ‘Happy’ and the word, ‘Families’. If I have something that can be described as a family, it is not ‘happy’.

Mum.

Mum probably has a Diploma in being Miserable. She could out-misery even the entire cast of
Les Miserables.

Arguments for and against Misery.

Let’s skip this bit, it’s boring.

Dad.

My dad is not worthy of the name, Dad. His sperm produced me according to Biology, but apart from driving me to school, sighing at my school reports and banging on the bathroom door to hurry me up, he makes no contribution to my life. That is because he devotes all his time to My Talented Brother (Note for teacher: more arguments for and against my dad will be added here later).

My Talented Brother.

MTB’s birth certificate name is Anthony. He is spoilt rotten by my dad and adored by my mum because (a) he is a boy and (b) because he has won trophies in football. The fact that I myself have won trophies in football slips Dad’s mind. Many other things slip Dad’s mind where MTB is concerned. Like fairness. Chores. And giving me the same amount of pocket money as MTB had at my age. Animal Farm by George Orwell got it right. Although all people are equal, some, like MTB, are more equal than others. This is an injustice. End of Essay.

Teacher’s Comments:

5 out of 10.

Another good try, Adele and well done on the lovely paragraphs. Perhaps you should think about planning your essay before you write it? Also, you cannot simply say ‘I will finish this bit later’ within an essay, you need to actually finish it.

Ghosts.

Definition: People who die but come back from the dead to haunt others.

My mum had a baby girl when I was 3 who died in childbirth. I was at the hospital in a corridor with Dad and they wouldn’t let me see my sister because she was born dead. I heard my mum screaming and crying. Dad gave me to a nurse and went in to Mum. Then my gran (Mum’s mum) came and took me home where she said I would have to be extra good to look after my mum and dad because they were going to be sad for a long time and my sister was born with lovely curly hair and looked like my dad, unlike me.

I wasn’t allowed to the funeral. I hate my dead sister for spoiling my life even though you are not supposed to hate dead people, let alone innocent little babies. Her name is Cara.

This essay is short but I am tired. I have just played a football match which we won 3-0. I have no more words to say on this subject.

Teacher’s Comments:

Adele, please arrange a time to see me about this essay.

The jostling on the touchline gets worse. Parents are still trying to get autographs off Faye White, the famous England football player who’s scouting for England U15s. There are only two players on the pitch who can get picked for England – me and Mikaela. Most likely Mikaela will bag the place because my mum and dad were shouting all through the night last night so I couldn’t sleep and I’m now dog-tired. I didn’t even do my eyebrows this morning, I got up so late. I just scrunched my hair into a pony tail, applied some lippy then jumped in a taxi to the match.

It’s 0–0 and Mikaela is doing her show pony thing. Everyone gives her the ball and she passes it out to the wingers, who pass it back. She then passes it between the midfielders, who pass it back. She does each move ballerina style, on her toes, every move fully extended. Showing off. The only thing she’s not doing is passing it to me. I’m waving like a Bieber fan who’s just spotted Justin at the airport, and Mikaela’s completely ignoring me, going for glory on her own.
Enough,
I decide. I pull off my hair tie so my hair flows loose. I always feel freer playing like this, even if Miss Fridge says it’s against the rules. I feint to run past Mikaela but instead nick the ball off her toes.
Now watch me go.
I leap over a tackle, spin round three other Bestwood Academy players, shimmy past the goalkeeper and tap the ball into an empty net. 1–0. Miss Jones (or Miss Fridge as we call her because she’s cool and shaped like a fridge) is dancing on the touchline. Parents are whooping and clapping. Faye smiles right at me. I take a bow. I’m bathed in starlight. A girl could get used to this. Everyone in our team runs over to congratulate me. Everyone, that is, except Mikaela.

Mikaela mouths
bitch
at me. From the restart, she doesn’t give me a single pass. Ever. After ten minutes of this, I stop running, tie my hair back up and look over to the touchline. Faye is still signing autographs. That will be me in three years’ time, I dream. Gold earrings. Latest Louis Vuitton handbag. Red heels. A modelling contract with L’Oreal. Trophies spilling out of my cabinet.

I see something on the touchline that spooks me. A policeman. He’s staring right at me. My heart lurches. I think about the crazy thieving I’ve done, nicking perfume, jewellery, sunglasses, purses, you name it. Am I going to get handcuffed in front of Faye White and led off the field in shame?

I wander across to the far touchline and free my hair again, slip my socks down to my calves and smooth my hands over my thighs. These legs are not only smooth, they’re silky fast. If the cop makes a move, I’ll outsprint him, I’m sure. Of course if they’ve brought a police dog, I’ll give up instantly. I’m not having my legs torn up by some psycho police Rottweiler. I look over at him again.

The cop shouts. ‘Go, Jessie! Go girl!’

Suddenly everything’s OK. He’s just another pushy parent.

At half time it is 1–1. Miss Fridge tells Mikaela to get the ball to me more often.

‘How can she score if you don’t pass, Mikaela?’

Mikaela shrugs, flicks her braids out of her face then crosses her arms. She’s wearing brand new, pink Nike boots, and she’s flicking her feet to make sure everyone’s noticing them.

Faye White comes over and puts her arm around Miss Fridge and they move away. Faye White definitely points at me, then Mikaela.

‘Faye, Faye, show us some of your skills!’ I shout out after her.

She shakes her head and points to her classy red heels.

‘Oh, go on!’ I kick her the ball.

Faye flicks the ball up to her head, does a spin turn while the ball’s still balanced on her forehead, then lets it drop. She back heels the ball to me then says, ‘No more, Adele. Another time, girls!’

I’m awestruck. Faye White knows my name.

‘Tell! Tell! Tell!’ everyone yells at Miss Fridge once Faye White has left. ‘What did she say about us?’

‘The prize is within your grasp,’ says Miss Fridge to us all. ‘Adele, she said your last goal “would have made Pele swoon”.’

‘Who’s Pele?’ I ask.

‘Only the greatest striker who ever lived,’ says Miss Fridge. ‘And Mikaela, your control, your passing. “Beckham would kiss your boots”, she said.’

‘She never said that in a million years. But still I’m all ears!’ Mikaela pulls her ears to show Miss Fridge that she is all ears. It’s funny. I laugh, even though Mikaela is a bitch for not passing to me.

‘OK, enough, Mikaela. Do your rhyming on the pitch. And Adele?’

‘Yes, Miss?’

‘Concentrate. Get the ball. Then stick it in the net. Simples. Mikaela. Pass the ball to Adele.’

‘What the feet don’t know, the mouth can’t tell.’

‘Just do it, Mikay,’ snaps Miss Fridge, sounding suddenly like a Chihuahua that’s sucked on a helium balloon.

Mikaela gets the ball and fires it at me hard and fast. She forgets I have an older brother who smashes the ball at me like that every day. One touch and the ball turns from a cannonball into a feather.
Watch me go. England team here I come
. I weave round one defender, spinning away so tightly she falls on her bum. The goalie tries to crowd me but I feint to shoot left, then shoot right. The ball rockets into the net.
As easy as painting my nails.
I mime painting my nails just so they all get the point on the touchline. Everyone’s all over me. I love it. Even Mikaela high fives me.

I dash upfield again. Mikaela plays a peach of a pass to me. It drops soft as a cotton bud onto my left thigh. I trap it then do a neat little chip shot. The ball spirals over the goalie, kisses the post and rebounds into the net. I do my nail polishing again.

Everyone’s patting me on the back. Faye White is clapping.
If that doesn’t get me into the England team nothing will
.

Bestwood don’t want to play anymore. Every time we pass the ball all the parents on our touchline are shouting
Olé!
When I say all the parents, that’s all except mine. My dad only goes to MTB’s matches. Mum came to a match once. She stood on the touchline, drunk. I scored but it was ruled off-side. Mum ran onto the pitch to try and punch the referee. Luckily, she tripped and fell so the punch missed. Miss Fridge carried Mum off, firefighter style. I told my mum never to come again.

The final whistle blows. Me and Mikaela are shattered. We’re flopped on the pitch, leaning on each other, panting. All we really want to know is: who made it onto the England team? We’re gathered around Miss Fridge.