Friendship on Fire (15 page)

‘I barely saw you for five minutes at the party. Now I know why.'

My voice was reaching breaking point. ‘Sorry sir, I didn't know I was supposed to make appointments with you and give you a set amount of my time.'

‘I never said that either. What is wrong with you this morning?' He was getting exasperated. ‘And stop calling me sir would you? Your sarcasm is getting old, Daisy.'

‘Well … you're a hypocrite, Roman. You criticise me for the people I choose to hang out with and you have no leg to stand on yourself. You're such a dick.'

As we rounded the admin building I went in the other direction to lose him. He didn't follow me. He probably didn't notice I'd left and was still abusing me like an imaginary friend. I was so mad at him I was shaking. How dare he lecture me and assume things about me that were so untrue? I had a good mind to turn back and demand to know what this was really about.

But he was being a jerk and I self-righteously decided I wouldn't talk to him until he apologised.

Some people have a way of knowing the exact moment when you want to see them least, and capitalising on it. Skye was one of those people.

I was sitting on a picnic bench at recess near the canteen, happily chatting to a few girls in year eleven about ideas for the first school social. Skye walked past and spilt some of her apple juice in my hair. The year eleven girls, Emma, Katie and Carly, gasped in horror and looked at each other. I stood straight up and felt my hair to assess the damage.

‘What the hell are you doing, Skye?' I called out to her retreating figure. The juice slowly made its way down the back of my dress, making the material stick uncomfortably to my skin.

She spun around like a ballerina and smiled. ‘I thought it might help you cool off, redhead. Or encourage you to wash your hair. It's so oily. You'd know if you ever looked in the mirror.'

I excused myself from the girls and stalked after her towards the common room.

‘Why do you always have to be such a bitch to everyone?' I asked her sharply.

‘Not everyone thinks I'm a bitch, you know. You and I, we have what I like to call, a personality clash,' she said, trying to sound like a clinical psychologist.

I nearly choked on my laughter. ‘Really. How is it that I get along with pretty much everyone else in the school, except you?' I raised my eyebrows at her.

‘I don't know, darl. That's something you have to work out yourself. We all have issues to work on. Some more than others, of course.'

We entered the common room and waded through the students heading towards their lockers.

‘What are you on about?' Her cryptic remarks were grating up my spine.

‘Your issues. We all get uptight when we have to share things in our lives, don't we? Our friends, for example. It's OK to be neurotic, but you really shouldn't be possessive, Daisy. It's not becoming for a lady.'

She flicked her straight blonde hair over her shoulder, blue eyes smouldering with the knowledge that she had dragged me into her stupid mind game.

I continued to stare at her blankly. How hard was it to have a compatible conversation between two people; same sex, same age?

‘Gosh, and you call me blonde.' She nodded toward Roman, sitting on the couch in the far corner of the common room, talking and laughing with his friends. She suddenly called out for him to come over to us, but he put his hands up and shrugged. Either he was avoiding me, or he was suspicious of her intentions. I certainly was.

‘I guess that settles it then,' she laughed.

It finally clicked in my head. Saturday night. Her friend.

My eyes opened sharply with understanding and I hated Skye more than ever before in this moment.

‘You will stop at nothing, won't you? You have to divide and conquer …'

‘Hey, don't shoot the messenger,' she cooed. ‘If Roman hasn't bothered to tell you he and Tiffany are a thing, then maybe you have to rethink the closeness of your friendship,'

she said slowly, calculating my response. ‘Tiffany thinks he's a real catch…'

‘Piss off, Skye, seriously. You're shitting me to tears.' I shouldn't have sworn at her, but I was having a bad day.

‘Jealousy is a curse, school captain …' she purred as she walked away, swinging in her skirt.

I observed Roman for a while after the bell went for period three. Was it possible he liked the Grammar girl? Did he get with Tiffany after the party? Was he desperate? Or was I losing my touch with character judgment and Tiffany was a really nice bimbo?

Mr Head walked past the common room door and, as was his strange custom, did not enter. Instead, he stood with toes millimetres outside the door.

‘Daisy, Roman, to me, period four. Bring your thinking caps for the swimming carnival.' He nodded, flashing his fake smile, and walked away, his pants moving higher as he waddled. Roman and I caught each other's eyes.

In human biology we were learning about the concept of evolution. Besides having a plethora of insignificant monkeys' names to remember, I wasn't sure I liked the idea of humans supposedly evolving from monkeys. Why didn't it bother anyone else that we weren't much better than monkeys?

Mrs Von Ruse was our teacher. A German exchange teacher in fact, and very serious about human biol. She would shout at us if we didn't enter into her discussions about topics completely irrelevant to our generation. She had two toes missing from her left foot, which we found absolutely fascinating, and she would shuffle her feet around absent-mindedly if she thought any of us were staring at them.

Today, to keep my eyes off her toes and her thick accent, I decided to draw an artistic impersonation of myself as an evolving monkey. I couldn't listen to her boring lecture on
Homo Erectus
and other mutant monkey humans any more. I'm no artist by anyone's standards, but my bored artworks during monotonous classes were improving and I reckon they deserved to be scrap-booked. When they didn't get stolen from other teachers, that is. Mrs Von Ruse was too absorbed showing slides of the half human/half monkey men to notice my chicken scratchings.

I nearly bumped into Roman as I came out of the girls' bathroom at the beginning of period four. He was walking past ready for our meaningful meeting with Mr Head.

‘Sorry,' we both said awkwardly and fell into step heading towards the office.

I put my hands in my dress pockets and watched him rummage around in his pocket. He took out a rolled-up packet of snakes and offered them to me. ‘Sustenance.'

I gratefully took six and stuffed them into my mouth all at once. It wasn't the brightest idea I've had. I nearly choked as a couple slid down my throat before I could chew them.

Roman knocked on Mr Head's door and we waited in silence for our fate, death by boredom. I composed myself after my snake attack.

Mr Head called, ‘Come in, and hurry up.'

We entered the musty smelling room and sat in two of the many chairs lined up in front of his desk. I considered suggesting to him on muck-up day (when he could no longer expel me) that he should think about ditching some of the chairs and vacuuming his office sometime. I smirked, and bit my lip as Roman flashed me a warning with his eyes.

‘As you should know, the swimming carnival is next week,' he announced with grandeur. ‘We need to prepare for it right now. All decisions made today. Sit down. Oh, you are. Let's get to it, then.'

We watched as he painstakingly shifted his gold farm-animal ornaments to the right side of his desk, one by one, until we had some elbow room on his table.

Suddenly, he glared up at me. His eyes narrowed with familiar disapproval. ‘Daisy. I see you are still determined to disobey my school rules. ‘
No radically dying hair'
, rule number fourteen says and yet here we are once again.'

I shifted nervously in my seat. For some strange reason, I was hoping he wouldn't notice when we arrived for the meeting. This was anal, paranoid, OCD Mr Head. I took a deep breath.

‘I am planning to sir. Very soon. But not right now,' I said, trying to be firm, as well as respectful.

Mr Head put his hand out as if to gather Roman's support, and said dramatically, ‘Ah.
‘Not right now'
she says. There is no time like the present to renew faith and my own school captain defies me.'

Roman's eyes begged for caution, but he didn't interfere. I continued, ‘I'm not defying you, sir. I tried to tell you I can't change it back so quickly because …' I stumbled and he pounced.

‘Yes, yes, it will fall out. That would be quite an improvement. I want it fixed before the start of term two, or you'll be in a lot more trouble than this. Do you understand, Miss Brooks?'

‘Yes, Mr Head,' I said in a quiet voice.

‘Good.' He handed us a piece of paper. ‘Here is the checklist for the carnival. You have one hour,' he commanded and sat back in his chair.

I wondered at what point he was going to help us with this job.

Halfway through the meeting, we found ourselves caught in a deadlock about where to have the carnival. It had varied in the past between an indoor and outdoor venue; nothing had been set in concrete. It was generally up to the captains of each respective year group to decide where they wanted it to be.

My opinion was the most logical, naturally. It should be inside, as students didn't have to wear disgusting, sticky sunscreen and didn't have to worry about sunburn (hence cancer). My final argument was received with smirks from both men in the room and I scowled at them.

Roman, on the other hand, to spite me I suppose, decided he wanted the carnival at the outdoor venue. His argument was that we all need vitamin D to be healthy, that it's good to be out in fresh air instead of an over-crowded, chlorinated stench, humid indoor pool. At his last point I glared at him and he glared back.

‘I still think it would be really good to have it indoors. It's cheaper to hire.' I kept the argument going, watching Mr Head's reaction.

‘If you were listening, Daisy, Mr Head already said price wasn't an issue. Isn't that right, sir?'

Mr Head was still leaning back in his chair, arms folded, watching us intently.

When he didn't answer, we stopped arguing and frowned. Was he frozen in time? Was he having a heart attack? Worst of all, was he angry?

Mr Head wasn't a perceptive man at the best of times. However, he wasn't necessarily stupid. He picked up straight away on the tension between us and had to put in his two cents worth. I didn't say he was tactful.

‘Look at you both. Carrying on like a married couple,' he laughed. He held up his hands like puppets and continued. ‘
I want this, no I want that, but why can't we have it this way? 
This is highly entertaining.' His laughter then came to an abrupt halt. ‘Keep going, please. Don't let me interrupt.'

His animation was startling. I'd never witnessed him crack a smile, let alone go into hysterics using hand puppets. And straight after he blasted me about my hair? Did he have split personalities?

‘Fine, let's have it outdoors. Whatever you want, Roman.'

I threw my pen on the table. Roman's reaction displayed neither victory nor remorse. He had more of a sad stare in his eyes; a tired, blank daze. Mr Head thumped his fist on the desk.

‘It's decided.' His eyes shifted back and forth at us across the table. ‘Who says democracy doesn't work?'

At lunchtime I had a revelation. I was eating with Linda and Sarah, half listening to them talk about their boy troubles. I was busy thinking about
the
argument. Re-hashing as much of it as I could remember in my head, I came to a conclusion I didn't necessarily want to accept at this point in time: I had been a bitch to Roman this morning.

He had apologised and tried to acknowledge the misunderstanding of what he said; but I couldn't help myself and pushed it, jumping down his throat. We were both at fault, I knew that, but I started to feel guilty about my part in it.