For a teenager, with supposedly very few responsibilities beyond school and my own good time, I couldn't believe how unbelievably tired I was. I had thought I would be full of youthful energy, forgetting that teenagers sleep even more than students, amazingly. The situation was worse in my case because I felt I was constantly performing in a play without cues. I got through most of the following week under house arrest from my parents. They were watching me very carefully, and whispering to one another in corners, which I was going to have to take as a good sign, because last time round, they hardly spoke to each other at all.
Then there was school. How the hell did I ever do any of this? I was doing English, maths, chemistry, and general studies A levels. Again. In fact, this was the first problem. I had long regretted â well, accountancy, obviously. One of the things I'd always wondered was, if, instead of doing business studies at university â dry as dust but, as my dad had pointed out before I went, âvery useful'; obviously he
was already predicting who was going to have to be the main provider in our little family â I'd done something I'd always fancied â history of art, say. Long hours of cultural discussion in libraries. Ooh, maybe I could go to St Andrews and see if I couldn't get a crack at Prince William. Or even go for the big boys, Oxford or Cambridge. Nothing wrong with Birmingham, of course, it was a great laugh. But it hadn't taken me long in life to realise that yes, going to one of the really snobby places really did open doors for you.
On the next day back at school I picked up the first book out of my book bag. The folded-over corner was on a chapter entitled âReagents and Conditions for One-Stop Conversions'. It was full of Greek characters. I didn't have a scooby about a single bit of it. And even if I read it and read it and managed to convince myself I did, what was the one thing I'd already worked out in my head? What was the one thing I knew for definite I did not want to be doing in whatever bollocks-up of a future I might be in for this time round?
It wasn't going to be accountancy, that was for effing sure.
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Miss Syzlack smiled sympathetically when I walked in. Honestly, when did the diktat come down that teachers were allowed â nay, expected â to dress like they'd had to run out of Oxfam when it was on fire and everything melted to their skin? Then I realised that perhaps looking sharp and sexy wasn't the kind of thing you necessarily wanted to encourage standing in front of a roomful of fifteen-year-old boys.
âHello.'
âHello, Flora Jane,' she smiled, sympathetically but a bit warily.
âCan I sit down?'
âOf course.'
I really, really could not remember school etiquette.
âIt's about my A levels,' I said. âI think I'm doing the wrong ones.'
She consulted the register sheet. âMaths, English, chemistry. You could do anything with those, surely?'
âThat's the point, erm, miss. You can do anything with anything, unless I wanted to be a research chemist. And I can assure you, I'm not going to be one of those.'
âYes, your chemistry teacher agrees with you.'
âSee! Really?'
We both leaned back at the same time, eyeing each other up. She cracked first.
âWell, what were you thinking of taking?'
âI'm going to swap maths for history, and chemistry for art,' I announced grandly, based on a decision I'd made fourteen minutes before.
âThat's quite a big change. What do your parents say?'
âErm ⦠I haven't mentioned it to them yet. But I'm sure they'll be fine.'
âHmm. Flora, you don't even have GCSE art. In fact, if the doodles in your English textbook are anything to go by, I'd say it's really not the right direction to be heading in.'
âI want to do history of art at university,' I blurted. âI don't want to end up doing ⦠business studies in Birmingham, or something like that. I want to go to art school, or the London Film School. Or Notre Dame. Or
Harvard. Or St Martin's College of Art and Design.' I said it with all the purpose of a successful professional, but as it came out I knew I sounded like a caricature of an over-hormonal teenager.
Miss Syzlack laughed. âOK, OK, calm down. We are going through a bit of a phase, aren't we?'
âIt's
not
a phase.'
God, I could go on a murder rampage right now and still be âgoing through a phase'.
âThat's exactly what someone going through a phase always says.'
âCan I just change my subjects? I'm going to be late for my next class,' I said.
âLook,' said Miss Syzlack. âChanging your A levels is a big deal. It's a really big decision.'
âIt's not!' I said. âWhat A levels did you do? I bet you can hardly remember. I bet once you were in university you never ever remembered them ever again.'
âWe're not talking about me, Flora.' She came and perched on the front of the desk again.
âLook, I know at the moment, growing up seems scary. It all looks very confusing. There are so many choices and options out there.'
Yuh-huh.
âPeople your age â I mean, there's so much pressure on you: to look right, to choose the right things, the right courses, the coolest friends ⦠but it won't be as hard as you think, I promise.'
âI know that!' I said. âThat's why I want to make sure I do something I like.'
âYou know, a lot of people want to go and do creative
things,' she said. âI wanted to be a photographer.' She smiled, looking slightly embarrassed. âBut life doesn't always work out like that.'
âWell, it certainly won't work out if I take chemistry,' I said. âLook, miss, you know I'm right on this. If it all goes tits up, then I can go join the civil service or something. In the end, it won't matter. It's never too late to sit your accountancy exams. But it will mean a lot to me now. At least I won't regret having a shot.'
She looked at me.
âI'm sixteen years old. I have years and years and years to fill in with mistakes of all kinds. There are loads of stupid things I have absolutely no doubt I am going to do. But putting myself through two years of maths and chemistry hell isn't one of them.' (And neither is sleeping with one of my lecturers again I harshly repeated to myself.)
Miss Syzlack shook her head. âYou'll have to catch up.' âTrust me, I can.'
She rummaged among the folders on her desk. âWell, here's the form. Your parents have to sign it.'
âMy parents get to decide what I have to spend two years doing?'
âTake it to the European Court of Human Rights, Flora,' she said wryly. Then she gave me a close look. âAre you sure you're OK?'
âI'm fine. Please stop asking.'
âYou definitely don't want to see the educational psychologist?'
âHonestly, I'm fine. I've just realised that I don't have to do three years of a business degree and join a city firm. How could I not be fine?'
She looked at me, and shook her head. âOff you go.'
I glanced out the window. Stanzi was there, waiting for me. Fallon was standing near by, obviously talking about her. Stanzi was trying to look as if she didn't care.
âYou know, I think getting through secondary school may well prove to be the hardest thing I'll ever have to do,' I said.
âImagine what it's like if you never leave,' said Miss Syzlack. Then she realised what she'd said. âRight. Out! I have marking!'
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Stanzi was sitting, doing her best nonchalant act, on the low wall outside.
âHey,' I said. I felt bad for confusing this nice person, who hadn't asked for her girlfriend to have been turned into a thirty-two-year-old overnight. âHow's it going?'
âIf we were boys,' Stanzi looked speculative, âwe wouldn't have to fall out with anyone. If they're cross, they just have a fight, then the next day they all go and play football together.'
âI know,' I said. âWhy do you think they grow up to be such emotional retards? They never talk anything through.'
âOr bitch anyone up enough.'
Fallon walked over.
âSorry, Stanzi, but I couldn't help but wonder â are your shoes Prada or Gucci? It's hard to tell at this distance.'
Amazing. I turned to Stanzi and, without thinking, said, âOh my God. Is she like this all the time? I mean, really every day?'
Stanzi looked at me, shocked at the outburst. Her big eyes were a mute plea for me to shut up, not to make the situation any worse than it already was.
âWho the fuck are you talking about?'
Fallon turned to face me. Her face had that heart-shaped prettiness that does well at school then often grows up rather odd, like Anthea Turner, with the grim set of a jaw not afraid of confrontation.
She laughed, evilly. âI almost forgot. Ethan asked me to tell you to stop sending him poetry. He thinks it's hilarious, and read it out to all his friends, but he wants you to stop bugging him.'
âPoems!' said one of Fallon's equally expensively dressed but not quite so pretty henchgirls. They all started squealing with laughter, and I felt my ears beginning to burn.
I had no idea what I'd been up to in this version of events. I knew I hadn't just sent any poetry, but, once, long ago, I had. To a tall, skinny gothman who liked to read Sartre at parties. I had long since repressed what the poems had said, but I could take a bit of a stab in the dark.
âIn fact, I have one here.'
Oh no. No no no no.
âI told him I'd get rid of it for him.'
This woman was going to end up Prime Minister.
A couple of other girls, whom I recognised dimly from my registration class, wandered over.
âHayley! Paris! Come over and listen to this.'
You know, if I'd been standing there naked, this would have perfectly corresponded with my worst nightmare of all time.
The girls gathered round and, as they did, other people followed them. Schoolkids. Unbelievable. Sheep, every last one of them.
âBaaa!' I said under my breath.
âWhat was that?' said Fallon, homing in. âYou want me to read out your poem?'
A shocked hush went through the crowd. They knew they were on to something good.
âOK then!' She turned and cleared her throat. â“Be of Me, My Love” by Flora Scurrison.'
Somebody tittered. My fight-or-flight responses were up to full mast. Inside, I felt like I had heavy menstrual cramps.
âMy nights are heavy, like the days
That settle on your glorious ways.'
Oh, fucking hell. This was going to be even worse than I'd imagined. Next time I saw Tashy I could tell her I was going back to being thirty-two alright if I got half a chance to influence anything, for sure. Wrinkles, crow's-feet, missed opportunities â bring 'em on! Anything was better than this.
Fallon, of course, was using her most dramatic tone, but speaking slowly, so that nobody missed a word. In her head she was probably auditioning for Lady Macbeth with Heath Ledger.
âYour walk, unbidden, golden goes,
From all the beauty yet unknown.'
Oh God, teenagers write terrible poetry. Mute with horror, Stanzi was trembling.
I closed my eyes and muttered, âI wish I was ⦠um, twenty-six,' but, nothing.
âAnd I, so alone, so different stay
And yearn, alone, for one fine day.'
Stab me in the heart already. The cruel laughter from the other girls had stopped being merely complimentary to Fallon and was becoming genuine, twisted embarrassment. No doubt they probably all had something similar under the bed at home. And, let's face it, if it had been somebody else, I'd probably have been laughing too.
I suddenly realised why Stanzi was pinching me so hard. Approaching were two boys. One, with that face as strange and familiar as walking past a restaurant and getting a sudden smell of your mother's cooking, was Justin. Next to him was a tall boy with blond hair, very pretty in a Greek god-ish kind of a way. They were wandering over.
âWhen we can come, together all â¦'
âOoh, they're going to come together!' shouted one wag. âDidn't know he was that good in bed.'
âNeither does she!' shouted somebody else.
âWhen we both so in love do fall.'