All That Glitters (4 page)

o, my plan for the next morning is as follows:

Admittedly, the last point on the list is a bit vague, but I’m leaving it up to the teachers.

That is what they’re paid for, after all.

The way I see it, yesterday was just a dress rehearsal: one that went spectacularly badly. Statistically, a first impression is usually cemented in seven seconds (although obviously I’ve disappointed people far more quickly than that).

This time, I’m not taking any chances.

At 8am, I stand on the doorstep and double-check my carefully selected outfit. A quick study of the psychology of colours has established that white clothes make strangers think you’re honest, yellow clothes make them think you’re friendly and orange implies that you’re a whole lot of spontaneous fun.

So I’m wearing a white jumper, orange leggings and yellow pumps. Hopefully this will silently represent an excellent personality before I’ve said a word.

It may even be powerful enough to make me appealing
after
I’ve said some too.

Then I roll my eyes at the enormous rustling purple hydrangea to my right. “Come on, Tobes. We’re friends now. Why don’t you just walk to school
with
me instead of hiding in bushes?”

There’s another rustle and a small squeak. Then Annabel’s cat, Victor, struts out from behind the pot with a piercing expression that says:
I’m not going anywhere with you, weirdo.

Flushing slightly as a neighbour gives me the kind of glance you give to people who talk to plants, I decide to go ahead and just start walking to school on my own.

“Tobes,” I say with a small smile when I reach the tree at the bottom of my road, “you’re not being very subtle. I can totally see you …”

A squirrel runs out.

“Toby …” I say as a jogger runs past.

“Tob—” I start again, but it’s just a leaf skittering along the ground.

With growing confusion, I continue walking: past the bench Toby isn’t crouching behind, in front of the lamp-post Toby isn’t pretending to fix with a small screwdriver, past the old man with a big newspaper held up to his face.

“Sorry,” I say after I’ve pulled it down and shouted “Ha! Gotcha!”

“Girls these days,” the man snorts angrily, burying himself in it again. Which is really unfair: I’m pretty sure I’d have done that if I was a boy too.

By the time I approach the road to school and – somewhat reassuringly – spot a group of students in school uniform, I’m starting to feel a little off-centre. I hadn’t realised quite how much of my day is constructed around various degrees of pretending to be irritated with Toby.

Finally, I spot him: crouched on the floor next to the front school gates in a pale brown T-shirt with little flecks all over it. He’s obviously pretending to be a boulder. Or a huge tortoise. Or something else that would never, ever be found outside a British school in a million years.

“Toby,” I say with a huge wave of relief. “There you are. I really don’t think you need to—”

“Hello, Harriet!” he says, redoing a shoe and standing up. His pale sideburns are fluffy and sticking out, and I realise he must have grown another four centimetres over the summer: he’s starting to look like a lightning bolt. “Did you know that Velcro was inspired by the tiny hooks on a burr that stuck to the inventor’s dog? I prefer it to laces, even if evidence of string
does
date back 28,000 years.”

I beam at him.

That is
exactly
what I needed to make me feel grounded and secure this morning. A fascinating, shoe-based historical fact, guest-featuring dogs.

“That’s interesting, becau—” I start enthusiastically, but I don’t get any further because Toby sticks two thumbs up and starts powering towards the school gates, slightly-too-short trousers flapping around his ankles.

“See you later, Harriet!” he calls over his shoulder.

“But,” I stutter in amazement, “w-wait, Toby. Don’t we have class together? Shouldn’t we … go in at the same time?”

Or – you know – with him ten paces behind me.

It’s kind of a tradition.

“We’re in different forms now, Harriet!” Toby says cheerfully. “Plus I have a super important project to get on with before class starts. Have a great day!”

And my stalker disappears into school.

Leaving me following ten paces behind him.

t’s amazing what a difference a day can make.

Or – you know.

An open and functioning school you don’t have to break into.

As I push through the glass sixth-form doors, I can feel a terrified, nervous hopping sensation starting at the bottom of my stomach. It takes fifty hours for a snake to fully digest a frog, and for part of that time the frog is still alive. Given the feeling in my stomach, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve accidentally swallowed one too.

Everything has changed.

There is now noise and chaos everywhere. Classrooms and corridors are filled with people: giggling, laughing, shouting, singing. Chair legs are being scraped on the floor, various items are flying through the air – rubbers, crumpled-up notes, packets of crisps – and there’s a faint smell of board-marker and furniture polish that’s halfway between a cleaning cupboard and a sofa shop.

People I don’t recognise are stomping up and down the stairs proprietorially, and students I do know have transformed completely. Braces are off, long hair has been chopped, short hair grown and extended. Acne has erupted or disappeared. A few tentative moustaches have sprouted like shadowy upper lip infections. Everything that was banned last term is scattered defiantly: heels, short skirts, piercings, lipsticks, shaved heads. All worn with pride and triumphant chins.

It’s the same school, yet – somehow – not at all.

Sixth form has been open just four weeks and it already feels like everyone has made this world their own. Now it’s my turn.

With another froggy stomach hop, I reach the door of my new classroom and stand outside on one foot for a few seconds, peeking through the window.

Then I anxiously pull out my phone.

Really wish you were here. Hx

I press SEND and wait a few seconds.

There’s a beep.

Me too. Raid the vending machine for me. ;) Nat x

I smile – I was obviously going to do that anyway – and take a deep breath.

You can do this, Harriet. You are a goddess of insight and possibilities; a warrior of chance and fate. A goldfish of optimism and opportunity.

Oh God. My brain is shutting down already.

Then, with all the courage I can muster, I hold my breath, square my shoulders and lift my chin high.

And push into my brand-new world.

he really great thing about having the head of drama as my new form teacher this year is – thanks to my role in last year’s production of
Hamlet
– I already know her.

The not so great thing?

She already knows me.

“Harriet Manners!” Miss Hammond looks up from her desk so enthusiastically that the beaded fringe on her tie-dye scarf gets caught on a pencil pot. “You’ve returned to us for the second time! How utterly wonderful!”

Oh,
sugar cookies.
I really hope she’s not going to bring out the book I gave her. I don’t want my first introduction to the class to involve the word
loo.

“
You guys
,” she continues chirpily, waving a hand around. There are so many bracelets, she sounds like an enormous Slinky. “For those who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her before, Harriet Manners has veritably
boomeranged
back after a glamorous adventure in Nooooo Yaawwwk!”

I flush a little bit harder.

“Apparently Americans eat more bananas than any other fruit,” I blurt anxiously. “And twenty-five per cent of them think the sun orbits the earth.”

Oh my God. What is
wrong
with me?

“Which isn’t why I came back,” I add quickly, the back of my neck starting to prickle. “I like bananas.”

I like bananas.

Yup. There are over a million words in the English language, and I chose those three in that particular order to impress a group of strangers.

I am never reading a fact book again.

The students in the class murmur “Hey, Harriet” while they try to make sense of me too.