Girls to Total Goddesses (5 page)

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8

Nobody in our class had deodorant with them at school. Nobody! We raced to the loos – we had just a few moments before first lesson to try and banish our stench.

‘Quick! Quick! Who’s got deodorant?’ yelled Chloe at the gang of girls milling about by the loos. Daisy ‘Pooch’ Archer and Emily ‘Titch’ Langham were using the drinking fountain. They looked startled. ‘Perfume? Anything!’ demanded Chloe.

‘I’ve got some scent,’ said Pooch doubtfully, rummaging in her bag. She has long wavy hanks of chestnut hair hanging down on either side of her face which makes her look slightly like a spaniel.

‘Quick! Quick!’ shouted Chloe, ripping off her blazer and undoing her shirt. ‘Just a quick squirt! I’ll pay you!’ Pooch held out the spray. It was a cheap one I’d rejected last year because though it did have a cheerful citrus twang, it also came with a tea-tree overload, a bit too close to the smell of loo cleaner.

‘Chloe!’ I couldn’t diss Pooch’s scent, but maybe I could make Chloe think twice. ‘We should wash our armpits first!’ I was struggling with my own shirt buttons. I managed to get one arm out.

‘No time! No time!’ jabbered Chloe, grabbing the scent spray and giving herself a double blast in each armpit, inside her open shirt. Then she offered the scent to me.

‘No, thanks!’ I felt flustered. A still, small voice inside my head suggested that even real loo cleaner would be preferable to the kind of onion soup I was currently pumping out, but I was still hoping to achieve a clean hygienic effect by that good old-fashioned technique known as washing.

‘Come on, Pooch!’ urged Titch. ‘We mustn’t be late for Powell!’

‘Oh no!’ gasped Pooch, grabbing her scent and heading for the door.

The bell for first lesson shredded the air with deafening noise, so our double English with Mr Fawcett was seconds away, but I had only just managed to make one of the taps work. Pooch and Titch disappeared into the hurly-burly of the corridor. I raced up and down the washbasins trying to find a liquid soap dispenser that hadn’t run out. The school loos were such crap! My left arm was still outside my shirt, and a powerful stink of onion soup followed me up and down.

‘Ow! Ouch! Aaargh!’ yelled Chloe, as I gave up on soap and scooped a handful of icy water on to my left pit, and rubbed. ‘That goddam scent is stinging!’ shrieked Chloe. ‘It’s a killer! Oooooourgh! My armpits are on fire!’ She flapped her arms up and down like a baby bird trying to fly, and then thrust her fists into her armpits and winced for England.

I was discovering that water on its own is no good: soap and a flannel are essential to human happiness. I would never leave home without them in future. My handful of cold water had done nothing for the stinkiness of my armpit – it had merely soaked the left-hand side of my shirt and spread the onion soup smell about even more. Hastily I buttoned up again.

‘Help! God! Please, God, make my armpits stop stinging!’ begged Chloe as we raced towards English.

‘I think God may have more pressing crises to attend to,’ I gasped, ‘but, hey! If not – please, God, remove my terrible pong!’

‘I’m allergic to this goddam scent!’ screeched Chloe. ‘My armpits are literally
killing me
!’

We arrived apologetically just as Mr Fawcett was giving some books out. I was holding my arms as close to my body as a peg doll at a car boot sale, and Chloe was pale and hysterical with suppressed stinging. We joined Toby and Fergus at a table by the window.

‘OK, uhhhh.’ Mr Fawcett handed us a couple of books, and a divine gust of Ralph Lauren’s
Explorer
washed over us. I was so tempted to ask if he had it with him and if I could borrow a blast, but I’m not that cheeky.

‘Settle down now!’ said Mr Fawcett. ‘We’re going to read a really mysterious poem today, by William Blake. Find page fifty-six.’

‘Hi, girls!’ whispered Tobe. His breath smelt of chocolate. He slid my history file along to me. ‘I owe you!’ He winked, giving his signature thumbs up.

Suddenly I had a mad, but possibly brilliant idea. Mr Fawcett was eyeing us critically, so I found page fifty-six and tried to look studious and grand, whilst holding my armpits firmly shut. My brilliant idea would have to wait for Mr Fawcett to look elsewhere.

‘Blake lived in London and produced his best poetry between about 1780 and 1820, so two hundred years ago,’ said Mr Fawcett. I looked up eagerly and nodded, maintaining contact with his sweet pale-blue eyes. ‘He was quite an – er, eccentric person. In fact, some people thought he was mad. He had visions.’ Mr Fawcett looked anxiously towards George Flint and Seth Mortimer, who were sitting in the opposite corner and making a bit of a noise. I felt I could rely on them to provide me with cover.

‘I just saw Ben Jones in his football gear!’ whispered Toby.

‘Never mind Ben Jones!’ I whispered back – the first and only time I would dismiss BJ as a topic of conversation. ‘Hand over your sweeties!’

Toby got a huge bag of sweets out of his bag and secretly passed them along to me under the table. I coughed to cover the sound of the paper crackling open, and peeped inside – whilst pretending to look at the open poetry book. Mr Fawcett was starting to read.

‘
O Rose, thou art sick
. . .’ he intoned in his special camp poetry voice.

‘Please, sir!’ interrupted Flinters. ‘Is this about Rose Davis in Year 10? She was sick on the school trip!’ Everybody giggled. I felt a bit sorry for Mr Fawcett, but I didn’t have time to sympathise with him now. Fergus was sniffing the air.

‘IThinkIt’sOnionSoupForLunchToday!’ he whispered. He talks like that, all in a rush. ‘OrMaybeHamburgersWithFriedOnions!’ Oh no. Fergus could smell my sweat and he was literally five feet away – sitting at the other side of our table! I cringed and tried to rein in my sweating by sheer will power whilst examining Toby’s huge collection of sweeties. There had to be some here that were suitable. I was going to reinvent sweets as an alternative form of deodorant. Brilliant, huh?

Obviously boiled sweets were out, because they’d be sticky, and chocolate was out, because it would be messy. I needed something light-coloured but the same kind of texture as chocolate, like a kind of solid perfume.

‘It’s not about a specific person,’ explained Mr Fawcett, ignoring Flinters’s wisecrack. ‘It’s about a rose, although the rose might symbolise something.’ I hoped for Mr Fawcett’s sake there weren’t any other iffy words in this poem, because Flinters was in the mood for fun.

Ah! I found the perfect sweet. It was white and shaped like a disc. There were several of them. In a few moments I was hoping to replace onion soup with the scent of white chocolate. Who knows? I could be on the brink of a major cosmetics breakthrough.

Furtively I undid the middle couple of buttons on my shirt, while Mr Fawcett read on.

‘
The invisible worm

That flies in the night
. . .’

I lifted the white disc to my lips. I reckoned I had to moisten it first, to help the smearing process. The disc was hidden in my hand. I pretended to rest my chin on my hand, and secretly licked the disc when I knew Mr Fawcett wasn’t looking. Then, very slowly and quietly, I sneaked the disc inside my shirt and smeared and squidged it about inside my armpit.

‘
In the howling storm
. . .’ Mr Fawcett went on fragrantly.

Flinters interrupted again, ‘Sir, what’s the invisible worm?’

‘Let’s just get to the end of the poem before we try to work out what it means,’ insisted Mr Fawcett patiently. No teacher had ever allowed us to interrupt an actual poem being read before. Mr Fawcett was such a wuss. But he had managed to maintain some kind of discipline right at the start of term by sending Seth and Flinters to Mr Powell (Irritable Powell – Deputy Head and fearsome roaring lion).

He looked round the class for support and response. I nodded understandingly, even though I was halfway through removing my hand from my shirt. I pretended I was adjusting my bra. Mr Fawcett looked embarrassed and went back to his book.

‘
Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy
. . .’

‘Please, sir, is that rude?’ Flinters again.

Oh my God! I’d finally got my hand out of my shirt and my fingers were covered in chocolate – and I mean
brown
chocolate! The whiteness of the disc had apparently only been a kind of coating. I had smeared brown goo all over my right armpit and by now it must be all over my shirt, too!

‘Just let’s read the poem through first, George, so we get a sense of it as a whole,’ snapped Mr Fawcett irritably.

‘A hole, sir?’ Flinters sniggered. Mr Fawcett looked exasperated. Hastily and secretly I licked my fingers. I had no hankie and no tissues. I would never come to school so badly equipped again. How was I going to repair the damage to my ghastly, smeary, hideously chocolatey armpit?

‘
And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.
’

Mr Fawcett had finished. It was quite a short poem, thank God. Although weird.

There was an explosion of sniggering from Flinters’s table, and while Mr Fawcett was distracted, I managed to bend down and whip a panty liner out of my bag, unwrap it and smuggle it swiftly inside my shirt.

‘What’s Blake trying to describe here?’ appealed Mr Fawcett, going red in the face.

‘Please, sir,’ said Monkey Hatton, ‘it could be, like, aphids, you know – er, greenfly.’ Several of the girls screamed slightly, as insects had been mentioned. I would have screamed myself if I hadn’t been so busy secretly sticking a panty liner to my armpit. ‘My nan sprays her roses,’ added Monkey helpfully.

‘Well, you could be on the right lines, in a way,’ nodded Mr Fawcett. I nodded, too, partly in relief. I had managed to secure the panty liner to the inside of my shirt. So at least one armpit was now smelling slightly less of onions and slightly more of chocolate, even if the other one was still not only oniony but uncomfortably wet. Still, my crisis was nothing compared to the bad morning Mr Fawcett was having.

‘Although the poem seems to be about a rose and a worm, what I’m asking you to think about is what might those things
symbolise
?’

‘My pits are going to need surgery!’ growled Chloe in agony, her fists still plunged deeply into her stinging armpits. ‘Skin grafts off my bum! The only hope!’

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After English, Mr Fawcett limped off towards the staff room leaving a wonderful waft of Ralph Lauren. We headed for the loos. We now had the whole of break to deal with our vandalised armpits. We were whimpering hysterically as we charged along the corridor: Chloe was still in pain, but my own anguish was mostly mental.

‘Gaaaaaad!’ I groaned. ‘What a nightmare! How could things possibly get worse?!?!’

Just then Ben Jones and Tim Huddlestone came round the corner and walked towards us in their football shorts: normally this would be an opportunity for some appreciative drooling and eyeballing (on our part, naturally), but right now we were almost too traumatised to bother. As we drew level with them, however, Tim locked eyes with me and said, ‘Uh, I think – you dropped something . . . ?’

I followed his gaze, turned around and saw, to my complete and utter horror, the panty liner! Which had fallen out of my armpit and
lay behind me on the floor
, liberally adorned with melted chocolate!

‘It’s only chocolate!’ I yelled, diving down and snatching it up into my bag, then tried to perform a wacky grin, as if it was all a riotous joke we’d deliberately staged, and ran off towards the loos. Well, towards South America, actually, which is where I’m planning to hide until I’m about fifty-seven. I’m sure, if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never suffer a moment of greater horror and embarrassment.

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9

We were a million miles away from being even very minor goddesses; in fact, our efforts so far had only led to us falling right down the food chain and acquiring the charisma of tiny slimy things that live in ponds.

Two days later the hip-hop DVD arrived, so Chloe and I started on our aerobic workouts. It was great, even though I was panting like a hippo after only two minutes. As I walked home, I thought about other ways to get fit. Delivering leaflets was an obvious possibility. Mum says walking is the best exercise, and she and Dad sometimes go on walking holidays and take heroic photos of themselves being blasted by gales on mountaintops.

Walking around town delivering Beast’s leaflets wasn’t so melodramatic, but it could certainly turn out to be romantic, as long as I could keep clear of Matthew and somehow keep seeing Beast. ‘
Uhhh, Beastie darling
,’ I would murmur, ‘
could you just take me through the business of putting a leaflet through a letter box? I’m not quite sure how to do it.
’ And he’d stand behind me sort of cuddling up against my back and talking me through the whole thing, but somehow, you know, I still wouldn’t get it, and he’d have to give me private lessons for hours and hours.

Helping to publicise Jailhouse Rock would be brilliant for two main reasons: I’d have an excuse to see Beast and I’d burn off a few calories. The only problem was Chloe. It was so tricky trying to get involved with something behind her back.

Of course I should have sat down with her and said, ‘
Look here, Chloe, you may not want to help with Jailhouse Rock, but I do, and I’m going to.
’ If it was just a question of wanting to help, really, it would have been straightforward. But it wasn’t just a question of wanting to help. It was, of course, a question of wanting to see Beast – just see him, quietly, in a room full of other people if necessary. He didn’t even have to speak to me. Well, ultimately it was a question of me being mad about Beast, and Chloe having recently been mad about Beast. Dodgy territory.

I tried to compose a text to Beast offering to help, but it was too much of a challenge trying to make it sound glamorous, sexy, casual, cool, generous, delightful, witty and irresistible, and still convey the essential information. I decided that instead of sending him a text, I would casually drop into the Major Events office on Saturday morning, see him in person and offer to help. I couldn’t go before Saturday because I didn’t want Beast to see me in school uniform.

For the rest of the week, Chloe was busy every evening with her family, because her dad had come home from Dubai. Whenever this happens, her mum Fran organises lots of events so people can see him and hear all about his glamorous life in Dubai. I think she likes to prove to people that he’s still around. Chloe went a bit quiet at school – she was tired, trying to fit in homework with all of her social obligations. Our self-improvement project had to go on the back burner for a bit.

‘I can’t do the hip-hop routine,’ she grumbled, ‘because my dad won’t let me play loud music or anything. We’re never going to be goddesses in seven days.’

‘Well, twenty-seven days, then,’ I suggested. ‘Or something like that. Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ Chloe looked relieved. I felt relieved myself. We’d set ourselves an impossible task with that seven days idea.

‘Shall we give up on the seven days schedule, then?’ asked Chloe. ‘But still stay on track to be goddesses, right?’

‘Right!’ I agreed. ‘Gimme a high five! Goddesses by – well . . .’

‘Goddesses ASAP!’ giggled Chloe. Thank God that little bit of pressure was off. There was enough stress to deal with in everyday life.

Friday came, and I was beginning to get nervous about dropping in at Beast’s office the next morning.

‘Hey, Zoe!’ said Chloe. ‘My parents are going away together this weekend. They’ll be away till Sunday. So is it OK if I come round yours on Saturday night?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ I said. ‘My parents will be away, too: they’re doing some kind of walking weekend in the Peak District.’

‘Wow!’ grinned Chloe. ‘Let’s throw a party and wreck the joint!’

‘Great idea!’ I agreed. ‘And then we can throw another one at your place and wreck that, too.’

‘Let’s meet in the morning in town!’ suggested Chloe. ‘Then we can decide which goddess frocks we’re going to get for Jailhouse Rock!’

‘We mustn’t make it too early,’ I warned her anxiously. I needed to keep the morning free for my visit to Beast’s office. ‘Let’s say twelve. After all, it is Saturday. I need my beauty sleep.’

‘OK,’ agreed Chloe. ‘I’ll see you by the town hall at noon. You’ll recognise me because I’ll be wearing one of my stylish coats made of Weetabix and dead rats.’

All Friday evening I planned what I was going to wear when I dropped in at the Major Events office the next morning. I had to look glamorous, sexy, casual, cool, generous, delightful, witty and irresistible. But in an effortless kind of way – not as if I’d had to work hard at it, but because I was just naturally overflowing with all those things.

I glared into my wardrobe. Though quieter than Chloe’s, it was still a disappointment. Nothing in there was quite right for a Saturday morning in town. I am at my best dressed up for a night out. But I could hardly teeter into the Major Events office in killer leopard-print heels and a pink minidress, could I?

My daytime casual clothes really did need an overhaul. Because Tam had gone back to uni, I had a quick flick through her wardrobe, but the best stuff was gone and the only things hanging there were a few boho items left over from her recent phase, all lace and batik and fussy stuff. I am so not boho. I would almost rather be hobo than boho.

Next morning Mum and Dad were up early, getting ready to leave for the Peak District. They were going to stay the night at a little B&B beside a stream, and Mum was pleased I’d invited Chloe to spend the night so I wouldn’t be Home Alone.

‘No drugs,’ she said sternly, cleaning her shoes. ‘No drink, no sex.’

‘Well, that may be your plan for the weekend,’ I smiled cheekily, ‘but Chloe and I are throwing a party here and inviting two thousand people off the Internet.’

Mum went pale. ‘Don’t even joke about that sort of stuff, Zoe,’ she murmured, giving me a long hard look as if she knew it was just a joke, but the thought of it had made her feel quite ill.

Once they’d gone, first of all I applied six layers of deodorant. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Onion soup must be banished for ever. I decided to wear skinny jeans and a star-print hoodie. It looked OK, but I’d been too nervous to eat much breakfast and I was afraid my breath would smell. I chewed some parsley (Dad taught me that little trick – apparently he used to chew parsley when he was a teenager so his mum and dad wouldn’t know when he’d been smoking or drinking). Then I chewed some gum.

I spent one thousand years on my make-up – I actually took the whole lot off twice and started over again. I wasn’t sure whether Beast liked girls wearing make-up. Boys are a bit weird about cosmetics: they don’t see the point. I am of course
obsessed
with make-up, so what boys think is irrelevant, even Beast. I mean, I’m prepared to make some concessions to impress the opposite sex. If Beast required me to go to Africa and wrestle lions single-handedly, that would be no problem. But he’d have to accept that I would need to spend an hour on lion-proof mascara and safari lipgloss, first.

Eventually I was ready. I wore a pair of flat shoes to show that I wasn’t some kind of teetering ninny, although I didn’t rule it out as a stylish career option at some point in the future. With my sturdy flat shoes I would be fine trudging up and down the city streets delivering Beast’s leaflets.

I walked up and down the high street twice, right past his office, before I plucked up the courage to go in. Major Events is above an employment agency; I went up the stairs and found myself in reception. A bored-looking girl looked up. How could she be bored with Beast working there?

‘Hi,’ I wheezed, trying to sound charismatic but instead sounding asthmatic. ‘I’ve come to see Harry Hawkins about Jailhouse Rock.’

‘Up to the top.’ The girl pointed to the ceiling with her pen. ‘Turn left at the top of the stairs, and it’s right at the end of the corridor.’

I went up more stairs, puffing and panting. I had to get fit. I was going to have to up my hip-hop routine to twice a day. This was ridiculous. I didn’t want Beast to think I was a feeble lardass – although in fact, that’s exactly what I am. He, of course, is the captain of a local rugby team called the Antelopes, and last year he was the rugby megastar of Ashcroft School, so he is uber-fit – in both senses of the word.

I found myself outside a door with a handwritten sign taped to it which said
JAILHOUSE ROCK
. I knocked, my heart thudding with uncontrollable love and unaccustomed exercise.

‘Come in!’ called a girl’s voice. Sickened by the sound, I pushed my way in and found myself face to face with Charlie. It was a small office with two desks. She was sitting at the smaller one. The larger one was empty.

‘Oh, hi, Charlie!’ I said. She looked blank for a moment.

‘Oh, hey, great to see you!’ she said, smiling, after a tiny hesitation. ‘God, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. I’m so hopeless with names, it’s a disaster. Was it Leonie?’

‘Zoe,’ I said. ‘Is . . . Beast around?’

‘He’s in a meeting with my uncle,’ said Charlie. ‘Can I help?’

My heart sank. I had spent the last twelve hours preparing myself mentally, physically, emotionally and style-wise for this moment, and it had been a complete waste of time.

‘I just thought I might be able to spare a bit of time to help,’ I said. ‘Poor Beast! He looked so stressed out. It must be a nightmare for him.’

‘You know Beast quite well, don’t you?’ asked Charlie with a thoughtful and, to be honest, rather calculating little smile.

‘Well, you know . . .’ I shrugged. ‘A little . . . Newquay, last summer . . .’ I let it hang in the air, as if Beast and I had been sitting on the beach until dawn every night for a week. If only.

‘Tell you what,’ said Charlie, getting up and diving into her jacket. ‘Let’s grab a coffee, shall we? Have you got time? Then I could fill you in on what we’ve been doing so far.’

I assumed this was to do with Jailhouse Rock rather than what she and Beast might be getting up to in their leisure moments. But to be honest, dedicated though I was to supporting Amnesty International, it was the personal stuff I was really interested in.

As we reached the street, Charlie plucked at the sleeve of my hoodie.

‘Great top,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Charity shop,’ I lied. I had decided not to play competitive games with her. In fact, I was going to play a private game of my own. Then she did something really strange. She linked arms with me as we walked off, as if we’d been best mates all our lives. And this was a girl who, three minutes ago, hadn’t even been able to remember my name.

‘So,’ she whispered confidentially, ‘when did you first meet the mysterious Mr Hawkins?’ And she followed it up with a giggle which I didn’t quite like.

‘Oh, God knows,’ I sighed, as if I couldn’t be less interested. ‘I’ve known Beast, uhhh, for ever.’