The Book of Lies (24 page)

All last summer I was counting down the days to September. It was like I was serving a prison sentence, without even looking forward to my date of release. Before then I'd always got excited about the start of the new school year: the shiny new textbooks, the baggy cardigans, the comedy fringes and home perms. This time, though, it was different. Mum couldn't understand why I wasn't going hyper about being in the Fifth Form. I'd always thought fifth-year girls were so grownup. But when she dropped me at the school gates that first day back I wanted to run away. I remember walking down the corridor to Assembly and wishing I was somewhere else, and when I first saw Nic it was like I'd been punched. She had a lovely tan and bleached-blonde highlights from the sun. People were swarming round her as per bees and a honey pot. Then she saw me and there was this strange magnetic tug-of-war with eyes.

She put her hand to her mouth and whispered something over her shoulder. Lisa laughed and Shelley turned to look at me.

So Nic wasn't exactly ignoring me anymore, but I wouldn't call it an improvement.

‘I'm amazed they could find a uniform to fit her.'

‘Christ!
The embarrassment!'

Yes, yes. I should've expected it. Why would I think things could be any different? There was Nic and Lisa and Shelley and the way they shut me out reminded me of how I'd always felt shut out of things. For the longest time it hadn't mattered. But now it did matter, because I knew what I was missing. I was like one of those people who'd been famous for all of ten minutes, and then had my dreams cruelly crushed or snatched from me. There'd be no more glittering invites to VIP parties, and my usual table in Le Swanky Restaurant du Choix had been taken by somebody else.

Lisa was now with Pagey. What a joke. And Shelley was with Jason. Oh-the-Horror. They thought they were so special – they'd sit round the back of the music block and talk about all the exciting things they were doing after school. They'd link arms and giggle and flick their glossy hair. Of course I did my best to avoid them. I'd sit in the cloakroom or work in the library, and inside I was dying.

Nobody knows this, but by the middle of that first week I'd locked myself in the science-lab loos for the whole of the lunch hour, clutching a bottle of bleach. I
100
% wanted to drink it. The next day I stole a scalpel from Biology so as to gouge out my wrists. I actually managed one good-ish cut before I chickened out. I felt guilty for wanting to kill myself and guilty for not trying harder. I imagined my next school report. ‘Catherine should apply herself more. We all know what she is capable of.'

The whole thing was Epic and Titanic. I wanted to show Nic that she was wrong to drop me, but I had no idea how.

Let's be clear about this next bit. It wasn't something I planned. I didn't sit in my bedroom and plot ways to get Nic back. Maybe it looks like that now, but remember looks aren't everything. I was getting more and more depressed and I just needed a friend. I needed someone to give me a bit of perspective. And History just happened to be the last lesson on Friday. I'd been back at school all of two weeks and was in the worst state ever. I was dreading the weekend. I kept it together for the whole of the Poor Laws and then the bell went and the classroom emptied. Nic and Lisa were chatting about another big party at André Duquemin's that Saturday night. They'd always talk so loudly just to rub my nose in it.

‘It's going to be wicked!' said Lisa. ‘Everyone's going.' Then she looked back at me and smirked.

Nic flicked her ponytail. ‘
Careful
. We don't want gatecrashers.'

I sat quietly and watched them leave.

A minute passed and I wondered whether to try to cycle home. Then I heard a sigh. Mr McCracken was still in the classroom, tidying up his books. When I saw him standing there it felt like a sign. He was The Only Person In The World (or Guernsey) who didn't laugh at me. The Only Person Who Liked Me (even a bit). He wasn't my form teacher anymore and I missed him. I missed how he always smoothed out old book jackets and lost pages from his Filofax. I didn't have anywhere to go to and I was pretty sure he didn't either. We had nowhere and nothing, the two of us. I hated it and I wondered if he felt the same. He certainly didn't look great. His eyes were tired and his hair was unwashed and his new beard didn't suit him. I was already crying but I tried to do it quietly. He was about to pull on his tweed jacket when he noticed me.

‘Come on, Cathy, home time.'

I looked up into those friendly hazel eyes.

‘I can't go home,' I told them.

Mr Mac arched one eyebrow as per James Bond. ‘Whyever not?'

The tears came more quickly. ‘I've got nothing and no one to go home to.'

‘That's not true.'

‘Yes, it is. I may as well be dead and in fact I wish I was.'

Mr Mac looked shocked.

‘Don't say such things.'

I got the feeling he wasn't too thrilled about me crying on him again. He'd started fiddling with his papers, as if they were in need of his Instamatic attention. I was a bit put out and shoved my books into my satchel as noisily as possible. Then I shuffled to the front, head hung low.

‘Come on,' he said, ‘nothing's that bad. You've had a rough time, but—' ‘But nothing! Nothing ever goes right for me. It is unbelievably bad and crap and shit
always
. Everyone hates me. They think I'm a freak no matter what I do.

It's like everything has already been decided. My life is set on this crap course of crapness.'

Mad Mac's lovely face set into a frown. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You know! Nobody likes me, so what else can I do? I should do what they want me to do, which is just go away and
die
. Maybe
then
they'll be sorry.'

Mr Mac had put his hands on his hips and seemed to be genuinely concerned. I was getting quite hysterical. I think I was somewhere near his desk but I really can't remember.

‘I try my best, I work hard and try to do the right thing, but I'll always look like this and therefore be a
reject.
'

‘Oh, Cathy. You're putting too much stock on how things look.'

‘It's how it is,' I replied, ‘it's the
truth
. I hate myself.'

The McFrown reached Olympic-sized proportions.

‘Where's this coming from?'

‘From me.' I jabbed my finger to my heart. ‘Me! I can't be me any longer. I'm hideous. I have to stop it, I have to stop everything!'

There was an awkward silence as Mr McCracken tried to think of what to say. He stared down at his desk like he might find some good words there. (I did like how he paused before he said things, it made him seem more intellectual.)

‘You're in a right old state.' He steered himself towards me and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Have you talked to anyone about this?'

I drew myself up. ‘I'm talking to you.'

‘Yes, but—' ‘I want to talk to
you
, I want
you
to help me.'

Mr McCracken lifted his head and dropped it again.

‘Cathy,' he pushed out his bottom lip a micro-inch, ‘how can I help you? What do you want me to do?'

I glared red-hot at him. ‘Tell me you care. Tell me I'm not nothing.'

I remember how he smiled very especially.

‘Of course you're not. You're very special.'

I nodded and gulped down my tears.

Bollocks. I'm trying to write this down as accurately as I remember but I've also tried hard to block it out. What happened next? I think I sort of took Mr McCracken's hand and maybe pressed it. Then I pulled myself up onto tippy-toe and leaned forward. Yes, that's it. I knew Mr Mac wouldn't like me leaning in so close but I couldn't help it. I was sort of carried away in the emotion and I didn't care how it looked, I just wanted a bit more contact. Did I plan to kiss him? No, not him. I was just sort of imagining anyone with a head and hair. I pressed the palm of my hand flat on the McChest so as to feel his heartbeat. I suppose it was the sort of thing I'd seen before on TV. Then I tried to put my other arm around his neck and tilt my chin towards him.

I may as well have prodded him with a poker.

‘Cathy!'

He stepped back and I lost my balance – talk about destroying the moment! – I had to grab him so as to steady myself. Then he took me by the shoulders and tried to hold me up. For a split second the eye-to-eye contact was intensely smouldering, but not in a good way. We were close enough to kiss and I tried wrapping both arms around his neck this time. Then his hands were on my waist.

He said something like ‘Stop! Huuuh!'

It was over in a flash, and all I can now picture is the terror on his face. I could've slapped him when I saw it.

Instead I slammed him back with my hand.

‘You're lying. You don't care at all.
Slimeball
!'

‘What?'

‘You don't know anything about what I'm going through. Keep away from me!'

I had really screamed those last words out and this is actually important. I don't think I have ever-ever-ever screamed like that, right into someone's face, and seen the effect it had. It felt fantastic. I ran out of the classroom and straight into Mrs Carey and Mrs Le Sauvage, who were standing, arms crossed, a little way down the corridor.

You can probably guess what happened next. No, I bet you can't. It was like one of those rubbish plays they put on at Beau Sejour, where everyone shouts and throws their hands about. I jumped on the mountainous Mrs Le Sauvage, sobbing hysterically. She wobbled all of her chins at Mr McCracken, who, of course, had come running into the corridor. She asked him what-on-God's-green-earth-was-happening, and he said he didn't know himself. That made my sobbing tidal. Looking back, I was crying for lots of reasons, but I blamed Mr McCracken completely.

The Savage Mountain didn't know what to think and I let myself get lost in the moment/her bosom. From there I started stringing together my accusations. I said Mr Mac had hugged and tried to kiss me. I called him a pervert. I started to hyper-vent, which made it all the more convincing. If I'd had to go on TV or tell my story to a national newspaper then I bet they would've paid me well. But that sort of thing only happens in England. In England they would've also called the police and carted Mr McCracken off to prison. (I'm glad they didn't.)

Even so, all the shouty chest-beating was just what I wanted. I was suddenly playing me in the film of my life and it wasn't some crappy play at Beau Sejour but a proper Hollywood blockbuster – the kind you'd never see in the cinema in Guernsey.
⁵⁹
My audience was small but select. Mrs Le Sauvage took me straight to Mrs Perrot, who cancelled her Friday night Ceroc class and sat me down with a box of scented tissues. Then Mum came rushing in from work to hold my hand and act like A Proper Mother for the first time in a long time. It all looked quite promising. And as Mr McCracken got more and more flustered his voice went squeaky and irritated everyone.

‘She's confused, she threw herself at me. What could I do? I've only ever tried to help her and be a support to her. But I never crossed the line! This is preposterous! It's insane!'

Mr McCracken got so worked up. He said I'd come to him talking about problems at home. He looked at Mum accusingly and her perm went all static like a storm cloud.

‘Is this true, Cathy?'

I shook my head so hard I thought it would fall off. I told Mum she was the best mum ever and that I loved her more than anything, which is why I hadn't told her about Mr McCracken.

Mr Mac then got very angry and went off to the staff room whilst Mrs P. nodded sympathetically and watched me cling to Mum.

‘This is all such a shock,' she kept saying. ‘We've never had a problem like this. I can't understand it.'

Mr Mac then re-surfaced [stage right], brandishing a few of those nasty notes he'd been sent.

‘Look at these!' He threw them down on the desk. ‘I've been getting them for a while, and I tried to ignore it but now I think it's clear who must've written them.' He looked across at me. ‘She's fixated! It's a crush that's got out-of-hand, and these letters show she's angry and knows full well her feelings aren't reciprocated.'

I blinked at the notes spread out in front of us, and wiped the tears from my cheeks.

‘I never wrote those. I thought you were my friend. You were always giving me lifts home, and what about that Sunday afternoon when you took me to Island Wide?'

Mr Mac's jaw tightened as I stood up to face him.

‘We had such good chats when we met on the cliffs. You spent so much time with me and you know I never sent you those notes. I remember that time we found one on your windscreen.'

Mr Mac stared back at me. ‘Cathy, come on. This is all in your head!'

I looked again at the notes. Maybe it was all in my head, but just because it was in my head didn't make it any less real.

‘I thought you genuinely cared for me. I wasn't the only one who thought so, either. The other girls tease me. You've always singled me out.'

Confusion rained like cats and dogs. I promised Mrs Perrot that I didn't know who wrote the notes, although there was something strangely familiar about the curve of the ‘S' and the crooked underlining. They were passed around and perusled. Our Reverend Head-Mistress then twitched her nose and asked Mr McCracken why on earth he'd not brought them to her attention. I started crying again and suggested that some other ‘confused' pupil might have written them.

Mr McCracken flapped his arms like a cartoon penguin.

‘This is ridiculous! Are you all mad? Isn't it obvious this is some deranged form of attention-seeking? Cathy, why are you doing this?'

‘I'm not doing anything,' I replied.