Finally, after what seemed like about eighteen hours standing on my own feeling like I had a big flashing silver spangly arrow
hovering above my head saying
BILLY NO MATES,
the door opens and Carrie, Luther Dinsdale, and Nabila Chaalan walk in. Then not long behind is Sean Burton and Sonia Cathcart
all looking very “smart-caj.” Even Nabila had a bit of mascara and jewelry on with her hijab which she don’t normally. Carrie,
whose fake tan was looking very “Month in Trinidad,” was wearing a black skirt and a black top with long sleeves and sort
of floaty cuffs and long brown boots I ain’t never seen before and looking well WAGish.
All of us from Mayflower were like “Wooo-hoo!” when we met up. Even me and Sonia Cathcart were pleased to see each other which
is sort of weird ’cos I ain’t never really been that great mates with Sonia ever since Year Eight when her family went all
born-again Christian and she once told me that ’cos I weren’t confirmed a Christian and didn’t eat and drink the body of Christ
on Sunday then I was going to be pretty much shafted once the day of reckoning came ’cos there would be a great storm and
she’d be up in heaven and I’d be left down here with THE BEAST.
So I says to her, “well FAIR PLAY, Sonia, ’cos I’d rather be left down here with Satan nibbling my ‘arris than up in heaven
with your father and his bloody tambourine and his megaphone that he uses to jar everyone’s head about Jesus Christ outside
Food Lion every Saturday and by the way, Sonia, my mother reckons your father ain’t that flipping holy ’cos he’s always in
her betting shop and she reckons he ain’t been touched by Jesus he’s just having some sort of mental episode and he needs
his head looked at by Dr. Gupta!”
Well, it all went off then and I wasn’t allowed back to Religious Studies until I apologized to Sonia in a letter. But as
I say that was a long time ago back in Year Eight and it’s all good now. It’s just I wouldn’t exactly call Sonia my best friend
or nothing. Not Nabila Chaalan neither. But it was funny ’cos yesterday as me, Sean, Nabila, and everyone looked about the
Sixth Form we realized that this little gang were pretty much all we’d got.
Then the door opens and Uma Brunton-Fletcher walks in. She’s wearing black leggings and a denim mini and a black hoodie, and
thick gold hoops with her gold clown pendant over the top. Her hair was tied up in a scrunchie in an “Ilford Face Lift,” as
my mother calls it. Everybody who knew her tried not to look shocked to see her but they did anyhow.
“All right,” she said to us all then she pretended to look at her phone, but the moment she went to the loo Sonia goes in
a loud whisper, “WHAT IS UMA BRUNTON-FLETCHER DOING HERE!?” Then Carrie says that her mum says that she knows someone who
works for the council and they reckon that Mayflower are letting some kids in to study who you’d never imagine doing further
education so Mayflower can qualify for their government funding and look good in all the newspapers “’cos they’re giving a
chance to the pikeys.”
I felt sick again then ’cos I started thinking that Carrie’s mum’s friend was meaning folk like me too.
Most of the rest of the day I spent running about signing up for my courses. I’ve signed up for AS-Level English Literature,
History, Film Studies, and Critical Thinking. It all looks well hard. I saw Ms. Bracket and she says I’ve picked “a good mix
of arts subjects which is an area I’ve shown great aptitude for and should find a wonderful challenge.” I love the way she
takes something proper scary and makes it sound like a big exciting game. Carrie is doing English Lit and Film Studies too
so at least I’ll have someone to sit with now and again.
I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing here. I still don’t know if I’m a Sixth Former sort of person. Some of these
new lot seem right up themselves. Like yesterday, I was standing in line to sign up for Critical Thinking and this boy was
standing one in front of me making a right old fuss. (I figured out later it was the same lad who was laughing at
Fast-Track Family Feud.
)
So anyways, he’s at the desk and I’m behind waiting and I’m waiting and waiting and waiting ’cos he’s taking all day to sign
up ’cos he’s asking all about the course in tiny detail and Mr. Stockford is saying, “Joshua! All will be explained at the
first lesson!” and this Joshua lad with the cheekbones is going, “But I need to know now! Why would I officially sign up for
a subject without knowing the full extent of the syllabus!” which I sort of agreed with but I wouldn’t have put it so posh,
I’d have said “’Ere, bruv, I ain’t signing nothing now. What am I, some sort of clown?!”
Anyways, after about another ten minutes of bickering Mr. Stockford says, “OK! OK! Joshua Fallow, we will keep a provisional
place in the course open for you! Come to the induction lesson and you can sign the papers when you feel certain.”
With that I give a huge sigh of relief and go ‘Halle-bloody-lujah!” and this Joshua turns round and stares at me. Then he
looks me right up and down like I’m a bloody mannequin in TopShop and he’s checking out the new season’s autumn/winter fashion.
“Who are you then? Are you doing Critical Thinking too?” he goes.
He had swimming-pool-blue eyes and clear, tanned skin and nice lips.
“I’m Shiraz Bailey Wood,” I said proper back in his face.
“Shiraz Bailey Wood?” Joshua was cocking his head to the side like our Penny does when she’s angling for a bit of your Kit
Kat. “Shiraz?” he repeated. “As in the wine?
“Yeah,” I said.
“And Bailey?” he said. I flared my nostrils at him.
“Like as in the Irish cream liqueur,” I said looking him right in the eye like I had no fear.
“Shiraz Bailey Wood,” he said again.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m Joshua Ezra Fallow,” he said.
“All right, Joshua,” I said, pulling my best “Whatever, bruv” face.
“Wowzers! That’s a big locket,” he said, nodding at Wesley’s pressie.
“Yeah, thanks very much,” I said, then I pushed past him and went to register. He’s one of them blokes who’s good-looking
but knows it so he’s a bit up himself. Like I said, I can’t stand boys like that.
9:15
PM
—Just been speaking to Cava-Sue and she says she is well chuffed for me signing up for all these courses. Cava-Sue says don’t
WHATEVER I do tell mother about doing Film Studies ’cos she will say it’s just lying about on your arse eating gummies and
it totally isn’t.
9:30
PM
—Yeah bare jokes, Cava-Sue! You’re kidding, right? Next thing you’ll be saying for English Lit AS-Level I actually have to
read ALL of those books on Ms. Bracket’s list, including Shakespeare’s
King Lear
and
Henry IV
Part One! Ha ha ha ha!
Cava-Sue and Lewis have got new jobs. They’re working at Sunshine Sandwiches at Ilford. There’s stacks of jobs going there
right now ’cos everyone got fired last week after an investigation by Head Office discovered people giving out free ketchup
packets and drink refills to their mates. Cava-Sue and Lewis have to wear salmon-pink trousers and burgundy T-shirts and green
baseball hats that say “
LET ME MAKE YOU A SUNSHINE SANDWICH
!” Cava-Sue says it will do for a few months. Cava-Sue says it’ll be worth it when she’s in Northern Thailand “communing”
with the long-necked women of Mae Hong Son.
Sometimes I wonder if Cava-Sue regrets not carrying on after AS-Level and doing A2-Level. She don’t ever say. She only talks
about traveling now. Traveling to weird places where you need ten injections in your jacksie before you set off and special
knickers just to stop bum-invading ants scampering up your passages and nibbling your kidneys. Rather her than me.
The thing I find freaky is that our Cava-Sue never even mentioned traveling before she started seeing Lewis. Traveling was
his big dream, NOT hers at all. That freaks me out about boyfriends. It seems that when you’re with them for a while, you
start losing track of what you actually want. They bend your bloody head.
Oh thank God it is Friday. I am KNACKERED. I’ve spent the whole week at Mayflower having my first AS lessons, or to be more
exact, sitting on a chair in a circle playing “getting to know you” games with folk from Regis Hill, Walthamstow Grange and
other schools. “Everyone pick a partner!” shouted Ms. Bracket in the first AS English course. “Spend five minutes telling
each other your interests! Then report back to the group!”
So, it turns out I don’t have any interests. Not real ones anyway.
I mean, what do I ever bloody do? Go shopping? (Not even shopping, just “looking” ’cos I am brassic). See Wesley? Watch
EastEnders
? Mess about on MySpace? Apparently these DON’T count. Not when there’s a girl in my Sixth Form called Tonita who goes to
Lea Valley Ice Rink three times a week and wants to compete in London 2012. Not when there’s a Sikh boy called Manpreet who
once was on
Countdown
and won £1,000!! Saying that, he’s a proper weirdo who’s also made a complete Wembley Stadium out of matchsticks so I’m not
that jealous.
That Joshua Fallow lad is a PROPER NUISANCE. Joshua Fallow reckons that I can’t have “Seeing My Nan” as an interest. Or “Singing”
neither, if it’s only when I’m in the shower. Joshua Fallow reckons they don’t count. Who died and made him king?! Joshua
Fallow reckons I should have “Weight lifting” down as one of my hobbies ’cos I must have been training my neck muscles for
months to cart around my gold hoops and my locket at the same time.
I told Joshua Fallow his “interest” should be sitting on the mantelpiece frightening small kids away from the fire, ’cos his
face looks like a cat’s fangita. Joshua laughed for ages when I said that. He is ANNOYING.
Today Nan came over and cooked us Sunday dinner. I love it when Nan cooks dinner ’cos she makes everything, even stuff like
broccoli, taste amazing and everything is hot at the same time and the chicken is crispy on the outside and white and soft
in the middle and the gravy just tastes like the best thing in the world ever ’cos she makes it in a well-complicated way
with all the stuff from the chicken pan and this brown floury powder. She doesn’t just pour water into a mix like Mum. If
I had to die tomorrow and I was allowed one last meal I would ask for some of Nan’s roast potatoes and her gravy. Straight
up, I would.
Mum gets a bit narked if I say stuff like this though, so I have to make a big point of saying I like her waffles, SpaghettiO’s,
and sausage dinners too. Wesley came round for Sunday dinner today ’cos his mum’s in Blackpool at a Motown Tribute Festival
this weekend so he was on his own and was planning to have Chef Boyardee. Wesley loves my nan’s roast potatoes. In fact Wesley
loves Nan too and he even calls her Nan which she really likes. Wesley must have been extra hungry today ’cos he ate all of
his dinner like one of them gorillas out of
Planet of the Apes.
I wish he would eat more like a human and try not to get gravy all over his face.
After the food, Wesley tried to get me to come out with him for a drive then go back to his house for a bit seeing as his
mum’s not back till tomorrow and we could have some “privacy.” I knew what he was getting at so I said no I needed to read
King Lear.
Wesley looked a bit like he might get the hump, then he chilled out and said no bother.
Wesley went over to his mate Bezzie Kelleher’s house instead. Bezzie used to go out with Carrie about a year and half ago,
but they split up on account of his being a proper bell-end. Wesley says Bezzie’s been laying some more tracks down and wonders
whether Wesley fancies spitting some lyrics. Bezzie wants to get their “rhyme syndicate” the G-Mayes Detonators back together
and do some collaborations with some of the other crews they know like the Crowley Park Brapboys and the Rinse and Go Fraternity.
I said, “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Bezzie is proper talented,” and made a face like I totally meant it.
I started reading
King Lear.
As far as I can see it’s about this old geezer who is a king who feels knackered so reckons he might pack in his job, so
right away all his daughters start being well shady trying to work out ways to nick all his money. It’s a bit like that time
old Bob down at number 47 died sudden in the night and by about 11
AM
his garden was full of all his sons proper fighting over his jar of loose coins and his gold sovereign ring and his Status
Quo records.
Money does weird things to folks. That’s one good thing about having none.
Classes are well hard in Sixth Form. We’re reading
King Lear
in English and Ms. Bracket isn’t hanging back waiting for us to pick it up slowly, she’s making us gallop through it, reading
it out and acting bits and firing us loads of questions. Carrie is looking well cheesed off. She says she’s not feeling it
at all. Manpreet says he read
King Lear
twice when he was eleven. WHAT A FREAK.
I can’t believe Uma is still here. She sat beside me and Carrie in English today and she remembered her book and everything
even if she did look proper baffled all the way through the lesson. Sonia Cathcart said to me in study hall that Uma is only
doing, like, one AS-Level and it’s NOT FAIR ’cos Uma’s only there ’cos she’s “One of Ms. Bracket’s little charity projects.”
I felt my face go hot then and I said to Sonia Cathcart she should go say that to Uma’s face if she’s such a rudegirl and
so Sonia shut up. I dunno why I started sticking up for Uma, I just did. I reckon it’s ’cos there’s some folk in Sixth Form
who think they’re well better than others and I ain’t into that at all. You’ve got to keep it real.
That Joshua Fallow hadn’t read any of
King Lear
’cos he said he had to help his mum out selling her paintings on Saturday at her art stall at Spitalfields Market. Not only
does Joshua have proper interests, HIS MOTHER DOES TOO.