STAR CRAZY ME!

Jean Ure

Contents

Title Page Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten About the Author Copyright About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

The day Marigold Johnson called me a fat freak was the day I started bunking off school.

That is a fact. It is absolutely one hundred per cent true. But is it a good way to begin? I thought that it was, but now I am not so sure. I mean, in one sense it was what set things in motion, as they say, cos if it hadn’t been for me bunking off school – well! Certain things would never have happened. Meeting Mrs P, for one. On the other hand, lots of really significant stuff had gone on in my life before Marigold went and called me a freak. So now I’m feeling a bit confused and don’t quite know how to begin.

Maybe I should start by explaining about Marigold, and why it was she had it in for me. She still does have it in for me. She’s had it in for me ever since Year 7, and we’re in Year 9 now. That is what I call bearing a grudge. With a vengeance. In other words, she got the hump and has never got over it. It squats there on her shoulder like a big black toad and makes her really mean.

What it was, it was in drama one day when Mrs Hendricks told us to “Partner off, boy and girl.” Quite honestly I didn’t think anyone would be falling over themselves to partner me. Not that I have an inferiority complex, or anything; Nan always taught me that it’s important to value yourself. But there’s no point hiding your head in the sand. I’m not the sort of girl that boys fight over, and that is just something I have to live with. Me and a few million others. We can’t all look like Marigold Johnson, i.e. stick thin with big pouty lips full of Botox, or whatever it is they put into lips to make them puff up. If she hasn’t had Botox (or whatever it is) then she’s suffering from some kind of birth defect. One which boys, it has to be said, do seem to be attracted to. I guess big pouty lips are good for slurpy kissing.

Anyway. As soon as Mrs Hendricks said “Partner off”, everyone started shuffling about trying to catch the attention of someone they fancied, with me doing my best to fade into the background, which is not easy when you’re my size. Even Nan wouldn’t have said I was small. Out of the corner of my eye I could see this boy standing just nearby. Well, it was Josh, actually, only I didn’t think of him as Josh back then, cos I didn’t really know him all that well. He was just a boy who happened to be in my class, so I thought of him as Joshua. Joshua Daniels.

Out of the corner of my other eye I could see Marigold. She was on the move, heading straight past me, straight for… Josh. I guessed that she was out to nab him. See, this was before she started going out with Lance Stapleton, otherwise known as the Thug. The Thug wasn’t going out with anyone at that stage, he was too busy charging about in a gang and beating people up. In fact beating people up is still one of his main hobbies, but now he likes to have a girl to watch him do it. I guess it makes him feel important. He and Marigold are dead right for each other. The perfect couple! She wouldn’t have suited Josh at all. But I knew she fancied him cos I’d seen her flapping her eyes and doing this weird munching thing with her lips. Any second now…

I could hardly bear to watch. It was like some kind of man-eating spider moving in on its prey. I’m gonna get you!

And then, quite suddenly, at the last minute, Josh did this about-turn. “Wanna be partners?” he said.

Who? Who was he talking to? Surely not me?

He was! He was talking to me! Josh was talking to me.

I didn’t jump on him, cos that would have been too demeaning; I think you have to have a bit of pride. I said, “Yeah! OK,” making like it was no big deal, whereas in fact I was still practically reeling from the shock. I mean, who in their right senses would prefer me to Marigold??? Not doing myself down, or anything, but I’d been so sure they’d end up together. I bet she had, too! Cos girls like her, they’re always sure. They are not prey to doubts like the rest of us.

Anyway, she was left with Barnaby Tibbs, who is a sweet boy but seriously uncool. She hated me for that. I mean, hated. She couldn’t stand the thought of a boy she fancied actually ignoring her and going for a lesser being – especially when the lesser being was me. “Carmen Bell! That great jelly.”

From then on, that was her name for me: the Great Jelly. Or more usually just the Jelly.

“Where’s the Jelly?” “Trust the Jelly!”

I guess I could have retaliated by calling her Botox Lips, or asking her if she’d been dropped on her head as a baby, seeing as her brain appeared to have some kind of malfunction, but that would have meant bringing myself down to her level. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Indy used to tell me that I ought to hit back. She got really agitated about it. “Why don’t you stick up for yourself?”

I could have done. I can give as good as I get any day of the week! Mum’s always said I’ve got a mouth on me. Indy just couldn’t understand it. “People like that shouldn’t be allowed to get away with things! She’s a horrible person. She’s a bully.”

I said that she also had the intellectual capacity of a mushy pea, and it would quite simply be beneath me to engage in any sort of conversational exchange. “Who wants to have a slanging match with a pea?”

It just made me feel better if I ignored her. That way I could at least pretend to myself that I didn’t care. If I’d done what Indy wanted and hurled insults, it would be like admitting she’d got to me. I wasn’t going to let her!

But I couldn’t stop Indy simmering and seething. One day she just, like, boiled over and laid into Marigold big time. Marigold’s eyes practically shot out on stalks. I could see she was really taken aback. I was, too! Indy is so tiny, like a little jumping bean, and she’s not at all an aggressive sort of person. If anything, she is quite meek. I thought it was incredibly loyal of her, and that I was lucky to have her as a friend, but at the same time I sort of wished she hadn’t done it cos it just made Marigold meaner than ever. She sneered down at Indy from her great beanpole height and said, “Naff off, squit face!” And then she made her eyes go crossed and sucked her bottom lip so that her teeth stuck out, and Ashlee Stott, who’s like her personal doormat, gave this mad shriek of laughter and started making her teeth stick out, too.

It was such a disgusting thing to do; Indy is really sensitive about her teeth. I felt so bad for her! I think some of the others did, too, but they weren’t going to say anything. Marigold is one of those people, nobody really likes her, apart from the creep Ashlee, but everyone wants to stay on the right side of her. I told Indy that in future we would both of us ignore her.

“If she thinks she’s getting to you, it’ll just make her worse.”

My theory was that if we took no notice she’d grow bored and start on someone else. Only she didn’t, cos of this great vengeance thing and bearing grudges. She went on calling me Jelly, and after a bit other people started calling me Jelly as well. I don’t think most of them did it to be mean; it was just a name that had caught on. Marigold was the one that was mean. Mean as maggots, and dripping poison.

Even Josh had a go at her one day. There was a group of us arrived early for a double period of art. We were sitting around in the studio, waiting for the rest of the class to show up, and Marigold was holding court, the way she did, mouthing off about this game show that had been on TV the night before where some poor girl had been made fun of and reduced to tears by the woman that was hosting it. I’d seen the show and I’d felt really sorry for the girl, but Marigold was, like, She got what she deserved.

“Should have had a bag over her head!”

Ashlee sniggered and said, “Should have had a bag over her whole body.”

“Yeah, right! Talk about a sack of potatoes. I mean, for God’s sake, what did she expect?”

“Probably expected to be treated like a human being,” I said.

“It’s television, dummy. It’s a game show. Anyone looks that grotesque is asking for it.”

I said, “What have looks got to do with it? It’s not supposed to be about looks, it’s supposed to be about personality.”

“Yeah, well…” Marigold gave a little smirk. Really irritating. “You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

That was when Josh entered the fray. I didn’t think he’d even been listening. Mostly the boys kept out of it when Marigold was doing her spouting. They probably reckoned it was girl stuff and didn’t want to be involved. Can’t say I blame them. But Josh was in earshot and I guess he just couldn’t resist. Without even looking up, he muttered, “Talk about having sawdust where your brains ought to be.”

Marigold spun round like she’d been shot. Indy giggled, and Marigold went bright red. It was such a good moment! But after that she was more vengeful than ever. The idea of a boy having a go at her – well, I don’t think it had ever happened before. Boys always fancied her like crazy. Now she had it in for Josh as well as me and Indy, but it was me she had it in for most. I didn’t care! Her spiteful remarks just went right over my head.

So, that is all about Marigold and how she came to hate me. I think now it’s probably time to move on. I’ll fast forward to the start of the summer term – last summer term, when we were in Year 8. Always, in July, our school has a Charity Fun Day, when we do things that are supposed to be fun to raise money for good causes. I say supposed to be fun cos sometimes they just aren’t. Like in Year 7 when we had this massive tug-of-war and I got chosen to be the anchor person for our class. Not one of the boys: me. Needless to say, it was Marigold’s idea. She said, “Shut up, Jelly! It’s for charity.” Indy, trying to make me feel better, said that at least it showed we weren’t sexist, but it was still quite humiliating.

I wasn’t particularly looking forward to this year’s event, wondering somewhat glumly what new fun things the committee would be dreaming up, but then when the notice went on the board… yay! I couldn’t believe it! We were going to have a talent contest!!! And not one of the boring sort that teachers normally go for, where people get up and recite endless lines of poetry or play bits of tuneless tinkly stuff on the piano and everyone is, like, Yawn, how much longer is this going on? This time it was to be a pop contest.

TOP SPOT, for all you aspiring pop stars out there!

Indy saw it first and rushed to find me, squeaking excitedly. “Carm, Carm, come and look!”

My first thought was that it would only be for seniors, but it didn’t say that it was.

“It’s for everyone,” said Indy. “See? Says there… they’ll be asking for names…” She peered closer. Indy is quite short-sighted, and won’t always wear her glasses. “…in a week or two. Says anyone can enter, but you have to be serious. You’re serious!”

I was. I am! I have wanted to be a pop star ever since I can remember – well, a rock star, actually, as I have this really BIG voice. Nan used to say, “That girl is star crazy!”

I was so excited. I stayed awake all night, wondering what to sing, wondering what to wear. Indy was excited, too; excited for me. She is so loyal! She said we should go into town on Saturday and choose an outfit. She said it was important I should get it settled well in advance. “Cos you know with new clothes you have to wear them for a bit. Just at home! Not outdoors. Don’t want to get them dirty, or anything. But you gotta make sure they’re comfortable.”

She was right! I asked Mum if it would be OK for me to go clothes shopping. Mum said yes, no problem. I knew she would! She’s funny like that. When I was desperate, and I mean desperate, to have a guitar, she told me that it was “just a phase” I was going through and it would be a sheer waste of money (which meant I had to wait for Christmas, which at that point was ten whole months away). When I begged her for an iPod she screamed at me that she was a single mum. “I’m doing the best I can!” I never did get the iPod. Like with DVDs or CDs she tells me to go and borrow them from the library: “I’m not made of money!” But clothes… clothes are a different matter.

Looking good is very important to Mum; I guess because she works in a beauty parlour. She herself is thin as a pin, the reason being that she picks at her food and smokes like a chimney, which I have tried but found it to be so totally and utterly disgusting that it nearly made me sick. Besides, it smells. Mum smells. Stale cigarette smoke wafts all about her, but she doesn’t care just so long as she is thin. Having a daughter who is anything but thin is a cross that Mum has to bear. It is very hard on her. I think sometimes she despairs, though she does her best to be optimistic. She lives in hope that the next new skirt/top/pair of trousers I buy will miraculously transform me from a jelly to a stick insect.

She said that she could let me have fifty pounds. “Not a penny more! What sort of thing were you thinking of getting?”

I said I didn’t know. I was going to look round and see what took my fancy.

“Maybe I ought to come with you.”

Oh God, I didn’t want Mum going with me! It makes me so embarrassed. Knowing that every single garment she picks out will look far better on her than it does on me. I told her that Indy was coming and we were going to choose together.

Mum said, “Indy? That funny little thing? She has no more sense of fashion than you do!”

This, unfortunately, is perfectly true. Indy and I are not very cool when it comes to clothes.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll ask Josh!”

“That’s more like it,” said Mum.

She knows that Josh can be relied upon. He’s going to go to art college when he leaves school and train to be a fashion designer. He’s promised me that when we are both famous he will design all my clothes for me, even if I am still a jelly. (Josh didn’t say that last bit; that was me.)

Saturday morning we met at the bus stop and took the bus into town, where Indy was waiting for us in the Arcade, outside Top Shop. Josh said, “We’ll start in here and work our way round. You’ll have to be prepared to spend the whole morning, if necessary.” He’d automatically taken charge, but that was all right; me and Indy didn’t mind. We followed meekly in his wake, with me doing my best not to let my eyes stray towards racks of gorgeous but totally unsuitable gear. Unsuitable for me, that is. Josh had said sternly that I mustn’t be a slave to fashion, and I knew what he meant. It wasn’t the least bit of use me hankering after miniskirts or crop tops, cos he wouldn’t let me have them.

“You have to create your own style! Be original.”

Indy, greatly daring, said, “What about one of those nice long floaty skirts?”

Josh said, “For a rock chick?”

Indy giggled. “Is that what she is?”

“Not in a long skirt,” said Josh.

I was glad about that cos although it would hide my legs I’d probably only go and trip over it. I can be a bit clumsy when I get nervous.

“These.” Josh suddenly lunged at a nearby rack and thrust something at me.

“Combats,” said Indy. “That’s cool!”

Somewhat nervously – I am always nervous when it comes to clothes – I said, “D’you really think so?”

“Are you daring to question me?” said Josh.

“No!” I backed down, hastily.

“So take them! Try them.”

“What about a top?” said Indy.

“I’m coming to that,” said Josh. “Don’t rush me!”

Indy and I exchanged glances. Talk about a prima donna! Humbly, we trailed round after him.

“Here! Try this.” He picked up a T-shirt and handed it to me.

“Ooh, designer!” said Indy.

“It’s just a T-shirt,” said Josh.

But it wasn’t! I looked at the price tag and nearly died. All that, for a T-shirt? Josh said, “Quality does not come cheap.” Then he gave me a little push in the direction of the changing room and said, “Well, go on, go and try them on!”

“And then come out and show us,” said Indy.

I never enjoy trying on clothes. Whatever I buy, it’s always the same: I look in the mirror and there’s this great galumphing hippopotamus staring back at me. I couldn’t see that combats and a T-shirt, no matter if the T-shirt did cost the earth, were likely to work any miracles. But oh, they did! The T-shirt didn’t just flump about in big billowing folds, the same as T-shirts usually do. It actually fitted. Properly. It was red, with a skull and crossbones motif on the front. I loved it! It almost made me look thin. Well, thinnish.

The combats, which were half the price of the T-shirt, were olive green, and wonder of wonders, I managed to get into them without any straining or heaving or sucking in of my tummy. I went prancing out of the changing room with this big, triumphant grin on my face.

Indy took one look and squealed, “Rock chick!”

“See?” Josh gave a little bow. “Apology graciously accepted.”

“So what’s she going to wear with it?” said Indy.

I said, “Yes! What am I going to wear with it?” The T-shirt by itself had eaten up a large chunk of Mum’s money. Josh said not to panic. “You don’t really need anything else.”

“What about shoes?” said Indy.

“Trainers,” said Josh.

“What about jewellery?”

Josh said so long as it wasn’t clunky.

“Let’s go and look!” Indy went dancing off up the store, to where they had a stand full of beads and bangles. “Look, look, what about this?” She came dancing back, dangling a long silver chain with a pendant. “This would go! Wouldn’t it?”

She was ever so happy when Josh agreed. It made her a bit bold. Eagerly she suggested that maybe I could buy some “dangly earrings” and “sparkly bits to put in my hair”. Josh said, “Knock it off, she’s a rock chick, not a Christmas tree!” Indy’s face fell. “Maybe something for her hair,” said Josh.

“And nail varnish?” begged Indy. “She could have nail varnish!”

Josh said he would allow me to have nail varnish, and he even let Indy pick the colour: deep, dark purple.

“Don’t ask me what I’d like,” I said.

“Got no intention,” said Josh. “I’m your fashion guru.”

“And I’m his assistant,” giggled Indy. It was really going to her head! But I didn’t mind; I know I have no clothes sense. They didn’t even let me choose the sparkly bits for my hair. Personally I rather fancied a pair of glittery butterflies, but Indy sucked in her breath and Josh, very sternly, said, “Carm, put them back.”

“But they’re pretty!”

“They’re tacky.”

“Tacky, tacky, tacky!” sang Indy. Like she knows any better than I do. “Look, stars! How about stars?”

Josh said yes, stars would do fine.

Indy beamed. “Stars for a star! Cos that’s what she’s going to be.”

“I dunno.” I shook my head. “It’s all very well getting stuff to wear, but what am I gonna sing?”

“We’ll work on it,” said Josh. “Maybe write something special.”

Yesss! I felt like flying at him and hugging him, only he’d probably just have got embarrassed. But I was really excited by the idea. A song written specially for the occasion! It might even gain me some extra points.

As soon as I got home, Mum demanded to know what I’d bought. “Put it on, so I can see!”

I was a bit wary, cos Mum is just, like, so critical, but I could tell at once that she approved.

“Wonderful,” she said, “to have a boyfriend who can choose clothes for you!”

I have told Mum so many times that Josh is not my boyfriend. He is just a friend who happens to be a boy. Mum doesn’t believe that is possible. She once said so in front of Nan. She said, “You can’t have a boy as a friend. Not just an ordinary friend.” Then she laughed and said, “Well, I never could.”

Nan, quick as a flash, said, “No, and look what happened to you!” Nan could be quite sharp, and she always, always defended me. I do miss her loads. She used to tell Mum to leave me alone, especially when Mum nagged at me about my weight, or said if Josh wasn’t my boyfriend then wasn’t it about time I got one?

I’ve had boyfriends! Two, in fact. One was Sam Wyman that lives in our block, and the other was Judd Priestley at juniors. They were both unimaginably boring. You couldn’t ever talk to them like I can with Josh. When I said this to Mum she raised both eyebrows and said, “Who wants a boyfriend for talking to?”

I said, “I do!” To which Mum retorted that I would “sing a different tune one of these days”. Well, pardon me, but I don’t think so!

Next weekend, I got together with Josh and we wrote a song for me to sing in the talent contest. We’ve been writing songs for ever. We started back in Year 7, and we’re still doing it. We work really well together. Sometimes we argue, but we never fall out. We tend to bounce ideas off each other, like Josh will say, “How about this?” and I’ll say, “Or maybe this?” and that will set us off and get us all inspired in a way that I don’t think would happen if we were doing it separately. We work out the music together, too. I play the guitar – well, just chords mainly, on account of being self-taught – but Josh is like a demon on the keyboard and the drums. He knows about music because his mum and dad are musicians. His dad is a violinist and plays in an orchestra, his mum teaches at a local school. Josh always claims not to be musical – he says I am far more musical than he is – but he knows things that I don’t, so I’ll, like, sing a phrase and Josh will pick it up and run with it. Between us, we’re an ace team!

This is the song that we wrote:

.

Star crazy me

Floatin’ free-ee-ee

Into the ether of

Eternity

Now do you see me

Ridin’ high

Ridin’ high

Streamers of song

’Cross the sky-y-y

Nobody nothing

Ain’t gonna stop

This crazy crazy crazy gal

This crazy gal

Will reach the top

Oh yeah

Oh yeah

Just watch me, babe

I’m floatin’ free

I’m flyin’ high-igh-igh

Gonna get there

Gonna be

Up there for all eternity

Oh yeah

Oh yeah

Star crazy me

I’m floatin’ free

I said to Josh that we should both enter the contest, me as vocalist, him on the keyboard, but he wouldn’t. He said, “Don’t bully me! You’re always bullying me.”

I said, “Me bully you? That’s a joke!”

If either of us gets to be bullied, I’d say that it was me. Josh can be really bossy at times! Like he’ll tell me, for instance, that “You can’t possibly wear that top with that skirt, it makes you look like a parcel,” and I will immediately rush back indoors and change, cos I know that he knows about such things. I mean, I will just go and do it. No argument! Josh, on the other hand, tends to go all quiet and dig his heels in.

I said, “I’m just trying to give you your share of the limelight. Credit where credit’s due.” As Nan used to say.

Josh said he didn’t want credit. “And I don’t want limelight! I’m not like you.”

“You’re just scared!” I said.

“I’m modest,” said Josh.

I teased him about that. I said, “Aah, sweet! He’s all shy and retiring!” And I chucked him under the chin, really yucky, just to get him going, and he said “Gerroff!” and we had a bit of a tussle, all over the bed and round his bedroom, until his mum yelled at us up the stairs.

“What are you doing up there? You’ll bring the ceiling down!”

“You are just so childish,” said Josh.

“And you are just so stubborn!” I said.

He still wouldn’t budge. He said that I was the performer, not him, and I think that is probably right. Josh is more of a behind-the-scenes person, which wouldn’t do at all for me. I just love the buzz of being out there, in the spotlight, in front of an audience. Actually, to be honest, I hadn’t ever really performed in front of an audience at that point, except once in Year 6 when we put on a little end-of-term show and I was chosen to sing a Christmas carol. I belted it out at the top of my voice and Mrs Deakin, our teacher, got really upset. She seemed to think I was showing off. She said, “Honestly, Carmen! That was totally inappropriate.”

Well, but I did enjoy it! And I got a round of applause. So you can imagine I was really looking forward to the talent contest and singing our song. As soon as the notice appeared on the board – Entrants for Top Spot, sign here – I rushed to put my name down.

Carmen Bell Year 8 Vocalist

And that was when Marigold Johnson called me a fat freak, and ruined it all.

CHAPTER TWO

This is where it happened: in the locker room at school. Me and Indy were already down there, putting stuff away and sorting out what we needed for afternoon classes. The Year 8 lockers are in two rows, back to back, with a few odd ones tucked away in a corner, out of sight. Me and Indy were in the tucked-away part. In other words, nobody knew that we were there. We weren’t eavesdropping! We weren’t crouched on the ground with our ears pinned back. But when Marigold came bursting in with her usual crowd of gawkers and her mouth clattering on at about a hundred miles per hour, we couldn’t help hearing.

What she was clattering on about was the Top Spot contest. How her sister, Mary-Louise, that was in Year 10, was almost certain to win because she had professional experience. She had appeared in a commercial. She had made a demo disc.

“It really isn’t fair on all the others, but what can you do? My sister can’t be stopped from putting her name down just because she’s had experience.”

Then we heard Ashlee’s voice piping up: “Know who else has put her name down? The Jelly!”

“The Jelly? You gotta be joking!”

OK, so that was when I should probably have emerged from my corner and shown myself, before Marigold could go on and say something nasty. But I didn’t, and I bet most people wouldn’t have, either. In that sort of situation, you just freeze to the spot and can’t move. The very last thing you want is for anyone to know that you’re there. It’s too humiliating.

I heard Ashlee’s voice again: “I’m not joking! I just saw her name on the list.”

And then Marigold, with her loud braying laugh: “That fat freak? Just cos her stupid old nan reckoned she was gonna be the next Judy Garland. Pur-lease!”

I could sense Indy next to me, holding her breath. Her hand reached out and dabbed at my arm, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I just felt so ashamed.

Someone said, “I think she fancies herself as some kind of rock chick.”

“Rock chick? Excuse me while I die laughing!”

Ashlee said, “Rock elephant, more like.”

“Rock jelly, more like!”

“What d’you think she’ll sing?”

“I know what she’ll sing, I know what she’ll sing! Like this, look… sh-shake, w-wobble and ROLL!”

Delighted shrieks of laughter, as from the sound of things Marigold hurled herself to and fro against the lockers.

“Sh-shake, w-w-w-WOBBLE and—”

“Drop dead, pea brain!”

I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t. But all of a sudden it was like this tidal wave of absolute fury crashed into me, and I leaped out from behind my locker and yelled:

“STUPID PEA-BRAINED BLUBBER-LIPPED MORON!”

There was a kind of shocked silence. Marigold was the one that dished it out, not the one that had it dished up. She stared at me like she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Then she took up a stance, her hands on her hips.

“What did you say?”

“I said” – I put my face up close to hers – “you’re a STUPID, PEA-BRAINED, BLUBBER-LIPPED MORON! And in case you don’t know what that means, which you probably don’t, it means you’re so dumb you’re practically a walking vegetable!”

Somebody tittered, rather nervously. Ashlee gave a little horrified squeal, and clapped a hand to her mouth.

“Why don’t you go and plant yourself?” I said. “Do us all a favour. Take root!”

With that, I flung open the door and prepared to stalk out. But Marigold had the last word. As I made my grand exit she bawled after me, “Get lost, you pathetic fag hag!”

That was when I bunked off school.

I didn’t do it on purpose. I mean, I didn’t actually say to myself, “I am going to bunk off school and never come back.” It was just something that happened. I got as far as the main corridor and was about to turn up the stairs when this feeling of absolute despair came flooding over me. I couldn’t take it any more! I had to get out. Now.

I muttered at Indy that I’d left one of my books behind – “You go on, I’ll see you up there” – then I turned and fled. Back the way we’d come, through the double doors, across the parking lot and OUT.

The only other time I’d done anything like it was in Year 4, when I got told off for something that wasn’t my fault, and when I protested that “It wasn’t me!” the teacher wouldn’t believe me, and I was so incensed that I slipped out of the gates when no one was looking and ran all the way home to pour out my tale of woe to Nan. Nan agreed with me that it wasn’t fair. She said, “Sometimes, chickabiddy, life is like that. You have to be strong, and take the rough with the smooth.”

Just knowing that Nan was on my side had made me feel better. But Nan wasn’t there any more; she’d never call me chickabiddy ever again, or pass on her words of wisdom. I was on my own, now, cos Mum would never take my side. When I’d told her about the teacher being so mean, all she’d said was that she didn’t blame her. “You’ve caused enough problems in your time.”

No point trying to cry on Mum’s shoulder. I wouldn’t, anyway; it was something too shameful ever to tell anyone. But I would have told Nan! She was the one who had faith in me, the one who made me believe in myself. Just that morning, rummaging about for a clean T-shirt, I’d come across the last birthday card that Nan had ever sent me. She’d chosen it so carefully! On the front it had a picture of a groovy guy with a guitar, belting out Happy Birthday. Inside, in her shaky handwriting, Nan had written, To my own little star, who one of these days is going to shine so brightly!

I’d hidden it away in my secret place, beneath the lining paper at the bottom of a drawer. I’d never shown it to Mum. It was something precious, and I couldn’t bear the thought that she might laugh. I think, actually, that was what made me finally turn on Marigold, the fact that she’d dared to bring my nan into it. Her stupid old nan. I wished I’d never, ever told anyone about Nan! But it was back in Year 6, when I’d sung the Christmas carol too loud and upset Mrs Deakin. Defiantly I’d told her that “My nan says I’m going to be a second Judy Garland!” Sometimes when you’re only ten you say things you later wish with all your heart that you hadn’t.

If I hadn’t been chosen to sing the carol – if I hadn’t sung the carol too loud – if I hadn’t boasted about Nan… if none of those things had happened then maybe I wouldn’t have yelled at Marigold and bunked off school. But I had, and all I could think was that it was fate. There’s nothing you can do about fate.

When I got back to the flats I ran into one of our neighbours, Mrs Henson. She said, “Got the afternoon off, have you?”

I gave her a sickly smile and said, “Gotta headache.” I hoped she wouldn’t mention anything to Mum but I feared the worst. She is a notorious gasbag.

The minute I was inside the flat, with the door closed against the outside world, I began to feel a bit less fraught. I spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the sofa, headphones clamped to my ears with the volume turned up as loud as I could bear, listening to all my favourite tracks played by all my favourite bands. Mostly Urban Legend, cos they are like my Favourite of Favourites. Mum can’t stand them – she says they’re foul-mouthed and violent. I say that life is enough to make you foul-mouthed and violent, what with wars going on all over the place, and toxic waste covering the earth, and the polar ice caps melting. Not to mention terrorism. To which Mum just goes, “Don’t give me isms! Give me tunes.” Mum isn’t what I would call musical.

Nan, on the other hand, used to really enjoy listening to rock. I don’t think she liked it as much as her beloved show tunes – Over the Rainbow, and Oh What a Beautiful Morning, and all that – but she did once say she’d like to come to a rock concert with me.

“I could scream and throw me knickers on stage! That’s what you do, isn’t it? Throw your knickers? I could get into that!”

Mum said, “At your age? You ought to be ashamed!”

But Nan wasn’t ashamed of anything, which is why I try so hard not to be. Especially not of my own body. After all, it’s the one I was born with and I can’t help the way it is. It’s not like I gorge on junk food. It’s not like I don’t get any exercise. Mum doesn’t; she goes everywhere by car. Not me! I walk to and from the bus stop every day, and more often than not I walk up the stairs as well, all ten flights of them. I only take the lift if I’m feeling really knackered. I hate the lift! It smells of sick and stale pee. But there’s some people I know – Mum, to give just one example – that would get completely out of breath going up ten flights of stairs. I don’t! So I know I’m not a slob, and I’m certainly not a glutton. It is just the way I’m made, and I refuse to let small-minded, pea-brained pond life such as Marigold Johnson make me self-conscious.

That is what I have always told myself. But oh, that day she really got to me! It’s like I’d built up this wall to keep me safe, and she’d gone and brought the whole lot crashing down, leaving me exposed. Like naked, almost. Like a snail brutally torn out of its shell. Now I couldn’t pretend any more: it really hurts when someone calls you names.

If Nan had been there, what would she have said?

“Don’t you take no notice! You just remember, you’ve got something girls like that can only dream of… you’ve got a voice that’s going to take you right to the top. Up there with the stars, that’s where you’ll be! Then she’ll be laughing on the other side of her face, you see if she isn’t.”

But what if Nan were wrong? What if I didn’t have a voice?

I knew in my heart that Nan wasn’t wrong; I knew that I could sing. No one could take that away from me. But no one could make me look like Marigold Johnson, either! And who wanted a rock star the size of an elephant?

I tried so hard to hear Nan again. To hear her old, cracked voice telling me to have faith, to “Go for it, girl!” But it was no use. She wasn’t there, and I couldn’t bring her back. Music was all I had left. I turned up the volume until it was almost unbearable, until my head was pounding with the beat and I felt that I was drowning in a crashing sea of sound. At least that way I didn’t have to think.

If I could have stayed plugged in I’d have been all right, but Mum came home at six o’clock and I had to crawl back into the world, without my shell. Needless to say, Mum had bumped into Mrs Henson – or, more likely, Mrs Henson had bumped into her.

“What’s all this about a headache?” she said. “I never heard of anyone being sent home for a headache. Why couldn’t they just give you an aspirin, or something?”

I mumbled that they didn’t like to give medication. Mum said, “Sooner send you back to an empty flat.”

“They didn’t know it was empty. I told them you were here.”

Mum looked at me, rather hard. “OK! What did you want to get out of?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing!”

“Look, Carmen, just be honest. If it was a maths test, or you hadn’t done your homework, I can sympathise. I know what it’s like, I’ve been there! No one’s expecting you to turn into some kind of mad boffin. Just don’t lie to me. All right?”

I said, “Yeah, all right. Sorry.”

It seemed easier than going on with the headache thing. Mum’s never expected much of me, so not doing homework or avoiding a maths test was no big deal as far as she was concerned. She left school without any qualifications; why should I do any better? It would have upset her far more if I’d told her the truth. Not that I would! Not in a million years. I’d have curled up and died sooner than tell Mum.

Indy rang me after tea. I knew she would; I’d been dreading it. I didn’t want to talk to her! I wouldn’t have minded so much if she’d texted me, but Indy is practically the only person I know that doesn’t have a mobile phone. Or a computer. It makes life very difficult.

Mum took the phone call. She came back into the sitting room and said, “It’s your little friend on the phone. The little plain one.” I do wish Mum wouldn’t refer to Indy as the little plain one! I really hate it when she does that. She knows perfectly well what her name is.

“Well, are you going to speak to her,” she said, “or not?”

I dragged myself out into the hall and picked up the phone. “’Lo?”

Indy shrieked, “Carm! What happened? Where did you get to?”

“Hadda headache,” I said.

“Cos of Marigold? I knew it was cos of her! Honestly, that girl is just so putrefying! I’m glad you told her she was a moron. Everybody’s glad! They all reckon she asked for it.”

I said, “How does everybody know? Did you tell them?”

“No! It was Connie.”

Connie Li; I hadn’t realised she was there. Connie is OK. She is definitely not a Marigold groupie.

“Carm?” Indy’s voice squeaked anxiously down the line. “You haven’t let her get to you? Cos all those things she said, about her sister… they’re not really true! She hasn’t really had professional experience.”

“You mean she hasn’t appeared in a commercial?”

“Only some stupid thing for local radio. Not telly.”

“What about the demo disc?”

“Yeah, well… anyone can make one of those.”

I said, “Huh!”

“She isn’t any competition,” said Indy. “She has a voice like a… I dunno! Fingernails scraping on a blackboard. Yeeeech!”

Indy was trying really hard, but what she said about fingernails just wasn’t true. Marigold’s sister is chosen every year to sing solo when we do carols. It’s not a bad sort of voice. A bit small. A bit tinny. She couldn’t do rock! But obviously some people like it. Anyway, I couldn’t care less about Marigold’s sister. It was all the other stuff. The stuff that Indy was too kind to mention, or maybe just too embarrassed.

“You’ve always said not to take any notice of her,” said Indy. “So why start now?”

“I’m not,” I said. “I don’t give a damn.” It’s amazingly easy to lie when you’re on the other end of a telephone. You can almost, even, lie to yourself. “Marigold Johnson is just sewage,” I said.

“She is,” said Indy. “That’s exactly what she is! And we’re not the only ones that think so. Lots of people have been going on about her. It’s made her really unpopular.”

I knew Indy was doing her best to be a good friend and make me feel better, but I hated the thought of everyone knowing what Marigold had said. Everyone talking about it. Feeling sorry for me. Did you hear what Marigold called Carmen? She called her a fat freak!

“Dunno what she meant by that last remark, though,” said Indy. “D’you?”

I said, “What last remark?” Though in fact I knew perfectly well.

“Fag hag… what she say that for?”

I said, “No idea.”

“I thought when people called you a fag hag it meant you were friends with someone that was gay.”

I grunted.

“You’re not friends with anyone that’s gay! Unless she was talking about Josh. Was she talking about Josh? Trying to make out he’s a fag?”

I snapped, “Don’t use that stupid word!”

“Sorry,” said Indy. “Was she trying to make out he’s gay?”

I said, “I don’t know! She’s completely mad.”

“But what a thing to say! About Josh. I bet she’s just jealous, I bet that’s what it is, cos she used to fancy him. Probably still does. And just cos he doesn’t fancy her—”

“Whatever you do,” I said, “don’t tell him!”

“I won’t,” said Indy. “I wouldn’t!”

“I s’pose people are gossiping?”

“Not about that so much. They’re more saying how Marigold got what she deserved… you calling her a vegetable!” Indy giggled. “Someone said she ought to have a new name – she ought to be called Cabbage. Then someone said she ought to be a root veg, cos of you telling her to take root, so we’re all, like, trying to think of root vegetables, like Turnip. Turnip Johnson!”

I said, “Yeah, that would suit her. But please don’t tell Josh about the other thing. Please!”

“I won’t,” said Indy. “I won’t! Don’t worry!” She added that in any case it was so stupid it was ridiculous. “No one’s going to believe it.”

I said, “That’s not the point! I don’t want him to know.”

If word got round, it would be all my fault. I should just have kept quiet! I’d done what I always swore I wouldn’t: I’d let myself be provoked. I’d insulted Marigold in front of her groupies, and now she’d gone and dragged Josh into it. He was going to think I’d betrayed him! Why, why, why couldn’t I have kept my big mouth shut? Just a few weeks earlier, before I’d even known about the Top Spot contest, I’d gone round to Josh’s place and we’d written a new song – How Cool am I? – and afterwards we’d sat and talked, cos Josh and I do a lot of talking, and he’d said he had something he wanted to tell me. And then he’d hesitated, and I said, “Well, go on! What?” and it all came out in a great rush.

“I’m not absolutely certain but it’s this feeling I’ve had for a long time… I think I might be gay!”

I said, “Oh.” And then, “Really?” And then, “Gosh.” Like something out of Enid Blyton. I gave up reading Enid Blyton when I was about five. To make matters worse I then added, “Wow.”

Josh said, “Yeah. Wow.”

“Well, but I mean…” What did I mean? I didn’t mean anything. I was just, like, totally thrown. It’s not very often I’m at a loss for words, usually I have too many, but for once I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So I went and said something even stupider than wow, I said, “How do you know?”

“I dunno,” said Josh. “It’s just something I feel.”

“Mm.” I nodded. “OK. So…”

He looked at me, rather solemnly. “So how do you feel?”

“Me? I feel like – so what? What difference does it make? You’re still you. So long as we’re not going to fancy the same guys!”

I said that just to show him that I was cool. That now I’d got my head round the idea I was just, like, totally and utterly relaxed.

“You’re the only person I’ve told,” said Josh.

“Not even Robert? Not even Damian?”

Josh said, “Specially not Robert or Damian.”

They are two boys in our class. They’re clever, like Josh. The three of them tend to hang out together.

“Why specially not them?” I said. “Don’t you reckon they’d be OK with it?”

“I guess – yeah! Probably. It’s just… I don’t particularly want anyone else to know.”

“Just me?”

I think that was one of the proudest moments of my life. That Josh had chosen me! But I still had to ask him. “Why me and not anybody else?”

He said, “Cos I feel you’re someone I can talk to. Maybe the only person I can talk to.”

“Not even your mum and dad?”

“God, no!” He reared away in horror. “I’m not gonna tell them!”

“Why not?”

“Are you mad? Would you tell your mum?”

I said, “N-no. But I’d tell yours!” Josh’s mum and dad are really nice. Really supportive. “You should tell them,” I said. “Otherwise you know what’ll happen… they’ll start teasing you about girlfriends, and it’ll just be, like, so embarrassing. It’s what my mum does about boys. It curls me up! You should tell them now,” I said, “so they have time to get used to it. You don’t want to spring it on them later.”

Josh said he didn’t want to spring it on them at all. “There isn’t any reason for them to know. There isn’t any reason for anyone to know.”

Just me. I assured him that I wouldn’t breathe a word to a soul, not even Indy, and I snatched up my guitar and started singing the song we’d just written.

How cool am I?

Think about about about a

NICE cube

Think about about about a

NICE cream

Think about a nice dream

Ice dream

Well, it went on for a bit and now I’ve forgotten the rest of it. But it did seem significant that we’d written it that particular day.

“See?” I said. “How cool am I!”

“I knew you would be,” said Josh. “That’s why I knew I could tell you.”

Everyone needs someone they can tell things to. Josh had told me he was worried cos he thought he might be gay – but I couldn’t tell Josh that I was worried cos I thought I might be too fat to be a rock star. I was too ashamed. I didn’t have anyone I could tell.

He said, “Promise me you won’t say anything!” and I gave him my word. I promised him. He had confided in me in strictest secrecy. He had trusted me. And now that hideous hag Marigold had gone and blown it. How had she found out? I hadn’t told a single solitary person. It had nearly killed me keeping it from Indy, cos me and Indy tell each other everything, but I hadn’t even so much as hinted. I wouldn’t do that to Josh!

My only hope was that everyone would be so busy gabbing about how Marigold had called me a fat freak and I’d called her a moron that they’d forget the words she’d yelled at me as I stalked through the door. Maybe Josh would never get to hear of it.

But I knew that he would. School is just like a seething cauldron when it comes to gossip.

CHAPTER THREE

Next day was Wednesday. Only Wednesday! I felt like I had lived through a whole week already. Mum was on early turn. She came breezing into my bedroom while I was still wrapped in the duvet with my eyes gummed shut. She started making noise almost before she even got through the door.

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