Geek Girl and Model Misfit. Holly Smale
“I can’t believe you made a bubble chart,” Dad keeps saying in disbelief as we finally climb into our plane seats.
“It’s the most suitable kind of chart for this kind of plan,” I tell him indignantly. “I made a flow chart and a pie chart, but they didn’t work nearly as well. This one is a lot more sensible.”
Dad looks at me in silence. “That’s not what I meant,” he says eventually.
“I made a timeline graph too,” I tell him as we buckle our seatbelts. “The lies are spread across it on an hourly basis. But if I show it to you, you might get confused. I think it’s best if I simply alert you when you’re supposed to be saying something that isn’t true.”
Dad stares at the bubble chart again. “Harriet, are you sure you’re my kid? I mean, you’re sure that Annabel didn’t bring you with her and swap you in?”
I scowl at him and then wince in pain because the universe has apparently decided to wreak vengeance upon me by making my metaphorical devil horns literal. By the time the air hostesses start pointing to the exits, my entire forehead is hot and throbbing; by the time they bring round the free peanuts, I can’t really frown without it hurting, and by the time we start the descent into Moscow, Dad’s calling my brand-new and massive zit “Bob” and talking to it like a separate entity.
“Would Bob like a drink of orange juice?” he asks every time a flight attendant walks past. “Perhaps a piece of cracker?”
It takes every single bit of patience I have not to ask the pilot if we can just turn round and drop my father back in England because he is not behaving. None of this, however, is enough to crush my excitement.
I’m going to Russia.
Land of revolutions and preserved leaders with lightbulbs stuck in the back of their heads. Land of the Kremlin and the Catherine Palace and the lost Amber Room, which was covered in gold and somehow ‘went missing’ during World War Two. Land of big fur hats and little dolls that fit inside each other.
And if I have to model while I’m there, so be it.
“This is it,” Dad says as the plane comes down. He nudges me with his elbow and grins. “Do you know how many teenagers would kill for this, sweetheart?”
I look out of the window. There’s a flurry of soft white snow and everything is covered in white powder, like a postcard. Russia looks exactly as I imagined it would. And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot. It’s on my Top Ten List of Countries to Visit. Number Three, actually. After Japan and Myanmar.
I swallow hard. Things are starting to change already. From this point on, everything is going to be different.
“You’re living the dream,” Dad smiles at me, looking back out of the window.
“Yes,” I say, smiling back at him. “I think I just might be.”
The signs are in Russian. The books are in Russian. The brochures are in Russian. The shops are in Russian. All the things in the shops are Russian. All the people are Russian. OK, maybe all the people aren’t Russian – most of them are getting off planes from the UK and America, and if I’m totally honest, everything is also in English – but everyone looks sort of… different. Exotic. Historical. Revolutionary.
Even Dad looks more sophisticated, and he’s still wearing that nasty T-shirt with the robot on the front of it. None of which seems to have made any impression on Wilbur.
“Oh, my Billy Ray Cyrus,” he sighs when we finally find him. He’s sitting on top of a pink suitcase, wearing a silk shirt covered in little pictures of ponies, and the second he gets close to me he puts his hands over his eyes as if I’m about to poke them out with my zit. “Where did that come from? What have you been eating?”
“Chocolate-chip cereal bars,” Dad informs him helpfully. “She had three for breakfast.”
“You look like a baby unicorn, Twinkletoes. Could you not have held off for another twenty-four hours before you started sprouting horns?”
I scowl in humiliation, wince, and try to push the spot back in again. “It’s only one,” I mumble in embarrassment. “Horn, singular.”
“Stop trying to climb the mountain with your fingers, Cookie-crumble,” Wilbur sighs, gently smacking my hand away. “Unless you’re planning on sticking a flag on top for posterity.”
Dad laughs so I thump his arm. Adults really need to learn to be more sensitive about teenage skin problems. They can be devastating to mental health, and to confidence, and also – I’d imagine – to modelling careers. “It’ll cover up with make-up, though, right?” I ask nervously.
“Treacle-nose, putting make-up on that is like sprinkling sugar on the top of Mount Fuji. Thank God for computers, that’s all I’m saying.” Then Wilbur takes a step back and surveys my outfit. “Luckily,” he exclaims, “we’ve saved the day with another moment of sheer fashion brilliance. Turn around, my little Rhino.”
I squint at him and then look down. “My Winnie the Pooh jumper?” I say in disbelief. “And my school skirt?”
It was all I had that still fitted and wasn’t a) in the wash, covered in sick, b) a football kit c) a suit or d) designed with an insect as a template.
“Winnie the Pooh Jumper and School Skirt,” Wilbur says, looking at the sky in wonder and slapping himself on the forehead. “You are truly an original, my little Jellyfish. Anyhoo, while I could stand here all day and talk about dermatological disasters and your sense of style, sadly I’m being paid to make sure I don’t.”
And he starts wobbling across the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the other held inexplicably high in the air.
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