Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre
matching PINK STINKS! badges on our blazers in Year 8!)
Anyone else’s party and I wouldn’t even be that arsed, but this is Chloe giving me the unclean, unclean social leper treatment. And I don’t get why; not really.
Yeah, I realise I was never hanging with the cool kids, but me and Chloe got on great until Molly wormed her way between us. Even the girls we used to knock about with like Kayleigh and Eden have drifted over to Team Molly along with Chloe. They’re never mean or bitchy, it’s more like I don’t exist any more.
I am the Invisible Woman.
And the mystery remains: why has Molly got it in for me on such an epic scale?
As far as I’m aware, it’s not an actual crime to be intelligent or ginger or have a stupid surname or a mum who cleans (even though Molly seems to think it is). What is it with her? Does she think being poor is catching? Caution! Friendship with Lara T may result in fatal outbreaks of Primark, Pot Noodles and pound shops. Stuck-up cow.
And now today’s little stab looks like last-nail-in-the-coffin time. Everyone gets an invite to the pink puke fest apart from me and the only hint of a silvery lining was that Mr Jagger had a meeting so he didn’t witness my shame.
Later . . . Just had a Facebook message from Chloe aka The Traitor.
Hey Lara! I hope you don’t mind about the party but I knew it wouldn’t be your sort of thing. I did want you to come, honestly, but I think it might be better if we do something on our own another time instead? Love Chloe xx
Get this, right. I am in the middle of typing No worries! I know you were only thinking of me when a flock of flying pigs pass over the house and knock the 3G out.
What are the chances . . .?!
JANUARY 19TH
Brrrr! Mum and Dad have announced we’re on yet another economy drive, so the heating’s off tonight. I want to know exactly what there is left to economise on. We live the no-frills life in our house as it is. Are we going to feed Simon to the dog? Start rationing the bathwater? Hmmm, I’d rather not add ‘I stink’ to The List.
The Why Lara T is Queen of the Untouchables List
• I’m ginger
• I’m poor
• I’m a geek
• I have the Surname of Shame
• My mum cleans for a living
And coming soon . . .
• I stink
Seriously worried I am becoming worse than Untouchable. Is there a lower caste, one even the Untouchables look down on?
Joke: What did one Untouchable say to the other Untouchable?
‘At least we’re not Lara T!’ Ha ha!
Anyway, the further ‘austerity measures’ mean I haven’t dared ask about getting a new school skirt, despite the fact this one is almost gynaecologically indecent. Short skirts might always be in fashion, but freezing your twinkle to a bus shelter will never catch on.
Oh, PLEASE don’t let us be poor for much longer. When will we be able to afford new clothes? Heating? Fruit?
Hmm. Sounding v. ungrateful bitch-esque here, which I so am not. Am I demanding caviar in a gold dish on my private yacht? Nooo. And I am fully aware that Mum’s cleaning and the money left over from selling the house isn’t stretching as far as they’d hoped AND that it’s my school fees sucking the last few quid out of their savings account.
But I can’t help pining for how it was before everything went down the toilet. Dying to have the little things again. Satellite telly, weekends away, family trips to the cinema, clothes shopping . . . the stuff I completely took for granted.
Stuff we could probably still have (now and then) if it weren’t for the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES they make because we have to keep Genius Lara at her Good Private School (the irony!). Mum, Dad and Simon – we’d all have better lives if it wasn’t for my stupid school fees which, even with the 50% braniac bursary, are astronomical. Wasn’t easy to pay when we actually had money, but now we’re on the breadline, well, it explains the economy overdrive.
And that’s why I can’t tell them how much I hate school, no matter how bad it gets. Throw the massive FINANCIAL SACRIFICES back in their faces, would you? Selfish, ungrateful bitchcow of a daughter.
Could never confess this to anyone, especially Dad, but I was almost relieved when he and Uncle Andy gave up the fight. Obviously, that was misery on toast, but it meant the tension stopped – that horrible scrabbling on a cliff edge thing with the pair of them constantly up and down to the bank, begging for more time. Once they’d given up and the house had gone to pay the debts, at least the uncertainty was over.
I may actually cry if I think about this much longer. Soooo . . .
Yay! (drum roll) The weekend has arrived at last, full of thrilling possibilities: parties, premieres, paper rounds . . .
Thank God no one has any of the Sunday whoppers round here, I can barely lift the bag as it is. I bet Molly’s parents get The Times; they probably order five copies and spring-load the letterbox just to taunt their paper girl.
Not that Molly could actually read it of course. She’s far too dumb.
JANUARY 22ND
Karate was excellent tonight and I cannot wait for the day when I Jackie Chan the bejesus out of everyone who annoys me at school. Hiiii yaaaaah! Chop.
Went round to Gran’s after with the shopping and had a cup of tea. She did wake up briefly for the Sky Sports headlines, but mainly I ate choccy digestives and broiled myself on the central heating. Mmmmm, warmth: how I miss you, old friend. Mum and Dad are still point-blank refusing to turn the heating on (fuel costs blah bills blah money blah) so only a pair of thermal socks and dreams of Mr J came between me and hypothermia last night.
On a brighter note (hallelujah and praise the Lord), I’m currently enjoying a respite schoolwise because Molly is so entirely obsessed with the lovely Mr J that flirting with/ talking about him consumes all her time.
Typical conversation of the day
Molly: I’m off for a sandwich. You coming?
Mikaela: What do you reckon Mr Jagger’s favourite sandwich is – egg and cress?
Chloe: No, that’s too gay. Tuna salad?
Molly: Salad? No chance. He’s a proper man. It’ll be ham and mustard, something like that. Hot. Meaty. Little bit spicy.
Aaaand so on.
Gay sandwiches, eh? Who knew?
Ever since Molly had her hamster-to-human brain swap, when she’s distracted (e.g. by sunflower seeds, hibernating, fancying the hot new English teacher, etc.), there are no spare neurons available to monitor other activity. Which means I can slip under her radar for a bit. Not so much as a single ginger jibe all day. Result!
Now if only a fit teacher could start at the boys’ school then maybe the bus lot would leave off for a bit too. Tonight at home-time some lad I’ve never even laid eyes on before was loudly jabbering on in my direction about ‘kick a ginger day’. I plugged my iPod in to ignore him, assuming he was making it up, but a quick Google confirmed it later. A dedicated ginger-bashing day does indeed exist. You can even buy commemorative mugs.
How can that be legal, never mind socially acceptable? If we’ve got laws against abusing people because of the colour of their skin, why not hair? Blonde, black, brown, bald, grey, red: one nation, follicly united!
Later . . . Oh dear. Dad has