The Weird Friends Fan Club Page 2

  Mum worked her way up to her current job. She’s one of the main PAs to the head of HR at this huge engineering company. It’s a really busy place, she often has to work long hours, and because it’s international, sometimes there are meetings by satellite at crazy times.

  Mum is the only person in her department who doesn’t have a degree. (She left school at sixteen and has had loads of different jobs.) This makes her determined that Kiera and I get good educations, while simultaneously claiming that she’s the only person “living in the real world”.

  Mum likes to have her cake and eat it. And bring it home for us.

  Tuesday 19th February

  GRACE

  OMG. D.R.A.M.A!!! So #awkward today!

  Grumpy emo-what’s-her-face has been moved up to our Top English Set!!!!

  WHAT!!!!!!

  She has usurped Chloe! She is a usurper! OF ALL THE PEOPLE!!!!

  First we realised was this morning in double English when she randomly came over to our table, didn’t even make eye contact with anyone, and just tried to slink into Chloe’s seat!

  I get that it’s the only free chair – but where are her manners? Say hello! Don’t just jump into someone’s grave like that.

  We were all so shocked, but Sylvie was the first to recover, and said: “Um? You can’t sit with us.”

  And Grumpy Face was about to reply, but that’s when Mrs Wilson breezed into the room, all happy about it, going, “Oh great! That’s it, sit down, don’t stand on ceremony. Girls, Grace, show her the ropes!”

  AND THEN she starts singing this girl’s praises! Like she’s some kind of genius. And how it’s very exciting she’ll be in our group, and she got an extraordinarily high score on the last something or other.

  And I said, “Well, she may have been top of Third Set but she won’t be top of this class.” Because I really thought Mrs Wilson was getting carried away, and needed to be brought back down to earth.

  And Mrs Wilson said, “Actually, Grace, that’s why Erin’s moved up. Her mark was a fraction higher than yours in the last assessment.”

  I honestly felt like I’d been slapped in the face. AS IF she’s better than me. At ANYTHING. We will soon see about that, thank you, Mrs Wilson.

  And then Mrs Wilson said: “Grace, I especially hope you will make Erin feel welcome, because you’re both such huge fans of Charlotte Brontë.”

  My blood ran COLD. This little upstart is not stealing my place on that writing course too!

  Mrs Wilson then swanned off happily to start the lesson.

  I smiled scathingly at Erin so that she knew I was absolutely not going to make her feel welcome, and she needed to BACK OFF now.

  “Welcome to the group,” I said sarcastically. “Sorry? What was it…? Erica? Elmo?” The rest of my friends spluttered with laughter.

  We definitely made sure she didn’t feel welcome.

  Ha. That’ll teach her.

  ERIN

  Oh. My. God. English was everything I feared and more!

  I can’t believe that stupid #youcantsitwithus hashtag has actually just happened to me in real life. I sometimes hate the modern world. Everything is a meme hidden inside an in-joke, and I don’t know what’s ironic any more.

  Charlotte Brontë didn’t have to worry about this nonsense. She only had to worry about proper problems. Like, well, typhoid and stuff like that. (I hear it.)

  Parents worry about their kids being bullied online. But I managed to get it the #oldskool way. In person. By a gang of stuck-up predators that hate me.

  They literally spent five minutes at the start of the lesson trying to rename me as something they’d “be able to remember”.

  I still can’t believe they think I’m an Emo. (At least Nic thinks this is funny and that we should up it and start wearing Goth makeup.)

  And they were actually quite personal about my face. And now I’m really thinking about plucking my eyebrows.

  And it’s Dad’s weekend soon. I don’t really want to go.

  Eurgh. Everything is rubbish.

  Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

  I really must find a way to be chill about everything. What is the secret of that?

  Dinner = half a tin of Heinz tomato soup and a piece of toast, followed by an apple. Can’t complain. (About that.)

  Had to hide my diary from Kiera just now and she looked at me funny. Pretty sure it’s still secret.

  I pretended to be looking at my phone while she tidied some of her clothes away. I ended up scrolling through photos of how Grace spent her half term.

  It’s so ridiculous it almost cheers me up. These clowns can’t bully me. Look at them.

  In one, Grace has uploaded a picture of herself at the hairdressers. (Like, what? Since when are we supposed to share pictures of the hairdressers?)

  She’s done that classic pose in the mirror, casually holding the phone with her fingers in a V shape; and tagged herself with #beauty #loveit #treatyourself #ootd #howistyle #livingmybestlife Eurgh. Why don’t I just puke all over my phone?

  Also why has she put #ootd? You can’t even see her outfit of the day, she’s sitting down!

  Come off it, Grace. You’re just a person. You’re not all that. And your hair always looks the same. Get over yourself.

  I continue scrolling down and see a picture of her and her gang all dressed up and pulling “attitude” poses outside Byron Burger. She’s captioned it “Girl squad on point. #youcantsitwithus #lovemylife”

  So basic. Stupid sheeple.

  For a second, I feel a mad urge to comment, “I DIDN’T WANT TO SIT WITH YOU ANYWAY!” all over her posts.

  But then I take a mental step back and chuckle to myself. This is so ridiculous. Me and Nic would never post our hair appointments. We laugh at people who do that. I am above this. I just have to not let it bother me.

  Not bothered.

  Don’t need to pluck eyebrows. It’s their problem.

  Definitely.

  Wednesday 20th February

  GRACE

  Our campaign against Erin initially continued successfully in English today. She actually gave us this amazing target in her random, super-mad eyebrows. But then: MORE DRAMA.

  “Oh my god, what did you do to your face?” said Sylvie, when Erin sat down.

  “Oh. Wow. I think someone’s tried to use an eyebrow pencil for the first time. Don’t worry, you’ll get there,” I added patronisingly. And everyone sniggered.

  She went satisfyingly red, and then the lesson started.

  But then, after the bell rang, Mrs Wilson called Erin and me to stay back. For a horrible moment I thought she might have overheard what we’d been saying, but she hadn’t.

  She wanted to unveil her great PLAN for us: Mrs Wilson wants to start an extra-curricular Creative Writing Club at our school!

  And we are her guinea pigs. Her patient zeroes, if you will.

  Mrs Wilson gave us all the information about the Brontë-inspired writing competition.

  Every year the winner gets money, prestige and is interviewed on the radio by that terrible DJ.

  All the kind of stuff that looks good on a school’s books. (Apart from the radio interview – but maybe that does too?)

  Mrs Wilson wants us to practise writing short stories, meet up, and discuss them.

  “Mark each other’s work?” I asked, intrigued and appalled.

  “Give feedback,” Mrs Wilson corrected me. “It’s called constructive criticism in literary circles.”

  “But isn’t it better to just get expert feedback, like from you?” I persisted. (I have to say the part about dishing out advice appealed; not so much the receiving.)

  “Well, this is how you develop critical skills,” said Mrs Wilson. “And you might react differently to a piece of writing than I do.”

  She also suggested we work together to “do a bit of research” and find other short story writing competitions to “cut our teeth” on.

  It adds up to quite a lot of extra w
ork, but she doesn’t think this is a problem, as we’re both so clever and “passionate about Charlotte Brontë” and it’s not our G.C.S.E.’s yet or anything because we’re only in Year Nine.

  In short, Mrs Wilson seems to want me to help my enemy apply for the thing I want most in the world.

  “And I’m going to set you a few little writing exercises of my own now and then,” Mrs Wilson revealed. “Maybe you have to write a letter in the style of Shakespeare or Jane Austen or something like that. Does this sound of interest to you, girls? I think you might find it really fun.”

  “Upon my word!” I joked, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Great!” Mrs Wilson took this for acquiescence. “So I can count on you? Oh hooray! How exciting.”

  We both clearly loved Mrs Wilson enough to comply. “Sure!” we both said, without making eye contact with each other.

  Mrs Wilson then breezed out of the classroom, leaving us awkwardly alone together.

  Erin just stood there mutely, so of course it fell to me to do something. I’m used to being very organised with my solo projects, so I suggested we swap numbers and start googling writing competitions.

  Then Erin rudely interrupted and said, “Look, I’m sure you don’t want to be seen talking to me. Our parents all have each other’s emails. Just get your mum to ask my mum for details or something? We don’t even have to meet up.”

  What’s that about? And she totally started any animosity between us anyway, by always giving me evils and rolling her eyes behind my back.

  “I don’t care if I’m seen talking to you,” I said honestly. “Babe, I’m popular enough to recover from anything. Even you. Joking. Is that how shallow you think I am? You emos are so judgemental.”

  I’m pretty good at getting in the zingers. She just claimed to not be an emo and kept on trying to get out of it.

  “Look, our parents can’t help us with this project and my dad has no desire to talk to your mum, I assure you. He’s very busy.”

  “My mum’s very busy too. Look I just meant –” She trailed off.

  “You were trying to get out of it?”

  “Well. Yeah.” (At least she admitted it.) “And you don’t want to either,” she accused me.

  “Maybe not. But I’m not missing out on extra credit from Mrs Wilson just because you’re a coward. Now give me your stupid number.”

  That told her.

  We finally agreed to meet up quickly after our next English lesson and discuss what we’d found.

  ERIN

  Eyebrows are a nightmare. Why are there so many rules about eyebrows and how do I keep falling foul of them????!!!

  First, I finally cave and pluck my eyebrows (even though I’m well aware you shouldn’t have to change yourself for bullies, and I sort of hate myself for doing it, but I just wanted the taunting to stop. And I totally plan to have principles later in life when it doesn’t matter as much.)

  So then they’re all red and sore and Mum’s all “Oh you should have come to me, you’ve really over done it, blah blah,” which is all great and Captain Hindsight of her because she wasn’t even here before. And then she tells me to fill in the gaps with a pencil or some eye shadow, except she had to leave super early this morning too, so I had to guess at how to do it.

  I HATE Sylvie and Grace and the rest of them. They are so mean. I still can’t believe I have to sit with them in English.

  Why can’t Mrs Wilson spot that Grace is just a stone-cold bully? Why is she trying to make me hang out with her? Would she tell an innocent, bad-eyebrowed lamb to hang out with a hungry, evil, bad-eyebrow-hating lion? (I am the lamb in this scenario.)

  EMAIL

  16.42

  FROM: MRS WILSON

  TO: CHARLOTTE BRONTË FAN CLUB

  SUBJECT: YAY NEW SUPER WRITERS’ GROUP AND FIRST ASSIGNMENT

  Dear Grace and Erin,

  So pleased you’re as excited about this project as I am.

  Just a little fun one to get you started:

  Re-write the story of The Three Bears.

  Best,

  Mrs Wilson

  Second in Department for English

  GRACE

  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  Thursday 21st February

  ERIN

  EMAIL

  07.48

  FROM: ERIN BROWN

  TO: CHARLOTTE BRONTË FAN CLUB

  SUBJECT: RE: YAY NEW SUPER WRITERS’ GROUP AND FIRST ASSIGNMENT

  Dear Mrs Wilson,

  Is this the kind of thing you mean? (Attached.)

  Best,

  Erin

  The New Three Bears by Erin

  Goldilocks saw through the sham of the Bears’ marriage: separate beds in separate rooms. One bed soft and one bed hard.

  She wondered how long they had been keeping up appearances. She wondered how they had ever got together with such different tastes in everything from food to furniture.

  Or had opposites attracted at first? Maybe Mummy Bear had once found it endearing that Daddy Bear liked salt in his porridge, while she preferred sugar. But now the grind of making three different porridges each morning – including one for the baby – was just an annoying time-drain.

  Maybe Daddy Bear had once loved how soft Mummy Bear liked her chairs to be, but eventually grew frustrated he could never get up from them easily and insisted they buy only hard beds and chairs.

  Maybe that’s how it came to a head. A stand-off between which bed the couple would sleep in together. By then neither could face backing down because everything had become about winning.

  They had to keep up appearances for Baby Bear. They had to keep going through the motions until the market picked up and one of them could afford the deposit to move out.

  Goldilocks didn’t know how it started, or how it got this far, but she knew this: Baby Bear’s chair had been broken before she got anywhere near it. And she wasn’t going to take the blame lying down.

  GRACE

  That little suck up. Handing it in first. My story is going to be WAY better than that…

  Right…

  …Ummm…

  Once upon a time… No…

  There once was a… No…

  A long time ago… Aaarrrgghhh, no.

  I’ve got it.

  EMAIL

  19.24

  FROM: GRACE ABELLA

  TO: CHARLOTTE BRONTË FAN CLUB

  SUBJECT: RE: YAY NEW SUPER WRITERS’ GROUP AND FIRST ASSIGNMENT

  Dear Mrs Wilson,

  Mine is now attached. I would have had it in sooner, but there was a netball match. I do lots of extra-curricular activities. Probably more than Erin. Anyway.

  Best,

  Grace

  The Bears by Grace

  Everyone was prejudiced against Goldilocks. Just because she was blonde and beautiful, they thought she was stupid, but she wasn’t. She was actually very clever. Probably one of the cleverest in all the land.

  The others had dared her to break into the Bears’ house because they thought she wouldn’t be able to do it. They thought she’d be too scared. That’s why they’d bet her one hundred pieces of gold.

  But Goldilocks was brave. She wasn’t scared of bears. She would win this dare just like she won everything. They underestimated her and that would be their downfall.

  It would be the easiest gold she’d ever made. And they would learn not to mess with The Locks (a nickname she was trying out on herself to see if it would catch on).

  Goldilocks staked out the Bears’ place and wrote down their comings and goings in her cool little notebook with the purple butterflies on it. Once satisfied, she made her plan. She waited until she saw them slide the little key under the plant pot and the coast was clear.

  Quaint that they would go for a walk, waiting for their porridge to cool down. Goldilocks shook her head and chuckled as she entered the property.

  Her mission was to steal a bowl of porridge, search for the treasu
re – if indeed it existed, break a chair and get photographic evidence. But she decided to have a good look round first.

  The living room looked normal. Mundane. Chairs, books. No obvious secret panels anywhere…

  The rumours that the Bears kept treasure in their house were thought to have originated from Daddy Bear himself. They said he boasted sometimes. “I’ve still got my treasure,” he’d say.

  The kitchen seemed clean also. Table laid, cups and bowls. Hot porridge waiting to be eaten. There were two of everything, just like she expected. A Daddy one and a Baby one…

  Goldilocks went upstairs. Baby Bear’s room looked much as she’d thought it would, as did the bathroom and Daddy Bear’s room. But there was one last door at the end of the corridor…

  Goldilocks could tell it was special. The carpet was thicker outside. Like no one walked here, like Baby Bear wasn’t allowed to play here. This was clearly a room that must never be disturbed.

  Cautiously, Goldilocks pushed the door and went in. Everything was white and pale blue. The room felt feminine. There was a beauty stand with a mirror, brush and single framed photograph. There was a smell of perfume so faint, Goldilocks wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it.

  This was her room, Goldilocks realised. Nothing had been touched or moved. Everything had been preserved just the way Mummy Bear had kept it.

  Goldilocks took another step forward. She could now see that the photo frame contained a picture of a new-born Baby Bear. It was a cheesy, sentimental frame that said the words, “MY TREASURE”.

  EMAIL

  19.41

  FROM: MRS WILSON

  TO: CHARLOTTE BRONTË FAN CLUB

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: YAY NEW SUPER WRITERS’ GROUP AND FIRST ASSIGNMENT