The Weird Friends Fan Club Page 3

  Well done girls!

  You’ve both done this assignment much quicker than I expected! Since you’re both so keen, shall we meet up tomorrow (Friday) lunchtime to discuss? I can chair the first meeting to show you how it’s done, and then you can take it from there…?

  I’ve only got a very tight window but I’m sure we can fit this in. Meet at the very start of lunch outside the Sixth Form stairs. I’ve arranged for you to use a corner of their common room. Don’t be late!

  Make sure you’ve read each other’s stories and made a couple of notes by then. Nothing too detailed. It’s just a bit of fun and good practice.

  So pleased you’re both so passionate!

  Best,

  Mrs Wilson

  Second in Department for English

  Friday 22nd February

  ERIN

  OMG Grace. Insecure much? “Ooooh I’m so special, I do loads of extra-curricular stuff, Mrs Wilson. I do more than Erin. So I must be better. Please let me be bestest, Mrs Wilson.”

  Just goes to show, though. Here I am feeling jealous of Grace because I hate people who seem to sail through life so effortlessly. And it turns out she’s not even enjoying it, because she’s too worried about what everyone else is up to.

  Why be annoyed about who handed it in first? Her story was (I hate to say it) quite impressive. She should relax and enjoy being good at stuff.

  Grace and I arrived at the Sixth Form stairs while the lunch bell was still ringing. We’re both superfast. Super-keen. We had to wait five minutes for Mrs Wilson to show up. No small talk, natch. Just painful silence. I hate painful silence.

  “It’s not too late,” I joked eventually. “I could just get my mum to email your mum our notes, and we won’t even have to communicate.”

  Grace scowled at me, spelled the word “D-a-d” like I was a tiny child learning to speak, and then went back to her phone.

  Mrs Wilson bustled us inside, made a loud announcement to a couple of Sixth Formers that we’re randomly allowed to be here, and then we all sat down on surprisingly comfy (if a bit worse for wear) soft chairs in the corner of the room. It must be nice being a Sixth Former.

  Mrs Wilson “kicked us off” by telling us we’re both great, then more or less invited Grace to insult me. At least, that’s certainly how Grace seemed to interpret the sentence: “So Grace, what did you think of Erin’s Three Bears story?”

  “I thought it was derivative,” said Grace snidely.

  “Wait, what?” I blustered, not quite meaning to react that way.

  “Yeah,” Grace smiled. “I thought it was really derivative.”

  “Well of course it was derivative!” I spluttered. “It was the story of Goldilocks and The Three Bears! It was literally derived from another thing. How could it have been anything but derivative?”

  “OK. I think we’re getting off track a little bit,” said Mrs Wilson. “I think for now, let’s stay away from big pronouncements like it was good or bad or derivative, and talk about how different bits made us feel.” She looked between us to check we were both properly listening. “OK?”

  We nodded.

  “So Erin, what did you think of Grace’s story?”

  The annoying thing was, I actually liked Grace’s story. I genuinely (if begrudgingly) thought it was quite moving towards the end, with a good twist, but I could hardly say that now that she’d slagged mine off.

  “Um …well,” I replied awkwardly. “I thought it was a bit repetitive at the beginning.”

  “Which bit?” Grace seemed incensed.

  “The beginning bit,” I said. “It just keeps going on about how brave and great Goldilocks is, and how much everyone will regret messing with her. Like, we get it already. You maybe could have done that in a more concise way.”

  Grace looked hurt and angry and Mrs Wilson put her hand up to Grace as if to stop whatever outburst she was about to make.

  I quickly added, “I liked the ending, though.”

  “Ah, yes!” Mrs Wilson seized on this moment of positivity. “It was a very interesting ending, Grace.”

  Grace looked momentarily mollified and then haughty once more.

  “I liked the twist,” I said. They looked at me.

  “You know,” I continued, dutifully, “um, that ‘The Treasure’ has been Baby Bear all along? And people wrongfully have the impression that the Bears have some hidden gold. Was that…? Did I … interpret that correctly?”

  “Yes.” Grace nodded, seeming pleased.

  “Very good,” said Mrs Wilson.

  (Though I honestly wasn’t sure if she was talking about Grace’s writing or my deducing skills. Or maybe the combination of both in action meaning her group was a success?)

  “And I think,” Mrs Wilson continued to Grace, “you’ve drawn on your own experiences with loss to conjure up such a moving picture of the house?”

  “Yes,” Grace nodded seriously.

  Own experiences with loss. My brain suddenly reached the glaringly obvious conclusion as to why Grace had spelled out D-a-d for me, like I was a tiny child.

  “Ohhh!” I blurted. “Your mum died!”

  Mrs Wilson and Grace both stared at me.

  “I’m sorry!” I sort of yelled. Then more quietly, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t … and that’s why you… I can’t believe I didn’t… I kept saying Mum. God. I’m really sorry.”

  There was a terrible pause, during which Grace stared at me. Then she raised a haughty eyebrow, with a touch of amusement on her lips, and said, “And I thought you were meant to be clever.”

  And then she did this sort of smirk, but like it was an invitation for me to smile too. Like she was letting me off the hook.

  “Oh!” I laughed nervously. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” Grace put up a hand, magnanimously but also curtly. I felt like she was signalling that the subject was now closed.

  “So Grace, do you have any more constructive criticism about Erin’s story?” asked Mrs Wilson. “Now that we’re all … getting the hang of it.”

  (How was me shouting “Your mum died!” getting the hang of it?)

  “Um, well … I guess I was starting to get intrigued by how the chair got broken at the end,” said Grace. “But then it just finished. Was it meant to be a cliff-hanger?”

  “Um, kind of,” I said. “I sort of just ran out of time.”

  “Right,” said Grace, sounding decidedly underwhelmed. “So what happens next?” she addressed Mrs Wilson. “Do you mark us now?”

  “No, this is just for you. There are no marks,” said Mrs Wilson.

  “Yeah, but like, whose was best?” persisted Grace. “I mean, mine, obviously. It was longer and better written.”

  “No, we’re not judging it like that. And even if we were, as you know, in my class, longest isn’t necessarily the best. I award marks for style, content and being succinct as well.”

  “So Erin’s was the best?” queried Grace.

  “No. Look. We’re practising our writing skills in a constructive and supportive setting,” insisted Mrs Wilson.

  “But how will that help us to get ahead?”

  “By honing your skills.” Mrs Wilson sounded the tiniest bit vexed. “So much of the syllabus now is about hitting targets and ticking boxes. And those things are important, but creativity doesn’t always work like that. I think it’s important to have a space where the learning and the journey is as much fun as the result. Oh gosh, is that the time. I have to go. Well done, both! To be continued!”

  And then she bustled away again.

  “Riiight,” said Grace, but she didn’t sound completely convinced.

  “So, bye, I guess –”

  “Are you really –”

  Grace and I spoke over each other. “Sorry, what were you going to say?” I asked her.

  “Are you really a Charlotte Brontë fan?” Her eyebrow was quizzically and yet haughtily raised again.

  “Yes, she’s my favourite author!” I gushed
.

  “What do you think was wrong with Bertha Mason?”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Um, I think it’s widely considered now to have been Huntington’s disease, isn’t it?”

  “Have you read Villette?” Grace surveyed me coldly, eyebrow still up.

  “Yes. Is this some kind of test?”

  “Virginia Woolf said it was better than Jane Eyre.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you indeed. Do you like Jane Eyre best?”

  “I—”

  “All right, Elmo, don’t worry.” She stood up to go.

  “Oh thanks, your majesty,” I said sarcastically.

  She shook her head at me and walked off, chuckling.

  GRACE

  I wish Mrs Wilson would stop beating about the bush and just tell us who is best. It’s exhausting trying to work it out for myself.

  I don’t even care if it’s not me at this point. I CAN TAKE IT. Don’t treat me with kid gloves! If it’s not me – I CAN UP MY GAME! And then win later. (And then drink the tears of my haters, haha.) #lovetoanyenemies

  It might sound weird to write this, but it’s MY diary so it doesn’t matter. And also, as a writer, it’s important to examine your dark side too and be self-aware… I think Erin has brought up some feelings in me that I haven’t felt for a long time. I think it might be jealousy.

  I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but I’d always assumed I’d be quite good at sharing. I mean, I’m very generous when it comes to food or money.

  But maybe I want Mrs Wilson’s praise just for myself. I don’t want to share Mrs Wilson with Erin. Or the English top spot. Or the writing competition prize.

  I wonder if this makes me a bad person…?

  No. I’m wonderful.

  I mean, look at my track record. I’ve done loads for charity: two fun runs, four bake sales, that fashion competition, the Guinness world record attempt at who could take the most selfies in one minute… The problem is not me.

  It’s far more likely that Erin is an awful witch with evil magical powers holding Mrs Wilson to ransom with some terrible spell.

  ERIN

  “Oh my god, we’re going to be telling our grandkids about this gig!” Nic assured me excitedly, as I watched her try on her fourth outfit. “Zip me up?”

  Whenever we do something fun like this, Nic always wants me to come to her house so we can “get ready together”, but I am always already ready as I have basically one outfit. My #ootd is the same every day. Well, every weekend day.

  “Seeing as you’re ready, can you just plug my hair straighteners in? I want to do my fringe again. And, actually, can you go downstairs and get some crisps and lemonade? Ta.”

  I know I’m lucky to be here (and to get free crisps and lemonade). And hang out and everything. But sometimes it seems like I have to do lots of stuff for Nicole. I don’t mind, though. She is my best friend.

  I guess sometimes I wish she wouldn’t mock me for not knowing as much about music as her. And maybe I should have got around to listening to those songs she suggested on Spotify? I’m just not as into it as she is.

  OMG, the gig was loud!!! I was so glad I brought earplugs (which I can never tell Nic about). It was one of those mid-sized venues that isn’t so big you think you’ll get lost but still big enough that there’s no way you’re going to the toilet on your own.

  Nic’s parents drove us all the way there and all the way back. (They had dinner in the restaurant next door while the gig was on because we’re fourteen now. They used to come in with us.)

  I know I’m so lucky. Soooo lucky. It was so kind of Nic’s parents to pay and take us. And I know I’m definitely supposed to enjoy music, so I’m sure I will eventually.

  I sometimes worry I’m being a teenager wrong. I’d much rather curl up at home and read Jane Eyre again than be crammed into a dark, sweaty fire hazard of a building.

  And Nic always wants to go right to the front and try and dance, even though it’s so squashy.

  Look. I didn’t want to be the teenager with the earplugs at the back. But I guess that’s just who I am.

  Saturday 23rd February

  GRACE

  A poem by Grace Abella

  Always working, working hard,

  I must because I’m clever.

  Pretenders want to steal my crown,

  But they will beat me never.

  Always winning, winning best,

  I do because I’m clever.

  Pretenders wish they had my skills,

  But I will win forever.

  #nailedit #livingmybestlifebabes

  Sunday 24th February

  ERIN

  Eurgh. Dad’s weekend. At least we only ever stay one night.

  It’s always the same routine:

  Mum drops us off at the café near his road on her way back to work on a Saturday; he lets us order food then ignores us and reads the paper. Then we go back to his flat, and he ignores Mum’s instruction not to let us watch TV until we’ve finished our homework.

  This time in the café, even Kiera realised Dad wasn’t listening while she was rabbiting on about forming a Year Seven dance troupe with her friends. He just kept saying, “uh huh” and “mmm hmm” interchangeably.

  Eventually she glanced at me and we exchanged this look of amused understanding, which made me feel impressed at how grown up and sophisticated my sister is at eleven, but also sad that she knows she’s got a dad who doesn’t listen to her. I feel like she deserves better. But Kiera just grinned at me and shrugged.

  Kiera took full advantage of Dad’s not-listening skills when we got back to his flat and he gave her the TV control. She immediately put Stranger Things on Netflix and settled in to binge-watch. She’s a bit obsessed with that show. While Mum worries that it’s too scary, Kiera correctly identified that Dad would have no such objections.

  Dad said he was working and replying to emails on his phone, but then it made a beep noise like he was playing a game so he put it on silent.

  I did some homework on my computer and then started researching writing competitions. I used my tried and tested method of research and typed “writing competitions” into Google. There are loads! Loads. Just looking into them is like a job in itself.

  It took me a little while, but I finally found one that might be suitable.

  It’s for young people (ages 12-18). It’s free to enter and there’s actually a money prize. It’s 500 words and it has to be about ghosts…

  I’d love to write something that Grace couldn’t call derivative. As much as I still really don’t like Grace, I did kind of enjoy being involved in a literary discussion…

  Honestly, literary discussion. Who do I think I am? We were talking about The Three Bears! We all took it so seriously. Is this why Nic and I usually mock people in “The Arts” for being pretentious?

  When Kiera and I were getting ready for bed at Dad’s, she handed me this flyer she’d found in the café and forgotten to tell me about. “Have you seen this?”

  “Oh my god, there’s a play about the Brontës! In our local… Damn, it’s a tenner.”

  “It’s only seven pounds for students, you can afford that.”

  “Maybe…” I pondered. “Do you want to come too?”

  “Pass,” said Kiera blithely. “Unless, like, no one else will go with you. Surely Nic will?”

  Maybe Nic would love to come? I always do all the things she wants to do, like see bands and stuff. Maybe she’ll be delighted I’ve finally got a suggestion of something great and interesting we can do together?

  We nearly got through the Dad visit with no rows but, when Mum came to pick us up, the TV was on again. Dad clocked her gaze and said, “Oh, I’ve only just put that on.”

  But then – with sitcom timing – a message came up on the screen: “Would you like to continue watching Stranger Things on Netflix?”

  So, Mum knew (a) he was lying and that the TV had been on ages and (b) Kiera had nearly finished wat
ching all of Stranger Things against her wishes.

  I hate it when my parents row. But at least it doesn’t happen very often any more.

  Anyway. Positive: Dad let us get takeaway fish and chips for dinner. Pretty happy about that.

  GRACE

  My favourite part of the week is Sunday lunch because Daddy never misses it. He works very crazy hours the rest of the time, but Sunday lunch is ours and that’s when we catch up. Plus, he always books somewhere amazing to eat.

  This week he booked us into La Saison Sol, which is a wonderful French brasserie. Everything smelled divine when we arrived, and the waiter took our coats and led us to this lovely booth table, all laid out with gorgeous glasses and shiny cutlery.

  Daddy and I started to talk about what we had each been up to all week. He was (of course) very impressed that I am doing another extra-curricular thing.

  “Well done, Abella!” He reached across the table and clapped me heartily on the shoulder.

  (Daddy sometimes addresses me by our surname, like we’re in the army or the all boys’ school that he went to.)

  Some people think Daddy can be a bit … brisk or even rude. But I find him refreshingly frank and up-front.

  “So who won this Three Bears competition?” Daddy took a sip from his aperitif.

  “Oh, well, no one really. Apparently winning wasn’t the point,” I replied.

  “Uh oh.” Daddy rolled his eyes scornfully. “It’s not one of those nanny-state, everyone’s-a-winner, namby-pamby, hippy load of nonsense, is it?”

  “No! Nothing like that. It’s a process. Like training. Like you and karate.”

  “When I was learning karate, there were lots of fights and there was always a winner.” Daddy put his napkin on his lap.

  “I’m pretty sure I was the winner. I certainly should have been, anyway.”

  “That’s my girl!” Daddy smiled appreciatively. “You don’t get anywhere in this life without killer instinct. What do we say?”