Drop (2 page)

He loves me though, my dad. I know he does. My earliest memory is of him and me. I’m watching the little winged seeds tumble from the sycamore tree in the front garden of the house-eight-houses-ago – we lived there until I was ten. Twirling like ballerinas, the seeds dance to the ground.

Below the tree is a wild strawberry patch. The strawberries taste sour, but I don’t mind. I shovel a handful into my mouth and my face bunches up as if I’ve bitten right into a lemon. The tips of my fingers are stained pink with juices. My daddy is high in the tree, trimming branches. I bet he can see all the way to Grandma’s house from up there.

He shakes the branches and lots of tiny pairs of wings come dancing down. So pretty.
Butterflies, lots of little butterflies,
I think to myself. He climbs down and cups my face in his hands, like he really, really loves me. His skin is calloused and rough from working hard, but I don’t mind. He unhooks a sycamore seed from my hair. He smells like camping trips.

“Hey, angel, do you know what we’re doing today?” I shake my head excitedly. This means we’re doing something fun. Daddy smiles and the skin around his eyes crinkles up. He looks funny with the sun lighting up all those little cracks and creases. Birds have been marching on his face. “We’re going ice skating. I’m going to teach you. That’ll be fun, won’t it?”

I love my dad.

I love that memory.

I guess I’m kind of nervous about being in the Big Smoke. Our new house, complete with sash windows and ornate door knocker, may be slap bang in the middle of a neat, leafy street, but if you walk down the road, past the park, you’re in another world.

From our new pad you can walk ten minutes in one direction and get the best eggs Benedict of your life and drink unpronounceable teas from vintage cups and saucers in a quirky cafe with a ceiling full of chandeliers; or browse independent shops that seem like gift shops in some upper-class theme park called Poshland. You can buy candles and antique furniture and weird art and be, like, totally chic or whatever.
Or
walk ten minutes in the opposite direction and possibly be stabbed forty times in the neck. I had
literally
seen it on TV the week before we moved. “Following news of the fatal stabbing of a teenager in Peckham, the thirteenth knife-related death in South London this year,
Newsnight
asks: Is London knife crime out of control?”

But machetes, daggers, samurai swords and blunt-but-deadly bread knives aside, there are things I feel
much
more apprehensive about:

1. being invisible at my new school

2. being so very vanilla that I have nothing to recommend myself to others, which means 1. is practically a write-off

3. by some miracle, attracting friends into orbit around my person, but spectacularly failing to keep them there.

I’ve never really bothered with mates and social standings before. There was always an expiry date on them, with Mum on contract; a year here, six months there. We might as well have been Travellers, or living on army bases. My world was constantly changing. But now? Now I’m putting down roots and have all of London and the whole of sixth form to cram my entire filmic aspirations into: friends, popularity, grades, the
good life
as defined by a lifetime of watching John Hughes films and
Clueless
on repeat.

I’m freaking Molly Ringwald in
Pretty in Pink
and it’s my time to shine.

Just as a mirror reflects only what’s in front of it, what you get out of life depends on what you put in. Before leaving home on my first day at Thorncroft School, I stand in front of the mirror. I see my bed’s reflection, the corner of my desk and a pale wash of sky framed by the sash window. I don’t see myself. I am the invisible girl. But I’m tired of being unseen. I’m going to change, to fit in for once and be popular. I’m going to be somebody. I just hope that no one sees through me.

I’m psyching myself up on the way to school, breathing deeply, then blowing out all the air and hopefully my nerves with it. I traverse tree-lined streets past rows of yellow-brick houses with immaculate white-painted window surrounds and small but perfectly manicured front gardens, then I cross the park. In daylight it’s a picture-perfect green haven and, if you find the right spot far from the road noise where the trees are tall enough to block the skyline, you feel you’re anywhere but in a city. At night it’s a completely different story, with shadows stalking you and the trees whispering. I follow the curve of the river and hit Sandringham Avenue, darting past dog shit and bus stops, under a dodgy railway bridge sheltering drunks, cider cans and used condoms, until shops appear. There’s Ali’s Foodstore, the doctors’, pharmacy, off-licence and chippy. Thorncroft School, biggest of all the buildings, sits head of the table, yellow brick with window frames painted in a jarring cobalt-blue gloss.

I collect my timetable from the school office. Mrs Vernon, the receptionist, directs me to the form room. Inevitably I get lost in the maze of corridors and end up in the sports hall before a Year 11 girl takes me to A2.

My stomach feels weird and fluttery, like a deflating balloon. The first day at a new school is always the worst, as if some law makes it illegal for new kids to slip into the system unnoticed.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please don’t notice me.
It’s the same every time I move schools. But this time, it’s permanent, real-life-staying-put-till-end-of-sixth-form-finishing-your-exams-time-to-make-friends-stationary schooling. The blood drains from my face. My innards turn inside out. Carla Carroll: late, shy and licensed to hurl.

I knock on the form-room door. Through the glass – you know that glass with wire mesh like graph paper? – I see a man in brown loafers crouching on the wipe-clean vinyl floor. Shards of glass and spilled water glint under the energy-saving fluorescent lights. He tilts his head towards the knock, which was evidently not inaudible, as I’d hoped. I wish I was somewhere else – anywhere – a beach, the park, at home, under that tree with my dad twirling butterflies down to me.

The door opens. My chest wheezes involuntarily as the balloon empties. Thirty pairs of eyes fix on me.
Shit
.

Mr Brown Shoes waves me into the room. “Come in, er, Carla, is it?” he asks. I manage an affirmative grunt. “Welcome. Take a seat. We’ve got a slight spillage to attend to and then we’ll get cracking with proper introductions.”

I want to die. Instead I mumble, “OK, um, yeah,” and sit down at the table with the fewest people, by the window.

My eyes flit around the room, unable to focus. Everyone is looking at me, all perched on metal-framed stools with seats of moulded off-white acrylic the colour of an overcast sky. I try to ignore the visual dissection I’m receiving.
Newbie. Geek. Ugly. Rabbit. In. Headlights
.

I focus on Mr Brown Shoes. He’s swarthy, taller than average, but not a skyscraper, more a multi-storey car park; olive-skinned with cocoa-dark hair tousled into thick, messy curls. Fittingly flamboyant for a secondary school art teacher. Kimonos and earrings and you’re looking at local college teacher/failed artist, but unkempt locks, that’s fine. There’s something perfect about him. I don’t mean like
that
. There’s just something calming about him, magnetic, pleasing. He seems balanced.

He glides over to where I’m sitting. He’s wearing a forgettable sky-blue shirt and jeans, but has a brilliant scent that conjures vivid images of Marrakesh – pulsing sun, bustle, life and spices.

“I’m Mr Havelock. Head of Year 12. These inattentive monkeys are your new form group,” he says.

“Hey, Ted, we’re not monkeys! I’m a tiger, mate.” A boy jumps off a stool and claws with his hands.
“Raaaaaa!”
He launches at me. I panic. I push him and he backs off. “Easy, tiger!” The boy cocks an eyebrow. “Already trying to rip my clothes off. I like that.”

The whole class laughs. I die inside.

Mr Havelock glares at the boy, his cheeks flooded with red. “Back to your seat, you cocky fool.”

“Only trying to make the new girl feel comfortable, Mr H. You know, calm her nerves, make her laugh.”

I glance at my attacker. He’s unbelievably handsome. Easily the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. Eyes like coffee beans, long dark lashes flicking against milky skin. High cheekbones and a smooth jaw like lathe-turned wood, sculpted to perfection. He’s wearing skinny jeans, their low-slung waistline exposing his boxers. A spike protrudes from his left earlobe and a ring circles his bottom lip. All is forgiven…

Still, I wish I was anywhere but here, away from these glaring eyes.

“Does she look like she’s laughing?” Mr Havelock smiles, tight-lipped. “Get on with your work, Mr Masterson.”

“You all right, Carla?” he asks.

Yeah, apart from wanting to curl up and hide in the ventilation system for the rest of the day, I’m great.

“Mmmm,” I mumble. My brain calculates the quickest exit route. Options include:

1. window on left

2. form-room door

3. fire escape at back of room

4. spontaneously combust.

Unfortunately, it isn’t over. Six hours of classes remain: double Biology, Chemistry, English Lit, Psychology and Art: my AS-level subjects.

I’m good at school. I’ve got my head around Dadaism and I can describe cognitive dissonance. I’m not a total geek or anything, I get stuff wrong and I find coursework a pain in the arse like anyone else. I just try to do my best. Usually that means getting into the top achievers, upper sets, fast-track classes.

I guess I can be hard on myself sometimes.
It’s-not good-enough-don’t-you-want-to-achieve-something?
rings in my head for days if I don’t put the effort in.

I try to keep to myself, silently clock-watch my way to three fifteen. But despite the nerves, I
need
someone to take an interest in me, say something vaguely friendly. I suppose unless I emanate some signs of life I’m bound to be ignored.
Hello, I’m here, I’m new, I’m nervous. Somebody speak to me. I’m not weird, honest.
Regrettably, the words just swim in circles around my head.

Art is the last lesson before lunch, back in my form room, A2, my timetable tells me. I sit in the same seat as at the start of this hideous day. I swear, everyone thinks I’m mute. Or a mutant. Or both. I challenge myself to string at least
one
sentence together by the end of the lesson.

We’re studying sculpture, which I’m excited about. Art’s a subject I actually enjoy. Ideas bubble inside me, bursting to get out. Whether drawing, painting, writing or, I hope, after this course, sculpting, I seem to do it well. Art’s an outlet, a way of expressing myself. I sound like a hippy. Whatever.

Most of the class have already started their sculptures. The girl to my right has designed a brooch in the shape of two birds facing each other, fiery-looking, enamelled in orange. The guy to my left is making a horse from old cogs and washers. Pointless and hideous. I like the brooch. I hate the horse. I already know what I’m going to make. My favourite insect, animal, living creature: a butterfly. They’re so beautiful.

I draw a few sketches and make a list of materials and equipment.

The girl with the brooch design taps my sketchbook.

“That’s lovely.” She smiles warmly. “I wish I could draw like that.”

“Thanks. It’s an
Ornithoptera alexandrae
– Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing. Their wings are like patchwork.” Finally. Someone has made contact with me, the alien. I come in peace!

“I’m Lauren,” the girl says.

“Carla.”

Lauren has jet-black hair pulled back into a knotty blob and green eyes that shine, unaided by make-up. She pulls out a tin of Vaseline and coats her lips. I notice she doesn’t wear rings, or any jewellery, not even studs in her ears. She’s unintimidating, safe. My shyness subsides and I gear up to compliment her brooch, but stop, distracted by a low hum of voices from the next table. I twirl my pencil like a baton between my fingers.

“Yeah, mate,” the beautiful boy says, “that’s what I’m talking about! It was a massive night. We didn’t get home till eight a.m.”

“Ha ha! You must have been dead for, like, a week after that.”

“Slinky was totally on form.”

I turn my head to get a better look at them.

“You should have seen the VJ set-up! It was huge. The screen was almost on the ceiling, sitting on scaffold.”

Mr Havelock must have caught me staring, because he darts over to the boys.

“Finn! Do you mind? I’m trying to teach a class.” His face darkens.
Finn, his name is Finn.

“Sorry, Ted. Won’t happen again.” Finn looks genuinely sorry. Then he smiles widely.

“Come on. You’re seventeen. Act it.” Havelock’s look of irritation fades. “Get on with your work.”

I wonder what Finn and the other boy were talking about. Sounds pretty cool, whatever it was.

Lunchtime arrives. At least I’ve strung together one sentence. I’m not a total outcast, a mute mutant; a lonely, newbie freak. Success!

I swear, even with a whole scout troop on an orienteering trip to help me, I’d have difficulty finding my way around this place. It’s like the bloody Bermuda Triangle for new students. I might never escape. Searching for the sixth-form common room takes half my lunch break.