‘Oh. My. ACTUAL. Did we, like, actually look like that last year?’
It really is a disturbing sight. Dixie has her right hand to her chest in horror at the hideousness of it.
‘Chances are we did,’ I say, more in sadness than anything else.
We’re reviewing the Newbies at Oakdale High on their first day of Second Level education. Tragic. Truly tragic. Truly tragic.* They’re standing around the schoolyard trying to look cool in their new uniforms. Mum is forever saying a uniform is ‘a great leveller’ whenever I complain about it, but looking at these guys I’m not so sure.
‘Bless,’ I say, shaking my head smugly and feeling quite grown up.
‘This year is already so much better,’ says Dixie, ‘because we’re not them.’
Uggs and I acknowledge this fact.
‘It’s such a relief,’ I say.
‘Mind you, our uniforms might fit a bit better but they’re still maroon and therefore the very actual colour of awful,’ Uggs says.
‘You’re not wrong,’ I tell him.
We still look pityingly on the First Years, like they came down in the last shower. Poor creatures in skirts way too long and too big for them because their parents think they’ll be good for them to grow into. What it is, though, is mortification and I can’t believe any parent could have forgotten that feeling, no matter how old they are.
‘Unless they’re boys, of course,’ Uggs says. ‘I wonder if it’s unfair that you girls have the choice between skirts or trousers but us guys only have the trouser option?’
‘Uggs, you guys have the skirt option too, I’m sure, it just hasn’t ever been taken up by your kind.’ I’m feeling all smug, having made this point, and probably have a very annoying, pleased face on me.
Dix joins me. ‘Yeah, there’s no rule that you can’t wear a skirt if you really want to, Uggs, least not that I’ve ever heard of.’
We don’t continue to torture him because right then the Slinkies go by and Samantha Slinky actually says, ‘Hi, Jen.’
TO ME. You could knock me over with an exclamation mark made entirely of feathers. I have been spoken to, in public, at school, like I’m someone. It’s one thing for it to happen during the summer when we’re all on holiday and normal rules don’t apply, but here? I only manage a gurgle in return.
Uggs and Dixie are turned away now, giggling.
‘Bit of dribble on your chin,’ Uggs says.
‘Thank you, Eugene. That is, of course, intentional,’ I say.
‘Of course,’ they chorus.
‘I dislike you both,’ I say. ‘Equally.’
Gary the Dork goes by, wearing a maroon beanie to match his uniform. Wherever he managed to get such a fashion faux-pas we may never know (or want to know). He goes, ‘Yo!’ and raises his hand and I think he may be attempting a high five with me. This all makes me gag and dribble in a very different way to the Slinky greeting. Then he does a kind of rolling walk to Uggs, like a ‘homie’ – in his own disturbed mind, that is – and goes, ‘Dude!’
‘DUD, more like,’ I mutter.
‘He is so getting worse, isn’t he?’ Dixie says.
‘No question.’
Although Sam Slinky broke the Golden Rule of never bothering with younger people when she spoke to me, she could maybe be allowed off because she’s going out with my brother.† But the Dork should know better, even if he is an idiot. There is NO WAY he should be having anything to do with us ‘kids’.
The Dork spots Tommy Cook (possibly the least cool kid in the whole wide world) and rolls on over to him with, ‘Tominator, ma man!’ and Tommy does actually high-five him and say, ‘GAZ!’ That’s how sad he is.
‘Beyond sad,’ Uggs says. ‘I can’t even laugh at it.’
Weirdoid Central is added to by Dixie’s squeeze, Jason Fielding, who lurks into view. I see her eyes widen and take my opportunity to deflect attention as I’m still a bit sweaty from nearly having to greet the Dork and I don’t like it.
‘Would that be Jason the Tongue Fielding?’ I ask, as innocently as I can manage.
She wrinkles her nose, dismissively. ‘That guy is so last Friday.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘He is,’ she squeals, then she hisses, ‘SHAAA-AAAP,’ as the Tongue approaches (without his trademark feature out in front of him, I’m glad to report).‡
‘If he calls me Babe, I’ll deck him,’ Dixie mutters.
‘BABE,’ he says, the silver-tongued devil.
I wait for some violence but Dixie just, well, simpers a bit. Uggs nudges her, to provoke some action, but no go. It’s like she’s stuck to the spot and has lost her powers of speech – v v unusual for the Dix.
Uggs and I try to make ourselves invisible, pretending not to listen in but we so are.
‘Wassup?’ the Tongue wants to know of Dixie. ‘You don’t call, you don’t text. I thought we had something, y’know?’
He’s clearly been watching a lot of movies recently.
‘Oh, buzz off,’ she says, and he does.
‘Tough love,’ I tell Uggs and I get a thump from Dixie, with a little pinch added for good measure.
‘How am I the bad guy here?’ I ask, rubbing my injured arm.
