After the night of the gig, I was on the inside of the outside. I’d never belonged to anything before – I even eschewed the Brownies because they make you wear poo-coloured garments – and it felt strong. It suddenly made sense why people join clubs and societies and cliques. It was nice to feel like a part of something. The side-effect of this was that most of the school now thought I was a freak. The sixth-formers were pretty used to Polly’s temper, Beasley’s mannerisms or Alex’s outfits, but the lower school – particularly gobby Year 9s – had now taken to screaming DYKES when Polly and I walked down the corridors together.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Polly told me one day in the library study room. She was surreptitiously eating a Müller Crunch Corner under the desk when the librarian wasn’t looking. ‘This is why we’re going to revise the **** out of these end-of-term tests. We’re the ones who are getting the **** out of Brompton. They can call us geeks and freaks or dykes and faggots, but in two years we’ll be in London or wherever and they’ll be pregnant, dead or working on the pier. It’s school karma.’
‘I hope so,’ I told her. ‘My first two essays were Cs. That’ll be me frying the doughnuts at this rate.’ The time obsessing over Nico (more about him in a second) and time spent on the crazy-golf course was cutting into my study time. Mum, perhaps to punish me for finding her so drunk, had thrown an eppy about my first two essays. For the first time ever, I’d been grounded to study.
Over the library table, Polly took my hand and drew a smiley face on my thumbnail with a Sharpie. ‘Toria, we are not going to let you ******* fail. We leave no one behind.’
‘Thank you.’ I could feel myself blushing. So this was what having proper friends felt like. Back home, my old friends had made everything a competition – trying to outdo each other, failing to realise you get nothing for finishing first.
‘We got your back. Daisy has French and I’ve got English. You’ll be fine.’
Meanwhile, as we crept towards half-term, Nico was interested. I could tell:
1. He texted constantly – sending pics from rehearsals or telling me how dull his lessons were.
2. He liked everything I put on Facebook.
3. On 12 October he asked me to send him a selfie – all above shoulder height, I stress. The last thing anyone needs to see is me squidging my boobs together with my arms like something off Nuts magazine.
4. He always came to Fantasyland if he knew I was going to be there.
I decided, shortly before half-term, that I would have to have a chat with Polly. She didn’t seem overly concerned about me and Nico texting, but I was becoming attached to both of them and didn’t want to make an epic mess just when things were going well. I finally plucked up the courage one evening at the golf course. Some of the others were playing. Alex had invented a hybrid of golf and croquet that he and Alice and Nico were trying out. I sat on the swings with Polly and Freya, who was, of course, reading.
‘Can I talk to you about something?’ I said, my voice strangled and feeble.
‘You can.’
‘Look, I know you used to date Nico …’
Polly guffawed. ‘Bless you, child. I’d hardly call it dating.’
‘OK, well … whatever. I like him, but I don’t want to do anything if that’d piss you off.’
‘It’s not me you should worry about.’
‘What?’
She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but Beasley has a major crush on you.’
My eyes almost fell out of my head. ‘What? Beasley Beasley? I thought he was …’
‘Gay? Well, duh. The boy plays the ******* flute. It’s pretty much a single entendre.’
‘Then how can he have a crush on me?’
Polly smiled. ‘Poor Beas. I know he’s gay, you know he’s gay, Freya knows he’s gay.’ Freya nodded with a wry smile, not looking up from her book. ‘The only person who doesn’t know Beasley’s gay is Beasley. Or if he does, he’s fighting it.’
‘God, why?’
Polly shrugged. ‘Beasley really wants to be normal.’
‘Being gay is normal,’ I said defiantly.
With an inquisitive tilt of her head, Polly scrutinised me. ‘You’re way too cool for this ******* town, Grand.’
‘Well, duh,’ I agreed with a grin. ‘Oh god, I don’t wanna upset Beasley. I love Beasley. But not like that. Do you think I should talk to him?’
Polly shook her head. ‘Nah, he’ll get over it. He’s probably more concerned about you stealing Nico from him to be honest. I give you my blessing, by the way, if that’s what you’re after. Nico is … a dude.’
She didn’t seem too certain, but I took her blessing gratefully. I’d worry about Beasley later.
It was getting cold and I was starting to wish I’d worn a jumper. Polly changed the subject. ‘Hey, are you coming to Zoë’s Halloween party during the hols?’
‘Yeah, she mentioned it in passing. Was that an invite?’
‘Of course it was. Zoë’s dad is the vicar …’
‘What?!’
‘I know! He’s mega chilled out though. He’s letting her use their house while they’re on holiday. It’s gonna be epic.’
‘OK, cool. What should I dress up as? I hate fancy dress.’ I think it pretty much always looks naff and what are mixed-race girls meant to go as? I’ve oscillated between Pocahontas and Princess Jasmine pretty much my whole life.
‘I think a few of us are going to do a Beetlejuice thing this year.’
‘What’s Beetlejuice?’
Polly looked at me with a mix of disgust, pity and horror before she stood up and screamed across the golf course. ‘STOP EVERYTHING. TORIA HASN’T HEARD OF BEETLEJUICE.’
One night later I was sat in Polly’s bedroom with the title sequence of Beetlejuice rolling on her laptop. ‘So you know who Tim Burton is, right?’
‘Of course. I love Corpse Bride.’
‘Well, this is his early ****, when he was really ******* twisted. I can’t believe you’ve never seen this!’
‘It came out like ten years before we were born! How have you even heard of this? Are you secretly thirty?’
Polly laughed. We were in our pyjamas – hers Hello Kitty, mine bunny rabbits. This was a proper sleepover. I popped a kernel of slightly frazzled microwave popcorn into my mouth. Sweet, obviously – Polly and I were on the same page when it came to popcorn. Salty popcorn is the foodstuff of the Antichrist. ‘No. But my sister is.’
‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’
‘Well, half-sister, from my mum’s first marriage.’
‘Ah, OK.’
Obviously I loved the film. It was nuts. Apparently Beasley wanted to go as Beetlejuice while Alex and Alice were going to go as the dead bride and groom. When we got to the scene where the dead couple go into the afterlife, Polly paused it on the receptionist – a green-skinned beauty in a pageant sash and crown.
‘I’m going as her. Look how ******* fierce she is. I’m going to dye my hair red.’
‘Yeah, she’s cool. Are you going to paint yourself green?’
‘Yeah.’ Polly took a breath. She went to press play but hesitated. ‘And it’s sort of an in-joke.’
I was confused. ‘Is it?’
‘Yeah.’ Polly held her wrists up.
‘What am I looking at? I don’t get it.’
Polly took my hand and ran my fingers over her alabaster skin. I could feel shiny ridges, silky scar tissue in neat, minute parallel lines. They were so delicate I’d never noticed them before, but now I could feel them, I could see the skin glisten, almost like pearl. ‘I cut myself. Just like she did.’ She nodded towards the green receptionist.
My stomach clenched like a fist. This is going to make me sound like a baby or an idiot or both, but I’d never understood self-harm and it scared me. I think probably it scares a lot of people who’ve never been there. Like, I could never get past the hurting part, or the fact that the scars would remain forever. There’s also that fear that I’m not quite deep enough to get it, so I usually keep quiet on the issue.
I forced myself to speak. I remembered Daisy telling me that Polly never talked about real things. Well, here she was, letting me feel her scars. ‘Oh, OK … I get it.’
‘Do you?’
Busted. ‘Not really.’ Tears were stinging my eyes and I didn’t know what to say. ‘I … do … is it something you still do?’
‘God no! It was years ago, when I was, like, fourteen.’
That calmed me down. Her jovial tone made it clear this wasn’t a cry for help.
‘I figured you’d probably seen.’
‘I hadn’t. You were pretty neat, I see … kind of like your room!’
Polly laughed. ‘Ha! Yeah. It was pretty OCD cutting.’
There was a long pause. Polly went to press play again, but I stopped her. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not really. It’s all a bit Camp Tika-Boo Hoo, isn’t it?’
I searched her eyes. She was trying to gloss over it, but under the paint there were cracks in those walls. ‘Polly! Tell me about it. To be honest, I don’t get how you could do that to yourself. So … help me understand.’
Polly rolled her eyes but caved in. ‘Uh. Intervention. I was young and I thought it was cool.’ My eyes must have widened in shock. ‘What, you want me to lie? I thought I was the saddest sad person and the angriest angry person in the whole world and that cutting myself would be a good way to deal with that. Surprise, surprise, it wasn’t.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘I’m not gonna lie. It’s kind of addictive, but I started masturbating instead. Much healthier form of release!’
We both laughed. ‘But seriously?’ I said.
‘Because I didn’t want to be a ******* cliché. I could see what I was turning into. That teenage girl. I refuse to be a ******* statistic. Ever. So I stopped. It was hard and I still sometimes look at pencil sharpeners funny, but I just stopped.’
‘No one helped you?’
‘Everyone pretended not to notice. I hid it pretty well.’
My eyes stung again, but in a different way. ‘Wow. You’re tough. Like seriously tough.’
I thought for a second she might cry too, but it passed in a second and her lip curled. ‘You are such a mushy ******. Shut the **** up!’ She pressed play. ‘Watch the film!’
The film finished and I brushed my teeth. It felt like I’d punched through a dam tonight: Polly Wolff was strong but she wasn’t invincible. It made me like her even more. I guess I’d had her on a pedestal and that’s not especially healthy. It was nice to have a human friend.
When I got back to her room, Polly was on all fours rummaging around in her cupboard.
‘Hey, I can’t find the foot pump for the blow-up bed. I hope you’re full of puff.’
I did not fancy blowing up a mattress manually. ‘That’s OK, why don’t I come in with you?’ Polly had a stupidly big bed – we’d practically be sleeping in different postcodes.
‘Is that OK? It’ll take ten ******* years to blow up otherwise.’
I agreed and we climbed into Polly’s vast bed together. It was freezing cold. Bed: pleasurable. Getting in and out of bed: un-pleasurable.
‘God, it’s freezing!’ Polly shrieked.
‘Snuggle!’ I commanded and we squished our bodies together – my chest pressed to her back. Polly was gloriously warm, like a gangly hot-water bottle. ‘That’s better.’
‘We should totally be filming this for Nico,’ Polly suggested and we both cracked up.