CHAPTER
FOUR

Observation #1:
Doing what you’re told is often overrated.

I put my head down and answer a series of devious questions about a poem that seems to me to be a random swirl of words on a page but apparently is a work of genius cos some dead white guy wrote it.

It makes me feel slightly better that Ellie and Rosie, my fellow public failures, really can’t do this. I know the BS that the exam board wants and can puke up pages of it, but Ellie is chewing her pen in a sad sort of way and adding smiley faces to all the i’s in her work, while Rosie is weeping into her homework planner. I push my book so that Rosie can see it and nod to her to copy. She almost smiles but not quite.

Meanwhile, at the non-failing tables, Sana chats away to Bex for pretty much all of the lesson and so keeps Mrs. Lewis’s attention away from us and our cheating. Note to any teachers out there — don’t worry about the noisy ones, they’re easy to spot. It’s the quiet ones you need to watch.

The bell screeches at the end of the lesson, drowned out by the sound of exercise books and pencil cases being flung into bags. Izzie comes and stands next to me, making a sad face.

“I’ll curse her if you like,” she offers.

“You’d do that for me?” I laugh. “You’re so sweet. Can I order boils or being hit by lightning?”

“You laugh at me,” Izzie says, “but you know what I can do.”

(Once she did a talk in English about a “love potion” and gave it to Rebecca Turner. Who then snogged Jay Hudsworth at a party. Yes, Rebecca Turner — not cool — snogged Jay Hudsworth — way cool. Izzie puts it down to her love potion. I put it down to vodka. The rest of the school is undecided.)

We wander off into the main corridor, knocked about like corks in the sea as we are hit by a series of large bags carried by Year Sevens. The size of their bags increases in direct proportion to their smallness. I’m sure you could turn this into a mathematical equation — which would then be the only useful thing done in a Maths lesson this century.

Izzie stops to talk to someone while I plow on up the stairs to Music. I’m not really in the mood for chitchat. My legs feel naked and huge. I’m in the mood for an argument.

As I stand at the top of the steps, I see my reflection in an ancient glass cabinet. I see my legs in all their glory. Yuck. I really am half dressed. In fact, I have unwittingly achieved the slut look that half of Year Eleven aims for on a Friday night. I look like I should be in some music video, bumping, grinding and generally getting my groove on behind some hip-hop star.

“Wicked look,” Sana calls, and gives me a wolf whistle. I do a little shimmy in return. I might not feel great about myself at this precise moment, but I can still pretend that I think I’m awesome. I’m not beaten yet. I mean, what’s the big deal about a pair of big, naked legs?

“Work it, girlfriend,” she continues and, giggling, I pretend that I’m on an imaginary catwalk, sashaying and spinning, blowing kisses to the invisible paparazzi. There’s quite a few of us on the stairs and in the corridor, and the chant of “Go, Jess” begins to build as I continue to shake my thing.

Sana laughs as I spin and pout at her. She gets her phone out and starts to film me. “You got it, Jess!”

For the first time all day, I actually feel okay.

It’s then I hear a cold laugh.

“Exactly what do you think you are doing, Jess Jones?”

I look down and see her again. Zara. Her hair groomed to perfection, labels dripping off her extra-small clothing. Everything I despise. Smirking as she looks up at me.

“How can you bear to look at yourself in the mirror?” she spits out. “You are just so fat now — you’re grotesque.”

My heart starts to pound. Everyone is watching now. Before, it was just a spat, but now I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to say something good. Too bad my brain has stopped working, along with my mouth. Because the things she is saying are the things that I never say to myself. Except today.

I’ve had enough.

Adrenaline rushes through me and I’m spoiling for a fight. My backside still hurts and I’ve had a rubbish morning. All cos of her.

Even prefects bite back sometimes.

I march down the steps until I face her. I can sense a few others just behind me.

“Grotesque, Zara?” I hiss. “That’s a big word for you — do you think you can spell it?”

She starts to speak but I stop her.

“I might be fat but I can change that if I want. But you, you will always be a bitch.”

She starts forward — is she going for me again? God, this girl has anger issues.

But I’m not falling for it this time. So, I just step back.

Which means that Zara — arm outstretched to slap me, pull my hair or inflict some other girly form of physical abuse — flies through the air and lands on the floor at my feet.

“Hurrah,” I say in mock triumph. “Fat Girls–1, Bullies–0.” And I put my foot on her arse before she has time to move, pumping my arms like I’ve just won a boxing match. Which I suppose I have. Around me, there are a few cheers and whoops. Zara pushes my foot away and leaps up, her face twisted in fury, mascara starting to run down her face in dirty rivers.

I almost feel sorry for her. But she did push me earlier and she would have done it again. I just got out of the way.

“I’ll get you for this.” With that, she shoves her way through the crowd, Tilly and Tiff trailing behind her.

I look up at the small crowd on the stairs.

“Okay — show’s over, people.”

Most girls are laughing, smiling, giving me the thumbs-up.

“Nice one, Jess. You showed her, for once,” Sana says.

I can’t help noticing Hannah hasn’t said a word.

“She deserved it,” I say defensively.

“I know,” Hannah says, “but it just didn’t feel like you just then.”

I grimace. I know what she means. I’m not one of the mean girls normally. It almost felt like I was being Zara and she was being me.

This thought occupies me during most of Music and then break.

And then, later, when everyone around me is telling me I did well, but I’m not so sure, that’s when I hear the shout of doom.

“Jesobel Jones. Get. Yourself. Here. Now.”

It’s Mrs. Brown, Assistant Head from Hell. She’s standing a few feet away from me in the hall and pointing to the place just in front of her feet. Without even meaning to, I wander over.

At first, I’m not sure what she’s going on about. As I stand in front of Mrs. Brown, it’s like standing in a wind tunnel. She screams, she yells, she goes red. Spit flies in my face.

“You. Are. A. Nasty. Piece. Of. Work,” she shouts. Apparently, she can only communicate in one-word sentences when angry.

I turn to Hannah, who looks back at me in shock.

“You. Are. A. Bully,” she continues.

Okay, I think I need to introduce her to a concept called irony. I mean, she’s calling me a bully?

“I’ve got Zara Lovechild sobbing in my office, bruises covering her arms. You did this to her.”

I try to say something.

“Don’t deny it. I saw it on the school cameras.”

Zara might have been sobbing in her office a few moments ago, but now she’s standing just behind Mrs. Brown and smiling at me in triumph through her messed-up makeup.

“Did you, or did you not, call her a bitch?”

“Yes, but —”

“I have no time for buts. You verbally and physically assaulted a fellow pupil. Get to my office now. And while we are there, we’ll discuss what you’re wearing. Because to put it simply: You. Are. Too. Fat. To. Wear. That. Skirt. You look ridiculous.”

Two bullies are accusing me of bullying, when I was just standing up for myself. And now a fat woman is calling me fat.

End of.

That’s when I have my moment of madness.

I turn and walk away.

Then there’s more screaming.

“Don’t. You. Walk. Away. From. Me. Jesobel. Jones.”

I keep walking.

“One more step and you’ll be suspended. You’ve got your national exams in a few weeks.”

I take three more for good measure. I might as well be committing suicide but she’s just pushed me over the edge. As I dash up the stairs, I sense bodies behind me. The students of the school are somehow managing to slow her down. Even with a head start, I don’t fancy my chances. This is more exercise than I’m used to. Out of breath, I turn a corner and see a cleaners’ cupboard. Hiding suddenly seems a good idea so I open the door and dive inside. A little Year Seven, coming down the corridor toward me with the most enormous bag I’ve ever seen, looks at me in surprise. I put my finger to my lips as I close the door.

Inside my cupboard, I hear the drumming of feet — Brown is in full chase mode. I’m almost sad that I’m hiding in a cupboard, as I would have liked to see her run. “Did you see her? Did Jesobel Jones come this way?” the voice of Brown booms.

A trembly voice replies, “A girl ran that way, miss.”

“Get. That. Ridiculous. Bag. Out. Of. My. Way. Now.”

The footsteps fade away.

I peer out and smile at the little girl, who grins back as she waves her bag in triumph. School–1, Brown–0.

But then my smile fades quickly. I’ve run away from Brown. What do I do next? Opposite me is a huge cabinet full of trophies that celebrate everything girls have ever done in this school that’s worth celebrating. But all I can see is my reflection in the glass. This morning, I looked in the mirror with my friends and I smiled back. Now, I see myself full length, and let’s just say, I’m not smiling anymore. Is this how people see me every day? I wish I were invisible.

But I am Jess Jones and I will not be beaten. Enough of feeling sad. I brush away my stupid tears and plan how to make this day better. It’s time for a prison break. I want to go home. It’s that simple.

Once I’ve made my mind up, the rest is easy. I quickly find the back stairs, then run down the fire escape and out into the grounds. Frantic waving at the window grabs my attention. Sana and Hannah mouth at me, “What are you doing?” and “Come back.” Not a chance. I’ve had enough of being looked at. Sana furiously motions to me to come back in. I shake my head and then she points at me and pretends to cut her throat. She clearly thinks I’m crazy to do this. But this feels so good when I was feeling so bad before.

So, I ignore my law-abiding friends and I push the recycling bins next to the wall and I climb up. The drop down to the road looks a bit scary, but not as scary as going back inside. If I don’t make a move, they’ll find me.

I kneel on the wall, then sit on my bum and let my legs swing down. I take a big breath. I drop down and then I’m standing on the pavement. On the wrong side of the wall. With no way back.

In the street, it’s calm and quiet. My heart is pounding.

I look at my watch. 11:33 a.m. My phone is going crazy in my pocket, but I have a very unusual craving for home so I turn it off. Dad won’t be up yet; Mum will be at the gym. If I walk quickly, I might just have time to get home to watch some black-and-white film with Gran before she has her first whiskey.

And, today, I think I might just join her.