Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre

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      Never thought I would write these words, but I am looking forward to going to school tomorrow!

       JANUARY 11TH

      Registration was like being backstage at Next Top Model this morning. Obviously, we already had the competitive bulimia and bitching, but Mr Jagger’s sudden appearance has sent the class glamour stakes stratospheric. Some hardcore make-up bag raids were in evidence and I admit I am just as guilty: nearly missed the bus I spent that long trying to de-bush my hair.

      Honestly, he could be a top model himself. Tall, but not gangly stick-insect-esque like me, more sporty and fit, with floppy boy-band hair doing a cool this-is-just-the-way-it-goes vibe, not a posing-in-front-of-the-mirror style. His eyes are amazing too, light green with brown flecks in (think so anyway – I need to confirm via a closer look) and a tan like he spends his summers on a surfboard somewhere exotic.

      He belongs on a catwalk or the set of an Australian soap. Definitely not in a classroom filled with drooling girls. No exaggeration, the whole school is Jagger-struck.

      Mr Jagger, Sir: you are a bucketload of glitter sprinkled on a cowpat and you don’t even know it. In fact, today you performed possibly the greatest miracle of the twenty-first century: your presence made a day at Huddersfield Girls’ High School pleasant.

      Well, almost pleasant anyway, because the ‘your mum’s a scrubber’ comments kept coming thick and fast. (But since Mikaela started it, mainly thick. Ha ha.)

      What can I do? I’ve tried cultivating deaf-rhinoceros-in-Teflon skin and I’ve tried answering back, but neither works. If I show a flicker of response, it’s like diving into shark-infested waters . . . while wearing a wetsuit made of ham.

      Suicidal feeding frenzy.

      Rang Emma tonight. Miss her so much. Her moving miles away is the worst knock-on effect of the business folding. More like losing a sister than a cousin. Can’t blame Uncle Andy for going though. Nothing left for them here, was there?

      Buuut, can’t help selfishly wishing Em was still around, especially as the Mean Girls seem to be ramping things up lately. I could do with some local support.

      ‘Molly’s always been a bit of a cow. And a complete snob,’ she said. ‘Chloe will wake up and smell the bullshit soon, don’t worry.’

      ‘Maybe . . .’ I said, not that convinced. ‘How’s college?’

      She went straight into a rambly story about this ‘kick-ass’ night out she’d had with a guy from her psychology class. Then how ‘awesome’ her new part-time job in Topshop is. And how she’s going to Florida with Uncle Andy and Auntie Amanda; the new firm is expanding again because apparently solar panels are booming in Essex.

      So I listened, and really I’m 100% thrilled life is treating her so brilliantly because I love her and she entirely deserves it.

      Then, when we’d said bye, I headed downstairs to watch telly. But Mum and Dad were having another one of their hushed rows about money (i.e. lack of) in the lounge. So I made a piece of toast and went back to my freezing, minuscule bedroom, and sat there on my own, feeling sad.

       JANUARY 14TH

      Newsflash! It’s official: Mr Jagger is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING!

       Reason 1

      OK, so today we’re reading Romeo and Juliet when he says, ‘Right, we’re going to do this next activity in pairs. Can you divide yourselves up, please?’

      Pairs. The word strikes fear in my heart. Will someone die in the scramble not to work with Lara T, Queen of the Untouchables?

      And it’s not only me. Pairs are tricky for the Weird Sisters: you know – two’s evil company but three’s a crowd, etc. The word ‘pairs’ is a guillotine blade ready to drop. Mikaela and Former Best Friend Forever Chloe are visibly panicking. Who will Molly pick? Who will she choose? Don’t pick her, pick me!! Aaarrggghh!

      What they should do is work together and leave Miss Molly flying solo, but they’re too dim to see that. Plus it’s pretty obvious beneath the besties act that they completely despise each other. Anyway, after a few seconds, Mikaela’s lonesome brain cell lumbers to life and she pipes up, ‘Sir, how many in each group?’

      Mr J managed to keep a straight face while he said, ‘Two, please,’ in a perfectly normal voice. But he saw me watching him and raised his eyebrows a tiny bit as he caught my eye. Then he kind of shrugged What is she like? Entirely, solely at ME. Ha!

      Next, when the class (as is the custom in 11G) left me alone, alone, all, all alone, instead of forcing me into a group like Mrs Gill always does, he went, ‘OK, Lara, you can work with me.’

      Got to spend five minutes doing character maps with him and he seemed v. impressed that I knew so much about the play already. The stuff he said was properly interesting AND it gave me the perfect opportunity to confirm that his eyes do have amber flecks in them. Amber or hazel anyway. Dark honey-coloured.

      That aside, he is so fantastically brilliant at explaining stuff that I learned more about Romeo and Juliet & Co in those five minutes than I have in the last five weeks. (Sorry, Mrs G, but it’s true.)

       Reason 2

      Home-time and I was waiting for the Hellbus, minding my own business, when Molly saw me give my head a totally innocent scratch.

      She smirked, shouting out, ‘Urgh, Lara, have you got nits again?’ which was followed by mass shrieks and a stampede as the girls nearest to me fled. At least the boys’ school hadn’t let out yet, so I was spared that added humiliation.

      Of course I don’t have nits. For the record, I had them once in Year 7 (caught from Simple Simon). But somehow Molly has managed to weave this isolated episode into some tedious non-joke that I’m a walking bug motel.

      ‘I can see them jumping on your head!’ she yelled from the ‘safety’ of further up the road.

      ‘No you can’t because I DON’T HAVE THEM,’ I called back. But no one was listening; all too busy laughing while I shrank deeper and deeper into my blazer.

      Now, if my life was a fairy tale, I’d write here that a handsome knight on a snowy-white steed galloped up, swept me into his arms and rode me off into the magnificent sunset. But I’m no princess and it was a beat-up silver car with Mr Jagger rolling the window down. Not complaining though: who’d want a horse in this traffic?

      ‘Is everything OK?’ he said, instantly drawing Molly straight to the car, a couple of cronies close behind.

      ‘Hiya, Sir,’ she said, flashing her teeth, sticking her boobs out and flicking her hair extensions. ‘Have you come to pick me up then?’

      The others giggled. Not me. I was too stunned she’d managed to do four things simultaneously.

      ‘Nice try, Molly,’ he said. ‘But no. I wanted to know what’s going on. I saw all these people running off and . . . Lara?’

      ‘Oh, СКАЧАТЬ