First published in Great Britain in 2015

by Electric Monkey – an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2015 Rachel McIntyre

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2015

ISBN 978 1 4052 7344 2

eISBN 978 1 7803 1624 6

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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For Christian

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

AFTERWARDS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

JANUARY 1ST

Q. What do you give the fifteen-year-old girl with no social life?

A. A diary!

Looks like someone did their Christmas shopping in the Ironic Gifts Department this year, eh, Gran?

Happy New Year!

JANUARY 5TH

First day back at school after the Christmas hols and things were not great.

Actually, that’s such a massive understatement, it’s probably visible from the moon, like the Great Wall of China. Or Graham Flett’s arse.

Bumped into Fat Flett on my way to karate last night, so at least I was expecting combat-themed ‘banter’ from him and his twatty mates on the bus this morning. And I certainly got it. Yep, a whole twenty-five fun-packed minutes of ‘Behold the Ginger Ninja!’ and comedy karate chops.

Hilarious.

But, as everyone knows, an MP3 player is a bullied girl’s best friend and that’s why my iPod is my God. Music–1 Abusive Boys–0.

The bus pulled up and, after one last chop suuuuuey! from some random lad, they all swarmed off to their school and I escaped into mine.

Molly and Mikaela were already in registration, verbally stirring the cauldron of bitchiness. Maybe they’ll pick on someone else? Just for once? No chance. The word ‘Lara’ floated over and my suspicions were confirmed: today was definitely going to be a Bleak Day.

When break came, Mrs Muirhouse turfed me out of the cloakroom where I’d been cosying up to a friendly radiator. So, there I was, shivering to death on my own in the yard when the witches of form 11G materialised before me.

‘Hi, Lara,’ said Molly in the warm, friendly manner of a talking shark. Immediately my hackles rose. (Metaphorically that is. Physically, I’m not sure I even have hackles.) ‘I wanted to tell you I spoke to your mum yesterday when she came to clean our house. Did you know she’s started working for my parents?’ Cue sycophantic laughter from Mikaela. ‘Weird, isn’t it? Next time I’m in my new en suite doing, whatever, I’ll be thinking of your mum.’

‘Lara’s mum’s a scrubber!’ shouted Mikaela and they all fell about laughing.

Mikaela Walker, you are a comic genius. I. Literally Split. My. Sides.

Of course, a true Ginger Ninja would have pulled herself up to her full five foot ten at this point and obliterated Molly with a killer windpipe chop. But I couldn’t even manage a killer one-liner. Hopeless.

Former Best Friend Forever Chloe-the-Turncoat crept over when Molly wasn’t looking.

‘Hey, Lara.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Just saying don’t let Molly and Mikaela wind you up. Being a cleaner is nothing to be ashamed of. Honestly. I mean, it’s not like she’s a prostitute.’

???!!

‘Anyway, don’t take it personally, they’re only having a laugh.’ And with that she snuck off furtively, like she was being tailed by the FBI.

What a total hypocrite she is. Prostitute! She’s known my mum since we were in reception.

Oh, Chloe Stubbs. We were like sisters, you and me. Years and years of best friendness at primary then ecstatic when we both passed the girls’ school exam. Inseparable at guides / pony club / karate and then, halfway through Year 9, poof! you vanished. No more hanging out at school, no more clubs.

No more being best friends.

Looking back, the signs were there, I just didn’t read them: ignoring my texts; not picking up when I rang; disappearing every dinner time . . . I bet the whole class was laughing behind my back for weeks.

Never been dumped by a boy (as never had a boyfriend), so I don’t know if that’s worse, but being chucked by your best friend is preeeetty gutting. Particularly when she ditches you for someone as mind-meltingly inane as Molly Hardy-Jones. No kidding, I’ve had socks with sparkier personalities.

Even now I find it mystifying that Chloe turned into this gold-digging airhead. Molly clicked her (acrylic gel-tipped) fingers and my best friend gave me the elbow quicker than you can say ‘check out my new en suite’.

Anyway, Mrs Murphy took pity on me at dinner, letting me do some shelving in the library which meant I didn’t have to brave the yard again. But it was BIG LAUGHS all round at the bus stop later so v. glad I had my iPod to drown their stupid voices out.

Yeah, so my mum’s a cleaner. Big effing deal. At least she works for a living, unlike yours, Molly, who despite being a lazy, sorry, lady of leisure, can’t be bothered to get off her bony backside to pick up a duster once in a while.

These are tough times. It wasn’t Mum’s life goal to be a cleaner, but after the business went under, it was that or starve. Seriously think she and Dad aged about ten years in six months. And not just because the business flatlined. Selling the house was definitely the lowest of the low points. Standing on the drive in a family hug; Simon not really getting it; Mum trying to act brave; Dad promising it’s only temporary.

But two years later it looks pretty permanent to me.

And that’s why, far from being ashamed of her job, I am actually proud that my mum cleans your house, Molly Hardy-Jones. Because when she picks your skanky knickers up off your bedroom floor, she is doing it to keep me, my dad and my brother going. Meaning she is a star not a scrubber.

So screw you, Molly Hardy-Jones, and your new en suite. My mum is the Queen of Clean and she rocks her rubber gloves like a GODDESS. And if you EVER leave your dirty pants lying about for her to deal with, I swear I will stuff each and every pair in your big fat gob.

PS Molly’s got her own en suite. Me and Simon share a flannel. There literally is no justice.

JANUARY 8TH

Simple Simon (aka World’s Dumbest Kid Brother) stuck a knife in the toaster and ripped its guts out while I was making the tea tonight. Then he tried to stick his tongue in a light fitting, blowing all the fuses in the house (including Dad’s), which meant when Mum got in from work, the three of us were a) starving and b) blundering about in pitch-darkness.

Never mind ‘ass’, Simon is an omni-pain in the brain, body and soul. He surpassed ‘ass’ at about eighteen months. Hard to believe it now, but when he was first born I loved playing Big Sis. Taking him out in his pram, blowing raspberries on his tummy, dressing him up like a doll.

Ha! How times have changed. He has belonged to Satan since the minute he learned to talk. No matter how much I threaten him, his mouth is ALWAYS on full volume while his brain’s turned way, way down. And the little freak constantly gets me into grief.

Like tonight: instead of dealing directly with her delinquent spawn, as any normal mother would, Mum had a right go at me.

We are currently stuck on a loop, like that film Groundhog Day, except ours is called Everything is Lara’s Fault Day. OK, Mother, totally get you work hard, are sole breadwinner, etc., but STOP TAKING OUT YOUR MOODS ON ME.

Tonight’s variation on the theme: beef Hula Hoops.

‘What’s this all over the carpet?’

‘Could be Hula Hoops. Simon had a packet earlier.’

‘First the electric’s off and now the place is a pigsty,’ Mum snapped. ‘I am sick to death of coming home to this every night.’ She poked at the crumbs with her foot. ‘Look! Right the way up the stairs. It’s like sharing the bloody house with Hansel and Gretel.’

‘Er, yeah, they’re not my crisps. Tell him, not me.’

‘It’s your responsibility to make sure things are straight; you’re the eldest.’

‘That is so unfair. I have to do everything.’

‘Lara, Simon is six years old. And anyway, he does his share.’

!!!!

I clattered the hoover out of the kitchen cupboard and naturally I did tut, sigh and roll my eyes while I was doing it, of course I did.

Simon ‘does his share’ round the house? What a joke. You can count the number of times Simon’s ‘done his share’ on the fingers of an oven glove.

More to the point, why isn’t she nagging Dad to ‘do his share’? I mean, if we’re getting technical here, isn’t he the eldest?

I am up at five every day delivering newspapers in arctic conditions, while he’s still snoring his head off upstairs. (A job I do, let’s not forget, so I can pay for karate and other stuff myself, thus sparing them extra expense.)

Then, after school, I’ve got ten GCSEs to study for. With the way they go on about the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES they’ve made for my education, they should see my exams as the Holy Grail. But no. My parents think clean carpets are more important.

Meanwhile, Simple Simon gets away with murder and Dad gets to spend his days brooding on the sofa like some TV-obsessed, housework-shy troll.

He’s unemployed FFS, what else has he got to do?

JANUARY 10TH

WTF?! Massive shock in English today. Surely Mrs Gill’s idea of a good time in bed is the complete Jane Austen and a hobnob?

Well, apparently not. Turns out she’s going on maternity leave till September.

Bombshell though that may be, the real headline news is the cover teacher they’ve drafted in. Imagine Edward Cullen and Mr Darcy rolled into one. Well, that does not even come close to the glorious gorge-ness of Mr Ben Jagger. And it wasn’t just me who noticed either: the poor guy was nearly knocked to the floor by 11G’s collective fake-eyelash fluttering. Even treat-’em-mean Molly tossed her hair extensions so hard I thought she’d dislocate her neck. (Sadly, no.)

Anyway, Mr Jagger kicked off his lesson with, ‘Right then . . . OK then . . .’ and mucho throat-clearing. But once he’d got past the nerves (understandable given the whole class was eyeing him like a starving dog shown a chop), he was excellent and it was BY MILES the best English lesson I’ve ever had. He’d prepped this interactive video stuff on medieval Verona that was so absolutely brilliant even Thicky Mikaela was mesmerised.

Plus! Not just English, he’s our form tutor too, so pleeenty of opportunities afoot to gaze upon his gorge-ness.

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, it’s nothing, Sir. Just waiting for the bus,’ I mumbled.

The rest of the girls had drifted back one by one and were watching us. Mr J looked at me for a few seconds longer, then nodded. ‘OK, well, if you’re sure everything’s OK, Lara. See you tomorrow.’

And he sputtered off in his knackered little car, smoke billowing from the exhaust.

Wow! Can’t believe he stopped. That is the nicest thing a teacher has ever done for me. None of the others have bothered to step in before. Or maybe they’ve just never noticed the way people treat me. Not everyone needs a cloak to be invisible, do they?

Molly looked a bit put out, but at least she shut up and left me alone. Then the boys’ school came out and a gang of girls made this faux-squeamish deal of not sitting next to me, but bollocks to them. Least I got a seat. Normally it’s standing room only. They keep promising us a bus for each school. Can’t wait. The girls are bearable-ish, but the boys are industrial-strength knobs.

Anyway, I stuck my headphones in and starting reading a book Mr J recommended called I Capture the Castle. But it was hard to concentrate because all I could think about was him turning up out of nowhere at exactly the right moment.

Mum and Dad are stressing over the rent arrears downstairs and, as I can’t take another ounce of money’s-too-tight-to-mention tension, am taking refuge in my room. Again.

Still can’t stop thinking about Mr J. He’s kind, clever, good-looking, funny, sporty, loves to read – the guy pretty much full-houses my dream boyfriend wish list.

Depressing really. What are the chances of meeting someone my own age like that?

Slim.

And of him fancying me back?

Ha! Skeletal.

JANUARY 17TH

Following on from the gasp! shocking revelation that my mum is gasp! a cleaner, the Ginger Apartheid Movement has gathered momentum and I appear to have now made the transition from mocked-but-tolerated to actively shunned.

The evidence? Registration this morning and a pink envelope appears on every desk. Every girl pulls out a pink glittery card. The room is buzzing. Every girl is giddy with anticipation. Every girl except me.

Why?

Because I am the ONLY member of Form 11G that hasn’t been invited to back-stabbing former BFF Chloe Stubbs’s ‘Sweet Sixteen Celebration’.

(Pink glitter! Un. Be. Lievable. We had matching PINK STINKS! badges on our blazers in Year 8!)

Anyone else’s party and I wouldn’t even be that arsed, but this is Chloe giving me the unclean, unclean social leper treatment. And I don’t get why; not really.

Yeah, I realise I was never hanging with the cool kids, but me and Chloe got on great until Molly wormed her way between us. Even the girls we used to knock about with like Kayleigh and Eden have drifted over to Team Molly along with Chloe. They’re never mean or bitchy, it’s more like I don’t exist any more.

I am the Invisible Woman.

And the mystery remains: why has Molly got it in for me on such an epic scale?

As far as I’m aware, it’s not an actual crime to be intelligent or ginger or have a stupid surname or a mum who cleans (even though Molly seems to think it is). What is it with her? Does she think being poor is catching? Caution! Friendship with Lara T may result in fatal outbreaks of Primark, Pot Noodles and pound shops. Stuck-up cow.

And now today’s little stab looks like last-nail-in-the-coffin time. Everyone gets an invite to the pink puke fest apart from me and the only hint of a silvery lining was that Mr Jagger had a meeting so he didn’t witness my shame.

Later . . . Just had a Facebook message from Chloe aka The Traitor.

Hey Lara! I hope you don’t mind about the party but I knew it wouldn’t be your sort of thing. I did want you to come, honestly, but I think it might be better if we do something on our own another time instead? Love Chloe xx

Get this, right. I am in the middle of typing No worries! I know you were only thinking of me when a flock of flying pigs pass over the house and knock the 3G out.

What are the chances . . .?!

JANUARY 19TH

Brrrr! Mum and Dad have announced we’re on yet another economy drive, so the heating’s off tonight. I want to know exactly what there is left to economise on. We live the no-frills life in our house as it is. Are we going to feed Simon to the dog? Start rationing the bathwater? Hmmm, I’d rather not add ‘I stink’ to The List.

The Why Lara T is Queen of the Untouchables List

• I’m ginger

• I’m poor

• I’m a geek

• I have the Surname of Shame

• My mum cleans for a living

And coming soon . . .

• I stink

Seriously worried I am becoming worse than Untouchable. Is there a lower caste, one even the Untouchables look down on?

Joke: What did one Untouchable say to the other Untouchable?

‘At least we’re not Lara T!’ Ha ha!

Anyway, the further ‘austerity measures’ mean I haven’t dared ask about getting a new school skirt, despite the fact this one is almost gynaecologically indecent. Short skirts might always be in fashion, but freezing your twinkle to a bus shelter will never catch on.

Oh, PLEASE don’t let us be poor for much longer. When will we be able to afford new clothes? Heating? Fruit?

Hmm. Sounding v. ungrateful bitch-esque here, which I so am not. Am I demanding caviar in a gold dish on my private yacht? Nooo. And I am fully aware that Mum’s cleaning and the money left over from selling the house isn’t stretching as far as they’d hoped AND that it’s my school fees sucking the last few quid out of their savings account.

But I can’t help pining for how it was before everything went down the toilet. Dying to have the little things again. Satellite telly, weekends away, family trips to the cinema, clothes shopping . . . the stuff I completely took for granted.

Stuff we could probably still have (now and then) if it weren’t for the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES they make because we have to keep Genius Lara at her Good Private School (the irony!). Mum, Dad and Simon – we’d all have better lives if it wasn’t for my stupid school fees which, even with the 50% braniac bursary, are astronomical. Wasn’t easy to pay when we actually had money, but now we’re on the breadline, well, it explains the economy overdrive.

And that’s why I can’t tell them how much I hate school, no matter how bad it gets. Throw the massive FINANCIAL SACRIFICES back in their faces, would you? Selfish, ungrateful bitchcow of a daughter.

Could never confess this to anyone, especially Dad, but I was almost relieved when he and Uncle Andy gave up the fight. Obviously, that was misery on toast, but it meant the tension stopped – that horrible scrabbling on a cliff edge thing with the pair of them constantly up and down to the bank, begging for more time. Once they’d given up and the house had gone to pay the debts, at least the uncertainty was over.

I may actually cry if I think about this much longer. Soooo . . .

Yay! (drum roll) The weekend has arrived at last, full of thrilling possibilities: parties, premieres, paper rounds . . .

Thank God no one has any of the Sunday whoppers round here, I can barely lift the bag as it is. I bet Molly’s parents get The Times; they probably order five copies and spring-load the letterbox just to taunt their paper girl.

Not that Molly could actually read it of course. She’s far too dumb.

JANUARY 22ND

Karate was excellent tonight and I cannot wait for the day when I Jackie Chan the bejesus out of everyone who annoys me at school. Hiiii yaaaaah! Chop.

Went round to Gran’s after with the shopping and had a cup of tea. She did wake up briefly for the Sky Sports headlines, but mainly I ate choccy digestives and broiled myself on the central heating. Mmmmm, warmth: how I miss you, old friend. Mum and Dad are still point-blank refusing to turn the heating on (fuel costs blah bills blah money blah) so only a pair of thermal socks and dreams of Mr J came between me and hypothermia last night.

On a brighter note (hallelujah and praise the Lord), I’m currently enjoying a respite schoolwise because Molly is so entirely obsessed with the lovely Mr J that flirting with/ talking about him consumes all her time.

Typical conversation of the day

Molly: I’m off for a sandwich. You coming?

Mikaela: What do you reckon Mr Jagger’s favourite sandwich is – egg and cress?

Chloe: No, that’s too gay. Tuna salad?

Molly: Salad? No chance. He’s a proper man. It’ll be ham and mustard, something like that. Hot. Meaty. Little bit spicy.

Aaaand so on.

Gay sandwiches, eh? Who knew?

Ever since Molly had her hamster-to-human brain swap, when she’s distracted (e.g. by sunflower seeds, hibernating, fancying the hot new English teacher, etc.), there are no spare neurons available to monitor other activity. Which means I can slip under her radar for a bit. Not so much as a single ginger jibe all day. Result!

Now if only a fit teacher could start at the boys’ school then maybe the bus lot would leave off for a bit too. Tonight at home-time some lad I’ve never even laid eyes on before was loudly jabbering on in my direction about ‘kick a ginger day’. I plugged my iPod in to ignore him, assuming he was making it up, but a quick Google confirmed it later. A dedicated ginger-bashing day does indeed exist. You can even buy commemorative mugs.

How can that be legal, never mind socially acceptable? If we’ve got laws against abusing people because of the colour of their skin, why not hair? Blonde, black, brown, bald, grey, red: one nation, follicly united!

Later . . . Oh dear. Dad has just lost it big-style with Themnextdoor (mutual anonymous loathing – we don’t know their names, they don’t know ours).

They’ve just dumped (boom boom) the dog poo from their yard over our fence. Most of it landed by the car on the driver’s side. Dad nipped out to get some fags and, well, the upshot is he’s had to throw his best trainers in the bin. Not good: wars have started for less.

JANUARY 28TH

Themnextdoor are driving Dad to new – heights? depths? – of grumpiness because their YAP ratty YAP little YAP dog YAP never stops YAPPING.

I guess it’s worse for Dad because at least the rest of us are out during the day. He went round after tea to complain about dog/rat and they just laughed in his face. He got straight in the car and he’s still not back now and it’s half ten. Mum’s rung his mobile about twenty times, but it’s switched off.

Better news! There are some exciting potential developments on the Hellbus front in that I have had a Eureka moment. (Except not in the bath and I didn’t run down the road starkers. Ha ha.)

Humanity’s past glitters with such moments. Ideas so simple yet so revolutionary they’ve changed the world: How about if I rub these two sticks together? Is it me, or do we all look a bit like monkeys? Chips AND cheese?

And here’s my own modest contribution. If I ask Mr Patel for an evening paper round as well as the morning shift, beg Mum for a loan (maybe) and use up all my savings, I should be able to buy myself a BIKE.

I know, it’s genius. Cycling is cool AND I’ll get the papers done loads quicker AND it’ll pay for itself in a term as it’ll save me forking out for a bus pass AND I’ll get fitter AND help the environment, plus (and this is the best bit) I won’t need to face the boys’ school knobs on the Hellbus ever again.

Go me!

PS 11.35. Still no sign of Dad.

FEBRUARY 5TH

Did Mum and Dad win the lottery? No. Has Simon become human? No. Have aliens abducted Molly? Unfortunately not.

Nonetheless, it’s been a fantastic day because I got an A* from Hell High’s newest and finest member of staff, Mr ‘I am so hot I may spontaneously combust’ Jagger!

We’ve been doing some warm-ups for the creative writing coursework. As he’s still ‘getting to know us as a group’, the task to write an essay about the Christmas hols was a bit Year 7, but he is box-fresh teaching-wise (he told us we’re his first job), so I’ll let him off. Here goes:

My Christmas

As is the tradition in our house, Gran is glued to Noel Edmonds while Mum feeds the stress volcano until she erupts, kicking the oven door. I go in, get some frozen peas to put on her foot and finish dinner off, while Dad sits drinking Baileys (which he doesn’t even like) in front of the telly.

By the time The Sound of Music comes on, our house is alive with the sound of mayhem. Simon’s broken his new toys already, Mum’s burnt herself as well as all the food, Gran is comatose and Dad’s slurring his words. And poor Paddington, our highly-strung golden retriever, is cowering under the dining-room table.

This year, Dad got even drunker than usual. As we can’t afford real Baileys since he lost his job, he was drinking a bargain-bucket liqueur (possibly) called ‘Piss’. Anyway, he was plastered and the food was on the table. Mum called everyone into the dining room. When she shouted, ‘Lunch is ready,’ Gran groaned and Dad, who’d forgotten she was there, jumped up with a scream.

It frightened the dog so much she shot out from under the table to protect him. And by ‘protect him’ I mean ‘leapt up and sank her teeth in his butt cheek’.

Dad screamed again, fell over backwards and went straight through our glass-topped coffee table. Mum went ballistic. Dad went to A & E. Gran went back to sleep.

Peace on earth and goodwill to all men? Definitely not in our house.

Mum hasn’t stopped fuming about that coffee table, especially since she keeps going to put her tea on it, so the carpet’s ruined as well. She’s mega-moody now too because Dad didn’t get home from the pub till after twelve last night. He had to leave the car there so he couldn’t take Simon to school. Mum was livid, especially when Dad said Simon should change to the local primary which tangented off into yet another row.

I am starting to really worry about them. Seems the only time they stop arguing is when they’re giving each other the silent treatment. Classic example tonight: Mum said, ‘Lara, remind your father to put the bins out, will you?’ While she was sitting next to him on the sofa! Honestly, they’re worse than kids.

Anyhow, back to my happy place. Mr J handed the work out, saying, ‘I loved reading these; really entertaining stuff. It’d be great to share a few with the rest of the class.’ Then when he got to me, he went, ‘Lara, nothing less than an A* for your heartfelt piece. Would you like to start?’

I turned it over: Highly imaginative and detailed work, Lara. Well done!

Wahey!

Then . . .

‘Er, no, Sir. I don’t want to read it out.’

He smiled. ‘OK, that’s no problem. Thanks anyway, I loved it. Chloe? An excellent B. How about you?’

My Former BFF didn’t need to be asked twice to thrill us with the Fabulous Tale of her Fabulous Trip to Molly’s Fabulous Alpine Ski Lodge. Drone drone drone. I drifted off into a very pleasant daydream about the Fabulous Mr J.

Refusing to read mine out still didn’t prevent the slurpy ass-kissing noises I got after the lesson (not from him obviously). Molly and Mikaela carried on looking Jagger Daggers at me all afternoon, which was as unpleasant as it sounds, but still definitely worth it for an A*. It’s about time we had some decent teachers to make the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES worthwhile.

Later . . . Mr J ‘loved’ my essay. Yay!

FEBRUARY 10TH

Now, no one’s ever going to call me an expert on the male species, but it seems to me there are two kinds of boy in the world:

1. The ones who say, ‘But she’s got beautiful hair. And anyway, so what? It’s only a name.’

and

2. The kind who go, ‘The lanky ginger freak’s called what???!!! Ha ha ha . . . oh no, I’ve wet my trousers.’

Boys I have met in category 1: None.

Boys I have met in category 2: All the rest.

Whenever a new boy starts on the bus, sooner or later they put him through the ‘guess the name of the beanpole’ routine. Today it was the ‘kick a ginger’ lad from the other day. Someone pointed at me and whispered in his ear. He laughed like a jet engine till everyone was staring, then came over to where I was sitting, picking moss off the churchyard wall, myiPodismygod blocking out their stupid voices like the truly lifesaving invention it is.

Him: Oy.

Me: What?

Him: Is it true . . . (splutters with laughter) . . . is it true (going purple in the face) . . . is it true (nearly choking) . . . your name’s (doubled over, almost wetting trousers) . . . TITLESS? (collapses in heap)

Me: No. It’s ‘Titliss’. Lara TitLISS.

Him: TITLESS!!!!!! (rolling around, clutching stomach)

Did I go all Ginger Ninja on his ass? Did I heck. I walked off, leaving him writhing on the floor like his appendix had burst. Twat.

Decisions, decisions. What shall I change it to? Something anonymous maybe, like Lara Jones. Flash and exotic? Lara Kostyakov. Or posh? Lara Willoughby-Smythe, delighted to make your acquaintance. Who am I kidding? I don’t even care; nothing could be worse than the T word.

Wish I could adopt Emma’s attitude, i.e. be totally unfazed by the Surname of Shame. She could have ditched it by deed poll when she turned sixteen last year, but she didn’t, even though Uncle Andy wouldn’t have minded. If I asked Dad, I’d never hear the end of it.

Imagine if the world was less alpha male, we could’ve had Mum’s maiden name and Lara Merry’s life would be an endless sunny-day parade of cupcakes and rainbows. Instead I got stuck with ‘Titliss’, officially the worst possible surname in the whole world for a flat-chested teenage girl. Even Molly Hardy-Jones would struggle to pull ‘Titliss’ off and she’s got massive great udders. The cow.

PS And I found out this new lad’s name is Sam Short, so you’d think I’d get at least a hint of sympathy, but no. The only person who truly understands is poor Tess Tickle in Year 8.

FEBRUARY 14TH

Had some terrible news today: I’m being sued by the Post Office. It appears our postman slipped a disc lugging my avalanche of Valentine’s cards to the front door and will never work again. (Ha ha ha. Please excuse me while I die laughing.)

Graham Flett was the last (ahem, only) person to send me a Valentine’s card. Yes, Fat Graham ‘Hellbus’ Flett. It was in Year 8 and it had kittens on it and came with half a box of Quality Street. (I’m sure he intended to give me the whole box.) Of course, he makes out it was a wind-up now I’m the School Untouchable, but I don’t think it was.

Mr J of course was absolutely inundated.

And shock horror! Sam Short-Stuff and Molly Hardly-Human are now An Item. Actually, probs not too much of a shock. It seems so cosmically right that twin demonic minions sent to torment humankind should unite to rule the world. Mwaaaaahahahaha.

They had a real old slobberfest in the bus queue over their Valentine’s cards. Might as well have put up a stage and sold tickets. Balloons and teddies. Audible snogging. Ugh. Get a room, you pair of dirty slaps.

Bet Molly hasn’t told him she gets mega-minging cold sores though. (Cue advert voice: Herpes – the Valentine’s gift he’ll keep forever.)

Heh heh heh.

FEBRUARY 16TH

Jeez, GET OFF MY CASE ALREADY, WOMAN! Mum continues the nagathon about the less than immaculate state of the house. Er, hello? We’re not all anally retentive with a side order of OCD, thanks. She reckons, because she pays the rent, my room should meet her hygiene standards. My view is if she doesn’t like it she should steer clear. She wants it clean? Then be my guest.

Soooo, written down, that seems reasonable enough. My mistake – and I hold my hands up here – was actually saying it out loud. That cup of tea flew across the room like an Exocet missile. Luckily my reactions are superhero issue so I ducked in time, but the carpet is scarred for life.

Me: (shouting) You can’t throw stuff at me! That’s child abuse!

Mum: Child abuse? I’ll show you child abuse, lady, if you don’t clear that mess up RIGHT. This. Minute.

Honestly, there is no talking to her at the moment, and I thought it was teenagers who were supposed to be the stroppy ones. I’ll show you child abuse. She needs to stop being such a mardy-arse, moody mare and grow up; she’s making Simon look mature. A sentiment I expressed very clearly by slamming the door extra hard on my way out to karate. Ha!

FEBRUARY 18TH

Snow. Loads of it.

Some people, i.e. Simple Simon, look out of the window and see a winter wonderland, replete with possibilities. Me? Sunday paper round from hell. Absolutely awful this morning. It was like Touching the Void. Crampons, ice axes . . . the works.

Extreme Paper Delivery.

I tried to get Paddington to come along, but no joy. Man’s best friend? Yeah, sure. Possibly if you substitute ‘Basket at the top of the stairs’ for ‘Man’. She just gave me the canine evil eye and headed straight back to the warm. (Or where ‘warm’ would be in a normal house, as opposed to one occupied by Mr & Mrs ‘Put another jumper on and stop moaning’ Titliss.)

I had to snap the icicles off the front door to get out, and I don’t mean the outside either. My crappy fake Uggs (Fuggs?) leaked and by the time I got back home my fingers were so stiff they wouldn’t operate individually. I was forced to jab at the doorbell with my flipper-like hand till Dad heaved his idle carcass out of bed.

Then when he saw me standing there, lips blue, fingertips blackened by frostbite, etc., all he said was, ‘What are you playing at? Shut the bloody door!’

Do I want to spend my mornings wearing a hi-vis tabard and being chased by dogs? Of course not. But until I get a proper Saturday job, a paper round’s the only option. He should be grateful I’m trying to earn money to ease the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES, especially now Mr Patel’s said I can have the teatime round too.

Then barely even thawed to mauve before Mr P rang to say there’d been three calls complaining about wet papers. Speechless!

Just keep thinking bike fund, bike fund, bike fund . . .

Later . . . Excellent newsflash: just got off the phone and, if the Ice Age ends, cousin Emma is coming up to an open day at Leeds Uni, so she’s staying here for a few days.

Getting used to seeing her once-every-whenever has been well rough. Being skint/Mum and Dad at each other’s throats/Chloe’s vanishing act/chucked out of our lovely house – all of that sucks biiiig time, but not having Em on tap is the mouldy cherry on the top.

In my fave boring-lesson-avoiding daydreams for the future, I’ve got a flat with Emma in some glamorous part of London. It’s in a Georgian townhouse with black-and-white marble tiles in the entrance hall. My room has high ceilings and sash windows that rattle a bit in the wind, but I don’t mind. There are red geraniums in pots on the window boxes and the friendly gay neighbours leave home-made muffins on the doorstep, romcom style.

My boyfriend (who is a dead ringer for Mr Jagger) is coming over to take us to a champagne bar so I’ll have to iron the Vivienne Westwood in a minute. We’ve got a mad night’s partying lined up to celebrate Em’s new job at Alexander McQueen.

Meanwhile, back home in Huddersfield, Molly Hardy-Jones has also landed her first job: serving on the counter at Greggs.

FEBRUARY 20TH

Guess who Mr Jagger has personally selected to help him on his new ‘special project’?

Yep, none other than good ol’ Lara T, Queen of the Untouchables!

I know!!! Blimey.

Last lesson, I was packing my English stuff up when he asked me to stay behind. Then, when everyone else had gone, he leaned against the edge of his desk.

‘Thanks, Lara, I won’t keep you long. Now I know Mrs Gill always puts a play on at the end of this term, but I fancied doing something different. A talent contest, maybe, get the boys involved too. Something to get both schools buzzing. What do you reckon?’

‘Sounds good, Sir.’

‘Really? Not too clichéd?’

‘No, Sir. I think it’s a good idea.’

‘Great. Well, I’d love you to get involved; I think you’d enjoy it.’

Hmm, pretty certain that was the gist anyway. I was too busy contemplating his unearthly gorgeousness to register the individual words. He’s got the whitest eyeballs I’ve ever seen; they glow like Simon Cowell’s teeth.

‘Er, not sure what I could do, Sir, I haven’t got any talents.’

‘Oh, come on, of course you have.’

His eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles and the amber flecks are like pebbles in a rock pool. (In the Caribbean, not Skegness.) Incredible how not one aspect of his entire being is less than perfect: he looks airbrushed even close up.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun.’

‘I’ll think about it, Sir. Thanks for asking me.’

I had to pelt it to make the bus, but it didn’t matter because Mr J wants me – ME – to help him!

And while on the topic of unrequited adoration, Themnextdoor’s dog has developed a crush on Paddington, attempting (rather ambitiously for a Yorkshire terrier) to hump her at every opportunity. Dad went mental over it last night and turned the hose on them both, icing the drive like a bobsleigh run in the process. How Mum laughed as she went flying.

Then when I went to fill the kettle after the early papers this morning, Dad was already sitting at the table, staring down at a pile of brown envelopes, none of which looked like they contained good tidings. The top one had my school crest on it.

I put on a phoney American accent. ‘Who is this Bill guy anyway, and why does he always want our money?’

‘Not now, Lara,’ he said, without looking up.

I turned the tap off and went to school. Can’t even remember the last time I saw him smile.

FEBRUARY 22ND

Bugger. I think I may have made a HUGE mistake. It seems I have made Sam Short my mortal enemy.

‘What’s this then? The original Ginger Minger?’ he said, ostentatiously looking me up and down as I waited near the bus queue at home-time.

I put my headphones in and walked off to hide behind the churchyard wall in the hope he’d lose interest.

No chance. He planted himself slap in front of me, gang of henches hot on his heels.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’

I unplugged myself reluctantly. ‘What do you want now?’

‘Did you know you’re the definition of ugly, Titless? It’s true. I got a dictionary, found the word “ugly” and your picture was right next to it.’

Now what I should have done is let his insults blah blah blah over me until he got bored. But I was so pissed off (I don’t even know you! Why are you doing this?) that what I did instead was break the Golden Rule of the Bullied and open my BIG MOUTH.

‘Have you finished? Only I don’t care, so you may as well leave me alone and go and pick on someone who gives a toss.’ I faked a yawn for added yeah, whatever.

‘Ooooooooooo!’ chorused the others behind him.

His evil little eyes lit up. ‘Well, you should,’ he continued. ‘Give a toss, I mean. Because you’re that ugly you’re making me feel sick. In fact . . . eeeurrgggghhhh.’ He mimed throwing up over my shoes. ‘Seeing your ginger face every day is making me ill. You know what, I bet your mum took one look at you in the hospital and wished she’d had an abortion.’

Gobsmacking.

Even some of his buddies looked taken aback by that and I was speechless for a few seconds. But then instead of staying quiet and walking off (sensible option), I carried on not only digging my own grave, but picking the flowers, talking to the vicar and writing the eulogy (metaphorically speaking).

‘My face makes you sick? That’s a surprise.’ I stretched myself to tower over him. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be able to see it from all the way down there. Oh, and have you seen those adverts for that shampoo, Head and Shoulders? Because you need to get yourself some, Snowflake. Top of your head looks like the summit of Everest.’

I wiggled my fingers to mime snow falling and the others cracked up.

Sam leaned in so close I could smell his breath. Honestly, it was so rank my nose nearly fell off. Like he’d just eaten a tin of dog food. How can Molly bring herself to snog him? Dis. Gus. Ting. In fact, how can she fancy him at all? I know he’s supposed to be some premier league superstar in the making or whatever, but still . . . repulsive.

‘You are so going to wish you hadn’t said that, Titless. See you around, you scrawny ginger slag.’

Realised with the tiny beginnings of an oh shit sinking feeling that he was actually rigid with rage.

‘Looking forward to it, Short-arse,’ I answered, more confidently than I felt, and walked off to sniggers from the other lads and echoes of ‘short-arse’.

Around the corner, out of sight, I slumped against the wall, shaking like the big fat wuss I really am. And now, hours later, I can’t sleep because I can’t stop playing it over in my mind like a horror film. I feel sick, sick, sick to my stomach.

You are so going to wish you hadn’t said that.

Well, he was right there.

Why the hell did I open my big stupid mouth?

FEBRUARY 23RD

I am not thinking about yesterday. Not thinking about it AT ALL. La la la. Have got my hands over my ears. Refusing to think about Sam or what he might do. La la la. Instead, am focusing on:

My Bus Stop Action Plan

Step 1

Start waiting by the churchyard until the last minute, then sprint for the bus.

Step 2

Sit/stand near the driver.

Step 3

Save all money from both paper rounds to get bike quicker.

Step 4

Stay positive.

Step 5

Stop listening to Dad’s Morrissey albums (see step 4).

Mr Jagger collared me again about the talent show idea. He was wearing a white shirt that had come untucked at the back and rolled up his sleeves so his tanned forearms were showing. He looked incredible, he sounded lovely, he smelled amazing.

‘Look, I’m not expecting you to get up on stage if it’s not what you want. But what I do need is a PA-type person because I haven’t got time to do it all on my own. Someone sensible that I can trust to do a good job. You’re the first person I thought of, Lara. You’d be perfect.’

‘What would I have to do, Sir?’ I asked.

‘Oh, signing up the contestants, the publicity, the running order, ticket sales, stuff like that. We can work it out together.’

‘OK,’ I answered, sort of listening, discreetly inhaling.

Sniff sniff.

‘Great. We’ll arrange a time to sort the details out later. Would you like a tissue?’

I muttered, ‘No thanks,’ and scuttled away.

Blush-a-rama.

Every time I speak to him, I make an idiot out of myself. Oh God, I wish I was normal. But I’ve worked him out now. After witnessing Molly’s nit nonsense at the bus stop, he’s set himself a mission to Integrate the Outcast. Maybe he did a module on it for his PGCE: Freak 101.

Beyond humiliating.

Buuuut . . . on the positive side, the thought of extra time with him doesn’t exactly fill me with horror. Plus Molly will explode when she finds out he asked me and not her.

Result!

Form time, lunchtime, lesson time, all the time . . . zzzzzzzz. Chloe’s gaudy, girly glitterfest has been the SOLE topic of 11G conversation for the past few days. I genuinely cannot begin to describe how THRILLED I am not to have been invited to that party. Today they were going on about spray tans. Come on! It’s February and we live in Huddersfield, we’re designed to be mauve; it’s the Pennine gene.

Not for Molly ‘tangerine dream’ Hardy-Jones though. Mum told me they’ve got a tanning booth in their garage. Every Saturday morning, Molly and her mum put paper knickers on and spray each other the colour of chicken tikka.

This is the girl who thinks I’m weird.

FEBRUARY 24TH

Hmmm, surreal conversation with Mum at teatime.

I’d just got back from picking up Gran’s washing and I was telling her about Gran moaning because I’d bought ginger ‘denture wrencher’ biscuits again. (Her words.)

Anyway, Mum went, ‘That reminds me. I was telling Mrs Hardy-Jones how good you are with your gran. How you do her shopping and washing and watch Noel Edmonds with her and that. And it got me thinking. Molly seems a nice girl . . .’

She paused while I choked to death on my fishfinger.

‘Do you ever hang out with her at school? Only you don’t say much about your friends nowadays. I haven’t even seen Chloe for ages.’

My internal monologue went like this: Firstly, I don’t have any friends, not even Chloe. And secondly, FYI, Mum, Molly is ‘a nice girl’ in the same way Hitler was ‘a real sweetie’.

‘You know, she’s always asking questions about you, asking how you are, what you’ve been up to.’

Sirens went off in my head. Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Danger danger!

‘What have you told her about me?’

‘Nothing really. Er . . . about karate and your paper round, how much you help out with your gran, that sort of thing. She’s a nice, friendly girl showing a polite interest. You’d do well to take a leaf out of her book, you know, make yourself a bit more Peer Sociable. It’s not norm– I mean, it’s not good for you to spend so much time on your own.’

‘Peer Sociable’?!

God help us, she’s been on Netmums again. I wish she wouldn’t do that. It’s embarrassing enough to feel like a friendless loser without your own mother underlining it for you.

‘I don’t know where we’d be without the Hardy-Joneses at the moment,’ she said, concluding the Conversation I Did Not Want To Be Having with some more unwelcome info. ‘That cleaning job has been a godsend.’

Beholden to my orange-skinned nemesis? The thought was so stomach-churning I couldn’t face pudding. I had to give mine to Simon. And it was trifle.

Mum never mentioned Chloe’s party, so I assume Molly didn’t divulge that particular kick in the teeth. But it’s a never-ending source of fascination at school. The itinerary, the timings, the venue(s), the clothes, the hair products, the co-ordinated toilet roll . . .

Now the entire class (barring yours truly) has booked in at FunkyFeet for a fish pedicure. Fish pedicure! Jeez. Praying a rookie shoal strips them down to the bone. Chomp chomp. Please, please, Divine Fish God, make it happen.

FEBRUARY 26TH

Taaa-daaaah!! I can now declare the Bus Stop Action Plan a success. No major incidents, just a little mild verbal abuse, but nothing I couldn’t fend off with headphones. Anyway, won’t be long now till I can bid a cheery ‘So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Eff Off’ to the Hellbus because the evening paper round starts on Monday. And as I’ve already got nearly £30 in the kitty plus Mum’s donating her Clubcard points (which is so nice of her because I know she wants a new frying pan) I should have enough for the bike by the end of the month.

AND IT’S HALF-TERM!!!!!

PS Found out Dognextdoor is called Beyoncé. No kidding, he really is.

FEBRUARY 28TH

Happy days, oh happy happy days! A fabulous abuse-free NINE of them to be precise. Well, school abuse anyway. Can’t comment on Mum and Dad who are both ratty as anything. Sadly, that goes hand in hand with no sign of the godlike Mr Jagger for days, which means my half-term cake is plain sponge, slightly stale, no icing.

Sob.

In other news, tonight Simon did his sowing-crumbs-across-the-carpet thing literally a nanosecond after I’d hoovered the front room. But when I entirely justifiably smacked him round the head, I got shouted at! Pointed out this was a gross miscarriage of justice, but Dad stropped off mid-rant, tutting as he went.

When Mum got in, I tried telling her what happened, but I only got as far as, ‘Mum, while you were at work, Simon –’ before she interrupted.

‘I’m not interested, Lara.’

‘That’s not fair!’

‘Well, life’s not fair. I’ve enough on my plate without you two bickering. Sort it out between yourselves.’

At least Emma’ll be here soon. Finally, someone who doesn’t act like I’m a big fat slug in the garden of life.

Oh yeah and Mum? Next time, before you lose your rag over Hula Hoops on the stairs, try and remember:

LIFE’S. NOT. FAIR.

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