Chapter 9: Tuesday, second night
The taxi’s here early and I’m still not dressed. Choosing from Miss Mint’s wardrobe is honestly like being a millionaire in the middle of Oxford Street.
When Erin, Rach, Courtney and I are feeling massively organised we sometimes do swaps of things like denim shorts or vest tops. But we all know each other’s clothes like they’re ours anyway and if one person gets something different it’s like we’ll all want it and get it as well.
Miss Mint hangs her clothes in colour order, in whole outfits.
So on the left there’s all black leggings but good ones, not Primark , with floaty silk tops and scarves looped round the hangers and then underneath, in a protective bag there’s underwear.
Seriously. I’m not kidding: Miss Mint hangs her underwear with the rest of her clothes so she doesn’t have to rummage round in drawers. I could sell this information. Make a fortune.
Right, I can be decisive and since maroon’s in this season I pick a long dress in jersey that clings to hips and waist I didn’t have this time yesterday, and shove on all the jewellery I can that matches, including the bangles. There’s some high heels I’ve seen Miss Mint wear once and wanted for the rest of the week and I hunt through the shoe boxes with photos on the end ‘til I find them.
Wow. I’m really thin.
She wears flesh coloured tights that I nearly forget about but then there’s something scratchy on my back and when I take the dress off again to see, it’s them.
I’m a little bit worried now that Miss Mint’s not human.
The taxi beeps and I feel like a businesswoman; like one of the ones from The Apprentice, but then I look at my face, which is still gorgeous but has no makeup. So I grab some bits so I can do it in the taxi. Her stuff and her skin’s so great I don’t need much.
In the taxi I realise I’ve picked up a purple lipstick which doesn’t match the dress at all but on it goes ‘cos it feels and smells like fabric conditioner and the tube’s solid gold I think.
When I get to school there’s no one there.
I mean, kids are running around and everything and I spot Kai in the distance, swigging Lucozade in the bike shed with the boys. But where are all the teachers?
“Miss, I like your dress!” A breathless year 7 scampers up like a cartoon mouse, smiles, skitters off.
“Miss Mint, I got my essay,” booms a scruffy year 11 and I look at him straight ‘cos I can’t remember his name.
He flinches as his mate flicks his ear.
“Miss, I think you ... like your lipstick,” and he covers his mouth with his sleeve and shakes like he’s having a fit.
“Thank you, Lloyd,” I say ‘cos I’ve remembered his name. And then, ‘cos he’s annoying me, “see me at break.”
“What??” You’d think I’d told him to run under a bus. “You can’t do that, Miss!” He marches off and I have no idea what teachers do now — do they storm after you? I don’t feel much like storming in these shoes and anyway, it must be time for ...”
“Miss, it’s registration.”
It’s Jenny Sargent year 10, Miss Mint’s form; such a goody goody ... thank goodness.
“Thanks,” I say and I see her do a double take and I think it must be the lipstick and I’ll have to take it off. But there’s actually no time ‘cos it’s already 8.25 and Miss Mint’s form are lining up outside the door like they’re ready to die or something; all pathetic, Tuesday-pale. I can’t find my keys.
“Miss, come on, Miss, please,” moans Megan who looks like a sweet girl but whom I happen to know sends anonymous texts to boys in year 7 of herself in a bra. There’s general muttering and I remember the bag and dive in. After a lot of fumbling, I resolve never to slag off Debono again and I’m in and I realise I don’t know my login.
Then I remember my phone, which I haven’t even looked at this morning ‘cos it’s Miss Mint’s and I’ve been so obsessed with clothes and thinking about kissing Taff, but when I look there’s a text from my number with all sorts of information: computer password, classroom numbers, lots of instructions basically. It was sent last night, while I was asleep, and how stupid am I to have not read it before now, when I’m surrounded by a sea of stroppy teenagers like me. I’m amazing. I say:
“Jenny, would you come and take the register, please?”
And of course she goes pink and pretends she doesn’t want to but it means she gets to stand up and walk past the table at the front with Jimmy Riley on it, whom she has definitely fancied since year 8. So while she’s being me, if you see what I mean, I read.