Lottie Project (30 page)

‘Yes, right, he’s a total Arnie-Anorak, but I don’t care.’

‘She’s gone off her rocker,’ said Lisa to Angela.

‘Completely nuts,’ said Angela to Lisa.

‘Yeah, you’re mad, Charlie. You could probably get any boy in our class keen on you – well, apart from Dave Wood – yet you choose
Jamie
for a boyfriend.’

‘He’s NOT my boyfriend. You two aren’t half slow at catching on. He’s a friend who happens to be a boy – OK a nerdy, grotty, swotty boy – but so what?’ I shouted. A little too loudly. Jamie himself came out the boys’ cloakroom and stared. Lisa and Angela doubled up laughing. I felt myself going red. Totally screamingly scarlet.

‘Better leave the two lovebirds together,’ said Lisa, and she tugged Angela away.

They went giggle giggle giggle down the corridor.

‘Idiots,’ I muttered. I blew hard up my nostrils, fluttering my fringe. ‘Phew, isn’t it hot in here?’ I paused. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Did you just say I was nerdy and grotty and swotty?’ Jamie asked.

‘Oh,’ I groaned. ‘No.’

‘I heard you,’ said Jamie, looking wounded.

‘Well, all right, yes. But it wasn’t my description,’ I said.

‘So everyone thinks I’m nerdy and grotty and swotty,’ said Jamie.

‘No. Yes. Well, a few of the girls maybe. And the boys. Don’t look all upset, Jamie, I’m trying to make things better.’

‘I’d hate it if you were trying to make things worse then,’ said Jamie.

‘Look, you’re not daft, you must have twigged that’s what they think,’ I said.

‘You
are
making it worse,’ said Jamie.

‘But you don’t really care, do you, Jamie?’

‘Don’t I?’ said Jamie.

‘Well,
I
don’t care what anyone thinks of me,’ I said.

‘Yes, but that’s because everyone likes you,’ said Jamie.

‘No they don’t. Not even Lisa and Angela much, and they’re supposed to be my best friends.’

‘And . . . did you say
I
was your friend too?’ said Jamie, looking a bit perkier.

I shrugged. ‘Mmm,’ I said.

‘You mean it? We’re really friends? Even though I’m a boy? And a nerdy grotty swotty one at that?’ Jamie didn’t seem at all upset now. I wondered if he’d been pretending before. I wouldn’t put it past him.

‘I generally can’t stick boys,’ I said. ‘But you’re OK.’

‘So are you,’ said Jamie.

We stood there looking at each other. For two ultra-chatty people we suddenly seemed lost for words. And then there were these s-t-u-p-i-d slurpy kissy-kissy sounds. Angela and Lisa had crept back towards us.

‘Look at them!’

‘Gazing into each other’s eyes, dumbstruck!’

‘Go on then, Jamie, kiss her.’

‘They’ll be snogging at the school disco next week!’

They collapsed with laughter.

‘Take no notice,’ said Jamie calmly. ‘Let the lower mortals prattle.’

‘You what?’ said Lisa.

‘He’s talking in some foreign lingo now,’ said Angela.

‘See if you two can understand plain English then,’ I said – and I used some very short sharp shocking words to indicate that I wanted them to go away.

‘Who is using that disgusting language?’ said a familiar voice.

A teacher came stalking down the corridor. The one with the all-hearing ears. You’ve guessed right.

She gave me a detention too, even though it wasn’t really my fault at all that I’d been reduced to blunt language. But I still felt
quite
fond of her, even though she was always so snappily strict. So when our top year had our special disco party and Miss Beckworth organized it and asked us to bring some
refreshments
from home I went overboard.

I went round to Jamie’s house and hunted through the Victorian books – and found a great big fat one with lots of recipes called
Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management
. I flipped through it until I found the
perfect
cake.

It needed quite a lot of ingredients but that was no problem. (For reasons I will divulge later!)

It took ages to make the special cake. I had to make this special lemon jelly and then pour a little bit into a big tin and then stud it with glacé cherries like jewels, and then I did another layer of jelly and stood sponge fingers all the way round the tin and
then
I made a special eggy custard and poured that on and let it all set and THEN the next day I dunked the tin very quickly in hot water and then, holding my breath and praying, I gently tipped it out onto a pretty plate like a little kid turning out a sandcastle. You know what often happens with sandcastles? They crumble and break, right? But my special Victorian cake came out whole and perfect, easy-peasy, simple-pimple.

It was a bit of a mega-problem getting it to school, though. I had to carry it on a tray and hope it wouldn’t rain. My arms were aching terribly by the time I got to school. I was a bit late too, because I’d had to walk so carefully to keep my cake intact.

‘Charlotte Enright, you’re late for school,’ said Miss Beckworth.

‘Only half a second, Miss Beckworth. And it’s in a very very good cause,’ I said, propping my heavy tray on a desk and peeling back the protective tinfoil I’d arched over it.

‘And what’s this very good cause, might I ask?’ said Miss Beckworth.

‘You!’ I said, pulling the last of the foil off with a flourish. ‘I’ve made you a cake, Miss Beckworth. Well, it’s for all of us at the disco, but it’s in your honour and you’ve got to have the first slice. It’s a Victorian cake. And you’ll never ever guess what it’s called!’

Miss Beckworth looked at my wondrous masterpiece. She blinked her all-seeing eyes. They twinkled as she met my gaze.

‘I
can
guess,’ said Miss Beckworth. ‘In your own ultra-irritating phrase, it’s easy-peasy, simple-pimple! It’s an absolutely magnificent Charlotte Russe.’

She really
is
all-knowing! We shared the cake-cutting ceremony when it was nosh-time. I got a bit worried my Charlotte cake would collapse, but it stood its ground splendidly. And it tasted great too, mega-yummy. It was all gone in a matter of minutes – just a lick of lemon jelly and a few sponge crumbs left on the plate.

I made sure all my special friends got a slice. Then the disco started up. It wasn’t a
real
evening disco with a proper DJ and strobe lighting. It was just an afternoon Christmas party in the school hall for
Year
Six, with the headmaster playing these mostly ropy old discs. Hardly the most sophisticated exciting event of the century – though you’d maybe think it was, judging by the fuss Lisa and Angela and some of the other girls made.

We were allowed to change into our own home clothes, you see. The boys didn’t think it much of a big deal. They looked
worse
out of school uniform.

I didn’t try too hard either. I was too busy creating my cake to fuss about my outfit. And I can’t actually win when it comes to cool clothes way in the front line of fashion. My kit comes from the label-free zones of Oxfam, Jumble and Car Boot Sales, especially nowadays. Though this might change soon. (Second hint of changes in the Enright family fortunes!)

Lisa and Angela and lots of the other girls tried very hard indeed. Lisa looked particularly lovely.

But Angela was the big surprise. She usually wore ordinary old jeans and jumpers when we were hanging round after school. But now her mum had bought her this new party-time outfit down the market. Angela’s got too tall for kids’ clothes so this was really grown-up gear. And Angela looked ultra-adult in it too.

‘Look at
Angela
!’

You couldn’t help looking at her. Everyone did. It was as if she’d become an entirely new girl to match her new outfit. When she danced the boys all circled round. Even Dave Wood.

Jamie’s jaw dropped when he saw Angela too, but he didn’t try to dance with her. He didn’t dance with anyone at first. I danced with lots of people. Then I went and stood near Jamie. I waited. It started to get on my nerves.

‘Come on, Jamie. Let’s dance,’ I said commandingly.

‘I don’t think I’m very good at dancing,’ said Jamie.

He was right about that. He just stood and twitched a little at first.

‘Let yourself
go
a bit,’ I said, jumping about.