My Dating Disasters Diary (23 page)

Was going to say,
Yeah, totally
, but he'd been so nice I
didn't think it would be right to lie to him, so instead I
said, 'Not really. You see, no one is allowed in there as it's
not safe. We can't knock it down though as it cost a lot of
money so it will just have to stay. A pity, 'cos it's an uglylooking
thing, isn't it?'

'Hmm, well, I mustn't say really. Got into rather a spot
of bother before, speaking my mind about such things.'

'Oh, you shouldn't worry about all that stuff people say about
you. I mean, I know some people say you talk to vegetables and are totally
bonkers, but I think you're all right really. Just a bit odd maybe and kind
of old fashioned. Anyway, I think it's good for old people to be old-fashioned
and, you know, sort of traditional. There's nothing worse than someone even
older than your dad trying to act cool. Cringe.'

'Quite, yes. I, um, see your point. One does value
tradition. Sometimes the old-fashioned ways are best,
don't you think? Using toothpaste to get rid of spots for
example. Marvellously effective remedy, so I'm told. But
your, um, snood? I didn't think young people today wore
those any more – though I suppose all fashions come
round again eventually.'

I frowned. Snood? What was he on about? He was
right about the toothpaste though. It's been great for
my— Oh. My. God.

The Prince moved away, followed by the head teacher
and Mr Smith, both of whom managed to throw me a
murderous glare as they passed, but I hardly registered it.
Instead, I twisted round and stared at my reflection in the
sparkling clean office glass. Then Stephanie came over
and handed me a make-up mirror.

Yes. White splodges of toothpaste dotted about my
now scarlet face made me look like a tomato infected with
a fungal disease – but worse, much, much worse, were
the Winnie-the-Pooh pants on my head. I took them off
and stuffed them in my blazer pocket but it was too late
now. Way too late. I'd worn my knickers on my head
when talking to the Prince of Wales, heir to the throne. I
had
to be in trouble. Big trouble.

Yeah, I was right. The head told my parents and me to
meet him in his office today. Mum couldn't make it as she
was too busy at work so it was just Dad and me.

Mr Menzies said I had brought the whole school into
disrepute and that I was a disgrace. He was only thankful
that the press photographer had been late, so this outrageous
event had at least not been publicized in the
media, but that was no thanks to me. What I had done
was unforgivable.

Dad tried to reason with him, saying that it was just a
kid's mistake and no offence was meant, but the head
ranted on some more about how I'd shamed myself, my
fellow pupils, the entire staff and even my country, which
I thought was a bit OTT. Then he said it would be better
for all concerned if my parents set about finding another
educational establishment, otherwise I might be formally
expelled.

Oh my God. Hoped Dad would start pleading with the
head to let me stay, but instead he got totally up himself.
'Aye, well, you can keep your sodding school. I never
thought it was good enough for my Kelly Ann anyway. I
wouldn't let my daughter spend another minute here if
you got down on your knees and begged. C'mon, Kelly
Ann. I think we're about finished here.'

Oh my God.

Mum went mental at Dad last night, but the damage had
been done. I'm suspended until I find another school. I
don't want another school. Not that I'm all that mad keen
on the one I had but at least all my friends are there.

Dad rang my now ex head teacher to say he'd maybe
been a bit hasty in the heat of the moment yesterday but
it was hopeless. I'm out. For ever.

Mr Smith has turned out to be helpful for once, maybe
because he thinks our head has been a bit harsh, but he
can't say that of course. But anyway, he says I've already
missed too much school with absences and suspensions,
especially as I would be sitting my standard grade exams
next year. He offered to help us cut through the red tape
and has rung round schools to see if anyone can take me,
but the only school near us that has a place, or admits to
having a place anyway, is Blackhart Academy, which has
an awful reputation.

Told Mum, 'I can't go there. They'll steal my dinner
money to buy methadone and carve out my tongue with
a broken beer bottle if I tell anyone.'

Mum said, 'You'll be fine. If not, blame that eejit of a
father of yours.' But for once she didn't sound very sure
of herself and kept glancing at me anxiously all evening.
She wasn't even able to concentrate on
EastEnders
and
switched it off. Things must be bad. Now I was really
worried.

Dad took the morning off work to go with me to (maybe)
my new school and meet the head teacher. On the drive
there he tried to calm me down.

'You'll be fine, love. I'm sure the reputation of the
place has been exaggerated. In fact, I've heard things
have improved a lot since the new head took over. Mind
you, he's the third one this . . .'

Dad's voice trailed off as we approached the school.
There was barbed wire around the walls and a notice on
the gates saying BEWARE OF THE DOGS. We went in anyway
and Dad parked the car. Immediately a hooded ned
appeared and offered to 'look after' our car for a fiver.
Dad told him to away and boil his head, which I thought
was a mistake, but he wouldn't listen to me.

The school office buzzed us in, then, after passing
through a metal detector like you do at airports, we were
allowed into the head teacher's office.

The head seemed quite normal, except for a twitch
under his left eye and the way he looked over his
shoulder at the wire-meshed windows behind him.

Dad said, 'I was a wee bit worried about your sign outside.
You know – the one that says BEWARE OF THE DOGS.'

'Ah yes. Nothing to worry about. We used to keep
guard dogs to patrol the school grounds at night as we'd
had some bother with break-ins. Had all our computers
burgled once and our funds for disadvantaged teenagers
taken. But we don't use the dogs any more.'

'Right, good,' Dad said. 'Things improving round here
then? Crime going down?'

'Erm, well, not necessarily. No. On the last break-in
they stole the guard dogs.'

'Oh.'

Dad didn't say much after that. The head prattled on
for a while, then suggested that the head girl give me a
tour of the school while he and Dad had a private chat.

The head girl was called Destiny Charmaine
McCluskey. She had most of her face pierced and set off
the metal detector when we went through, but nobody
bothered. She also had joined-up chunky gold rings on
four of the fingers on each hand, which looked a lot like –
and probably were – knuckledusters.

Destiny seemed quite friendly to me though, showing
me where all the CCTV cameras were placed and
advising me on which ones were not working if I ever
needed to have a snog or a smoke in private.

She stopped at one of the broken ones and lit up a fag,
generously offering me one. I said, 'No thanks.' But,
worried in case she thought I was a snob, added, 'I'm trying
to give up.'

She shrugged. 'Me too.' Then took a deep drag.

A skinny ned in dirty grey trackies and hoodie passed
close by, nodded 'Hi' to Destiny, then hurried off.

She called after him, 'Oi, ya scadgy wee bam, come
back here and geez the purse over. Can ye no' see Ahm
looking efter her.'

Bloody hell, he was good. I hadn't noticed him nicking
my purse out of my pocket.

He handed it back and Destiny gave him a swipe with
her ring-knuckled hand, so that his lip started to bleed.

Oh well. Maybe I'd be all right here if Destiny was
looking after me.

'You wouldn't happen to have a couple of quid on ye
by any chance?' she asked. 'The thing is, Ahm running
oot o' fags and Ahm a bit short this mornin'.'

Hmm. Then again, maybe I wouldn't be OK here. I
handed her the contents of my purse and we continued
our tour.

Afterwards I met Dad at the exit. We made our way to
the car without saying a word. I was surprised to see that
it was still there and in one piece with no broken
windows or scratched paint. Only the hub caps were
missing. The boy who'd offered to 'look after' our car
was also still there and was perfectly polite and helpful
to us. He promised to 'find out' who had nicked
the hub caps and return them to us for a tenner. Dad
paid up.

It's been decided that I'll not be going to Blackhart
Academy. Instead Mum gobsmacked me by saying I'd be
going to the Catholic school, St Ann's.

'I can't go to a Catholic school. I'm not a Catholic.'

'Aye, well, you are now. That's what I've told them.
And that's what you'll be. We're going for an interview
tomorrow. Keep your mouth shut and leave the talking to
me. Unless you want to go to Blackhart Academy and
come back in a flaming body bag.'

Good point.

Called Liz and Stephanie, who came over to discuss
the move. They agreed it would be much better than
Blackhart. Anything would.

Stephanie said, 'Let me know if there are any hot
Catholic boys there. But make sure they're OK about
using condoms first. Some Catholics are weird about stuff
like that.'

'Yeah, right, Stephanie. Fine. So, like, I'm really going
to go up to some boy and say,
Hi there, I'm new here, but
you look OK. So, I was just wondering, how do you feel about
using condoms?
'

Stephanie sounded puzzled. 'Why not?'

Liz told me it's rumoured that Jason went to the exact
same Catholic school for a couple of years.

Oh my God. Just imagine. If I go there, I might end up
sitting on a seat that Jason once sat on. Seems so intimate
somehow. Yeah, I'll go.

The head teacher seemed nice. Much friendlier than my
last one and not nearly as snobby. The priest, Father
O'Reilly, was also there. I stayed quiet, like Mum had told
me, while she talked about why I wanted to join St Ann's.

Father O'Reilly said, 'So, Kelly Ann, according to your
mother, you've both been lapsed Catholics for . . . let's see
now, nigh on ten years, but have seen the error of your
ways and want to rejoin the Holy Mother Church, and
that's why you left your previous school to come here.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Father.'

'Um, Father.'

'And you've lost your baptismal certificate but will
send us one in due course – however, this may take a wee
while, given your mother can't remember which parish
issued it.'

'Um, yes.'

'So your wanting to join St Ann's would have nothing
to do with your having flashed your knickers at the heir
to the throne then decided that the ethos of Blackhart
Academy is a bit too exciting for your taste. Word gets
round, you know.'

I flushed. 'No, Father.'

'Well' – he turned to look at the head teacher – 'I see no
reason why she can't start right away then.'

The head nodded his agreement and Father O'Reilly
turned to me again.

'Right then, we'll see if we can make a good Catholic
out of you. Haven't managed that with any of the rest of
our pupils but, well, you never know. Miracles do
happen.' He laughed at his own joke, then continued,
'Mind you, you don't have to be Catholic to join the
school. We have quite a number of non-Catholic pupils
here.'

Now he tells us
. But what could I say?

'Oh, right. Thanks, sir – Father.'

The head teacher added that Father O'Reilly was likely
to be around the school more than usual over the next few
weeks as he was monitoring the delivery of RE and also
collecting funds for the church roof.

He looked at the priest. 'So, Father, you'll help keep an
eye on our new pupil and deal with any concerns she
may have in adapting to a Catholic education?'

'Certainly, I'd be glad to.'

Mum left me to it then. I was given a timetable and Father
O'Reilly escorted me to my first class.

There were loads of holy statues in the school, mostly of
Jesus' mum Mary, but some of Jesus too. Seemed odd to
see them in maths and geography classes, instead of just
in a church, but I didn't mind until I went into the school
dinner hall, where there was a gigantic cross with a lifesize
figure of Jesus nailed to it.

I mean, really. How was I supposed to enjoy my lunch
with the image of a person being horribly executed stuck
in front of me? Why do Catholics do stuff like that? They
wouldn't show people being hung, or guillotined, or
strapped to an electric chair, would they? Why show
someone being crucified?

Unfortunately I mentioned all this to Helen and
Theresa, who were supposed to be looking after me for
the first week. They told me I was weird and left me
alone. Yeah, right, so
I'm
the weird one. They've got a
nerve. They're the ones who can pig out on chips with
macaroni cheese while watching someone being crucified.

Was beginning to feel uncomfortable sitting there all
by myself when a group of boys sat down next to me.
Great, I have no problem talking to boys. I kept my eyes
off the huge cross and joined in their conversation about
football. Unfortunately they were talking about an old
firm match last week where Rangers won one–nil and I
stupidly disagreed with them when they said that the
goal was offside.

'No,' I said, 'it was definitely OK.'

'Rubbish. The Rangers striker was offside. Anyone
could see it. Referee was blind.'

'Wasn't blind,' I said. 'Didn't you see the replay? Ref
made the right decision. Definitely. Rangers won fair and
square.'