Authors: Jenny Colgan

The Boy I Loved Before (9 page)

BOOK: The Boy I Loved Before

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âFine. You're grounded,' said my dad.

I was what? âOh, for goodness' sake. Grounded? What is this, nineteen seventy-five?'

âAnd I'm taking you to school tomorrow to make sure you get there.'

âI think we've been far too relaxed with you,' said my mother. âI think that's the problem.' She looked at me sincerely. âWe trusted you, Flora. And you let us down.'

I hated to see her face like that.

âI think you'll find it was Dad who did that,' I wanted to shout, but couldn't. Inside I was boiling at the unfairness of it all.

âWell, things are certainly going to change around here,' said my dad. I looked at him, panicking slightly. By my reckoning, they had about a month left together. A month. Things certainly were going to change around here.

I slouched up to bed, the sound of their bickering ringing in my ears, very unwelcome after all this time.

I woke up the following morning with a start. That was the weirdest dream of â¦ no, shit, piss, bollocks. Here I was, still underneath a gingham duvet, trapped in a ridiculous prison for God knows why. Even more trapped now I was
grounded. I cursed myself for not realising how stupid it would be to disappear for twelve hours. But being sixteen took a bit of getting used to. I squeezed my cellulite-free thigh for some reassurance, but it wasn't cheering me up properly at all. Then I thought of my lovely coffee maker. There's nothing that makes me feel grown up in the morning so much as grinding my own beans, then getting in the shower and letting the smell of fresh coffee permeate the flat. But in this house, as it had always been, it was Nescafe. For some reason it was the small details â the coffee; my wardrobe, full of nice suits and beautiful shoes; my Clarins products in the bathroom rather than own-brand mega jugs of supermarket shampoo â that I suddenly missed more than anything else. I sniffled away to myself.

âGET UP!' my mother was shouting again. âYour dad's dropping you at school. Wants to see how your first hangover's going.'

I heard some muffled protest about this, and got up, nervous as â¦ well, as a kid on the first day at school. Except this would be far, far worse, because it wasn't as if I didn't know anyone. If my mobile was anything to go by, I did. I just wouldn't be able to recognise anyone or know anything about them.

I hid my head under the duvet.

âI feel sick!' I shouted. Actually, I felt fine. I'd forgotten how quick hangovers passed when you were young. Nowadays I take two days to get over them. Or did, when I still had a ânowadays'.

âThat's how it works,' shouted my mum. God, was she always this assertive?

I tried to put a brave face on things as I got dressed in
my old school uniform, crying only once in a tie struggle. Dark green, grey, light green. I looked like a mildewed pond. Spice Girl-style loafers, which I couldn't have loathed more.

OK. I swallowed hard. I had hated school. But that was then. This time I was going to do much better. No one was going to call me Scurrilugs, and if they were, hell, I'd dealt with enough junior analysts and work-experience people to bother about that. And this time round I was going to be cool, cutting and smart, and nobody was going to get to me.

Likewise, I was
extremely
unlikely to get mega-crushes on any of the boys or teachers, seeing as that would be child abuse, and I certainly wasn't going to be insanely self-conscious, because I had a fabulous body and looked great. Hell, I peered into the mirror, where did that spot come from? Never mind. And I wasn't going to squeeze my spots this time round either. Though it looked so tempting â¦

And I was going to know everything. I'd seen three different productions of
Hamlet
now, so they could hardly catch me out on that, and anything sum-related should be pretty nifty too, what with the old accountancy degree. I was going to keep my head down, my mouth shut, and in a month's time I'd go back to Tash's wedding, and, well, and â¦

âFLORA!'

I was not nervous. I wasn't.

Fuck.

My dad seemed a bit off in the car too.

âI won't be able to pick you up tonight,' he said. âTell your mother.'

âWhere are you going?' I asked, immediately suspicious. My mother had talked about how late he'd been for a year. Being so wrapped up in myself, of course, I hadn't noticed at the time.

âJust out, darling,' he said, looking surprised I'd asked.

âWhere?'

âNowhere you can go, that's for sure.'

âDad,' I said, âyou should keep an eye on Mum, OK? She's not feeling so good just now.'

I watched him go slightly pink and grasp the steering wheel hard.

âDon't you worry about your mother and me,' he said.

âI can't help worrying, Dad,' I said. âYou know, in the next couple of years I'm going to leave the nest, and that's a real danger time for lots of marriages.'

He looked at me as if I was a changeling. âWhat the hell do you know about it?'

âNothing,' I said. âWell, I've read a lot of the literature.'

His face crinkled up in disbelief. âRight. OK. Well, why don't you just concentrate on getting your A levels?'

I suddenly felt a jump in my chest. How old was I? I was taking my GCSEs, surely, where you get points for spelling your own name right.

Crap, I realised. It was September. Back at school. Lower sixth. Tits.

Calm down, calm down. Breathe. Didn't they make them super easy these days so the government can pretend they can magically make stupid people cleverer?

Jesus Christ. Of all the years I could have picked I had to go for my sixteenth.

Chapter Five

When did kids get so big? This lot were, collectively, absolutely enormous. Huge, milk-reared giants. A lot of fat kids too. When I was in school there was one fat boy and one fat girl per class. It was like a government ration. Now, there were huge people everywhere. Everyone was either enormous â pink, ruddy, like somebody from
Trumpton
come to life â or skinny as a pick â mostly the girls â who, I was pleased to notice, were still rolling their skirts up. Not everything changes.

I stood at the school gates and took a deep breath. I hoped the teachers hadn't changed too much. I recognised Miss Syzlack, thank God. She'd been a brand-new junior English teacher when I'd been there, sixteen years ago. They'd given her all the shitty classes, and she had a reputation for running out of the class and crying. At the time I thought it was pathetic; now I thought if I was twenty-two and had fully grown boys shouting sexual abuse at me, I'd probably be out of there too. But she'd clearly stuck with it. A bit of me
hated to think of her still there, and, by the sounds of things, not married either. Everyone knows that teachers always change their names the second they get married, because they realise their kids are completely unable to believe they have lives outside the classroom, and it adds (however slightly) to their disciplinary range if they sound a bit more grown up.

I could remember where the registration classroom was too, assuming it hadn't changed. Sixth form was a lot smaller than the rest of the school, and the two years shared a common room Tash and I were never cool enough to go to. But as to who the hell was who, I was fucked for that. I planned to hang around as long as possible and be the last person sitting down, so that I got the right desk.

It was the smell that hit me first. It hadn't changed at all. Gym kit, adolescent sweat, strange chemicals, poster paint, dust, formaldehyde, trainers and, overlaying it all, litres of sprayed-on cheap deodorant and aftershave, choking up the yellow hallways and sweaty plastic handrails.

This place hadn't changed an iota. I couldn't believe it. The tiles were cracked in exactly the same places they had been when I'd left. Who could go sixteen years and not think to replace a cracked tile? The grim pink linoleum hadn't changed. The supposedly soothing, prison-like shades of pale green and yellow still haunted the corridors, grubbied and coloured with years of Sellotape. Posters along the walls advertised the periodic table and how to say no to drugs (as usual, illustrated with a revolting shot of a needle going in to somebody's vein rather than, say, a really good relaxed party with
everyone having a nice time, the point at which someone is actually going to have to make a choice).

I walked along in a kind of a wonder. For the first time, I really did feel transported. This was a world I hadn't been in for a long, long time. There was a stern exhortation not to run on the stairs. There was a cabinet containing skeletons of animals. A line of kings and queens that I think had been there since I was at school. Some toilets with a telltale whiff of smoke. The school's rather threadbare coat of arms, and its Latin motto for âLet us do our work this day', âGet your homework in on time', or whatever it meant. My head was spinning.

âMiss Scurrison!'

That was â¦ I definitely recognised that voice. I turned round, conscious I was wearing that expression that people do when they listen to a âblast from the past' on
This is Your Life.
I also suddenly felt my stomach seize up in a sort of panic.

âDon't you have a class to go to?'

It was Mr Rolf, evil geography teacher incarnate. This man had scared the living daylights out of every one of us. Tashy and I always reckoned it was a possibility that he was actually just sizing us up so he could choose what would be the best moment to pull out a big machine gun and kill us all. If someone answered correctly, they got the piss taken out of them. If someone answered wrongly, they got the piss taken out of them. Shouting was unexpected, detentions arbitrary and shockingly swift. I have a vague recollection of someone once getting three thousand two hundred lines. This was a man who regretted the loss of corporal punishment and told us so, repeatedly. He often lamented the lost
legal right to bang children's heads against walls until they saw sense.

One's body's ability to hold sense memories is extraordinary. I straightened up and flashed a nervous smile.

âGood morning, Mr Rolf!'

Even as I said this, I couldn't help looking at him. The last decade and a half hadn't been kind to him. Always scruffy, he was now unkempt and grubby-looking, and the ever-present teacher's dandruff still covered his shoulders. I recalled that he wasn't married. At the time we'd scoffed that we weren't surprised. Now I was looking at a sad man, lonely and broken by years of butting up against people who simply would never be able to care about geography. It came out before I could help myself.

âAre you OK? You look tired.'

He stared at me for half a second.

âFuck,' I said. Then I regretted that even more.

âINSOLENCE!' he shouted, in the off-key bark I suddenly remembered so well. âDETENTION!'

What? I had my own secretary! I didn't get detention.

âI'm sorry, sir,' I said, blushing. I'd never got detention when I was at school. Jeez, and how long had it taken me this time round? Four seconds.

âI ask you again â why are you stalking the corridors looking for people to insult when you should be in class? Or have you been taken on as our new counsellor, hurr hurr?'

Ooh, teacher's sarcasm. There's something else I'd missed. âI'm sorry.' I tried to look penitent and stared hard at the floor. I suddenly felt as if I was going to cry. Must be all those teenage hormones whooshing about my body.

âHonestly! And you're usually one of the better ones! Get out of my sight.'

I scuttled off down the hall.

âThat's the wrong direction, Miss Scurrison.'

I scuttled back past him.

âAdditives in orange juice,' he muttered obliquely, his sour breath hitting me square on as I passed.

The entire class looked up as I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Everyone seemed to glance at each other. Or was I just assuming this in my new hell dimension?

Miss Syzlack was recognisable, but, like Mr Rolf, looked tired. She was in the pits of fashion hell as usual. Her dingy cardigan and high-waisted floral skirt made her look like somebody's grandma, and it was with a shock I worked out she couldn't be more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight. I mean, God, Madonna had barely got started by that age.

âSorry,' I said.

There were two empty seats in the room, and I followed her gaze to one of them. Next to it was a cheeky-looking dark-haired girl gesticulating under her desk. I rushed over and sat down.

âWhere you been?' whispered the girl. She was very short, and had a long nose, black eyes and sharp, seesawing eyebrows. âAre you OK? Last night â it was OK?'

I went to reply.

âNo talking,' said Miss Syzlack, and started to read out the register.

âIt happens, OK?' said this very familiar small person, sympathetically.

âConstanzia Di Ruggerio, are you chatting?'

The imp beside me tried to look contrite. âNo, miss.'

Constanzia Di Ruggerio? Cool. My friend had a really nice name. I shot her a smile, and she wiggled her eyebrows. From the back of the class someone did that thing where they pretend to cough but they're actually saying something.

âLesbonerds.'

I was a lesbonerd?

The list of names through the register went on. Who were these people? And, more importantly, what the hell were they called? First time around, I had the most unusual name in the class, and nearly all of the girls were called Tracy, with or without an âe', Claire, with or without an âi', or Anne-Marie, in about one hundred different spelling combinations. All boys were called Mark, David, Kevin, Peter or Andrew, and quite right too.

But who were all these Courtneys and Hayleys, Jessicas and Ashleys? We appear to have been taken over by an American sitcom. Fallon? That rang a distant bell. Surely not. Yes, someone had been named after a
Dynasty
character they would probably never see.

I turned my head to see who Longworth, Fallon was, and caught sight of a tall, skinny dark-haired girl at the back of the class. Her long nails were painted silver, and she sneered when her name was called.

âNice of you to make it today,' said Miss Syzlack.

Fallon merely sniffed her response. Then she caught sight of me, and gave me what I can only describe as a look.

I'd forgotten about âlooks'. In my life â my old life, my thirty-two-year-old life â if you have a problem with someone you sort it out, or, well, you don't really see problems with
people, because you can choose your friends and you don't fall out with them, and if it's someone at work it doesn't matter and you can tell your boss and complain and â¦ Oh no! She was talking to one of her friends and now they were both looking at me and giving me a look! Crap! Bollocks! Now she was mouthing something at me. I couldn't tell what it was, but it looked a lot like âdyke-oh'.

âScurrison, Flora?'

I whipped round when I heard my name being called, but was confused and not sure what to do.

Miss Syzlack looked at me too. Why did I used to remember her as nice? The years must have shrivelled her up, like fruit.

âHave you forgotten your name, Miss Scurrison?'

âNo, Miss Syzlack.'

She rubbed one of her eyes. âStay behind and see me,' she said.

I wanted to crawl out of the door behind Constanzia, who shot me such a soulful and sympathetic look I wondered if there was maybe some truth in the lesbian stuff after all. For some reason, Fallon tutted loudly as she passed me. No no no no! I wanted to stop everything and say, âGuys, that was yesterday. I may, perhaps, have been a lesbonerd. But now, today, I'm supercool! I can help you out! I bet I have the necessary nonchalance to buy stuff in an off-licence, and boy stuff. Come to me, I've done it all.'

âFlora,' said Miss Syzlack. She was sitting perched on her desk, in that nonchalant, âmmkay?' way teachers do when they're trying to pretend they're down with the kids.

âIs everything all right? You had a lot of people very worried yesterday, you know.'

âYeah, sorry about that,' I said. I'd have loved a confidante right now, but I hadn't quite come up with a way of telling my story that wouldn't end up with me in the secure unit, tied down on the bed next to the girl who makes the poltergeist appear, so I decided to keep my counsel.

âWell?'

I felt like saying, âMiss, I don't want to come over all Trinny and Susannah here, but have you heard of highlights? Why don't I show you this really friendly women's gym? In fact, while I've got you here, why don't you give up this teaching thing you so clearly hate altogether and go off round the world?'

I shrugged. âI suppose I just panicked,' I said. âA levels and all that. Just had to blow off some steam. That's pretty typical for my age, isn't it? My hormone levels are all over the place. I'm surprised I don't have a crush on you.'

Oh, for fuck's sake.

âI mean, things change every second. I can't even keep up with my own bra size at the moment, never mind the social, academic, biological and cultural pressures teenagers are under.

âAnd it is absolutely not true that these are great years â anyone will agree with that. It's unfair also to show us advertisements showing teenagers having the times of their lives, as if it's good for anyone to end up like Britney Spears. They should really just say, “Keep your head down, your twenties will be fantastic.” Look at these people. They haven't even got their personal hygiene sorted out and they're the number one demographic zone-in for advertisers, convincing everyone
else in the world that being sixteen is fantastic. Well, it's not, I tell you. OK?'

The teacher looked at me, stunned.

âUm â¦ yes. Perhaps, maybe you'd like to visit our educational psychologist.'

âFor what? Plunking it for one day in my entire school career?'

âDon't talk to me like that, please, young lady.'

âWhy not?'

âIt's rude.'

âIt's not rude! And you're the one who just suggested I go see a bloody psychologist!'

Miss Syzlack looked down at her desk. âWell, I had hoped this session might help you. But instead I see no choice but to give you detention.'

BOOK: The Boy I Loved Before

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