To Be Honest (17 page)

First, your parents are called. Well, your parents or carers. Whoever’s a share in your life. It’s not nice. Mr Underwood rings. You’re hauled into his office, to hear him say things about honesty, school reputation, your mum. You just sit there, quietly, biting your tongue. Your teacher agrees. So you’re there in a chair with these grown-ups all round and all they do is stare and you can’t make a sound ‘til they’re done.

Then you’re able to speak but you’re weak from the verbal ear bashing, the shattering of any wild hope of escape from the terrible, horrible feeling of shame. Like I said, it sounds lame but it’s really not fun to sit there all quiet just biting your tongue and with tears in your eyes.

So it’s no surprise that Lloyd Parker would yell if he thought he could smell Alicia cheating.

I go straight to science; tell Mr Morlis the news.

He says, “this is bad. If Alicia
has
cheated, she must be exposed,” and winds two long pieces of red Bunsen hose round his hand. Then he stops, waits a sec.

“’S’pose Alicia hasn’t confessed?”

“Afraid not. I don’t even know what kind of mess she’s got into. It’s just what Lloyd said.”

Mr Morlis scoots round his laboratory. Flies, in fact; glides like a penguin on ice on his tummy. He’s lost a few pounds. Bit like Mum.

I wish he could take some of this weight off of me. ‘Cos I’m heavy. Not just in my body; my head and my lungs feel mismatched and unfair, like two different athletes competing for air.

He decides to tread cautiously. “This,” he says, parking scooter under desk, “could be momentous. Exams are a test.” And I think, yes Mr Morlis, I know. He continues, though, saying he really means they test for honesty.

“You and Miss Mint need to talk. If she’s cheated, Alicia needs handling like cutlery: carefully, correctly and very politely.”

He’s lost it, I think. If Alicia cheated, that’s her deal, not mine. She’s made herself dirty. But what about
my
life? Has she muddied waters for Miss Mint and me to swap back after all? There’s just one day to go. Less than that. And my brain starts to wash up; go dry. Do I tell or protect her? What’s the thing to be done? Should I lie? But then surely we’re back to square one. The sky’s black. I say ‘bye to the Morlis, put up Miss Mint’s hood and go home on the bus. There’s no fussing or pointing: the kids have gone home long ago.

Kai’ll be waiting with pizzas. I get off the bus early: need time to think.

The sky’s orange now. Neon haze ebbs and flows on and on, on and off round the soldier-like rows of the street lights and small fairy lights in the trees.

I want my Mum.

I walk carefully, inching my way round the street corner. The railway bridge beckons and soon I’m on top, where I stood with a man who helped me to drop my defences. I walk on, past the cars that I’ve passed on my bike and my own, and my house is just here and my wonderful mum’s coming out with a man. It’s Dad.

She’s kissing him, slowly and gigglingly, quick now, then a c h i n g l y slow; pulling his hand as he turns to go and then turns back.

He gives her a smack on the arse and she’s fast: she slaps him on the thigh and he grabs her quite hard round the waist with both hands. But she’s vanished. She’s air, like a girl aged fifteen could be on a first date: a bit late back, not caring though; sharing the night with a man who makes everything right.

I blink and it’s gone. The fairy lights shine but the fairy tale’s shone. That was Mum and Dad then.

This is now.

And the banging upstairs is not them.

* * *

It’s Mum sewing. She’s not spent a fortune; just being ‘resourceful,’ Pheebs says on the phone later on.

Miss Mint’s up in her room/my room, trying on things for tomorrow’s Review. She’s ecstatic.

Mum’s unpacked the ancient, half-working machine and been shirring and smocking with tape and elastic. Been at it for days. “Your mum’s
so clever
,” she says. I look awesome!” And she gabbles and chuckles and I learn that Mum’s made them outfits. Courtney and Rach and Miss Mint. Outfits that say the word, ‘street’. With cross stitch bears on the butt cheeks.

I’m serious. There’s an embroidered soft toy motif plastered on each of my friends’ backsides and Miss Mint thinks it’s cool. As we get into the finer detail, denim hot pants seem to have blinded her to the fact that she’s asking for people to tell her she’s got Pooh on her bum. Oh, Mum.

But really I’m glad. Mum’s found something she’s good at and everyone’s pleased. Plus, I still get to wear a nice dress.

* * *

Late that night, just before I’m asleep, Kai pops in. He’s been sleeping in Miss Mint’s spare room, which is cold. Standing in the door, he’s sleek, warm; full of pizza. Like poppies in sun or a puppy whose fun has run out. He’s all Snoopy-sleepy.

I say, “you can get into bed if you like.”

He smiles and says, “no. ‘Cos I want to but it’s not our time, Lise. Not quite yet.

‘Night.”

And I yawn like I’m cross in a good way and turn over.

I know he doesn’t go straight away.

I wake to the last day of term. The twelfth night since we swapped. I’m still in Miss Mint’s head and body. The soft bedroom light fills the room and there’s a hint of a Christmassy, mulled winey tang in the air, along with the nerves, but I’m trying to not think too far ahead. So I just lie in bed and don’t look at the wig on my pristine, white safe bedroom chair, ‘cos I’ll deal with whatever comes next when it comes. And this morning’s a text. It’s from Kai: it says,

Meet me downstairs.

The cream butter carpet’s all sprinkled with red. Looks like blobs of jam missed where they should land: on bread. And he’s standing there, Kai I mean, holding a tray of crepes, sprinkled with feather-light sugar. He’s not even gay.

I say thank you.

He hands me a fork and a knife and I look down at the paper petals, scattered like shells, from Remembrance Sunday assembly.

“They’re leftover. The poppies. No one wanted them. Use that knife carefully. It can be quite sharp.”

I perch on
Posy
, politely accept and we munch and get strong on delicious French crepes. ‘Cos today, we both know, is our D-Day.

* * *

“I’ll see you at one at school. Meet you there.”

Kai’s coming to Review to see my short Marilyn hair. And, we hope, switch. He waves from the door and I bowl down the road towards school. It’s so early, I yawn. I’m torn. On the one hand, I’m glad: he’ll meet up with his mates, with none of them knowing he’s an Olympic (ex) great. But I’m nervous as hell and I’m not sure what to do about:

• Alicia
  
• Mum
  
• Me
  
• Marilyn Monroe
  
• Getting our lives back before three o’clock
  

I need this walk. The state of my tummy’s alarming. It pokes over Miss Mint’s jodhpurs, which I’ve paired with some massive Beyonce-style cloak to disguise the weird shape it’s become.

Anyway. Out of nowhere’s a dog. Quite a big one. All white, with a head like a lion and a face with a smile that says, “hi.”

“Hi, Miss Mint.”

Harry Brigham slides up, tracksuit bottoms and Arsenal shirt in dire need of washing. But there’s something else too. ‘Cos behind him comes Alicia. She seems to be needing the loo rather badly.

“Miss, need the toilet,” an excuse to walk on, I know. She’s non-uniform, too and her coat hangs like wet cardboard, that blue roses one and my heart’s compromised. But we’re not in school yet, so I have absolutely no power.

The dog’s clearly Harry’s.

“This is Dave,” Harry says, and the dog wags its tail. I’ve never seen Harry look happier. I turn to the Payne.

“We need to talk.” Dusky dawn in her eyes, like the evening’s already begun.

“Miss, do we have to?” I well need a wee.”

If that’s what she thinks boys will like, I feel sympathy. I really do. But Harry’s besotted.

“You go on,” he says, like the true schoolboy he is. “Dave’s alright, he’s just had his shit. I’ll take him back home. See you later.”

He smiles like a cherub and I push the implication that one bowel movement relies on the other to back of mind. Alicia and I soldier on.

“So you cheated?”

“Can’t prove it.”

I say with a sigh, “I can, you know Alicia; I’m just hoping like hell I won’t have to.”

She’s quiet then; all I hear is the one, two, one, two as we get slowly closer to school and she says she’ll wet herself soon, so I let her go and watch her fat, black, matt back gallop off. Kai wanders up as I pass through the gate and into the atrium. Wait. Looks like Kai ... no, it’s Taff in Kai’s body. ‘Course. It’s Taff.

“Lisi, I think you should see what they’ve done in the hall.”

His torso’s an Olympic podium; his eyes gold as he opens the curtains. It’s beautiful.

Streamers of blue, red and white spiral down from the ceiling. The peeling old paint on the walls has been stripped and the hall’s now equipped with a massive sound system and lights. Chairs line up patiently, ready to take the iced bums. The air hums with the soon-to-be joy and sarcasm, but pre-all that, anticipation. A chasm of wait. The microphone base stands apart from the stage, which lurks like a looming great sea monster, waiting to bite. I’m quite frightened to think of me standing up there, Mr Morlis or not.

But before me, before Miss Monroe’s stage debut, there’s a whole raft of Fairmere acts up for Review. Miss Mint’s going first. She’s already cursed the fact, wanting to come somewhere

Much lower in the programme. Oh well, c’est la vie. There’s a tug at my cloak.

“Miss, can we talk?”

Alicia’s sloppy coat’s gone and she looks almost grown up.

“Yes, ‘course we can,” and we head to the office.

Dead of calm hovers round us before school wakes up. It’s soon-to-be stirred by a few bright year 7s, chirpy in pastels, like spinning tops, lurching from locker to drinks machine, whispering keenly. But for now there’s a quiet, respectful, deep hush for the last day of school. She sits down, way too close to me.

She inches away, then pulls her chair back to me, and I hold my breath.

“Miss, I cheated.”

It’s out and it’s real and she said it.

“Thank you Alicia. Tell all.”

And her eyes roll sideways, all round the walls, down to the floor and at last they settle on me.

“On my notes page I wrote the whole essay thing down. I thought about using magic ink, so I knew I could ...”

“What?”

“Rub it out. But I didn’t. I just left the whole thing in place.”

“Why!?” I really don’t know. Why on earth would she do that? Relief flows like a swollen Niagara though; there’s no lie. Or from Lloyd. So now I don’t have to worry.

‘Cos if Alicia had cheated but not told the truth, surely that would impact on my switch back; on Kai’s. In fact, on each one of our back to front lives?

We leave English. But I’m sure that having the whole essay in notes is still cheating so we leave behind rivers of strange, pent up feelings to enter a sea of late teens. Swept up in a yuletide of kids turning this way and that; ebbing and flowing, round pillars and teachers and practical jokers in bright red, fur lined Father Christmas-style hats.

“So what’s next then, Miss?”

Alicia shouts to be heard over great, stormy, weatherproofed louts. I spy Mr Underwood, smooth and clean-shaved like a huge, white seagull on the top of the waves, cruise on past, surveying the scene of his kingdom, his sea-scape. A small clementine hits the back of my head.

“Oi, Miss Mint!” Lloyd P barks: a red-faced, furious buoy.

And he waves and gives Alicia a wink and I almost explode from the cheek of this teenager. Odious toad that he is, Lloyd continues, “see, told you Miss Mint. Alicia lied.”

“Cheats never prosper. Is that what you mean?” I respond, and he nods. I can’t help it. I take a deep breath and plunge beneath the depths of year nine and swim all the way up to him, up near the lockers and surface and whisper, “Kai Swanning told me that your boxers are padded.”

That done, I return to the Payne and she gives me a look that reads, are you insane? ‘Cos Lloyd’s mates are all laughing and he hates it. You can tell by his look he’s not used to being made to look stupid.

Then Harry’s there. Alicia’s cupid bow smile is sweet. She turns to me. I say, “I’ve got to fork right but I’ll find you. Catch up a bit later.” And she looks at me with what I think might just ... just ... be trust.

Then it’s gone ‘cos she’s in fits with Harry, who’s carefully wrapping his arms right around her, a bit like a strange upright spooning. I leave them to it and leg it to tutor. There’s work to be done.

* * *

It’s only eight thirty but my classroom’s all decked out like something from
Strictly.
I let year 10 in. With legit permission, kids leap like freaked out reindeer to finish our task for the week.