The Yearbook Page 4

  “Yeah, so, we’re definitely doing all the obvious things like ‘Most likely to…’ etc.” Amelia met everyone’s gaze in a way that made it clear she didn’t care what we thought of her. “But we also wanted some stories in there too. So we thought we’d have a section of the book dedicated to each year of school and all the best things that happened. We’ll call this section Remember when? and we’ll interview the key people involved. So, like, for Year Nine, an example would be when Sam ate a battery.”

  The three of them started giggling attractively, vibrating with the memory of a story that only, really, involved them. I mean, of course the whole school heard about it, as it involved Sam Hutchins and Grace had been dating him at the time and made a meal out of it for ages, about how she almost “lost the love of her life”. He’d stupidly eaten a cell battery during DT as a dare, not realizing that he may as well have swallowed two litres of poison. I mean, maybe the girls were right. Maybe it was soooo hilarious when he had to be carted off in an ambulance for emergency surgery. Maybe it was “like, so funny” Mr Granger got fired for gross negligence because it happened in his lesson.

  The trio of them giggled themselves out, and I smirked as it was too dangerous not to. Ms Gordon, who, to be fair, hadn’t been working at the school when this happened, put up both thumbs.

  “Paige is our best interviewer, aren’t you?” she said, nodding towards me. “Would you be up for that, Paige?”

  They all looked at me expectantly – probably the first time they’d ever considered me at all – and it took everything not to let my rage spill over. “No, I would not be up for that. No, I want nothing to do with this self-absorbed vanity project,” I wanted to scream.

  But, of course, I didn’t do or say anything like that because I was a total coward.

  “Yep.”

  “Great! Great! Isn’t this great? What other ideas did you have, girls?”

  They spoke and spoke, while we listened and listened. Every idea seemed to revolve around the central theme of making the yearbook a tribute to how beautiful and popular they were and all the wonderful memories they’d made at school.

  “We HAVE to have a section dedicated to the Year Eight French trip… And a section dedicated to all the school plays… Maybe a ‘glow up’ competition? I mean, Amelia looked hilarious before she had braces, didn’t you, Lia? You would definitely win that. Maybe a ‘favourite couple’ section? I mean, I, personally, would love to forget the two months I spent dating Sam Hutchins, but, like, you can’t hide from your past, can you?”

  The rest of the paper staff, like me, had no choice but to nod along. We nodded to all their ideas. We nodded to the commitment to help write it and put it together.

  My anger tasted sharp, like biting your tongue and drawing blood. My hand shook so hard that I couldn’t take notes. When I filled out my daily cruelty diaries at home, these three girls made the most appearances. These three girls and their surrounding group were probably responsible for the most tears cried among their fellow students. Yes, it was a giant cliché that the popular kids in school aren’t very nice, but it was beyond true in our case. It was like they’d read a manual. Grace was the pretty one; so pretty that you could never quite believe someone who looked like that could be so cruel. Amelia was the tough one, with a face so soured over the years by her endless evil looks that she’d probably bully herself for being ugly if she hadn’t made herself the bully. And Laura was the catty one – happy to follow orders in exchange for immunity. I’m sure, behind closed doors, there was more to them. I’m sure they were complex and 3D and flawed, with their own complicated life stories interwoven with pain like everyone else. But you know what? I couldn’t care less about that. Because I never saw it. Nobody at school ever saw anything but the gloss and the bullying.

  When the meeting finished, the girls left first, not even saying thank you as they clopped out. The rest of the newspaper staff shook their heads in disbelief then started drifting out, saying meaningless goodbyes.

  “What a joke,” Daisy muttered as she stood up next to me, her anger soothing me ever so slightly.

  “You alright, Paige?” Ms Gordon asked from behind her desk as she switched off her two computer monitors. “Exciting stuff, eh?”

  “If you say so.”

  Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “You’re not excited? I thought this would be a great opportunity for you to spread your reporting wings a bit, you know? Take up a bit more space…”

  I didn’t know how to reply. I felt so betrayed. Ms Gordon was an ally. A champion. She let me hide in her library at lunchtime…who did she think I was hiding from?

  “I thought you’d be thrilled!” she continued, missing the anger entirely. “Getting to interview all those people? All those juicy human-interest stories?”

  I squinted my eyes shut and swallowed back words. If journalism was about exposing the truth and uncovering the real story, this joke of a yearbook was like the opposite of it. It was…fake news. All the puff pieces for the popular people, without any truth about the pain they caused. Surely she must see that? Surely she remembered how school worked?

  The truth singed the tip of my tongue but I was too scared to say it. She was practically the only person apart from my Aunt Polly who’d ever believed in me, and I was too scared to break that link.

  “Yeah. Whatever… I have to go now.”

  The anger consumed me on my walk home. I tried running, to see if I could outrun it, but my aching legs and gasping lungs just fired me up even more. I wished that once, just once, I was brave enough to scream out everything I wanted to scream. To roar and to yell and to tell it like it is without knowing for certain that would only make everything worse. As I sprinted through the scary tunnel I didn’t stop and dance. Instead, in the gloom, I found myself yelling, “Screw this!” into the camera. “SCREW THIS!” I screamed, like a banshee. “SCREW THIS LIFE I HAVE TO LIVE!”

  I jogged to a halt at the end of my road – bending over and getting my breath back. I couldn’t be angry in the house. He’d be able to smell it, like a shark detecting a droplet of blood in the sea. I kicked the garden wall of a nearby house to try and drain myself of my emotions. Kick…and another, and another. Kick kick kick.

  It didn’t work though. Mum picked up on it the second I got through the front door.

  “No need to start an earthquake,” she said. “Seriously, Paige, it’s a good thing your dad’s not back yet.”

  “Sorry,” I said. Not really sorry at all.

  “What is it?”

  She didn’t ask out of concern, only irritation.

  “Nothing. I have a stomach ache.”

  “Oh. Well.” She blinked a few times. “Maybe go upstairs until you feel better?”

  I was already on my way up. Some mothers might have asked where it hurt and for how long and could they get you anything. They took your temperature and offered solutions like a cup of ginger tea made with love. My mum was only scared that my upset stomach would somehow upset and annoy Dad. I hurled myself onto my bed, doophing into the duvet and letting out a small groan. I willed my emotions to go back where they came from. But all I could picture was Ms Gordon’s stupid desperate-to-please face. All I could think about was the stupid yearbook and the stupid lengths stupid people go to add to their already overinflated sense of importance.

  “Alexa? Why isn’t the world fair?” I said to my pillow.

  “Believing the world is fair is a way of magical thinking,” she replied.

  “What does that even mean?”

  Nothing.

  “Alexa? Is karma real?”

  “Karma is not about punishment or reward,” she parroted. “It makes a person responsible for their own life, and for how they treat others.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Silence.

  “You never really answer my questions.”

  Again, total silence.

  “It’s almost like you’re not a real person.”

  I stayed face down. Deep breath in, and out, in and out… It wasn’t working. My brain was spinning like a malfunctioning carousel. I got up and rummaged in the drawer for my most recent notebook.

  Writing it out didn’t give me the same release it normally did. I still felt like I was fizzing with injustice. Frothing with pointless energy over what to do about everything. I needed to distract all my cortexes. I needed something, anything.

  The book.

  I scrambled up and retrieved it from my bag, finding the page about bravery that I’d left it on. Staring at Red Pen’s handwriting. Who the hell were they? Are they? Were they still at my school?

  I shoved my pillow against the headboard and propped my book against my knees. As I turned each page, I hoped to find more red ink. Mum’s cooking noises faded to nothing as I sped through – finding red underlines littered here and there. I found an important passage underlined. It was a quote from Atticus, saying that before he learned to live with other people, he needed to live with himself first. But my heart ripple-skipped when I saw more red pen. An arrow directed me out of the text and into the margins.

  A trickle of calm siphoned its way into my bloodstream. I read the sentence back several times, stroking the words. Forgetting the rest of the actual book.

  A light knock at my door.

  “Paige?” Mum called. “How are you feeling? Are you well enough for dinner?” She needed to know on a practical basis, rather than an emotional one. She had no space for any demands for attention from me, as he took up everything.

  “Not really,” I called back, still staring at the page. “Maybe it’s better if I just stay up here?”

  “Okay.”

  I heard her descend the stairs, not missing out the two creaky ones becau
se he wasn’t home yet. It still hurt. Her not even bothering to come in. Didn’t shock me, but it hurt.

  “Alexa?” I asked, when Mum was out of earshot. “When does childhood end?”

  The speaker turned blue. “Childhood is the age range spanning from birth to puberty. Various childhood factors can contribute to a person’s personality formation.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not what it says in my book.”

  Silence.

  I felt a twinge of loneliness as I reminded myself how un-normal it is to have a robot instead of a friend. But the pang hurt less than usual, with that book held in my hand. They got it. Whatever I felt about life – the person with the red pen got it. Everything they’d written felt like it had been written just for me and I felt less alone because of it. Like I was holding hands with someone I’d never met before.

  I sped through the rest of the book. The front door opened in a pretty neutral way, with a pretty neutral Dad walking over the threshold. I heard Mum greet him and explain that I was sick. I stilled, contemplating if he’d come up to see how I was. Hoping maybe he’d be worried and care.

  “Feeling better?” Dad boomed up the stairs.

  It still felt special that he’d even asked. A smile wiggled onto my cheeks.

  “No, sorry. I hope you had a lovely day.”

  He didn’t reply. There was the noise of plates being served up, of conversation muffling through the floorboards, the chinking of forks hitting china. I stayed put – reading. The smell of lamb hung in the air, making my mouth water, but I kept going – hope and intrigue guiding me on. My parents were making their getting-ready-for-bed noises as I whooshed through the final chapters. Gargling with Listerine, the click-click of the bathroom light being turned on and off. I heard my doorknob go and rummaged under my covers to look sick.

  “How’s the patient?” Mum asked, finally coming in and perching on the end of the bed.

  “Feeling a little better,” I lied. “Was your evening okay?”

  “Yes, yes. Your father is tired though, so be quiet.” She reminded me to be quiet most nights. Like a nervous tick. She couldn’t relax until she’d reminded me and I’d promised.

  “I always am.”

  “Right, great. Thank you. You know he hates noise. Feel better soon.” She closed the door behind her.

  The house stilled around me as I reached the ending of the book. The story itself was beautiful and made me weep quietly, using my pyjama top to mop up my snot. The final few lines were about how most people are nice, once you get to know them. A noble thought. One I’d maybe agree with if Red Pen hadn’t taken to the page, scrawling all over The End.

  A message that read…

  I laughed out loud then got scared that I’d woken Dad. I ducked under the duvet so it would muffle my giggles. What Red Pen had written wasn’t only funny though, it was so true. I bet the Awfuls were sleeping soundly, not giving much thought to the various people they’d made cry today, thinking they were probably quite decent people. Every part of me felt connected to and understood by this unknown person. A feeling I hadn’t felt in so long.

  And then, there, under my duvet, I made a decision.

  I needed to find whoever wrote these messages.

  I tumbled out of bed the next morning with an urgent sense of purpose. I used my phone to take photos of all the red pen messages so I wouldn’t forget them, and found myself weirdly eager to go to school as well, obsessed with solving the mystery. Who were they? Male? Female? Did they still go to this school, or had they graduated long ago? What did they look like? Why did they have this book? And, most importantly, had they defaced anything else?

  “Paige, hello. How are you today?” Ms Gordon greeted me in the library at lunchtime with her usual enthusiasm. Her fashion was off-the-scale today – mustard-yellow tights under an orange tunic, all pulled together with a neon-pink belt.

  I hadn’t forgiven the betrayal yet, however. “Yep. Fine.”

  “Only fine?”

  “Actually, I was wondering what books I have coming up for English? I finished To Kill a Mockingbird last night, and want to read ahead.”

  She nodded, looking at me like a proud Orangina bottle. “Very keen.”

  I smiled and shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other.

  “You’re in top set, right?”

  I nodded as she tapped some stuff into her computer. “Okay…right. Let me see the reading lists. They sometimes change them year on year. The government is obsessed with messing with everything. Here it is. Right.” The printer whirred into action, spewing out a sheet of paper. “There you go. All there.”

  I took it, feeling its warmth in my hand. “Thank you.” I turned towards the stairs.

  “You’re welcome. Let me know how you get on with the books. And,” she called after me, “I’m looking forward to hearing your ideas for the yearbook.”

  I threw a sarcastic thumbs up behind my head and jogged upstairs, claiming my snug without much competition. It was a quiet lunchtime. Out the window I could see autumn sunshine gushing downwards and most students were outside, soaking up what they could before the weather turned. Two tiny Year Sevens doodled with gel pens in the corner, but, other than that, the whole floor was empty. I looked down at the reading list and scanned it for my upcoming coursework reads. There was the compulsory Shakespeare – Macbeth. There was also a poetry anthology and Jane Eyre. I started with poetry, tracing my fingers over the alphabetized shelves. On the bottom shelf, I found a wodge of anthologies. I checked the coast was still clear before I pulled them out onto the scratchy carpet.

  My hands trembled as I opened the first copy and my heart double-flipped when I noticed a pencil scribble on page eleven.

  It’s them, it’s them, it’s them.

  But closer inspection revealed it wasn’t their handwriting. And of course it wasn’t in red pen.

  I sped up, flipping through the rest of that copy, but they hadn’t been there. I chucked it to one side and picked up the next. This one was brand new and freshly folded into its protective plastic cover. I threw the book aside and ripped through another. Nothing. Just the faint remnants of pencil underlines someone had rubbed out before returning. I let out a loud huff of frustration that made Ms Gordon’s keyboard-tapping stop. I breathed quietly and, when she resumed typing, I flicked through the next book, and then…in the whirring of the passing pages, a glimpse of red ink. A smile fault-lined across my face and I hugged the book to me, before dumping the others back on the shelf.

  With renewed enthusiasm, I half-jogged to find Jane Eyre. The copies were lined up in order, no one even thinking about taking them out yet, as we weren’t studying it until after Christmas. I grabbed them all, flick-flick-flicking through, and boom. I found it on the third go. Red ink. Same handwriting. I snapped Jane Eyre shut, forcing myself not to read the scribbles until later. That evening was my weekly visit to Aunty Polly and, with that to look forward to and these books in my hand, life suddenly felt more bearable. After finding a red-penned Macbeth too, I practically skipped to the front desk.

  “Woah, so now you’re super keen,” Ms Gordon said, taking my bounty for bleeping and stamping.

  I handed over my library card. “Does that make me a massive loser?”

  “What? No! It’s a good thing. Enthusiasm is a contagious and wonderful thing if you ask me. Though, hang on…” She bleeped through Macbeth. “You know the rental period is only two weeks? You don’t have to get them all out in one go?”

  “I know.”

  “Well, okay. Brilliant.” She handed them back. “Here we go. I’m looking forward to your amazing English marks on results day.”

  I raised both eyebrows. My parents couldn’t cope if I achieved anything they had to notice. That energy was reserved for Adam and Adam alone.

  “Ha. We’ll see.” I shoved the books in my bag and checked the time on my phone. There were still ten minutes until the end of lunch. I retreated to a chair in the corner to read through my biology coursework. I pulled out my folder and tried to lose myself in the reproductive issues of pandas.

  I smelled them before I saw them.

  Their collective scent of florals and vanilla and bitchiness. The clip-clop clip-clop of their polished heels. I lowered myself into the chair.