First published in Great Britain in 2015
by Electric Monkey – an imprint of Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text copyright © 2015 Rachel McIntyre
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First e-book edition 2015
ISBN 978 1 4052 7344 2
eISBN 978 1 7803 1624 6
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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For Christian
Contents
JANUARY 1ST
Q. What do you give the fifteen-year-old girl with no social life?
A. A diary!
Looks like someone did their Christmas shopping in the Ironic Gifts Department this year, eh, Gran?
Happy New Year!
JANUARY 5TH
First day back at school after the Christmas hols and things were not great.
Actually, that’s such a massive understatement, it’s probably visible from the moon, like the Great Wall of China. Or Graham Flett’s arse.
Bumped into Fat Flett on my way to karate last night, so at least I was expecting combat-themed ‘banter’ from him and his twatty mates on the bus this morning. And I certainly got it. Yep, a whole twenty-five fun-packed minutes of ‘Behold the Ginger Ninja!’ and comedy karate chops.
Hilarious.
But, as everyone knows, an MP3 player is a bullied girl’s best friend and that’s why my iPod is my God. Music–1 Abusive Boys–0.
The bus pulled up and, after one last chop suuuuuey! from some random lad, they all swarmed off to their school and I escaped into mine.
Molly and Mikaela were already in registration, verbally stirring the cauldron of bitchiness. Maybe they’ll pick on someone else? Just for once? No chance. The word ‘Lara’ floated over and my suspicions were confirmed: today was definitely going to be a Bleak Day.
When break came, Mrs Muirhouse turfed me out of the cloakroom where I’d been cosying up to a friendly radiator. So, there I was, shivering to death on my own in the yard when the witches of form 11G materialised before me.
‘Hi, Lara,’ said Molly in the warm, friendly manner of a talking shark. Immediately my hackles rose. (Metaphorically that is. Physically, I’m not sure I even have hackles.) ‘I wanted to tell you I spoke to your mum yesterday when she came to clean our house. Did you know she’s started working for my parents?’ Cue sycophantic laughter from Mikaela. ‘Weird, isn’t it? Next time I’m in my new en suite doing, whatever, I’ll be thinking of your mum.’
‘Lara’s mum’s a scrubber!’ shouted Mikaela and they all fell about laughing.
Mikaela Walker, you are a comic genius. I. Literally Split. My. Sides.
Of course, a true Ginger Ninja would have pulled herself up to her full five foot ten at this point and obliterated Molly with a killer windpipe chop. But I couldn’t even manage a killer one-liner. Hopeless.
Former Best Friend Forever Chloe-the-Turncoat crept over when Molly wasn’t looking.
‘Hey, Lara.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Just saying don’t let Molly and Mikaela wind you up. Being a cleaner is nothing to be ashamed of. Honestly. I mean, it’s not like she’s a prostitute.’
???!!
‘Anyway, don’t take it personally, they’re only having a laugh.’ And with that she snuck off furtively, like she was being tailed by the FBI.
What a total hypocrite she is. Prostitute! She’s known my mum since we were in reception.
Oh, Chloe Stubbs. We were like sisters, you and me. Years and years of best friendness at primary then ecstatic when we both passed the girls’ school exam. Inseparable at guides / pony club / karate and then, halfway through Year 9, poof! you vanished. No more hanging out at school, no more clubs.
No more being best friends.
Looking back, the signs were there, I just didn’t read them: ignoring my texts; not picking up when I rang; disappearing every dinner time . . . I bet the whole class was laughing behind my back for weeks.
Never been dumped by a boy (as never had a boyfriend), so I don’t know if that’s worse, but being chucked by your best friend is preeeetty gutting. Particularly when she ditches you for someone as mind-meltingly inane as Molly Hardy-Jones. No kidding, I’ve had socks with