Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I was walking out of history at the start of lunch when Debbie King hurried up to me. Debbie was, according to the way I'd heard most of the lads talk about her, the sixth form's answer to Cindy Crawford – all glossy hair and luscious lips, tall and slim and legs and breasts. What none of them seemed to comment on, or notice, was the fact she was actually quite a good laugh, pretty intelligent and really hard-working, and that was why, aside from the fact that for my project to work I needed backup from some top-of-the-food-chain students, I asked her to join the summer ball committee. To my delight, she agreed, as long as her boyfriend, Adam Henson, could join too. Which of course I said yes to; with both of them working on the event there was no way it would be a flop. Adam was a rugby and football player – all messy blonde hair and square jaw, tall and strong with legs and pecs. As such a fine physical specimen, he was universally adored, but what no one seemed to comment on was the fact he also had no sense of humour (every joke went over his head), he was utterly dense, and lazy to boot. For a while I'd wondered what Debbie saw in him, and then I remembered catching a glimpse of him in the showers after PE in the fifth year and put two and two together and realized, as far as Debbie was concerned, he most definitely had other very attractive attributes and was almost certainly good at other stuff.

"The posters have arrived!" Debbie beamed. "And they look fantastic!"

Yep, more good news! It's almost like I'm being set up for a massive fall, isn't it? Well, don't worry – there isn't too much more incessant, unmitigated joy to get through.

Ten minutes later, Debbie and I proudly pinned a large poster to the middle of the noticeboard in the common room, and the project that we'd been working on for the past couple of months was finally revealed. This, my friends, is what (I hoped) would get me noticed.

Close-up: (because you want to get an eyeful of this, it was brilliant). These posters were properly printed on what had been designed to look like old-fashioned parchment paper, with an illustration in red ink in the centre, of the fairies from A Midsummer Night's Dream by everyone's favourite GCSE set text playwright, William Shakespeare. (Or, as Beth liked to call him, Willy Shakes – a "joke" only she found amusing.) Fancy black calligraphy stated:

The Sixth Form Ball Committee 1994 cordially request the pleasure of your company at… A Midsummer Night's Dream

"Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth!"

7 p.m., 15th July 1994 in the school grounds Tickets: ￡20 (single), ￡35 (couple)

The buzz was immediate. And good because this was a first. It was traditional for the sixth form to hold some kind of end of summer term party, but in the past it had basically been a piss-up in any nearby village hall that was prepared to turn a blind eye to underage drinking and all the puke that would end up everywhere, in exchange for making a shit-tonne of cash on the bar. But then I heard about the May Balls that happened at Cambridge University from a guy who came to give us a talk last year and thought how good it would be to replicate a bit of that here. Apparently everyone came in dinner suits and ball gowns, there were all sorts of food and drink stalls, firework displays and often fairground rides, as well as sets from well-known comedians and bands. I knew we couldn't do all that, but we could do something a bit similar. Something properly nice, you know? Dare I say, sophisticated. I wanted to make a splash – this was it. Something to be remembered by. And if people had a good time, when it came to voting for head boy at the very end of term, ready for our final year, maybe they'd remember me? But also … I don't know, there was part of me that got a thrill from mixing things up a bit. From breaking the mould. We weren't just a bunch of losers from a nowhere town; we had futures, we were something, and we could party like the best of them. Why not?

"That's a lot of money," Jason commented, flicking at the ticket price with his fingers, "for a disco."

Jason: skinny, for one of the lads. But with a vicious streak that made him intimidating. Usually in some form of trouble. Smokes. Likes a fight. Resentful of being in school, even though it was optional after sixteen, so he was there by choice.

His eyes were on me, utterly unimpressed, but Debbie stepped in. "It's not a disco, Jason, it's a ball, so the price includes the live band, food, decorations and other entertainment."

I watched Jason's face soften, his eyes drifting to Debbie's chest, then snapping back to her face again, like he'd just caught himself staring and realized he probably shouldn't be. "What band?" he sniffed.

"All will be revealed soon!" Debbie said, just as Adam blundered in and replied, "Speak No Monkey*, hopefully— Oh shit, that's still a secret, isn't it?"

I rolled my eyes and wanted to kill him on the spot, but the news caused an immediate furore of excitement that drowned out Debbie admonishing Adam, because yes, we weren't just planning some bloke with a mobile disco, or someone's brother's band, this was one of the best Britpop groups out there, this was going to be the real deal – at least, it would be as long as this was the one thing my dad didn't let me down over. When I first mentioned my idea to Dad a few months back, he said he knew Speak No Monkey's manager really well, a friend from school, he said, and he reckoned he could get them to play for us. I'd taken it with a pinch of salt due to previous disappointments (the trip to see Phantom of the Opera that never materialized, the forgotten birthdays, and all the times I was meant to see him but he was suddenly busy), but he phoned up the following week and said he'd spoken to his friend, and there might be a gap in their tour schedule that allowed it, and I should write a letter to them explaining about the ball and inviting them to play. So I did. I hadn't heard back yet, but Dad assured me the letter was received and they were just working out some logistics and the whole thing was eighty per cent likely … which did nothing to stop me focusing on the twenty per cent unlikely, hence why this was meant to be a secret, for now.

Just like that, Scott (Jason's partner in crime, who was a big guy – classic beefcake, all muscle, barely evolved, at the mercy of all his basest urges and impulses, sorry, but some people just are stereotypes) ripped open his velcro wallet, pulled two notes out, bought a couple's ticket from Debbie, then strolled over to Rachel Plimpton (whose standards were so low she would have gone out with a warthog), got down on one knee and asked her to the ball. That caused cheers, and tears of joy from Rachel, and, despite the individuals involved, it did make me smile, because this was all working out perfectly and it seemed like people were getting on board (no guarantee of that with a bunch of cynical seventeen-year-olds).

Adam nodded in delight too, soaking up the buoyant atmosphere, almost like he couldn't believe it, then announced: "Debbie and I are dressing up as Torvill and Dean!"

"Oberon and Titania!" Debbie corrected.

"Well, whoever, I can't remember all the names."

Debbie smiled at him fondly and gave him a kiss on the lips, which developed into a slightly lingering one, Adam getting far too into it, before Debbie pulled back, probably in the interests of decency.

"Shit, everyone's coupling up!" Jason said. "Who am I gonna take? Jamie?"

"Funny," I said.

"Shit, I wasn't asking you, I just wondered who you were taking!"

"I know." (I didn't know.)

"Jamie wants to go to the ball with me, everyone!" Jason shouted.

Assorted cheers, someone retching, and replies of "Gross!"

I swallowed and shook my head, smiling through it.

But Jason came up behind me, arms around my waist, and held me tight. "How about it, huh?" He did a little thrust.

"Funny. Very funny."

"I love you, Jamie."

"OK, I have to put up more posters now, so…"

"Nice rugby top, by the way," he hissed in my ear.

"Looks new. Wonder why?"

I froze, like a rag doll, while he continued to manhandle me for a few moments.

"Ah, man, who is that?!"

He suddenly released me and headed over to a couple of lads who were holding up page 3 of the Sun and admiring the model, and just like that, I was dumped.

Close-up: on me. Relief. And the only time I'd think page 3 was a good thing.

I glanced around. No one was looking at me. No one had thought anything of it.

That's one nice thing about being in the middle. People don't really notice. Even when you've organized a ball for them, they soon find someone, or something, more interesting. I wondered if that would change if the ball went well? Part of me craved recognition and minor fame. Part of me hated the idea and wanted a quiet life.*

I took a pile of posters, hurried out, and spent a while pinning them to other noticeboards around school; it was important to cultivate as much buzz as possible, and keep the ball at the front of people's minds.

"Not there, Jamie." It was Mrs Prenton. "That's for official notices only."

Mrs Prenton: the head teacher at Market Wickby Secondary School. In her early sixties … I think, but I was at that time of life where age is meaningless because either you're a kid, a teenager my age, a regular adult, or old. Prenton was hard as nails, took no nonsense, and was terrifying in many ways, even for a woman who was actually quite short and slight. Everything about her oozed respectability and power, from the neat skirt and jacket to the hair that made her look like Margaret Thatcher – set, backcombed, and sprayed into place. She liked me, though. And I wanted her to like me. God, I was such a people-pleaser.

I took the drawing pins out and removed the poster. "Sorry, miss." I gave her a smile.

"How's the idea going down with everyone?"

"Really well! We're already selling tickets."

She nodded approvingly. "Looks like the gamble might pay off."

I smiled again while my head played the flashback: me in her office, sitting opposite her on the soft chairs while I tried to sell the idea of the ball. No, there wouldn't be any alcohol. Yes, it would be limited to only students from this school. Yes, we had done the maths, and yes, we could cover the costs … maybe even end up with a surplus we could donate to charity.

She wouldn't commit, and I suspect she'd have turned us down had it not been for Debbie's dad stepping in to underwrite the whole thing. Mrs Prenton was courting Debbie's father – not in the romantic sense; she was grooming the richer parents for donations towards equipment for a new performing arts block, and this was probably the opportunity she needed to get in with him.

"I'm impressed with you, Jamie. This is a big undertaking. It hasn't gone unnoticed."

"Thanks, miss."

She smiled at me and walked on while I started pinning up a poster on the next board along, high on what the possible interpretations of "It hasn't gone unnoticed" might be. On the shortlist for head boy? Surely!

"And not that one!" she called back without even turning around. "That's PE department only – and they're very territorial!"

I chuckled. "Sorry, miss!"

Funny, though, despite the reaction from everyone, and despite Mrs Prenton's kind words, I had a nagging feeling in my stomach. Something like … sadness? Something like … I'd been so excited about the ball, but now it was out there the excitement belonged to everyone else and not to me.

I couldn't make sense of it, but after I'd finished putting up my posters, I knew I didn't want to go back to the common room. It felt like I should just let everyone get on with pairing up and finding dates and asking people out. I had some essays to get started on anyway, and with all the hysteria, the library would probably be the best place to get my head down for half an hour.

I'd hidden myself away on a table behind one of the bookcases, but the librarian, Mrs Carpenter, found me when she rounded the shelves, with a pile of books she was putting back.

"Jamie Hampton! What are you doing lurking here?" She smiled at me. "And do you want a custard cream?"

She didn't wait for an answer, just produced a packet she was holding under the books and put two on my table. "I've been hearing the chatter about the ball," she said.

I raised my eyebrows. "Really?"

"Seems to be the thing everyone's talking about!"

"We only put the poster up half an hour ago."

"Well, it's exciting. Biggest thing to happen around here in … for ever!" She laughed. "But it's nice. A big event to take someone you like to, and all that. Ahh, the romance! Almost makes me want to be a teenager again, except … no, not quite enough to want that, but it warms my stone-cold heart to think of all of you experiencing that."

I smiled at the "stone-cold heart" business. Mrs C had the best heart. She was funny and kind, but also really sarcastic, and I loved that. She also regularly gossiped about school stuff that students weren't meant to know about, never hiding her feelings about what she thought of certain staff members. And I loved that even more. And stylish? Oh boy. Mrs C would regularly be seen wearing a leather jacket, or faux fur, and I'd even seen her in vinyl trousers on a weekend. For me, she was on a par with Kate Moss or Winona Ryder – sure, a little older, but totally rocking the A-lister look.

"So, who are you going to take, Jamie?"

My eyes met hers and I momentarily froze. "Um … hadn't thought." I turned to my custard cream, twisting the pieces apart and going in for the cream centre first.

"Because, if there's anyone you like, you have to take them to the ball," she said. "It's a rite of passage."

I concentrated on the biscuit. "There's no one I like."

"Aww—"

"Besides," I said, glancing quickly at her, "I'll have my work cut out on the night itself, organizing everything and making sure it's all OK. So."

"Very professional," she said.

I nodded and she turned to the shelf, replacing a few books.

"Is that rugby top new?" she said, back still to me.

"Um … yeah."

She turned. "I'm used to seeing you in a waistcoat and shirt.*"

"Fancied a change."

"Nothing to do with what happened on Friday, I hope?"

I froze. What did she mean?

"What Jason and Scott were saying?" she continued.

I did not know she overheard that.

INT.? LIbrARY. FRIDAY AFTERNOON. FLASHBACK

A supervised study period. Jamie Hampton sits alone at his table, finishing an English essay on Wuthering Heights. An assortment of other sixth formers also sit at tables, including Jason and Scott, at a table just behind Jamie. Mrs Carpenter, behind her desk at the front – surely not within earshot, unless she has super-human hearing?

JASON:You know what's really gay? Guys who wear waistcoats.

SCOTT:So fucking gay.

JASON:May as well just carry a sign that says: Massive Queer.

SCOTT:Massive beeeennndeeeerrr!

JASON:Beeeennndeeerrr!

Close-up on Jamie: Are they talking about me?

I shook myself back to the present and swallowed. "I just … fancied a change."

"Yes, you said." Mrs C nodded and replaced another book while I hoped that would be the end of it. Truth was, that was why I'd bought the rugby top. I'd been mortified. The idea that Jason and Scott would think that about me. I suppose I was just clueless about fashion. I'd seen a few people do the casual waistcoat and shirt thing, admittedly more traditionally associated with formal attire, but I liked the look and thought it might suit me. But then again, maybe not.

Not if that was the impression it gave, anyway.

"Don't let other people dictate who you are," Mrs C continued.

"I'm not."

"Good. Because you be you. Be who you want."

"I am."

She gave me a smile. "Good!" And she disappeared around the shelf.

Be you.

Who was I, anyway?

I mulled that one over for a good few minutes, let me tell you. Nothing like life's big questions to occupy your mind.

I turned to a fresh page in my notebook and wrote Jamie Hampton at the top of it. I sat back, tapping my pen, thinking, wondering, then added:

Straight A student.

16.

Friend.

Organizer.

Studying A level English lit., history, economics.

Kind to animals.

Kind to animals?! I scratched that last one out. Was that the best I could come up with? I admired Mrs C for her style, her eccentricity, and the fact she was unashamedly unique. How did she get there? Part of me wanted that; part of me was scared of that. And what was this list I'd made, anyway? A poem? The edgy sort that didn't rhyme? It wasn't a story. It was … just random words. Disjointed. Meaningless.

Boring.

The truth?

No. I was more than that.

Wasn't I?

I drew a box around my list, drew lines from corner to corner, crossing through the text, then added, at the top:

Work in progress.

I mean, aren't we all?*

*Speak No Monkey never existed – it's one of the few things I've made up just because it's easier this way. Speak No Monkey were four cheeky chappies who sang really catchy songs about quite mundane things.

*This hasn't changed. I've learned that fame is a double-edged sword, and you'll soon find out why. (That's the last of the foreshadowing, I promise.)

*I promise you, this wasn't a fashion disaster at the time.

?INT. is screenwriting shorthand for "interior" – meaning the scene takes place inside. Later you might see EXT. which, you've hopefully guessed, means "exterior". You're welcome.

*If you're familiar with teen books and movies, you'll be worried this list will be discovered by someone awful and I'll be humiliated. Won't happen here, so forget about it. Happy to tell you that, because I want you focusing on the important stuff, and not sweating cheap plot devices. (Oh, I'm such a bitch.)