Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre

a wetsuit made of ham.

      Suicidal feeding frenzy.

      Rang Emma tonight. Miss her so much. Her moving miles away is the worst knock-on effect of the business folding. More like losing a sister than a cousin. Can’t blame Uncle Andy for going though. Nothing left for them here, was there?

      Buuut, can’t help selfishly wishing Em was still around, especially as the Mean Girls seem to be ramping things up lately. I could do with some local support.

      ‘Molly’s always been a bit of a cow. And a complete snob,’ she said. ‘Chloe will wake up and smell the bullshit soon, don’t worry.’

      ‘Maybe . . .’ I said, not that convinced. ‘How’s college?’

      She went straight into a rambly story about this ‘kick-ass’ night out she’d had with a guy from her psychology class. Then how ‘awesome’ her new part-time job in Topshop is. And how she’s going to Florida with Uncle Andy and Auntie Amanda; the new firm is expanding again because apparently solar panels are booming in Essex.

      So I listened, and really I’m 100% thrilled life is treating her so brilliantly because I love her and she entirely deserves it.

      Then, when we’d said bye, I headed downstairs to watch telly. But Mum and Dad were having another one of their hushed rows about money (i.e. lack of) in the lounge. So I made a piece of toast and went back to my freezing, minuscule bedroom, and sat there on my own, feeling sad.

       JANUARY 14TH

      Newsflash! It’s official: Mr Jagger is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING!

       Reason 1

      OK, so today we’re reading Romeo and Juliet when he says, ‘Right, we’re going to do this next activity in pairs. Can you divide yourselves up, please?’

      Pairs. The word strikes fear in my heart. Will someone die in the scramble not to work with Lara T, Queen of the Untouchables?

      And it’s not only me. Pairs are tricky for the Weird Sisters: you know – two’s evil company but three’s a crowd, etc. The word ‘pairs’ is a guillotine blade ready to drop. Mikaela and Former Best Friend Forever Chloe are visibly panicking. Who will Molly pick? Who will she choose? Don’t pick her, pick me!! Aaarrggghh!

      What they should do is work together and leave Miss Molly flying solo, but they’re too dim to see that. Plus it’s pretty obvious beneath the besties act that they completely despise each other. Anyway, after a few seconds, Mikaela’s lonesome brain cell lumbers to life and she pipes up, ‘Sir, how many in each group?’

      Mr J managed to keep a straight face while he said, ‘Two, please,’ in a perfectly normal voice. But he saw me watching him and raised his eyebrows a tiny bit as he caught my eye. Then he kind of shrugged What is she like? Entirely, solely at ME. Ha!

      Next, when the class (as is the custom in 11G) left me alone, alone, all, all alone, instead of forcing me into a group like Mrs Gill always does, he went, ‘OK, Lara, you can work with me.’

      Got to spend five minutes doing character maps with him and he seemed v. impressed that I knew so much about the play already. The stuff he said was properly interesting AND it gave me the perfect opportunity to confirm that his eyes do have amber flecks in them. Amber or hazel anyway. Dark honey-coloured.

      That aside, he is so fantastically brilliant at explaining stuff that I learned more about Romeo and Juliet & Co in those five minutes than I have in the last five weeks. (Sorry, Mrs G, but it’s true.)

       Reason 2

      Home-time and I was waiting for the Hellbus, minding my own business, when Molly saw me give my head a totally innocent scratch.

      She smirked, shouting out, ‘Urgh, Lara, have you got nits again?’ which was followed by mass shrieks and a stampede as the girls nearest to me fled. At least the boys’ school hadn’t let out yet, so I was spared that added humiliation.

      Of course I don’t have nits. For the record, I had them once in Year 7 (caught from Simple Simon). But somehow Molly has managed to weave this isolated episode into some tedious non-joke that I’m a walking bug motel.

      ‘I can see them jumping on your head!’ she yelled from the ‘safety’ of further up the road.

      ‘No you can’t because I DON’T HAVE THEM,’ I called back. But no one was listening; all too busy laughing while I shrank deeper and deeper into my blazer.

      Now, if my life was a fairy tale, I’d write here that a handsome knight on a snowy-white steed galloped up, swept me into his arms and rode me off into the magnificent sunset. But I’m no princess and it was a beat-up silver car with Mr Jagger rolling the window down. Not complaining though: who’d want a horse in this traffic?

      ‘Is everything OK?’ he said, instantly drawing Molly straight to the car, a couple of cronies close behind.

      ‘Hiya, Sir,’ she said, flashing her teeth, sticking her boobs out and flicking her hair extensions. ‘Have you come to pick me up then?’

      The others giggled. Not me. I was too stunned she’d managed to do four things simultaneously.

      ‘Nice try, Molly,’ he said. ‘But no. I wanted to know what’s going on. I saw all these people running off and . . . Lara?’

      ‘Oh, it’s nothing, Sir. Just waiting for the bus,’ I mumbled.

      The rest of the girls had drifted back one by one and were watching us. Mr J looked at me for a few seconds longer, then nodded. ‘OK, well, if you’re sure everything’s OK, Lara. See you tomorrow.’

      And he sputtered off in his knackered little car, smoke billowing from the exhaust.

      Wow! Can’t believe he stopped. That is the nicest thing a teacher has ever done for me. None of the others have bothered to step in before. Or maybe they’ve just never noticed the way people treat me. Not everyone needs a cloak to be invisible, do they?

      Molly looked a bit put out, but at least she shut up and left me alone. Then the boys’ school came out and a gang of girls made this faux-squeamish deal of not sitting next to me, but bollocks to them. Least I got a seat. Normally it’s standing room only. They keep promising us a bus for each school. Can’t wait. The girls are bearable-ish, but the boys are industrial-strength knobs.

      Anyway, I stuck my headphones in and starting reading a book Mr J recommended called I Capture the Castle. But it was hard to concentrate because all I could think about was him turning up out of nowhere at exactly the right moment.

      Mum and Dad are stressing over the rent arrears downstairs and, as I can’t take another ounce of money’s-too-tight-to-mention tension, am taking refuge in my room. Again.

      Still can’t stop thinking about Mr J. He’s kind, clever, good-looking, funny, sporty, loves to read – the guy pretty much full-houses my dream boyfriend wish list.

      Depressing really. What are the chances of meeting someone my own age like that?

      Slim.

      And of him fancying me back?

      Ha! Skeletal.

       JANUARY 17TH

      Following on from the gasp! shocking revelation that my mum is gasp! a cleaner, the Ginger Apartheid Movement has gathered momentum and I appear to have now made the transition from mocked-but-tolerated to actively shunned.

      The evidence? Registration this morning and a pink envelope appears on every desk. Every girl pulls out a pink glittery card. The room is buzzing. Every girl is giddy with anticipation. Every girl except me.

       Why?

      Because I am the ONLY member of Form 11G that hasn’t been invited to back-stabbing former BFF Chloe