Not Pretty Enough Page 2

  He nods and smiles at me, and I wonder how the hell I’m going to get out of this one.

  I close my own book and glance nervously around the class. Everybody has their heads down, concentrating on their work, except for Leigh. She is resting her head in her hand and staring longingly at Ewan, who is working obliviously. It’s pathetic. It’s obvious to the whole class that she’s yearning for him. God, I hope it’s not that obvious that I like Lloyd. I mean, Leigh is practically drooling on the desk over Ewan. At least I don’t drool on the desk. Not very often, anyway.

  “Well,” I say, leaning over to look at Lloyd’s book and turning a page, just as he goes to move the book closer to me. Our hands brush together and I pull back startled by the intensity. Our hands brushed! And there was electricity! This is meant to be!

  “So,” I say, wondering what to do next. “This is algebra…” This is ridiculous. He knows what bloody algebra is. I rest my pen against my top lip and try to look intelligent and seductive at the same time. Lloyd still has an expectant look on his face. Except, I’ve obviously rested the pen too high up my lip, and it’s tickling my nose. Really tickling now, and…

  “Atchooooo!” I yell, a sneeze catching me by surprise. Oh my god. I’m aware that every person in the classroom is staring at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, holding up my hand. “I just…” Oh no. “Atchooooo!” I sneeze again. “Atchoooooo!” I grip my nose firmly between my thumb and my finger. I vaguely remember reading somewhere that is the best way to stop sneezing. Or is that hiccups? Either way, it doesn’t work. It just makes me want to sneeze more. “Atchooooo!” I yell again. Oh God, this is so embarrassing. Why do I have to have a sneezing fit on the one day I am sitting by Lloyd Layton? It’s highly unlikely that I will ever be lucky enough to sit by Lloyd Layton again; I get my one big chance to impress him, and what do I do? I sneeze.

  “Atchooo!”

  Oh God. Now my nose is running. I’m still gripping it with one hand, and frantically feeling around in my bag for a tissue with the other.

  “Atchooooooooooooooo!” It comes again, and this time something so horrible happens that it’s like being in slow motion. A huge lump of snot, my snot, straight out of my nose, flies out of my nostrils, and goes zooming up into the air, turns around, and like a giant pancake, starts plummeting back down to earth, to land smack bang in the middle of Lloyd’s textbook.

  Oh. My. God.

  “Ugh!” Lloyd yells and pushes his chair back so fast that he nearly falls off it.

  Oh my god. What do I do? What do I do? My face has gone so red I must resemble a lobster, and when my hand finally closes around a tissue in my bag, I have no idea what to do but lean over and wipe the snot from Lloyd’s book, and deposit the offending tissue back into my bag. I’m so embarrassed I could die. And to make things so much better, Mr Griffiths is laughing like he’s never seen anything funnier in his life.

  “Francesca, do you want to go to the nurse?” he asks, after finally composing himself.

  I’m so embarrassed I have no idea what to do. All I know is that I don’t want to sit here with thirty pairs of eyes on me for the rest of the lesson, and I’m not sure I will ever be able to look at Lloyd again without wishing the ground would open up and swallow me.

  I don’t answer Mr Griffiths’ question, just grab my books and bag and run out of the room. I only stop running when I hear the door slam behind me. I shove the books into my bag and throw the pink pen into one of the bins as I pass. I never want to see it again in all my life. I don’t go to the nurse though. I slip into the cafeteria and sit underneath the stairs at the far end, positive that no one will see me. It’s the space kids use when they bunk off lessons, they sit there until the coast is clear of teachers and dinner ladies, then slip out the side of the building and make a run for the gate. I consider doing just that, but what’s the point? I will still have to come to school again tomorrow morning and the morning after that and the one after that. I may as well face everyone next lesson and get the laughter and the taunts over with now.

  I catch Debs on her way out of her own maths lesson. “You won’t believe what happened to me in maths today.”

  She gives me a hug. “I’ve already heard.”

  “What? How?”

  “Come on, Chess. Something like that happens and you think the whole school isn’t already talking about it?”

  Oh, smashing. Just what I wanted to hear.

  “I can’t believe I sneezed snot into the middle of Lloyd’s book.” I’m trying to make light of the awful situation, and also make sure Debs walks with me, because I don’t want to face the teasing that will undoubtedly come from the other thirty people in my maths class by the time we get to the cafeteria.

  Debs is obviously trying not to laugh. “You’ve just ruined your chances of ever getting a date with him, you do know that, right?”

  “Yes, thank you for pointing that out. I hadn’t realised that Lloyd might not want to look twice at a snot sprouting sneezebag, but now you come to mention it…”

  “Hey, Chessie,” Leigh shouts as she walks by. “Atchooo!”

  “Ha ha ha,” I say, fake smiling at her.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Ewan asks, falling into line beside us.

  I’d forgotten that he’d been there to witness the whole thing.

  “I doubt I’ll ever get my dignity back, but yeah, I guess so. Did you speak to Lloyd afterwards? What did he say?”

  “He thought it was quite funny actually.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he did.”

  “He laughed and asked Mr Griffiths to exchange his textbook, which he did. I think that one may have gone into quarantine.”

  “Thank you, Ewan. That makes me feel so much better.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “You asked. Besides, it’s not like the worst thing you’ve ever done to Lloyd Layton.”

  “Well, if it isn’t, then I don’t want to know what is.”

  CHAPTER 5

  April.

  It’s the Easter holidays and I’ve seen a picture in a magazine that I want to look like. If I looked like that, Lloyd would want me in an instant. I figure the hair is the most striking thing, and honestly, if you look really closely and squint a bit, the model’s hair isn’t that different from mine. If mine were longer, blonder, and didn’t frizz at the mere implication of water, that is. But I think I have something to work with. Now I just need to figure out the best way to put red streaks in without it costing a fortune.

  It’s when I’m lying on my bed, channel surfing and sulking a bit if I’m honest, that I get a genius idea. The idea really is a stroke of brilliance, and it’s all thanks to Delia Smith. My channel hopping lands on Delia’s cookery programme, where she’s icing a cake of some kind, and that’s when it hits me. I have everything I need to put red streaks in my hair right here, or more precisely, downstairs in the kitchen cupboards: red food colouring.

  Beat that, Einstein.

  I’ve seen people doing highlights on TV; all you need is foil – also in the kitchen cupboards – and you’re set. You paint the dye on, wrap the hair in kitchen foil and sit under a big hairdryer for an hour. I might not have a big hairdryer, but I have a little one shaped like a frog, and I’m sure I can improvise on the small details. Teenagers the world over are going to thank me for this. I can’t be the only person in the universe who has very little time to dye their hair and limited cash flow.

  My mum is in work so I’m on my own in the house, which is good because Mum might not like me raiding the kitchen. I briefly consider calling Debs and asking for her help, but really, how hard can it be? Imagine how impressed Debs will be when she sees my hair tomorrow. She’ll probably ask me to do hers as well. Then word will spread around the entire school that I’m some kind of virtuoso hairdresser, and everybody will be begging me to do theirs, and if Lloyd doesn’t notice me for the red streaks in my hair, then he’ll notice me because of all the people raving about my hairdressing skills.

/>   I know we’re not allowed to dye our hair in school, but it’s the holidays now, inset Friday to be exact, so I have two weeks of freedom in which no one can moan at me for having red streaks. Also, assuming my hair is going to look really cool, and it will take off around the whole school, shouldn’t the teachers be proud of me for being so imaginative? Even if they aren’t, what’s the worst they can do? Tell me to wash it out? I hope it’ll be like permanent hair dye, in which case, it won’t wash out. Nothing I can do about that. It’s not like they can expel me for something beyond my control, is it?

  With that in mind, I decide that it’s now or never. I head downstairs and root through the cupboards until I find what I’m looking for. I find the food colouring buried in the back of a cupboard. It’s unopened. I reckon my mum has forgotten she ever bought it. That’s good because she won’t miss it. I can’t remember the last time we ate red food anyway. That’s probably why it’s three years out of date. I wonder if that matters?

  I decide to do the deed in my room, mainly because if I spill dye on the carpet anywhere else, my mum will skin me alive. I grab my towel from the bathroom, set the things out on my window ledge and debate the best way to do this. My blonde hair is just past my shoulders, and I decide that I need three chunky streaks on either side of my middle parting. That’s what the model in the magazine has, and I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’ll have plenty of people to practise on if it goes well. I section off six equal chunks of hair and clip the rest back. So far, so good. I really think I’m going to be good at this. I’ve got some rubber gloves to put the food colouring on with, and a plan. I have six pieces of foil cut to exact size and length, and as soon as the dye has evenly coated each section of hair, I’ll wrap it in the foil and then, when they’re all done, I’ll turn the hairdryer on them for an hour. Easy.

  I pour the red colouring into a plastic tray, coat my rubber-gloved fingers in it, and begin stroking them down the length of the hair. The first streak goes really well. The dye just sort of sinks into my hair, which is good because at least it’s not running anywhere or getting on the bits that are meant to stay blonde. This is so easy I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before. Within minutes the first streak is done, wrapped in foil, and I’ve started the next one. The whole process takes about twenty minutes. I throw the gloves away as soon as I’m done and hope my mum won’t miss them. It’s not like she uses them for washing up that often. Maybe I could tell her the dog ate them. We don’t have a dog, but it’s not really that unlikely that some random dog broke in and ate a pair of Marigolds, is it?

  I sit on my bed and switch the hairdryer on. I last about ten minutes until I can’t resist taking a peep under the foil.

  The first peek is a little disappointing. I’ve looked under the first streak I did, rationalising that it’s been on the longest, and honestly, the food colouring has soaked into my hair so much that it doesn’t really look red at all. It looks sort of off-pink. Maybe it needs a second application. Maybe it’s like nail polish, and will chip unless you do two coats. Luckily I have just enough left to do the job. I rescue the gloves from the bin and re-do one streak at a time and quickly wrap them back up in foil and decide to sit with the dryer on for longer this time.

  When the longest hour ever has passed, I rip the foil off with abandon. I’ve done all I can do. I’ve used the entire bottle of food colouring, and had the hairdryer on the hottest setting possible for over an hour. This is it.

  I turn away from the mirror as I remove the foils, wanting my masterpiece of tresses to be a surprise. I shake my hair out and turn back around, excited to see my reflection.

  Oh.

  Oh. Well. That looks nothing like the model in the magazine. In fact, it looks like I’ve been hit on the top of the head and my skull is bleeding.

  It’s not red, exactly. It’s like dirty reddish-pink. It feels very dry, and the colour has spread out into the sections of my hair that were still supposed to be blonde. The roots in particular. Rather than being in defined streaks, it’s sort of one big mass of reddish colour. Oh well, it was my first try after all. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected greatness so soon. I’ll just go and wash it out. To tell the truth, red streaks aren’t so appealing anymore anyway.

  Here’s the thing about food colouring: it doesn’t wash out. I guess it’s not really supposed to, I mean, you’d hardly need to wash dye out of a cake, would you? But I do need to wash it out of my hair, and it’s not coming out. I’ve been in the bath for half an hour, I’ve shampooed it three times, and it’s just not moving. It hasn’t even faded.

  I’ve figured out what I’m going to do though. I’ll go into town tomorrow and buy a dark coloured hair dye. I can’t afford to spend much on one, and certainly can’t ask my mum to buy one because she’d want to know why, but I think one of those cheap ones that last eight washes will do the trick. I’ll have an image change for the holidays and by the time school starts back, it will have washed out and taken the red stuff with it. No one will know any different.

  The only problem left is how to keep the whole debacle from my mother. She’ll be in work tomorrow, so I can go shopping without suspicion, but tonight is the issue. She’s due home in twenty minutes, and all I have to do is convince her that I’m absolutely freezing cold and have to spend the night huddled in my winter hat. The thing is though, it’s April. It’s really not that cold. In fact, we’ve got quite the heatwave for April.

  “Chessie, aren’t you boiling?” That’s the first thing my mum asks as she comes in.

  “No, I’m cold actually.”

  “In this weather? Maybe you have a temperature.”

  “No! No, I’m fine, really. I just took a cold bath to cool down, and well, I cooled down too far.”

  “Do you want me to put the heating on?”

  “No, no, I’m quite comfortable in this.”

  I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

  “Have you seen my washing up gloves?” Mum calls from the kitchen when she goes to do the dishes later.

  “No,” I lie. “Why, have you lost them?”

  “I’m sure they’re not where I left them,” she calls back.

  “Maybe a dog ate them,” I say, crossing my fingers.

  “That’s not helpful, Chessie. I’m sure I put them in this cupboard last night.”

  I slink off to bed early, hoping to avoid further interrogation.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning I make it a point not to get up before my mum leaves for work. I wait until the coast is clear then drag myself out for the ten o’clock bus. People I know would be more likely to go shopping in the afternoon and I would die if I ran into anyone I know. I think I’ve covered the hair disaster quite well, but I’m certainly not at my best. I’m wearing a black hat that I got from New Look a few months ago but haven’t had a reason to wear yet. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hair. The red parts are all dry and knotted up. I can’t run a brush through them. I tried piling all my hair on top of my head, but it wouldn’t fit under the hat, then I tried just putting the red parts under there, but they fell down and got all tangled up with the rest of my hair. So I’ve had to compromise. I’ve left all my hair down and put the hat on so it covers the mess that is the top of my head where all the red colouring met at the roots and congealed.

  I think I’m doing fine. I’ve got through the bus journey into town and no one seems to have noticed. I think I’ve got the day covered, when the unthinkable happens. My hat blows off. Seriously. It just blows away, and I can’t catch it. As the bus pulled away, it let out a huge puff of exhaust air right in my face, and that coincided with a big gust of wind, and my hat just blew off. I tried to catch it, I really did. But I’m unfit and look like a beached whale when I run, so I tried to chase it but it flew up into a tree and now it’s disappeared completely. I’m walking around town looking like one of those Halloween costumes with the fake axe in the head, but without the axe. So my plan of action is simple. I have to
swallow all embarrassment and ignore the funny looks. I just have to get to Superdrug, buy a brown hair dye, and get the bus home. It’s going to take me half an hour at the most. Okay, I look like I might need medical attention, but the only thing wrong with me is major embarrassment. Why, oh why didn’t I plan for freak of nature accidents and bring a spare hat with me?

  I get to Superdrug with only a few mildly sympathetic looks from strangers. They feel sorry for me. I keep my head down and don’t make eye contact with anyone.

  I find a temporary hair dye that doesn’t cost too much and buy two boxes to be on the safe side. It does say on the box that if your hair is longer than shoulder length or very thick you might need two, and mine is both.

  Everything’s okay until I’m in the checkout queue. I’ve done it. I haven’t met anyone I know. Now I can rush back to the bus stop, get home and pretend this whole thing never happened. And then the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to me on a day like this happens. Any other day, it would have been the best thing in the world, but when you’re walking around like something out of a horror film, it’s a disaster.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  I know his accent. I know his voice, I’d recognise it anywhere.

  Lloyd Layton.

  I want to ignore him. If I squeeze my eyes shut tight enough and pretend I didn’t just hear that, maybe he’ll go away. It doesn’t work. It probably made him think I’m even more of a freak than he already does.

  “Hi,” I say, turning around to face him. Damn, he looks good. All tall and sexy with his brown, dishevelled hair hanging over his forehead. He’s dressed in light coloured jeans and a black t-shirt with a ridiculously expensive designer’s name emblazoned across the front.

  He looks hotter than ever and I look like a sweaty, red lump.

  “You know the teachers will go mad if you go to school looking like that?”

  I nod, not trusting my mouth to work properly with all the embarrassment.