I’m within arm’s length of getting what I want. It smells of fresh-cut grass. It’s warm, furry and purrs beneath my fingertips. It tastes raspberry-sweet and sharp against my tongue. Its siren song stirs my blood. Ambition is working all my senses. This time next week I’ll be head girl and it’s going to look so good on my university application forms. As a Nought, I know I have to be twice as good to get half as far as a Cross. My mum has drummed that into me since before I could walk and talk. Being head girl of a school like Heathcroft High will guarantee that I get to study medicine at my first choice of university. I’ve got it all worked out. I’m going to be a surgeon. Maybe even a neurosurgeon. The best damned one in the country. My hands are going to make my fortune. And then no one, but no one, will look down on me or laugh at me behind my back because of my mum. I’ll be my own boss. I’ll be Liberty Jackman – renowned doctor. And, even if being head girl only gets me a partial scholarship, at least it’ll be something. Some way, somehow, I’ll find the rest of the money needed to get to uni. Even if I have to work two jobs while I’m studying. Every time I mention going to uni, Mum scoffs and tells me I’m wasting my time.
‘You could be a hairdresser or work in a shop. There’s nothing wrong with those professions.’
When it comes to what I should do once I leave school, it’s the only song Mum sings and those are the only lyrics she knows.
‘You’re right, Mum. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with those jobs, but I want to be a doctor,’ I tell her.
‘A doctor? A Nought doctor? That’ll be the day.’
I only just manage to keep my expression neutral.
‘There are Nought doctors,’ I point out.
‘Damned few and far between, and do you really think Crosses will want you looking after them? They’ll insist on one of their own. And, even if you do qualify as a doctor, I guarantee you’ll be questioned every day by some dagger moron about whether or not you’re really qualified.’
I wince. Mum can never mention Crosses without calling them daggers or worse. After all these years of hearing it, I should’ve got used to it by now, but it still jars.
‘I don’t care. I’m going to be a doctor, Mum.’
‘And who’s going to pay for your training?’ says Mum. ‘Because it won’t be me. I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘I’ll find a way.’ That was my motto. My mantra.
I have no idea how I’ll do it, but I won’t give up. I can’t.
And the first step towards the realization of my dream is to be voted head girl. Since Troy announced that he’s going to run for head boy two days ago, he and his friends have put up posters all around the school detailing his plans – what he grandiosely calls his manifesto. Plans like setting up a student council to meet with the staff once a fortnight. Or plans to stop whole-class detentions in the lower school for the actions of one or two disruptive students. I have to admit they’re reasonable ideas and he’s making sure everyone knows about them. That’s what I should’ve done from the beginning – put up posters all over the school. The moment Troy got approval from Mr Pike, the teacher co-ordinating the head-student election, to run, he hasn’t let up. I’ve been campaigning all term, but it never occurred to me to stick up posters until Troy did it.
Luckily, good ideas love company so I stole a leaf out of his book. I took a selfie, used the school library computer to enlarge the photo and then turned it into a set of posters, printing a metric ton of them. My smiling face had the straight-up slogan – VOTE FOR LIBERTY JACKMAN – above it and the words VOTE FOR STUDENTS’ RIGHTS below it. My friends and I put them up all over the school. I only have a few more days to make my message count. And I intend—
Wait … What the—?
Fists clenched, my face burns as I stand outside the school library. On the poster of me taped to the noticeboard by the door, someone has drawn horns sprouting out of my forehead and the word FAKE has been writ large across my face.
I don’t need to be a genius to know who’s responsible.
OK, Troy. You know what? You want a war? You got it.
Speak of the devil. There he is, rucksack over his shoulder, laughing at something his equally moronic mate Ayo has said. Troy, Ayo and Zane are heading my way. Then Troy notices me and his smile vanishes. I step into his path.
‘You really are pathetic. You know that, right?’
‘Hello to you too, Princess Petunia. What’s biting you now?’ Troy says with an exaggerated sigh.
I point to my poster on the wall. ‘That! Is that really the best you’ve got? So much for not trashing the opposition. That’s so pitiful. And stop calling me Princess Petunia.’
‘Whatever you say, Ms Dibby.’
Bastard! He knew that name wound me up. ‘Stop calling me that too.’
Ayo and Zane stand on either side of Troy, grinning at me, revelling in my humiliation.
‘Libby, I’ve got ninety-nine things I’d rather do than talk to you, including having my toenails extracted,’ says Troy. ‘What d’you want?’
I point at my poster again. ‘You did that, didn’t you?’
Troy contemplates the poster like he’s never seen it before. Who does he think he’s fooling?
‘I don’t need to resort to stuff like that to see you lose. That poster is pretty accurate though.’
‘Drop dead, Troy.’
‘You know what, Liberty? Contrary to what you obviously believe, I don’t spend my hours thinking up ways to annoy you,’ Troy snaps. ‘Actually, I don’t think of you at all, so could you miss me with your bullshit, please?’
I scowl at Troy, my heart slamming against my ribs. Flashes of light and white appear before my eyes. Why can’t I catch my breath? Then I realize what’s happening. I tear the poster off the wall, turn and stride away from Troy, heading for the girls’ toilets.
Don’t melt in public.
Don’t melt …
I have to get away before I embarrass myself. A couple of girls I recognize from the year below mine are already in there. Ignoring them, I head for a cubicle, slamming the door behind me before leaning against it. Breathe in. Breathe out. I want to slide down the cubicle door and keep falling right through the floor, but force myself to stay upright.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I grab for my pencil case from my rucksack, which is now resting on the mucky cubicle floor. Digging into it, I look for the sharpest thing in there. My safety pin. My pin of safety. I pop it into my mouth to rest on my tongue before rolling up my left sleeve. Retrieving the pin, I open it, running my thumb over its point. Caressing it. One deep breath later and I scrape the pin along my skin. Slowly. Deliberately. From inner wrist towards my elbow. One direction only. Scrape. Scrape. Little beads of red appear along each line.
Breathe in …
Breathe out …
Concentrate on each and every bead of red. Watch them swell. Grow. Then still.
At last my heart rate begins to slow down. I close the safety pin and push it back down to the bottom of my pencil case. My life-saver. My forearm is stinging. I focus on the burning prickle of my skin. The one thing in my life I truly control. There’s only one person in the entire school who knows what I do to keep from … exploding. One person who shares my secret – Troy.