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‘Line up,’ shouted Mr Hutton joyfully.
Shuffling miserably, the students lined up, with Steph getting shoved to the front of their group, three people ahead of Jess.
‘Sorry,’ Steph mouthed, peering back along the ranks.
Jess gave a resigned shrug.
In the team beside her stood Saffron, her shining blonde hair tied up in a jaunty ponytail, her skin clear and fresh. As if to remind Jess of its existence in the face of such glowing perfection, a pimple on her forehead started to throb. Great. Throbbing forehead and throbbing belly.
Hating everything and everyone, she stared stonily ahead and tried to ignore Derek and Alan on her other side ogling Saffron’s high, jutting breasts, which completely filled out her tiny sports shirt. Jess shot the droolers a quelling look but they simply didn’t notice her, their hormonally operated eyes glued to Saffron’s chest. Ignored again. The story of her life, Jess thought miserably. Not that she wanted two Stone Age morons to look at her but still, it would be nice to turn heads the way Saffron did.
‘GO!’ shouted Mr Hutton and the first runners shot off. Everyone else shuffled up unwillingly in their lines. Only Mr Hutton and the insanely competitive guys from the football team were cheering. The rest seemed just as bored as Jess.
‘It’s going to be fabulous.’
Jess tuned into what Saffron was saying in a low voice to her cronies.
‘The tickets are limited to fifth and sixth years but Ian says you lot are all welcome, he’ll sort it out. I can’t wait.’
If Steph had been with her, Jess would have rolled her eyes theatrically. The class blondes were always talking about some party or another. This time it was the dance on the night of the interschool soccer cup. Like, boring.
‘…and it’s boned, so it, you know, really pushes them up.’ Saffron demonstrated having her boobs pushed up so high she could rest her chin on them. Jess didn’t know which was worse: the hot gasps from Alan and Derek, or the thought of Ian’s gorgeous face when he saw Saffron all wrapped up like a Christmas cracker for him, boobs spilling out of her dress and the ‘Open’ sign flickering in her eyes.
It all came down to tits, didn’t it?
The guy ahead of her sprinted off and Jess tried to look ready for her turn. She stretched her stiff calves, aware that she hadn’t limbered up properly. And what if she dropped the baton? She hated relay races.
Her team-mate reached the other end and turned back. More people were screaming support now and it was easy to see which team was winning: the footballers, whose line-up somehow managed to consist of the fittest guys in the class and no girls. Jess began to jog on the spot. Her team-mate was close, closer, he shoved the baton at her and she fumbled it. Then it went flying. Jess dived into the mud after it, grabbing at it frantically as it rolled out of reach.
‘Come on, Jess, put some effort into it,’ yelled Mr Hutton.
‘Come on, Jess,’ howled her team.
Her cold fingers grasped the baton and she lurched to her feet and into a clumsy run. The people she was running against were already on the return journey and Jess did her best. But the combination of embarrassment at her mistake and the rumbling ache inside conspired against her. Her legs felt leaden, like in a nightmare in which ghouls were getting closer but her feet were stuck in quicksand.
‘Jess, Jess, hurry up!’ shrieked everyone as she turned for home, to see the other runners nearly there. She put all her energy into the dash back and thrust the baton hurriedly into the final sprinter’s hand. Panting, she turned to see that it was too late. Her team would be last. And it was her fault.
‘Tough luck, babes,’ sympathised Steph, patting her arm. ‘I thought Hooty was going to have a heart attack when you couldn’t pick up the stick. Somebody should give that guy a chill pill. Sports are so not cool.’
‘Yeah, you said it,’ muttered Jess, still feeling as if everyone was looking at her and mentally branding her a clumsy idiot.
The football boys won, to much wild screaming, particularly from Saffron’s gang.
‘Well done,’ squealed Saffron, flicking her ponytail flirtatiously towards Tony, the best-looking of the winners. This husky-voiced giant sat near Jess in maths and had once picked up her silver gel pen when it had fallen onto the floor and handed it to her.
‘Thanks, Saffron,’ said Tony, giving the girl a smile of such promise that Jess felt scorched just by being near it. ‘You were pretty hot yourself.’
Jess knew that if Tony had said anything so sexy to her, she’d be staring at him stupidly, mouth open to display the horrible inside of her train-track braces. Saffron merely smiled out from under darkened lashes – definitely covered with forbidden mascara, Jess thought grimly – and winked knowingly at Tony.
Jess watched them both surreptitiously. Despite hating Saffron on one hand, she had a grudging respect for her on the other. Somehow, Saffron had solved the mystery of guys. She didn’t wait for them to throw her a crumb of conversation in the lunch queue. She didn’t lie in bed at night wondering if they’d noticed her. She went out and got them, like a cowboy roping a bullock. What was more, she didn’t panic that Ian would find out she’d flirted with Tony. For a brief, enjoyable moment, Jess imagined herself comforting Ian and hearing him say: ‘I never thought I’d get over Saffron but she wasn’t my true love. You are, Jess. I’m so glad she’s going out with Tony. It’s given me the chance to…’
‘…pick up the baton without fumbling and run with it.’
Bewildered, Jess left her dream world to focus on the real one and found Mr Hutton loudly lecturing her about team sports, meaning team work. ‘If you didn’t want to be in the relay, you should have said something, Jess,’ he added.
Stung by the unfairness of this, Jess was about to blurt out that the relay race would have consisted of five people in total if the class had any choice in the matter, but he barged on with his comments. ‘That’s what games are about. Joining in and doing your best for the team. You’re tall and athletic – you ought to be as fast as any of the boys,’ he went on.
‘Yeah, Jess is nearly a boy,’ sniggered Derek to Alan, staring meaningfully at her T-shirt.
Flushing with rage and misery, Jess looked down at her feet and realised that she was covered with mud from her frantic grappling for the baton.
If Mr Hutton had possessed even a single intuitive bone in his body, he’d have realised that Jess was staring down at the ground because she didn’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in her eyes. But Mr Hutton wouldn’t have known how to spell intuitive and decided that the lanky Barton girl was giving him cheek by her very attitude. She wasn’t even looking at him when he was talking to her.
‘Have it your way, Jess. Don’t join in and see where that gets you in life. Nowhere, that’s where. Well, you can stay late after class and put all the batons and line markers in the games shed. And leave the key with the caretaker.’
Games was the last class of the day and if she had to stay late, she’d miss her bus to the station. Mum would go mental.
‘I’ll do it with you,’ said Steph, when Hutton had stalked off to organise the five-a-side tournament.
Jess shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
‘I will,’ insisted Steph loyally.
‘You can’t. You’ve got your maths grind tonight,’ Jess reminded her in a shaky voice.
‘Shit, yeah. Lucky you for having a dad who can give you grinds.’ Steph was falling behind in maths and had extra lessons, nicknamed ‘grinds’, with a private teacher to coach her for the exams.
Jess grinned for the