Jelly Cooper: Alien

Today has been horrible. Worse than usual. Utter crap.

I’ve been late for lessons, missed the chips at lunchtime and answered the easiest maths question in the world with ‘um, minus two?’

Last lesson of the day and I am on my last legs (which is a stupid expression if you ask me. It’s not like we’ve got spares, tucked in our bags). Just one more hour to get through and the weekend is mine. I plan a festival of sleeping and eating and not much talking.

The teacher is calling the register and I drag my attention back to the present.

Roll Call. Not my favouritest part of the day. Well, I ask you, with a name like Jelly Cooper, would you relish this ‘here, have my head on a plate’ opportunity for the other students, dickheads, whatever, to take the mickey out of you? No, I didn’t think so.

“Amy Cole?”

“Here.”

“Jelly Cooper?”

“Here.”

“Unfortunately.”

See what I mean?

I pointedly ignore the snickers and muffled giggles emanating from the ignoramuses sat around me (I always thought the plural for ignoramus would be ignorami, like cactus and cacti, but it isn’t - I just looked it up in the dictionary. Go figure). I’ve been here many times before and there’s no point saying a word at this stage; it won’t change a thing.

Melissa is preening her feathers, readying herself for glory. My eyes narrow as I take in her showboating. I sigh; we’re going to cross swords today, I can feel it in my blood (and even if I couldn’t, it’s there in her eyes, plain as day).

She stands, black hair shining (and not a hair out of place mind you), a cruel gleam in her panther eyes. She glances around the classroom, taking in each and every individual and making sure that their attention is firmly on her. She’s where she’s always longed to be; centre stage. This is unlikely to end well for me but I cross my fingers under the desk and hope for the best.

“Miss Wa-alsh.”

Here we go.

“Yes Melissa.”

Exaggerated patience from Miss Walsh - a good sign. I am duly encouraged.

“I’ve been thinking.”

That’s never good.

“I don’t want to be called Melissa from now on.”

Miss Walsh’s rather bushy eyebrows skyrocket. I bite back a smile despite my growing sense of foreboding.

Melissa grins and any thoughts of a reprieve melt away like snow in the desert: quickly. I sit, biding my time, working out my game plan. It’s sad, really, to think that you need a game plan just to get through a lesson in high school, but there it is. Life’s not all raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. In fact, it’s a bit shit.

I realize that I’m grinding my teeth, again. Note to self: dentist appointment. Make one.

Miss Walsh sighs and I realise that she’s going to play the game.

Ignore her! Don’t do it. Don’t ask!

I try to beam the thought directly into Miss Walsh’s brain but all that happens is that I get a headache and she still blindly bumbles on.

“Really, Melissa?” She folds her arms. “What would you like to be called? Something ‘celebrity’ like Apple or Chelsea I suppose?”

This is Miss Walsh’s idea of wit.

Taking her time, Melissa clears her throat, smoothes down her shiny black hair and makes sure that she has the rapt attention of every person in the room. Timing, they say, is everything.

“Well Miss Walsh,” Melissa blathers on. “I’ve given this some serious thought, because names are, like, really important.”

This is how she speaks. I kid you not.

“Sooooooooo, I’d like to be called Glass from now on.”

The class collectively holds its breath. Rhiannon sits perfectly still, eyes gleaming.

Ah yes, Rhiannon. We’ll get to her in a minute.

Miss Walsh does the impossible and makes her eyebrows climb even higher up her head.

“Glass. You want to be called Glass?”

Melissa nods her head and makes her eyes go wide. Like a puppy.

“It’s French for Ice Cream, Miss.”

Maybe Miss Walsh didn’t sleep well last night, or maybe she argued with the perspective Mr Walsh this morning, or maybe she left her brain on the kitchen table when she left the house. Who knows? All I know is that she’s talking when she should be ignoring and that’s not going to end well. For me. Guaranteed.

“I’m not going to call you Glace, Melissa. Sit down please.”

Miss Walsh is new and the perfect patsy and Melissa, who’s got more swerve than a game of snooker, shrugs, pouts and turns to face the class.

“But why not, Miss Walsh?”

I close my eyes.

“Because,” says the unsuspecting moulder of young minds through gritted teeth, “it’s a stupid name and I refuse to call anybody by a name as stupid as Glace. Now stop wasting time and SIT DOWN!”

Bingo.

I open my eyes and Melissa grins at me.

I really hate that girl.

“But Miss Walsh,” she whines, winking at Rhiannon, “what about when you want to call Jelly?”

All eyes turn to me and unwelcome heat races up my neck. The air in the classroom is suddenly thicker.

“That’s enough, Melissa.”

That would be the less-than-bright Miss Walsh floundering badly now that she’s landed herself in hot water.

Melissa, sensing victory, goes for the kill.

“Jelly’s a stupid name, isn’t it Miss? Ice cream, trifle, jelly, blancmange; they’re all as ridiculous as one and other. Don’t you think so Miss Walsh?” She pauses to place a finely polished fingertip to her glossed lips as if pondering the delicacies of world politics.

“Maybe,” she continues, “we shouldn’t call Jelly by her silly, stupid, name any more.”

Miss Walsh pushes her knuckles into her eyes and groans.

“Shut up Melissa, just shut up!”

Someone at the back of the room gasps dramatically. Pete Davidson starts to snicker. Same old same old. I wonder if the pompomheads will ever grow tired of being this pathetic.

And another thing. Why, oh why, are there cheerleaders at my school? This isn’t Utah. I see no American football team practising in the field. Over here we have netball and badly-taught hockey. And real rugby, not pretend rugby with padding and cheerleading.

I blame Pickle, the Headmaster, and his Uncle Sam fetish. Seriously, the guy watched Top Gun in the ’80s and hasn’t been the same since.

He sucks, big time.

But back to it. I rise to my feet and clap my hands together, slowly but surely.

I look at Rhiannon, not Melissa. Blondie hasn’t spoken a single word, but I know, nevertheless, that she orchestrated the whole thing.

Rhiannon Miles is the resident master of puppets (namely Melissa and Trishia) and the golden girl of our year. Held on a pedestal by students and teachers alike, she can do no wrong. Not one, itty-bitty thing.

They say that every person has a doppelganger, a soul mate and a nemesis. The doppelganger eludes me (thank God. Coming face-to-face with another version of me would be fre-aaaa-ky), the soul mate I’m working on, but I have definitely found my nemesis in Rhiannon Miles, head of the popular squad and all round mean girl.

Not one opportunity to humiliate, embarrass or hurt goes unmissed. She’s a snake, permanently coiled, always ready to attack. A snake with perfect hair, all silky and shiny and blonde. It’s unbearable. She has spies all over the place and doesn’t miss a thing. She’s hated me from the moment she first laid eyes on me and I’ve hated her from the moment she opened that great big gob of hers.

And now she’s decided to put the icing on my crummy cake of a day.

Time to take charge of this mess.

I give her a nod.

“Well done.”

My voice is steady and strong and I give a quick prayer of thanks to Zeus, Apollo and all the other toga wearers. Score one to me.

My face is bright red, but you can’t win them all.

“Quite a little performance; ‘ri-di-cu-lous,’ four syllables,” I glance at Melissa. “That must be some kind of record for you bimbettie. Did your mother feed you some oily fish for breakfast or something?” I turn my attention back to Rhiannon, my eyebrow cocked (I’m particularly proud of my ability to lift my left eyebrow when I get the urge to be uber-sceptical).

“What’s the matter with you today Rhiannon? Feeling a little under the weather, or have you lost your bottle? Maybe all that jumping up and down waving your pompoms about like some rabid chipmunk has rattled your brain in your skull so much that you’re incapable of intelligent thought. That would explain a lot.”

Rhiannon’s face distorts and her lips drawing back into an actual snarl. For a second, I find myself kind of impressed, then I remember what a cow she is and how much I really, really hate her.

She starts towards me, threading her way through the desks.

Miss Walsh rushes forward.

Too bad.

Now I am presented with two options: shall I let it be, like the Beatles said, or shall I push it?

“Give me a B,” I yell. No one answers, but I didn’t think anyone would.

I persevere.

“Give me an I.”

A small voice whispers ‘I’ under their breath. I think that it’s Sharlene Crier, target for one viciously-inclined pompomhead.

“Give me an M.”

Holding my arms in the air, I wave my imaginary pompoms above my head with feigned enthusiasm, a ridiculous look on my face as I mimic the school’s cheerleaders, or the school’s brain dead as I like to call them.

Rhiannon struggles against Miss Walsh’s grip as I get a small, but encouraging, chorus.

“EMMMMMM!”

“Give me a B.”

The chorus gets louder.

“BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“Give me an O.”

“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“B. I. M. B. O.”

She’s really straining to get at me and I can see that Miss Walsh is having difficulty in restraining the little she-devil.

“What have we got?”

“BIMBO!”

Amid the chaos, Miss Walsh rubs her head and reluctantly tells me to go see the Headmaster. Grinning, I walk from the room with my chin in the air, winking at Rhiannon as I go.

Yes, she started it.

Yes, I’m the one sent to the Headmaster, unjustly.

Yes, I may have to explain this whole thing to my parents.

Yes, it was worth it.