Northern England, March 2002.


We're shivering in the park and Stacey's going on about this lad, Paul, she met on the bus yesterday for the millionth time. " . . . he's well fit, looks like a young version of David Beckham - but not that young, like, bet he could get into pubs, even though he's only in Year 9. He plays footie, too, he's really good apparently, he was on the youth team for Cardiff."

Probably just cos all the only other people in Cardiff are sheep. I guess it might be useful having four legs, like, but I can't imagine a sheep in football boots, and I don't suppose you can get much angle on the ball with a trotter, or whatever you call sheep's feet. You would have thought someone would have told us, what with that fuss over foot and mouth disease last year, but if they have, I don't remember it.

"That's where he used to live, like, and he's got the most gorgeous Welsh accent. Anyway, I've got to pull him tonight, or else that bitch Catherine'll get her claws in, no doubt about it."

I wish she'd talk about sommat else, sommat different that'd distract me from me bare knees that're knocking together, it's that cold. I'm gonna have bruises on 'em in the morn. But when Stacey's got her eye on a lad, there's nowt to stop her from going on about him in her grating voice, until she's found someone else to fancy.

"Is that him?" Ellie says. We all look in the direction she's nodding in. Sure enough, there's a bloke I've never seen before coming over to us. He's not that fit though and doesn't look a bit like Becks. Doesn't surprise me, Stacey's always exaggerating.

For once, Stacey shuts up and puts a big smile on her face until he gets within earshot over the blustery wind that keeps threatening to reveal me knickers. "Arreet?" she calls.

"Hiya," he says. His accent's not that special either, though I suppose you can't really tell from one word. "Who are your mates then?" Ok, it's not a bad accent, but it's not exactly exotic either.

She looks a bit crestfallen, that she's failed to blind him from the rest of the world, but quickly points us all out. "Kim, Anna, Ellie, Jade. And-" she turns to us now "-this is Paul." Like she's going out with him already. Back to him again: "What's up?"

"Not much. I found out about trying out for the youth team though. I can do it next Saturday, apparently."

"Wow, that's reet good! I'm sure you'll make it," Stacey simpers.

He tries to tell her that he's not that good, but she massages his ego for all she's worth, and though he acts all casual, you can tell he's loving it. She'll pull him, that's for certain.

The others start up their own conversation, but I keep on listening. It's kind of sickening, but I want to know how she does it, pull blokes. I don't have much luck, meself. I haven't had a snog since I turned thirteen. Maybe it's unlucky, but Stacey's thirteen too and snogs loads of lads. Well, the fact that Stacey nabs all the halfway decent ones before I can get a look in doesn't help much, but even when I do get the chance to chat someone up, I never know what to say.

She's asking him what team he supports. Good tactic, I suppose, getting him onto the topic he knows loads about so she can act all ignorant and helpless and girly and cute, though the number of blokes she's been out with, she could go on Mastermind with "The Offside Trap" as her chosen specialised subject.

He starts to saying something when suddenly she interrupts with a shriek. She's been hit in the arse by a football.

"Nice shot, mate," this twat in our year at school called Stan's saying to this other twat in our year called Ian.

"I'll kill yus!" Stacey goes, chasing after them. She runs remarkably well in high-heeled sandals, but they're pissin' themselves laughing, cause this is exactly the reaction they're after, and they'd like to see her try.

"So you're Jade then?" Paul says to me. I jump, cause I'd forgotten about him, and I definitely hadn't expected him to talk to me.

"Aye," I say, and wish I had something I could follow it up with.

"You at school with Stacey?"

"Yeah, in the same class. So are Kim and Anna. Ellie's in 8B. The rest of us are in 8E."

"You come here often then?"

Isn't that the line people use when they're trying to chat you up? It's probably just a coincidence, mind. "Aye, every evening, so long as it's not raining."

"Want to go out with us?"

What? For a start, I don't get asked out. Aye, I've been snogged a few times, but it's just been awkward one-off things, not like a boyfriend-girlfriend proper deal. For another thing, doesn't he fancy Stacey? I mean, everyone does, especially when she's throwing herself at 'em.

"Aye, arreet."

"What?" Kim goes. I'd forgotten she was there.

"What's going on?" Stacey asks, coming back, wiping her arse with her hands, in case there's any mud on it.

"Paul's just asked out Jade, and she said yes," Anna reports.

"Oh- oh," Stacey says. She can't really say anything else, cause Paul's here. We all understand the problem, but she can't really vocalise it in front of him. But if looks could kill, I'd be just a squidgy mess on the floor by now, like the Minesweeper game on me Mam's old computer sometimes says.

"Shall we leave you to it?" Ellie says, with a grin. Ok, maybe she doesn't get it, but she will soon enough.

"Aye," Kim says, "Come on." And the four of them start heading off towards the football game. Stacey keeps glancing back over her shoulder, to make sure I know it's war.

Paul smiles at us sheepishly, then shuffles towards us. "So . . ." he says.

Aw, bless, he's blushing, for all his bravado, he's actually even shyer than I am. He stands in front of us, and I can smell Walker's crisps on his breath. Hope there's no bits in his mouth, that'd be mingin'. Then like suddenly, he takes a deep breath, grabs us by the sides, then snogs us.

It's a bit disappointing really. He tastes like crisps too, which isn't so bad, but he keeps kinda licking me tongue, really fast like. It reminds me of a frog catching flies. Much as I hate to admit it, that wanker Colin I got off with in December was much better.

He starts trying to put his hand up me top, but it's not working, cause it clings to me skin, which is just as well really. I'm not getting groped in public. But then he starts touching me thighs so I back away.

He's a bit flustered, but regains composure and says, "Do you want to go back to my place? It's just over there." He points in the direction of the estate on the other side of the park to mine. "I've got a PlayStation 2."

Aye, and I bet that's not all he wants to show us. What kind of lad boasts to his girlfriend about a computer, anyway? Still, I say "Arreet", cos I'm cold, and if he's gonna grope us, I'd rather he did it in private.

We set off, and he takes me hand. His is cold and clammy and not much bigger than ours.

I ask him what he thinks of school, cos although it's sad, it's not as sad as boasting about having a PlayStation 2, and anyway, it's like the one thing we've got in common. I warn him about the various teachers, and tell about the time Mrs Jenkins walked in with her skirt tucked into an absolutely enormous pair of knickers, blood-stained an all, showing off her thick hairy legs to everyone, and when Ian, that mong, gave Mr Hodgeson a wedgie, and he laughs. It sounds kinda fake, but he says, "You're cool."

I dunno what to say for that, so I look around, trying to remember where I'm going. I don't know this side of the park that well. Luckily, he starts the conversation again, asking about where I live and if I've got any brothers and sisters an that. God, he's a closet sad case. I mean, who wants to know? Is Cardiff in the south of Wales? He's a southern softy arreet.

His house is just like mine, in layout and everything. He yells, "I'm home" to someone in the front room, who's watching the news, by the sounds of things, and I hear a deep grunt of response, so I assume it's his Dad. "Come on," he says, going up stairs. Man, this is a bit fast, taking us to his room when we've barely known each other five minutes.

His room is the same one as I've got - like, mine's in the same position of my house, I mean. I point this out, and he laughs. It's not that much of a coincidence.

His room's quite tidy, with all the walls covered in football posters. I always think it's a bit gay, that, lads lining their walls with pictures of men in tiny shorts. He's got a big but old-looking TV on his desk, and the PS2's on the floor in front of it. "What is that you want to play?" he asks. Awwww, endearing Welsh-ism!

"Whatever. Put sommat on that I won't be too useless at."

He starts ratching through his games, which are lined up on a shelf, along with a few CDs, a couple of books and two small trophies. "Them for football?" I ask, pointing to 'em even though he can't see us.

"Yeah," he says.

There's nowhere to sit except his bed and a plastic desk chair. The chair looks uncomfortable and like it'd cling to me mostly bare legs, so I sit on the bed.

He gets out a CD, puts it into the machine, and picks up the controllers, before sitting down beside me. "Here you are." He places the controller in me hand, gently, like, and then he's snogging us again.

His fingers brush against me godawful cellulite-encased legs, just a couple of inches away from me knickers. His touch makes us quiver, and I instantly know, sure as anything, I don't I want this. "No," I say, breaking away.

"Aww, come on."

"Nah, it doesn't feel reet. It's too soon." God, what a prat I sound, but better to be a prat than a slapper, reet?

"If you loved me, you'd sleep with me." The old line, and it's totally out of context an all.

"I don't love yus, though. I've only just met yus."

"Well, you want to go out with me, right? I don't have to go out with you. Your mate Stacey seemed keen enough."

If this is going out, I think I'll become a nun. Or a prostitute, that way I get laid and paid without all this relationship bollocks. But I've been wanting a boyfriend for years, like, and now I've finally got one, it would be a bit crap to lose him straight off, like. And there's no point in hoping I find someone better, all lads are the same round here, and Paul's not even from round here originally, so I reckon they're the same everywhere. Besides, I probably don't have any mates anymore, so having a fella would be something. Losing him to Stacey though would be the pits, though, cos she'd both hate me and be able to gloat over me.

"Arreet, then." I brace meself for the worst. It'll be over in, like, ten minutes, reet? When Stacey finally admitted that she's slept with Graham, she said he'd come, like, as soon as he got into her.

He kisses us again and touches me bits through me knickers and it's horrible. Sort of clinical, like, but careless and unskilled at the same time. He touches me tits a bit, in the same fashion, then decides that's enough foreplay and tries to get me knickers off, without success, cos I'm sitting down. I'm guessing he's as inexperienced as I am. I stand up, put the controller on the floor, and take 'em off meself.

When I sit back down again, he takes hold of me hand and puts it on his crotch. His willy's stiff and upreet, and I try to move it a bit through the fabric, but it feels awkward. I may as well just get it over with, so I undo his flies, and get it out of his grey and blue boxers. It's swollen and ugly.

"Lie down," he says, so I do, and he gets on top of us, lifts me skirt up, and starts fumbling about down there, trying to find my entrance. He takes, like, forever. I pray this is just a really bad dream. Then a thought occurs to us. "Have you got a, you know, condom?" I go red. I hate that word, it sounds so stupid.

"No, but it doesn't matter. You can't get pregnant the first time you do it."

I'm not convinced, but we did about reproduction in Science last term, and I think it's the wrong time of month anyway. I think. Well, it's too late to do anything about it now.

He finally finds me cunt, and tries to stuff his willy into it. For a long time, it doesn't go in at all, but when a bit of it finally goes in, it's like the worst pain ever. Think of the worst bout of stomach cramps, multiply the pain by a hundred, then move it down the body a bit. That's what it's like. "Aaaaaah!" I can't help crying out, scrunching up me eyes, my body tensing, agonised.

"Quiet," he says, and shoves it in a bit further. The pain worsens, and I can't keep quiet, it's torture, it's, like, ripping me apart. I'll be on the local news: "A local teenager has been found mutilated. Her boyfriend is the chief suspect."

He uses his hand - the same one - to smother me mouth, and it smells godawful, worse than that time we learnt about sulphur in Science. He thrusts his willy further in, and I scream properly, muffled. Back and forth, mercilessly. No wonder all the magazines tell you not to do it. I grit me teeth.

Then suddenly, I realise it's not so bad. It hurts, but it's kind of a good hurt, like pressing a bruise or squeezing a spot. And at the same moment, he goes, "Ah - ah - ah - ah!" like he's singing "Stayin' Alive", but concludes with "Ahhhhhhh" instead. His body seems to lose all its muscles and bones and it flops like jelly over mine. Then he takes his hand away, pulls out and gets up.

"Was that all right?" he asks, putting his willy away.

Did it sound like it was arreet? Still, I don't want to hurt his feelings too much, so I say, "Aye."

All his . . . stuff's coming out of me, onto the duvet. "Get your knickers on," he says. "Game's loaded."

My thong feels even less comfortable than usual. The stuff's horrible, it oozes through the fabric and dries on the top of me thighs. It feels like they're being corroded by acid, and I know what this is like cos in Science a few months ago Seth thought it would be funny to accidentally spill really strong acid all over Sheena's hand. She got it washed quickly, but her hand still looks scabby and apparently always will. What are they thinking, giving Year 8s that sort of stuff to play with?

I want to go to the bog, but I feel too embarrassed to say I need to go. So we play this car racing game. I'm crap at it, constantly careening off the road, having to edging round in a circle and ending up going backwards. He beats me four times in a row.

I look at me watch. "I'd better get going home, actually."

"Ok," he says. "You got a mobile?"

We swap numbers, and he says he'll text us. This is not a good sign, I realise, as I go down the stairs. He didn't kiss us goodbye - hasn't kissed us since we shagged - and he's basically going, "Don't text us, I'll text you." Was I crap in bed? Crap at kissing? Does me being crap at that computer game matter to him?

Oh God, I think, as I let meself out. What if he tells all his mates about it?

The quickest way home's across the park, but I don't want to go through it on me own, at this hour. It's floodlit, apparently so people can feel safe walking through it at night, but it just means everyone hangs about there till late, so it's a actually more dangerous. So I make my way through the streets, hoping I don't run into anyone I know. I get lost, and the only people I come across are lads of about seventeen. One wolf-whistles, and the other hisses, "Tart!" at us. I hope he can't see the stuff on me legs. I'm not asking them for advice on where to go.

Eventually I find meself in familiar territory again, and make it home just as the rain starts.

In the front room, Mam's glued to one of those deadly serious drama series, "Teachers" or sommat. You can't tell, as they never seem to be doing any teaching in it. "Where've you been?" she asks, without looking up. It'd be kinda freaky if Paul's Dad was watching exactly the same thing.

"Down the park."

"Bit late, isn't it?"

I pretend to check me watch. "Aye, a bit."

"You done your homework?"

"Aye." Of course I haven't, but it's only reading a bit of "Z For Zachariah" for English, which no one ever does cos it's shite, and Maths which I can copy off Anna tomorrow. If she's still speaking to us.

"When did you do it, then?"

"After school." In fact, I was watching some crap on kids' telly with me sister Holly and doing me nails. It's not fair, cos I've got more nail polish than God, and I reckon he's got a fair bit, with his mighty hand an all, but we're not allowed to wear any to school, except the clear stuff. We're not allowed to grow our nails either - if they get beyond about half a centimetre, they just give us a pair of clippers and tell us to cut them there and then. This kind of makes sense though, cos Miss Holden's sick of people having to go to the nurse cos of broken nails they get when we play basketball. And the main reason's cos Leanna's parents complained when Janice put a pair of parallel gashes on her cheek one day when they had to work together in Science. The nail polish bit's pure fascism though.

"Arreet." She sounds sceptical, mind.

"What's on telly?"

"Nowt."

I head on up the stairs. Might as well get me nail polish off now, rather than have to do it tomorrow morn.

Must say, I'm disappointed. All the fuss they make about losing your virginity, and that's all it amounts to. A few minutes of anxiety, a couple of seconds of agony, then getting beaten at a PlayStation 2 game.


The next day in school, before registration, I find Stacey, Kim and Anna standing in what seems to be a purposefully tight circle. If it's possible for three people to be in a circle. I go up to them and go, "Arreet?"

They pay no attention to me.

I ask, "Anna, can I borrow your Maths?"

Again, they just carry on talking like I haven't said anything.

I should have known it was going to happen, sooner or later, them kicking me out of the group. This is simply the last straw, it's been on the cards for a while. See, it used to be two pairs of best mates, Stacey and Kim, me and Ellie, and we all got on together. Then Anna fell out with her old mates, so she barged in and started getting pally with Ellie and sucking up to Stacey. Ellie fell for it, like she always does. She might be still talking to me, at the moment, but she won't be for long, if the others have their say. And Stacey never really liked me in the first place. Kim's normally ok: as Stacey's best mate, she isn't fooled by her act, and she bitches about her all the time, but when it comes down to it, she'll choose her over me.

Still, it sucks. I mean, I know in principle it's really bitchy to nick the lad your mate's got her eye on, but Stacey's got her eye on everyone and gets nearly everyone she goes after. And anyway, Paul liked me and he asked me out, so it's hardly my fault. I know perfectly well that the others won't see it like this though.

So I need a new mate. But everyone's already got their impenetrable cliques. The only person who's not attached is Leanna, and there's a good reason for that: she's a posh bitch. She was at the posh school, but for reasons she won't explain, she came here instead. Everyone reckoned she was getting bullied there, on account of the bitch factor. She gets bullied here as well, but not so much, cos she's too much of a bitch for anyone to want to speak to her at all.

Still. Better her than having no mates at all, so I go over and say. "Hey, have you done your Maths homework?"

She narrows her eyes. "Why?"

"Well, if you have, can I copy it? I know I'm not like your mate or anything, but I already had me mates when you came here, and you can't just abandon them. But they've turned into cows, so can I hang out with you instead?"

"Well . . . ok." She sounds distrustful. "Why haven't you done your own homework?"

"Couldn't do it. I'm shit at Maths."

"Well . . . all right."


It's hard work hanging out with Leanna. She doesn't make any effort to say anything to me, and whenever I say stuff, she wrinkles up her nose like me breath stinks.

At lunch time, we're on our way to the dining hall, when this guy in Year 9 who's name I don't know, yells, "Jaaaaade! I've been hearing about you."

"What?" I go, sounding brusque but inside I'm going, "Shit!"

"I hear you've been a naughty girl." He pushes his greasy face near to mine. "I like naughty girls." One of his mates laughs, sounding like a horse.

"Fuck off, you heard wrong," I say, and storm off towards the dining hall.

"Denying it!" the guy hoots. The call echoes around the corridor.

"What's all that about?" Leanna asks. She sounds interested in me for the first time all day.

"Nowt," I say, "I haven't a clue."

She gets a clue soon enough, when we're eating the brown slop they normally serve us. "Jade and Paul! Sitting in a tree! S-h-a-g-i-n-g!" some girl in Year 7 sings, dancing around our table.

"Who's Paul?" Jade asks.

"Me blokey."

"Are you . . . ?"

The silent euphemism - a word I learnt in English - is far more infuriating than the direct question. "It's none of your business."

"So that's a yes, then?" She sounds thrilled. Dirty-minded cow.

"Not necessarily. Just saying, stop being so nosy."

"I thought I was your mate," she huffs, "and mates tell each other this stuff."

"Oh, arreet." I suppose it's worth saying, to have a friend. I lower me voice: "We are. Don't tell anyone, though."

"Everyone seems to know already," she points out. "Ewwww."

"What's wrong with sleeping with someone?" I realise I've said this too loudly, and Ken and Sam, who are sitting a few places away from us look over and grin, delightedly. Oh, great.

"Oh, er, nothing," she says, making it obvious that everything's wrong with it. For the rest of the day, she makes sure she's standing a foot away from us, in case sluttiness is catching.

Worst thing is, I don't know who to blame for this. It might be Paul, boasting that he's only been here for five days and he's already got his leg over, or it might be Stacey starting vicious rumours.

After school, I ask Leanna if she wants to come round to my place for tea. She makes a big fuss over hesitating - "Well, I'd have to ask my Mum, and she might not say yes-" - and of course, she doesn't want to set foot in my House Of Sin. But at the same time, I bet she's never been invited to go to anyone's house after school before, so she says she'll ask and calls her Mam on the pay phone. We're not allowed to bring our mobiles to school, or we'll spend all our lessons sending text messages, they reckon. Her Mam says yes. Bet she's happy Leanna's got a friend as well.

By that time, we've missed the bus, so we've got to walk. It's raining. If spitting's the equivalent of kicking the back of someone's chair, and a torrential downpour's like sticking their head down the bog, the current weather equates to hair pulling. Annoying, but not something you'd bother to report to the teachers.

Leanna asks, "So how many times have you done it?"

If she wants to know about sex, she should go and have some of her own. Still, it's sommat to talk about, so I tell her once, nah, the actual act didn't last a minute, yeah, it hurt, no, nah, it probably wasn't very good, yeah, probably his first time, yeah, he used a condom (I don't need her lecturing me), yeah, we're going out, I think, no, I'm not that lucky, it's arreet having a boyfriend, but not all it's cracked up to be.

We get in, to be greeted by a raucous shriek from the front room. I might have guessed. "What's that?" Leanna asks.

"Me Mam," I say, "and her mate Carla. They get off work early on a Friday and get pissed silly." A lot more pissed than I've ever been, and I'm meant to be the teenager round here.

"Oh." She goes pale and looks like she might vomit on her patent leather shoes. It's like she's never been within a mile of a drunk person before.

"C'mon in," I say. I will educate her in the ways of the proletariat, a word I only know the meaning of cos our history teacher uses it all the time.

Mam is slumped on the edge of the sofa, but in imminent danger of falling on the floor. Carla's in the arm chair, in a pink eyesore of a sweatshirt, legs behind her head cos she's yoga-crazed, her body convulsing violently with laughter. There's a half-empty bottle of gin of the table, some dirty glasses, and an overflowing ashtray. None of this surprises me at all, but I clock the look on Leanna's face, and she seems to be wondering what planet she's on. Ace!

"Hiya, Mam, you gonna make us any tea tonight?"

"Gerrit yerself!" she squeals, and cackles madly. "Gerrus some while yer at it."

"Who's yer new mate?" Carla asks. "What happened to wozname?"

"This is Leanna. Ellie's being a bitch."

"Language!" Mam accuses, but she's pissing herself laughing about sommat. Anyway, It's not like she doesn't use the word herself all the time.

"C'mon," I say to Leanna. I'm out of there before Carla starts telling me about her piles for the forty-fifth time.

Ellie reckons Carla and Mam are lesbian lovers. I'm actually starting to think it's true. Carla spends a lot more time round here than she does at her own place, even though she's still with her husband, and she's got three brats. The youngest one's only three, an all, and the oldest one's only Holly's age. That's where her and Mam met, the playschool that Holly and Carla's brat went to. As for Mam, she used to bring a couple of blokes here, years ago, after she'd lost the weight she put on having Holly, but I never saw any of them more than, like, twice and there haven't been any for ages. And it's not like she's bad looking, for a thirty three year old. At least, she wouldn't be, if she made the effort, but she doesn't. But she often tries to get us to watch TV with her in the evening cos she says she's lonely, depending on what kinda mood she's in, so she can't be happy on her own.

I lead Leanna through to the kitchen. Holly's at the table, drawing a picture of a bus. It looks quite realistic. Holly's well into drawing, and always does it in the kitchen, cos the light's not good enough in her bedroom, she says. Her teacher keeps trying to convince Mam to sign her up for proper art lessons, but Mam says we can't afford them. When I was her age, I wanted riding lessons, and Mam refused for the same reason, but it was just as well, really, cos eventually a mate of mine at the time took us riding, and I hated it.

Holly looks up at us. "Where's Ellie?" she asks.

"Being a bitch," I say. Slowly but surely, I'm educating me sister in the language and ways of the world. I should become a lecturer in Getting Real 101. "This is Leanna."

"Oh," Holly says, and goes back to work. She doesn't sound very impressed. Holly's arreet, for an eight year old.

"What do you want to eat?" I ask Leanna.

"What have you got?" she asks, cautiously, like all the food in this sort of place is likely to be mouldy. She's reet, but you get used to it. It's good for you, innit, don't they make penicillin out of mould?

I find a couple of cans of baked beans in the cupboard. They're not coated in dust, so I reckon they're arreet. I pour em onto a plate and put it in the microwave, for a few minutes, while I stick some Pennysave bread in the toaster. Leanna looks horrified. "Don't you use a saucepan?"

"For toast? You must be joking!" She doesn't get the joke so I fight back a sigh and say, "Nah, microwave's easier. You don't have to keep an eye on it." She then keeps an eye on it vigilantly, like it might explode at any minute.

I put the plate on the table when it's done, and me and Holly tuck in. Buggered if I'm making Mam anything, she's the one that's meant to be looking after us, not the other way round. Leanna stands near the door, nibbling tentatively at a slice of toast, as if she'll get poisoned if she eats more than an atom at once.

"Oh!" she goes, "I've just remembered! I've got a dentist's appointment at five! I'd better get going!"

I don't think she's looking at the starring role in the school play, but I can't be bothered arguing with her. "Arreet, see you on Monday then. Oh, do you want to brush your teeth here first?"

"No, it's all right." She looks faint, like she'd rather shag Tony Blair than use one of our toothbrushes. "See you." She lets herself out.

"Are you going to make friends with Ellie again?" Holly asks. It's like she's got a crush on her, or something. God help me, I'm trapped in a family of lesbians.

"Maybe," I say. I have some more beans, then go off to me room so I can text Paul in peace. I know he said he'd text me, but I'm bored, and need company. He wouldn't be me first choice of person to spend time with, but I don't exactly have a lot of other options. And he is me boyfriend, I suppose.

"Hi its jade want 2 meat up?"

I watch me clock, counting the seconds till the hopefully-imminent vibration. Fifty six. "No soz i sed id play footy wi sum lads c u 2moro?" God, he's slow at texting.

He's popular now, is he? I'm not surprised. It's not fair, the way blokes get treated like heroes if they shag some girl, while we're slappers.

I suppose tomorrow's better than nothing, but I want sommat to do tonight. There's a letter pinned to me notice board, from me penpal Ginny. She's thirteen like us and lives in Nottingham and I've been writing to her for about two years now. She's arreet, but recently she's got herself a boyfriend, and she doesn't talk about anything else. He sounds arreet, kind of gives us hope that not all lads out there are wankers, but I'll probably never meet any that aren't. Besides, it doesn't give us much to write about. I suppose now I could write about Paul, but then she'd just feel sorry for me. Unless I stretched the truth. Maybe she's doing that an all. But nah, I'm not feeling creative tonight, I'll write tomorrow when they might be more to tell her. For now, I'm going out, mates or no.

I take off me school uniform, and put on the top I got on Saturday, which I've worn a few times since then, but it looks ace and I'm not going to see anyone I know anyway. I team it with the longest skirt I've got, on account of the weather, but it still only comes down to mid thigh. I check to see if I've miraculously acquired some non-mampy tights in the last day, but I haven't, so it's bare legs again. Feet are another problem, cos me sandals look best, but dying of trench foot has never been me greatest ambition. I put on me boots, but when I check me reflection in Mam's full length mirror, nah, they don't quite go with the rest of the outfit, so sandals it is.

The rain batters against me window, mockingly. Hang on, what's Paul doing playing football in this? It was obviously just a line to get rid of me, then. Oh well, it's not like I care. It's just a bit of a crap thing to lose your mates over, a one-night stand.

I remove the make up I wore to school and do meself up properly. I paint me nails reddy-orange, but I'm too agitated to wait for them to dry, so I end up with nailpolish in me hair when I'm brushing it. Shit. Is nail polish remover bad for the hair or scalp? It's ok to get it on your hands, I reason, so I give it a go. It doesn't really work, and it fluffs me hair up, and wrecks a couple of other nails. For Christ's sake, I'm never gonna get out at this rate.

Eventually, I'm ready, and totter downstairs. As I open the front door, to a fierce gust of wind, Mum yells, "Where you off to?"

"Out," I say.

"It's chucking it down," Carla calls.

"Yes. And?" I slam the door behind me.

I can't really go to the park anymore. Either there'll be no one there, or they'll be there and I'll get ignored, hassled or both. So I head towards the bus stop, so I can go into town instead. I don't have anything to do in town, all the shops'll be closed by now, but I can hope something interesting happens. I never get served down the offie, but I'm sure that's just cos they know me Mam in there who's told 'em I'm not old enough, so maybe I can get served in a pub. Maybe I'll meet a reet gorgeous older lad, who'll go round to Paul's on his Harley Davidson and beat five different kinds of shit out of him. Maybe I'll get abducted by aliens. Maybe someone will invite me to join a cult, and I'll say arreet. Maybe I'll get raped, and everyone at school will start talking to us again cos they feel sorry for us. Maybe if I sing on the street corners, some talent spotter'll come along and go, "Wow, you're incredible, I'm going to make you famous." Hey, I'm quite good at singing, the music teacher's been trying to persuade us to join the choir for ages, but no way, man, that's for saddos. I bet I could be on Pop Idol, though.

I start singing the first song that comes into me head under me breath: "Reach for the stars, climb every mountain higher. Reach for the stars, follow your heart's desire."

Aye, there's many possibilities. None of 'em likely, that's all.