ST. HILARY’S HIGH SCHOOL FOR GIRLS
When I didn’t get out of the van, my mother tried a few words of encouragement.
“It’s never easy being the new girl, no matter how old you are. Just be yourself.”
This seemed like terrible advice to me then, just as it is now. I want people to like me, so being myself is never an option.
I still didn’t open the van door. I remember looking up at that school, as though it were a prison I might never be allowed to leave. I wasn’t far wrong. There are some self-inflicted life sentences. We all carry prisons of regret inside our heads, unable to break free of the guilt and pain they cause us.
There was a knock, followed by a smiling face peering inside the van window. My mother leaned across me to wind it down. The girl was dressed in the same uniform I was wearing, except that hers looked new. Like the rest of my clothes, mine was secondhand. My shoes were new, but they were also a size too big. Mum always bought them like that, so I could grow into them, and stuffed cotton wool in the ends to stop my toes from slipping around.
The girl standing outside the car was slim and very pretty. We were the same age, but she looked considerably older than fifteen. She had highlights in her hair; long golden strands of it shone in the morning sunlight. Her dimpled smile made you want to be as happy and kind as she looked. That was the first thing that I thought about Rachel Hopkins: that she looked like a nice person.
“Hello, Rachel. How lovely to see you,” said my mother.
I was starting to think that there was nobody left in the village that she didn’t know.
“Hello, Mrs. Andrews. You must be Anna?” said the beautiful stranger.
I nodded.
“First day today, right?”
I nodded again, as though I had forgotten how to speak.
“I think we’re in the same class. Want to come with me? I can show you around and introduce you to everyone?”
I remember that I did want to do that, very much. She seemed so nice that I think I might have followed her anywhere. My mother leaned over to kiss me, but I got out of the van before she could—I have never been comfortable with public displays of affection—and she drove away before either of us had a chance to say a proper good-bye. I didn’t have to ask how Rachel knew my mother; I had guessed already that Mum probably cleaned her house too.
Rachel talked. A lot. Mostly about herself, but I didn’t mind. I was just grateful not to have to walk into that building on my own. She led me to a classroom that was already full and loud with teenagers. A hush fell over them when we stepped inside, and I wasn’t sure whether that was for her or for me, but the chatter soon resumed and I tried not to feel too self-conscious.
Rachel marched over to a group of girls, with a swagger only the most popular people know how to perform. They were sitting by the antique-looking radiators—that school was always cold in more ways than one—and she didn’t hesitate to interrupt her classmates in order to introduce me.
“Anna, this is everyone you need to know. My name is Rachel Hopkins and I am your new best friend. This is Helen Wang, she is the clever one and edits the school newspaper, and this is Zoe Harper, she is the funny one, who likes to make her own clothes and get random parts of her body pierced to annoy her parents.”
Zoe tucked her strawberry blond hair—which did not look natural—behind her pierced ears. Then she raised her shirt high enough to display a pierced belly button, as though that were her idea of a greeting. I soon discovered just how good Zoe was with a sewing machine; half the school had paid her to take up the hems of their skirts.
Helen, “the clever one,” had Cleopatra-style black hair, and cheekbones so defined they looked like they hurt her face. She quickly lost interest in me, and went back to what she had been doing—stapling sheets of pink A4 paper, to make them into what I would later learn was the school newspaper. She was using her full weight to push down on the stapler, and the sound of it repeatedly firing seemed to rattle my remaining nerves. It made me think of a gun.
Rachel reached inside her bag and produced a Kodak disposable camera. I’d never seen one before, but soon discovered that it required film and patience. There were no such things as digital cameras in those days—we didn’t even have mobile phones. The whole camera had to be sent off to be developed, which could take days, in order to see a single picture taken on it.
I always remember the sound it made when Rachel took a photo of me.
Clickety-click. Clickety-click. Clickety-click.
She had to wind the film on afterward, every time, and the little gray plastic wheel would make a sound, as well as leave a mark on the skin of her thumb.