Have a Little Faith Read online

  I’ve been thinking, and a small part of me feels that maybe Lily has made a good point.

  Has the world gone crazy?

  Actually, I’ve decided that Lily is wrong. This is because a) she usually is and b) we don’t really know that much about Finn. I suspect that beneath his angelic good looks lurks a cheeky boy who knows how to be a right monkey (whilst having bouncy hair).

  Back from the disco. Had a fantastic time. Those religious types really know how to throw a party. I wonder if they do weddings.

  Elliot lives in a terrifying village where there are no shops and not even a drive-through McDonald’s. I imagine that all the old people who have gone there to die were really pleased to see fifty teenagers arriving this evening. I know the coffin-dodgers always enjoy being surrounded by youth. I once asked Granny what she liked best about me and she said, ‘I enjoy seeing your knee joints work smoothly.’ She’ll be harvesting me for organs soon.

  Anyway, I don’t think we were too disruptive. Only a bit of cheerful singing and some high-spirited wrestling from the boys. Westy did do a bit of damage by stuffing Elliot in a wheelie bin and running him around over a flowerbed, but if you believed all teenagers were like Westy you wouldn’t want to leave the house.

  When Megs and I got to the village hall we thought we were the first to arrive. Inside it was just Angharad and Elliot having a jolly old time shoe gazing and asking each other the time and living it up like that. There was also a couple of primary school kids slow-dancing to gangsta rap.

  Turned out that all the action was out the back. There was a fieldy bit with some trees and a stream behind the hall and everybody was watching the boys climb trees and then jump out of them. Which was more fun than it sounds. You can get quite a good stare at a boy while he’s jumping out of a tree without anyone noticing you’re doing it.

  After a while I said to Megs, ‘Are those bushes moving?’

  ‘It’s not the bushes moving. It’s the people in them.’

  She was right. The shrubbery was crammed with snogging couples.

  Later on we saw Icky hogging a whole hedge, but as I said to Megs, ‘She needs the room for a turnstile.’ Becky said that she definitely saw her snogging both Dan and a friend of Finn’s. Although not at the same time. Even Icky’s gob isn’t that big.

  There were also some St Mildred’s girls there. I don’t know why, but their fantastic good looks and willingness to snog anything in trousers proved quite popular. I can’t understand how boys fail to see that they are stuck-up witches.

  Fortunately, they didn’t get their French-manicured claws into our group of boys. We spent most of the night with Ethan, Cameron, Westy and Elliot and we all had a good laugh.

  Ethan was trying to teach me how to hold your fingers for different guitar chords (this involved him touching my hands a bit, which I have to admit I enjoyed), when we were interrupted by a lot of shouting in the middle of the field.

  ‘Hey, Faith, look at me!’

  It was Westy hanging upside-down from the top branch of a tree. He was a good five metres up.

  I said, ‘Get down, you idiot!’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not saying that’s a bad idea . . .’ He tried to swing up and grab the branch with his hands but he missed. ‘. . . I’m just not sure I can.’

  Then the branch gave this horrible creak.

  ‘Shall I just let go? I mean I’ll have my head to break the fall, won’t I?’

  I turned to Ethan, but he was already halfway up the tree. I’ve never seen someone climb so fast.

  I said, ‘Don’t panic, Westy. Ethan’s going to help you.’

  ‘I’m not panicking. I am sweating though.’

  Ethan was crawling towards him. He said, ‘Let’s hope you’re downwind of me then because you really don’t want me passing out.’

  Ethan got him to work up a bit of swing and then grabbed Westy by the arm and pulled him into a sitting position. They made their way back towards the ground and Westy slid down the last bit of the trunk like a fireman’s pole and everyone started cheering.

  Why do boys do things that put your heart in your mouth? Like trying to fall out of trees.

  Or telling you that you’ve got nice hands.

  Sam is being particularly annoying at the moment. He disagrees with everything I say, even when I am saying things which have been scientifically proven. Like, ‘You are such a worm, Sam.’

  He has definitely been in my bedroom and he has definitely been moving stuff about. Anyway, while I was checking if Sam had been at my secret chocolate stash, I came across the My Pretty Ponies that I bought in the charity shop and I decided that today was the day that Sam ought to learn the consequences of his behaviour.

  Fortunately, Sam was having his disgusting little friends over today. He only ever invites the same sad little boys around. I think he’s only got two friends. I suspect that they’ve all ended up together because no one else at school will talk to them.

  Anyway, while Sam was answering the door, I put my plan into action. I heard them come thundering up the stairs and then the spindly one said, ‘Sam! What are those?’

  And then the lumpy one said, ‘Urrrrr, gross! Sam loves Pretty Ponies. He plays with them and plaits their hair!’

  Sam was making squeaky noises of rage and came storming into my room and shouted, ‘You’re so immature!’ He threw down the lovely My Pretty Ponies that I had arranged on his windowsill.

  Lumpy and Spindly appeared behind Sam to get a good look.

  I said, ‘Me? Immature? You’re the one throwing your toys about.’ And then I laughed so hard that I barely noticed him kicking me in the shins.

  I finally got rid of him by threatening to show his mates his baby photos and then I rang Megs to discuss my glittering career in the world of comedy. When I got off the phone I strolled past Sam’s room where Lumpy was saying, ‘Let me show you this brilliant biking website.’

  Sam switched on the computer and I crept away. Three seconds later he roared, ‘FAITH!’ Followed by, ‘MUM!’

  I don’t know what he was getting so worked up about. I think that a real My Pretty Ponies fan like Sam deserves a Pretty Ponies screen saver, don’t you?

  Went to Granny’s. I told her Sam would like a My Pretty Pony for his birthday.

  As usual, Mum insisted on food shopping on the way back from Granny’s. I keep asking her why she doesn’t shop at a proper hippy organic place, but she just says things like, ‘They don’t have three-for-two offers.’ Which seems a bit grasping to me, for a woman who says that happiness is the only real currency in life.

  Sam and I wandered off from Mum and Dad so that we could do a spot of milk-boxing. First, you grab yourself a pair of those four-pint plastic milk containers and grip them tightly so that the big fat milk-containing part is covering your knuckles – like a boxing glove – then, you start throwing punches at your opponent. It’s extremely funny and very much frowned on by the supermarket staff. That’s why the first rule of milk-boxing club is Don’t get caught milk-boxing. Fortunately, the supermarket is pretty quiet on a Sunday night and most of the staff who were there were teenagers, who were too busy flirting with each other to notice much. (Although I don’t know how anyone can manage to flirt while wearing a name badge and one of those bakery-counter hairnets.)

  ‘Here he is!’ Sam said. ‘It’s the Dairy Dynamo, it’s the Milky Master, it’s . . . Sam Ashby! Taking on his puny opponent—’

  ‘Taking on his nemesis the Belle of the Bottle, it’s . . . Face-Smasher Faith.’ I added a few whoops at this point, but not too loud because some middle-aged woman was already giving us evil looks.

  I swung at Sam and got in a good milk-punch on his left arm. He tried to get me in the side, but I blocked him and then gave him a smash to the shoulder. A toddler going past in the baby-seat of a trolley gave me a round of applause.

  ‘The crowd’s going wild. Face-Smasher is going to win again!’

  While I wasn’t concentrating, Sam gav
e me a double blow to the legs. I went for a spinning punch in return, but unfortunately I smacked into Sam’s left ‘glove’ and he sprang a leak. This is the ugly side of milk-boxing. And when milk is spilt you have to follow the second rule of milk-boxing club: If you make a puddle, slink away.

  So we slunk.

  Most of today has been taken up looking for the perfect mascara – I did have to go to school for a bit, but I tried not to let that distract me from the main aim of the day. At lunchtime Megs and I found a mazzy with a revolutionary formula including elasto-technology and anti-clump recipe. I made an effort to understand the information on the back of the packet. (I have suggested a number of times that we ought to be taught a Science of Makeup module at school, but will they listen?)

  Megs was not interested in stretching her mind by learning about triple-action thickenisers and kept on about how Miss Ramsbottom had made her stand at the front of the classroom and read out all the mistakes she had made in her homework. ‘She’s embarrassed Lily and ruined your life. Look at you, all sad and lonely with no rehearsal to go to. Nothing to do on a Friday afternoon. Hanging about like a loser waiting for us to come out . . .’

  ‘Thanks for cheering me up, Megs.’

  ‘. . . And I have to suffer her in the classroom. You’re lucky, Faith.’

  ‘Mmm, it’s interesting, isn’t it? In all the time we’ve been at this school, I have never had Miss Ramsbottom teaching me. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want me in her classroom.’

  ‘It’s a miserable place to be. She’s got some outrageous ideas about us sitting still and completing work and listening to what she is saying and the like.’

  ‘It’s amazing they ever let her have a teaching qualification.’

  ‘Can’t we do something about her?’

  At this point I got a bit cross. ‘Do something? All term you’ve been telling me that I’m not allowed to do anything; that I’ve got to be good so that we can get back in the same tutor group. And you and Lily and Angharad tell me that I’m always twisting your arms into doing something, but now you’re saying that we should do something, are you?’

  Megs rubbed her face to wipe off the spit that I may have accidentally splattered her with in my attempt to get my point across.

  ‘All right, all right. We probably should just leave it.’

  But she carried on muttering all the way back to school. I suspect that Megan is tiring of my good behaviour. Thank goodness.

  Miss Ramsbottom has finally gone too far. During assembly she told us that any girl caught wearing mascara to school would be taken to the nearest sink and scrubbed clean. When she announced it we were too horrified to even gasp and then for the rest of the day there was a shocked silence about the place. Zoe kept whispering, ‘She can’t do it, she just can’t,’ and Becky burst into tears on more than one occasion.

  When we were holed up in the gym cupboard at lunchtime trying to imagine what we’d all look like with albino eyelashes, Megs suddenly burst out, ‘That’s it, Faith! I am officially giving you permission to scheme against Miss Ramsbottom. Something must be done. She’s not content with already being more glamorous than the rest of us; she wants to make us all ugly! Not to mention the fact that she has ripped the joy from your life by banning you from the choir. You are a picture of sadness. You’ll probably never marry . . .’

  ‘OK, OK! Let’s get her.’

  Later on, Megs started worrying about us mucking up our chances of getting back in the same tutor group, but as I said to her, we will not ruin my excellent record of goodness this term because we will not get caught.

  I’ve given a lot of thought to Ramsbottom’s downfall – mostly while we were in double Physics, which means I have also fulfilled my promise to Dad to use my brain in Science. I’ve realised that the one person who has the power to make Ramsbottom’s life a misery is Miss Pee. All I’ve got to do is to get Ramsbottom into Miss Pee’s bad books and then we can sit back and enjoy her misery.

  It’s been hard to think of something that would really annoy Miss Pee. She doesn’t seem to mind that Miss Ramsbottom is an evil sadist or that she persecutes the ginger who walk amongst us. I’ve seen Miss Pee watch a Year Eleven tearing a new girl’s ear off and all she said was, ‘Those earrings aren’t regulation, are they, Louise?’

  Then it came to me. The one thing Miss Pee holds dear. Her parking space. All I have to do is get Ramsbottom’s car into Miss Pee’s space and she’s dead.

  During breaktime (well, Geography, but it’s pretty much same thing) Lily asked if I’d come up with a plan to punish Ramsbottom yet.

  ‘Yes, and I will be needing your help. I have surpassed myself,’ I said. ‘You should start collecting signatures on a farewell card for Ramsbottom right now.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything involving fireworks. I haven’t forgotten the last time.’

  Which surprised me because sometimes Lily forgets her house number.

  ‘Who said anything about fireworks? This is much better.’

  ‘Eyebrows take a long time to grow back you know.’

  ‘Do not fear! Your caterpillars are safe.’

  ‘And no dogs. Or weedkiller. And if we have to wear disguises Megs can be the vicar this time.’

  Too right. Lily’s idea of acting is to talk in an accent that switches from Australian to Irish when she gets excited. It didn’t seem like she was entering into the right spirit of the thing, which is the spirit of not questioning me.

  So I told her, ‘You can stay at home and knit if you prefer, or you can witness the spectacular spectacle that will be Miss Pee’s face when she finds Ramsbottom’s car in her precious parking space.’

  ‘How are we going to do that? We’d have to do driving.’

  ‘Not really driving, more parking.’

  ‘Isn’t that supposed to be the hardest part? My mum says reversing into a space is a nightmare.’

  I do not wish to cast nasturtiums on Lily’s family line, but her mother describes choosing her nail varnish colour as a ‘nightmare’.

  ‘It will be fine,’ I said. ‘Besides I am calling in a specialist to do the driving part.’

  In the end Lily agreed to be part of it, although I doubt it will be a working part. The last thing she said was that she hoped my driving specialist wasn’t that rubbish lorry driver that I had to make friends with the time that I ‘accidentally’ threw away my dad’s fishing rod.

  Which means I’ll have to think of someone else to drive.

  Because under no circumstances should Lily be proved right. It goes straight to her head and she forgets that she is not to make decisions and that’s how we ended up at a Venture Scouts party that time.

  I wouldn’t have minded if any of them had been capable of appreciating a good woggle joke.

  My scheme is coming along nicely. We had PE this afternoon. Lily and Angharad are in a special group for the terminally noodle-armed and their pixie friends, so I took the opportunity to have a chat with Zoe. Killer Bill kept rudely interrupting by shouting things like, ‘Run, Faith!’ and, ‘It wouldn’t have hit you in the face if you’d been watching the ball’. But we managed mostly to ignore her.

  Zoe has had an idyllic childhood. She lives on her father’s vast and valuable farm. I can only think that I may have grown up a better person if I had lived somewhere vast and valuable. It’s also possible that I might have enjoyed having a pony, learning to drive a tractor and frolicking in the fields with handsome stable lads and the like. Yes, I sometimes think the country life could have been the making of me.

  And then I think about living fifty miles from a Topshop and I come to my senses. But Zoe is a useful girl to know.

  I told her this and she said, ‘You can’t have another baby chick. Not after what happened to the last one . . .’

  ‘I don’t want a chick.’

  ‘I mean, it must have been quite traumatic being sellotaped inside an eggshell just so you could scare the Food Tech teacher.’

 
; ‘I do not want a chick – unless you have a few going spare? What I need are your sweet skills,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, Faith, I promised my dad no more forgery this term.’

  ‘I don’t want you to forge anything! What do you think I am? Some sort of criminal overlord? I just want you to break into and drive a car.’

  ‘Faith, is this one of your mad schemes that seems like a justifiable act of revenge against the evil rulers of this school, but ends in utter chaos, destruction and occasionally hospitalisation?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll drive,’ she said.

  I did enquire if living on a farm had also equipped Zoe with hot-wiring skills, but it seems that this is not the case. Which means that I will have to get hold of Ramsbottom’s car keys. I also need to see Miss Pee’s diary so I can find a day when she needs to leave school, but comes back before Miss Ramsbottom wants to leave and finds her car has been moved. This means gaining access to Miss Pee’s office.

  Not a problem.

  In fact usually I find the difficulty is keeping out of it.

  I am not well. I am not at all well. Have I mentioned that I am not feeling well? I have been extremely ill.

  Megs phoned me at lunchtime to find out why I wasn’t at school and I explained my affliction as delicately as I could. I said, ‘Today I have felt grateful for our tiny bathroom and the fact that the loo is so close to the sink.’

  ‘Eeuh! Faith, do you mean it was coming out of both ends?’

  Megs is not delicate. When I go to Finishing School to learn how to drink champagne and meet rich men called Henry, they probably won’t let her in the door when she comes to visit.

  I used my gentle persuasion to tell Megs to change the subject. I said, ‘Shut your filthy trap and tell me what I am missing.’

  ‘We tied the stuffed crocodile from Mrs Mac’s room to Ang’s back and got her to slither around on the floor.’