you already muck about with and share secrets with. (Carla, maybe? You always seemed so close.) Whoever it is, never let her go. Best friends are a bit special and a bit rare – like sand made out of gold – and when you find a good one, keep her. Treat her the way you like to be treated. And always be loyal.
Admittedly, when you hit your teens, it may become difficult to keep up the loyalty bit as there’s always this urge to join cliques. To branch out and experiment with situations that may not include your original mates. And there’s nothing wrong with this (as long as it’s good stuff), just try not to abandon your best friend in the process – she’s the person who’ll ultimately be there for you.
I’m basically trying to share the type of advice my old dad would impart as he smoked on a long pipe (okay, I’m fibbing about the pipe bit). His sentences would always begin: ‘Son, listen to me…’ Most times I’d do so by rolling my eyes continuously around in my head until the onset of eye-ache. You see, he didn’t always make much sense with his man-to-man speeches, but sometimes he got it spot on.
I don’t doubt you’ll meet a few more friends as you get older, and that’s great, but the ones you can really, truly rely on, you’ll be able to count them on one hand.
I hugged the one-eyed teddy close.
Then there are the not- so- friendlies.
Remember, Lowey, bullies are just wimps in disguise. You may think they’re all brave when they confront you, shout a lot and basi cally frighten the socks off you. But with bullies, there’s something about THEMSELVES they’re trying to cover up by being horrible and mean to you. So, if you’ve inherited my gangliness, you’re probably taller than a lot of the other girls and boys in your class anyway, which can help, but can also bring on the teasing. Or if you’re anything like your mum’s side – Auntie Elizabeth case in point – you’re probably quite… generous around the middle and a little vertically challenged.
Actually, I was a cross between both sets of families: taller than all the boys in my class, not as slim as most of the girls…
The point I’m trying to make is, school can at times represent one big fat popularity contest, especially these days. I remember it well and it wasn’t easy. I have to admit, being good at football was a bonus (especially as I helped win the cup). But it’s just too early to see what you’ll be good at, to make you less of a target. All I do know is that you’ll be a beauty (inside and out) and this in itself might make you popular – or get you beaten up from time to time. Whatever you look like, there will be something that makes you stand out, and if a group of kids, or just one kid with a big gob, cottons on to this – you’re in trouble.
Okay, now for the ‘try not to be a wimp’ part.
LOWEY, DONT BE A WIMP!
If a real big bully has it in for you, never let her know you’re scared. If she starts calling you names about the way you look, the colour of your skin, the style of your clothes, just ignore her – this will hurt her more than you actually responding, as it will make her look and then feel a bit silly. If the situation calls for tougher action, then take it like a man and stand up to her (no, not by smacking her about the head with your satchel – however much she deserves it – and she might). Laugh her off or ignore her – she’ll soon get bored. Let her know she JUST ISN’T THAT IMPORTANT in the grand scheme of things. You see, that WILL shock the crap – sorry, heck – out of her for sure. If this doesn’t work, you can make a smart comment, just don’t make the comment too smart, or she’ll probably give you that beating after all. And if all else fails and she’s still coming at you, turn and walk away. You may feel like a wimp for doing so (when in fact you’re behaving like the BIGGER person), but it’s the best way in the long run and just shows how unwilling you are to stoop to her low-down level. I say HER because if it’s a boy then report him to a teacher straight away. No question about that.
I threw the one-eyed teddy across the room in frustration as I thought about Sharlene Rockingham waiting outside the school gates for me. Sharlene Rockingham, the thorn in my arse. She’d started her vendetta against me all because she found out I hadn’t cheered for her during sports day last summer. Admittedly, we’d never got on, but the constant snide remarks and dirty looks across the dinner hall were all leading up to something big.
Sharlene was the main reason I often fantasised about bad things. Like her death. Yes. I’d thought about her dying. Far from being a psycho, I’d never actually thought about HOW it would happen, or that I’d be the one to do it – only that when it did I’d be left to get on with things without wondering if she’d follow through with the promise of bashing my head against the science-block wall. I hated being a wimp about it, but not being part of the coolest crowd meant minimal back-up and a good chance of a kicking. Far from ignoring her, I made sure I put up a good-enough front by calmly telling her to ‘just buzz off’ while pushing past and almost swallowing my chest in the process. To be honest I was kind of doubtful this piece of advice would work in the real world.
I read on.
I loved PE.
PE’s one of those things you either love or hate. And yes, I was one of those morons who couldn’t wait for Wednesday afternoon and a good session, rain or shine. Don’t worry, Lowey, if sport isn’t for you. Just remember it’s rather pointless pulling a sicky each week as you will have to go through PE eventually, anyway. So – and you’re not going to like this – just get through it. Doing so will make you stronger, independent, a leader… or a shivering wreck. If, of course, you really are sick, that’s different. By the way, your dad’s not saying don’t pull the odd fake sicky, just be smart and spread them out a bit – like twice a term – because teachers aren’t that stupid.
I flicked back to the miscellaneous section of The Manual and soon arrived at a new and surprising heading. Why are boys such arses? I giggled at Dad’s use of the word ‘arse’ while hoping he’d have the power to at last shed some light on the opposite sex for me. An image of Corey in his big British Knight trainers sprang into my head, basically because he was the only boy I spent time with – as Mum had put me in a girls’ school.
Boys can be such arses, right? Idiots, cretins, morons, this list goes on, I hear you cry. But that age-old question has baffled scientists for centuries – and you want ME to explain this further?
At your age now, males are at their most arse-asistic (okay, that’s not actually a real word). They run around in packs, tease you for no good reason, they’re lazy, moany and their feet smell like slabs of mouldy cheese.
How do I know this?
Because I am one. A bloke, that is.
Okay, seriously, Lowey, males do get slightly better as they age – a bit like a fine wine – but you’ll have to wait until they receive that telegram from the queen (or, by your time, King Charles) to see any significant changes.
I giggled nervously at Dad’s sense of humour, never realising he could be so funny. In fact, Mum never mentioned anything about Dad these days, so obsessed was she with washing her new husband’s greying Y-fronts, laughing at