‘It’s how it is,’ I replied, ‘it’s the truth. I hate myself.’
The McFrown reached Olympic-sized proportions.
‘Where’s this coming from?’
‘From me.’ I jabbed my finger to my heart. ‘Me! I can’t be me any longer. I’m hideous. I have to stop it, I have to stop everything!’
There was an awkward silence as Mr McCracken tried to think of what to say. He stared down at his desk like he might find some good words there. (I did like how he paused before he said things, it made him seem more intellectual.)
‘You’re in a right old state.’ He steered himself towards me and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Have you talked to anyone about this?’
I drew myself up. ‘I’m talking to you.’
‘Yes, but—’ ‘I want to talk to you, I want you to help me.’
Mr McCracken lifted his head and dropped it again.
‘Cathy,’ he pushed out his bottom lip a micro-inch, ‘how can I help you? What do you want me to do?’
I glared red-hot at him. ‘Tell me you care. Tell me I’m not nothing.’
I remember how he smiled very especially.
‘Of course you’re not. You’re very special.’
I nodded and gulped down my tears.
Bollocks. I’m trying to write this down as accurately as I remember but I’ve also tried hard to block it out. What happened next? I think I sort of took Mr McCracken’s hand and maybe pressed it. Then I pulled myself up onto tippy-toe and leaned forward. Yes, that’s it. I knew Mr Mac wouldn’t like me leaning in so close but I couldn’t help it. I was sort of carried away in the emotion and I didn’t care how it looked, I just wanted a bit more contact. Did I plan to kiss him? No, not him. I was just sort of imagining anyone with a head and hair. I pressed the palm of my hand flat on the McChest so as to feel his heartbeat. I suppose it was the sort of thing I’d seen before on TV. Then I tried to put my other arm around his neck and tilt my chin towards him.
I may as well have prodded him with a poker.
‘Cathy!’
He stepped back and I lost my balance – talk about destroying the moment! – I had to grab him so as to steady myself. Then he took me by the shoulders and tried to hold me up. For a split second the eye-to-eye contact was intensely smouldering, but not in a good way. We were close enough to kiss and I tried wrapping both arms around his neck this time. Then his hands were on my waist.
He said something like ‘Stop! Huuuh!’
It was over in a flash, and all I can now picture is the terror on his face. I could’ve slapped him when I saw it.
Instead I slammed him back with my hand.
‘You’re lying. You don’t care at all. Slimeball!’
‘What?’
‘You don’t know anything about what I’m going through. Keep away from me!’
I had really screamed those last words out and this is actually important. I don’t think I have ever-ever-ever screamed like that, right into someone’s face, and seen the effect it had. It felt fantastic. I ran out of the classroom and straight into Mrs Carey and Mrs Le Sauvage, who were standing, arms crossed, a little way down the corridor.
You can probably guess what happened next. No, I bet you can’t. It was like one of those rubbish plays they put on at Beau Sejour, where everyone shouts and throws their hands about. I jumped on the mountainous Mrs Le Sauvage, sobbing hysterically. She wobbled all of her chins at Mr McCracken, who, of course, had come running into the corridor. She asked him what-on-God’s-green-earth-was-happening, and he said he didn’t know himself. That made my sobbing tidal. Looking back, I was crying for lots of reasons, but I blamed Mr McCracken completely.
The Savage Mountain didn’t know what to think and I let myself get lost in the moment/her bosom. From there I started stringing together my accusations. I said Mr Mac had hugged and tried to kiss me. I called him a pervert. I started to hyper-vent, which made it all the more convincing. If I’d had to go on TV or tell my story to a national newspaper then I bet they would’ve paid me well. But that sort of thing only happens in England. In England they would’ve also called the police and carted Mr McCracken off to prison. (I’m