Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,63
one exception was the blazer.
“Bloody hell,” my father declared when he looked at the price tag hanging from the blazer I tried on. “Do these people think we’re made of money?” He gave the shop assistant an outraged look. She was an older woman with unnaturally bright auburn hair. She wore orange lipstick and thick orange powder that had sunk into all the lines and crannies in her face. She reminded me of the shriveled tangerines that sat uneaten in our fruit bowl after Christmas.
“Well, it is one hundred percent wool, sir. And I’m sure you’re aware that the school requires it.” She talked in a posh, plum-in-her-mouth kind of accent that I knew irritated my father no end. After the revolution, no doubt, he would want anyone who spoke like that to join the royal family in their toilet-cleaning duties.
“Yes, I am well aware of that,” he said, then turned to me. “The rate you grow, Jesse, that thing won’t fit you in three months.”
“It’s not my fault,” I protested.
“If it would help, sir, we do have a larger size that the young lady could grow into. That might make it a little more, erm, affordable.” The assistant smiled, her eyes shining with sympathetic disdain.
“But this one fits,” I said. Too late. The woman was already pulling down a larger size from one of the hangers. My father took it from her eagerly. I scowled at her, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“That’s better,” he said when I’d reluctantly tried it on, huffing and puffing as I slid my arms into its massive sleeves. It felt like wearing the jacket of an overweight gorilla. The shoulders hung down to the tops of my arms, it was far too wide, and the sleeves ended far below my wrists. When I looked in the mirror, my worst fears were confirmed. It looked ridiculous.
“I can’t wear this,” I said, staring at my hideous reflection. But no one was listening.
“It is an excellent brand, sir,” the shop assistant reassured my father. “Bloody extortion, it is,” he muttered, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets.
“It will wear extremely well, sir. And with room for the child’s growth, then—”
“I’m not ‘the child,’” I said. “I’m thirteen. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and I don’t think I—”
“When you start paying for your own clothes, you can make your own decisions,” my father interrupted me. Then, with a defeated sigh, he pulled out his wallet and turned toward the shop assistant. “We’ll take it,” he said.
IT WAS COOL THAT first morning I headed out to the bench at the bus stop on Midham’s main street, where the school bus would pick us up at quarter past eight. As I approached, there was already a small group gathered—Tracey, three boys of various ages who looked equally bleary-eyed, and a short, robust girl with ruddy cheeks whom everyone called Dizzy because of the way her eyes wandered in opposing directions behind the thick lenses of her glasses. I’d seen her a couple of times when I was out with Tracey. She lived in one of the shabby council houses that lined the road at the edge of the village. Dizzy had smiled and greeted Tracey each time, but Tracey had merely mumbled, “Hiya, four-eyes,” before marching past her. I’d felt a little guilty as I followed Tracey’s cue and walked on down the street, but clearly Dizzy wasn’t someone I wanted to be too friendly with if I didn’t want to end up on the social-reject pile again.
This first day of school was particularly important in the remaking of myself. I’d been nervous for days, had slept little the previous night, and that morning had been unable to down anything other than a cup of milky tea before heading out the door. As I made my way to the little crowd, I felt painfully self-conscious in my new school uniform—my shiny, lace-up shoes, my white knee-high socks, my black pleated skirt, and, of course, my hideous, oversized blazer. It didn’t help that as soon as Tracey saw me she started to laugh.
“Jesus Christ, Jesse, what’s that you’re wearing?” she said as I reached the bench. She was sitting on its back, her feet (clad in a new pair of the most fashionable buckle-up platform shoes) resting on the seat. Two of the boys sat beside her. They had already started to giggle. Even Dizzy had a smile tugging at the edges of her thin-lipped mouth. “Looks