me, but I felt so dreadful, I knew they must be thinking I was a real little slag, just me and all those horrible drunken boys. I had my lipstick smeared all over the place and mud all up my jeans. I looked like a slag and . . . maybe I
am
a slag. That’s what they kept calling me, that’s what they think I am.”
“You’re
not
a slag, Magda. Don’t be so crazy. You’re a lovely gorgeous-looking girl who went out with a total perve who got entirely the wrong idea,” I say fiercely, hugging her. “I hope you kicked him so hard he still feels sick. How
dare
he treat you like that!”
“He said I was asking for it. He said why did I dress like a tart if I wasn’t willing to act like one,” Magda sobs.
“Well, he acts like a sick creep and he talks like a sick creep and he
is
a sick creep,” I say. “Forget him, Magda. Forget all about him.”
giant girl
I go swimming on Monday morning. Zoë is there too. I hear two girls gasp as she takes off her tracksuit in the changing rooms. Zoë turns her back on them and ties her hair up in a ponytail. It hangs lankly, much thinner than it used to be.
“Zoë?” I say uncertainly. “Zoë, you’re getting so thin.”
“No, I’m not,” she says, but she looks pleased.
“How much do you weigh?”
“I’m not sure,” says Zoë. “Anyway, I need to lose a lot more because my dad’s still insisting we go away for Christmas and he’ll practically
choke
me with food so I’ve got to be a bit on the skinny side to start with.”
“Zoë, you’re not skinny, you’re skeletal,” I say, but I can’t persist.
Maybe she’ll only think I’m jealous. Maybe I
am
.
“Is your friend Magda coming today?” Zoë asks.
“No,” I say, and my heart aches thinking about her.
I forget Zoë. I forget me. I just think of Magda as I swim up and down, up and down, up and down. I can feel the adrenaline pumping in my veins. I swim faster than usual, faster than Zoë, faster than all the girls, faster than some of the boys.
There’s a little crowd larking about at the shallow end. I can’t see them clearly without my glasses. I’m not sure if they’re any of the ones who know Mick, ones who might have been there on Saturday night.
But there’s no mistaking Mick himself in the café. I go in there, hair still wet, glasses steaming up, legs bright pink from swimming, but I don’t care if I look awful. I march straight up to him, sitting there with his mates. He’s smirking all over his face.
“Who’s this, then?”
“What do you want, girlie?”
“It’s Magda’s mate.”
“Where’s Magda, then?”
“Where’s Slaggie Maggie?” says Mick, and they all laugh.
My hand reaches out and I slap him really hard across the face. His head rocks in shock, his eyes popping like they’re going to roll right down his cheeks.
“You shut up, you creep,” I say. “Magda’s not a slag. She’s a very picky choosy girl and she’d never have a one-night stand with you or anyone else for that matter. If you dare call her names or spread rumors about her I’ll tell her brothers and their mates and they’ll chop you stupid schoolboys into little pieces. So shut
up
about her, see?”
I storm off, the whole café staring. Some of the boys jeer, some laugh. Then they start shouting after me. They call
me
a slag. They call me Frizzy Face and Four Eyes. They call me Fat Bum. And yet I don’t care. I truly don’t care. I’m pleased I struck a blow for Magda. That’s all that matters.
She’s still very quiet and droopy at school. Nadine is also totally hangdog because everyone naturally asks her how she got on at the
Spicy
heat and she has to say she wasn’t chosen. So at lunchtime we go off by ourselves. We huddle on our favorite steps by the Portakabins and we have a good long self-indulgent moan. Magda goes on about boys and what pigs they are and so why does she still fancy them? Nadine goes on about
Spicy
magazine and what a tacky tedious bore it was on
am
a slag. That’s what they kept calling me, that’s what they think I am.”
“You’re
not
a slag, Magda. Don’t be so crazy. You’re a lovely gorgeous-looking girl who went out with a total perve who got entirely the wrong idea,” I say fiercely, hugging her. “I hope you kicked him so hard he still feels sick. How
dare
he treat you like that!”
“He said I was asking for it. He said why did I dress like a tart if I wasn’t willing to act like one,” Magda sobs.
“Well, he acts like a sick creep and he talks like a sick creep and he
is
a sick creep,” I say. “Forget him, Magda. Forget all about him.”
giant girl
I go swimming on Monday morning. Zoë is there too. I hear two girls gasp as she takes off her tracksuit in the changing rooms. Zoë turns her back on them and ties her hair up in a ponytail. It hangs lankly, much thinner than it used to be.
“Zoë?” I say uncertainly. “Zoë, you’re getting so thin.”
“No, I’m not,” she says, but she looks pleased.
“How much do you weigh?”
“I’m not sure,” says Zoë. “Anyway, I need to lose a lot more because my dad’s still insisting we go away for Christmas and he’ll practically
choke
me with food so I’ve got to be a bit on the skinny side to start with.”
“Zoë, you’re not skinny, you’re skeletal,” I say, but I can’t persist.
Maybe she’ll only think I’m jealous. Maybe I
am
.
“Is your friend Magda coming today?” Zoë asks.
“No,” I say, and my heart aches thinking about her.
I forget Zoë. I forget me. I just think of Magda as I swim up and down, up and down, up and down. I can feel the adrenaline pumping in my veins. I swim faster than usual, faster than Zoë, faster than all the girls, faster than some of the boys.
There’s a little crowd larking about at the shallow end. I can’t see them clearly without my glasses. I’m not sure if they’re any of the ones who know Mick, ones who might have been there on Saturday night.
But there’s no mistaking Mick himself in the café. I go in there, hair still wet, glasses steaming up, legs bright pink from swimming, but I don’t care if I look awful. I march straight up to him, sitting there with his mates. He’s smirking all over his face.
“Who’s this, then?”
“What do you want, girlie?”
“It’s Magda’s mate.”
“Where’s Magda, then?”
“Where’s Slaggie Maggie?” says Mick, and they all laugh.
My hand reaches out and I slap him really hard across the face. His head rocks in shock, his eyes popping like they’re going to roll right down his cheeks.
“You shut up, you creep,” I say. “Magda’s not a slag. She’s a very picky choosy girl and she’d never have a one-night stand with you or anyone else for that matter. If you dare call her names or spread rumors about her I’ll tell her brothers and their mates and they’ll chop you stupid schoolboys into little pieces. So shut
up
about her, see?”
I storm off, the whole café staring. Some of the boys jeer, some laugh. Then they start shouting after me. They call
me
a slag. They call me Frizzy Face and Four Eyes. They call me Fat Bum. And yet I don’t care. I truly don’t care. I’m pleased I struck a blow for Magda. That’s all that matters.
She’s still very quiet and droopy at school. Nadine is also totally hangdog because everyone naturally asks her how she got on at the
Spicy
heat and she has to say she wasn’t chosen. So at lunchtime we go off by ourselves. We huddle on our favorite steps by the Portakabins and we have a good long self-indulgent moan. Magda goes on about boys and what pigs they are and so why does she still fancy them? Nadine goes on about
Spicy
magazine and what a tacky tedious bore it was on
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