The Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris

quarter that looks so like Montmartre to me somehow, with its winding streets and its steep stairways and the old castle on the little hill. The list was written on half a sheet of exercise-book paper in Suze’s neat, pudgy hand. There were tips on grooming (hair straight, nails filed, legs shaved, always carry deodorant); dress (no socks with skirts, wear pink, but not orange); culture (chick-lit good, boy-books bad); films and music (recent hits only); what to watch on television, websites (as if I had a computer anyway), how to spend my free time and what type of mobile phone to carry.
    I thought at first it was another joke; but after school, when I met her queuing for the bus, I realized she was serious. ‘You have to make an effort,’ she said. ‘Otherwise people will say you’re weird.’
    ‘I’m not weird,’ I said. ‘I’m just—’
    ‘Different.’
    ‘What’s so bad about being different?’
    ‘Well, Annie, if you want to have friends . . .’
    ‘Real friends shouldn’t care about that kind of thing.’
    Suze went red. She often does when she’s annoyed, and it makes her face clash with her hair. ‘Well, I do ,’ she hissed, and her eyes went to the front of the queue.
    There’s a code in queuing for the bus, you know, just as there’s a code when you’re going into class, or picking teams in games. Suze and I stand about halfway. In front of us there’s the A-list: the girls who play basketball for the school; the older ones who wear lipstick, who roll their skirts up at the waistband and smoke Gitanes outside the school gates. And then there are the boys: the best-looking ones; the team members; the ones who wear their collars turned up and their hair gelled.
    And there’s the new boy: Jean-Loup Rimbault. Suzanne has a crush on him. Chantal really likes him too – though he never seems to notice either of them much, and never joins in any of their games. I began to see what was going on in Suze’s mind.
    Freaks and losers stand at the back. First, the black kids from the other side of the Butte, who keep to their group and don’t talk to the rest of us. Then Claude Meunier, who stutters; Mathilde Chagrin, the fat girl; and the Muslim girls, a dozen or so of them, all in a bunch, who caused such a fuss about wearing their headscarves at the beginning of term. They were wearing them now, I noticed as my eyes went to the back of the queue; they put them on the minute they leave the school gates, even though they’re not allowed them at school. Suze thinks they’re stupid to wear headscarves, and that they should be like us if they’re going to live in our country – but she’s just repeating what Chantal says. I don’t see why a headscarf should make a difference any more than a T-shirt, or a pair of jeans. Surely, what they wear is their business.
    Suze was still watching Jean-Loup. He’s quite tall, good-looking, I suppose, with black hair and a fringe that covers most of his face. He’s twelve, a year older than the rest of us. He should be in a higher form. Suze says he was kept back last year, but he’s really bright, always top of the class. A lot of the girls like him; but today he was just trying to be cool, leaning against the bus stop, looking through the viewfinder of the little digital camera he never seems to be without.
    ‘Oh, my God ,’ whispered Suze.
    ‘Well, why don’t you talk to him for once?’
    Suze shushed me furiously. Jean-Loup looked up brieflyat the noise, then went back to his camera. Suze went even redder than before. ‘He looked at me!’ she squeaked, then, hiding behind the hood of her anorak, turned to me and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to get highlights. There’s a place that Chantal goes to for hers.’ She grasped my arm so hard it hurt. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘We could go together! I’ll get highlights, and you can get yours straightened.’
    ‘Stop going on about my hair,’ I said.
    ‘Come on, Annie! It’ll be cool.