school—I had no other distractions, and anyway, everything was so different that I had to give it my full attention. I had never heard of trick-or-treating or show-and-tell, and I had no idea why you shouldn’t wear white trousers after Labor Day, who ninety-eight percent of the American presidents had been, what a soda fountain was, or where the Adirondacks were. In my adolescent weltschmerz I decided that I didn’t really get the point of America.
Sept. 17, 1980
Dear Mas Tnarg (Pig Dealer and Donkey Buyer),
Going to school here is still very weird. Everyone has lockers and there are no pegs. We don’t play lacrosse or netball; it’s all stuff like “track” (running) and tennis and basketball (which is sort of like netball except you can run with the ball).
I don’t understand what the girls in my class are talking about most of the time—they are always huddled in corners whispering about boys I don’t know, bands I haven’t heard of, and TV stars I don’t recognize. So mostly I just keep my head down and concentrate on the lessons, which are easy. I’m getting more A’s here than I ever did at South Wilts!
So no, I haven’t really made any friends yet. It’s too hard. I don’t have anything in common with any of them, and I think they think I’m a snob because I don’t talk to them. They think I’m weird, too, because of my accent and clothes, and because I didn’t know what Reeses Pieces are (turns out they’re revolting little chocolate things with peanut butter inside—puke).
I miss you so much. I miss your mum and dad, and the pub, and Melanie and Bridge and Jo. I even miss Dylan sometimes … but not very often! I bet I’ll never get a boyfriend. The boys here all seem to like girls who are cheerleaders. I’m not sure what cheerleaders do, except that there’s a lot of rah-rah-rah-ing and shaking big pom-poms and wearing very short skirts.
I want to come home for Christmas, but I don’t think Mum and Dad will let me. Mum’s gone full-on Fattypuff and hasn’t been out for ages. She keeps on at me to “join a club” or “do some sports” (me!?!), but there’s no way. I spend enough time at that stupid school every day, why would I want to spend more?
Dad bought a new car. It’s called a Lincoln Town Car, but I keep calling it a Lincoln Townhouse, and it gets on his nerves.
Here’s another quote for you. Send more back! (Although I don’t understand what “Don’t say mattress to Mr. Lambert” means—is it from Monty Python?) This is my new favorite: “She came home and sewed on the veranda.” I did try to draw you a picture of it, you know, but when I’d finished it looked more like a picture of a woman with a horse trough stuck to her leg, so I decided not to send it.
Anyway, I’m writing this in a “math” class, so I’d better go. Please say thanks to Melanie for her postcard, I’ll write back soon. (Don’t tell her I was taking the mickey, but this is what her card said: ‘Hiya, Helena. How be you these days. Okay yah I hope. Well, life is extremely boring, isn’t it—nein? Anyway, I can’t even think of anything to say—so until another day—Bye for now, Melanie’!!)
Lots of love,
Helena xxx
P.S. The best thing about living here is yard sales. They’re like jumble sales but in people’s front gardens (yes, you were right, they are called yards). I bought a brilliant record last month—it’s reggae, and it’s called The Harder They Come , by lots of different bands. I didn’t know what it was when I bought it, I just liked the cover, but it’s fab. I’ll tape it for you. The best track is called “Sitting in Limbo.” xx
I knew I should have made more of an effort to fit in at school, but I felt so resentful. I’d had a social life in Salisbury. Sam and I had other friends; we were just beginning to get invited to the right parties and be noticed by the right people—but now, for me, that was all gone. It gave me a depressing,
Sept. 17, 1980
Dear Mas Tnarg (Pig Dealer and Donkey Buyer),
Going to school here is still very weird. Everyone has lockers and there are no pegs. We don’t play lacrosse or netball; it’s all stuff like “track” (running) and tennis and basketball (which is sort of like netball except you can run with the ball).
I don’t understand what the girls in my class are talking about most of the time—they are always huddled in corners whispering about boys I don’t know, bands I haven’t heard of, and TV stars I don’t recognize. So mostly I just keep my head down and concentrate on the lessons, which are easy. I’m getting more A’s here than I ever did at South Wilts!
So no, I haven’t really made any friends yet. It’s too hard. I don’t have anything in common with any of them, and I think they think I’m a snob because I don’t talk to them. They think I’m weird, too, because of my accent and clothes, and because I didn’t know what Reeses Pieces are (turns out they’re revolting little chocolate things with peanut butter inside—puke).
I miss you so much. I miss your mum and dad, and the pub, and Melanie and Bridge and Jo. I even miss Dylan sometimes … but not very often! I bet I’ll never get a boyfriend. The boys here all seem to like girls who are cheerleaders. I’m not sure what cheerleaders do, except that there’s a lot of rah-rah-rah-ing and shaking big pom-poms and wearing very short skirts.
I want to come home for Christmas, but I don’t think Mum and Dad will let me. Mum’s gone full-on Fattypuff and hasn’t been out for ages. She keeps on at me to “join a club” or “do some sports” (me!?!), but there’s no way. I spend enough time at that stupid school every day, why would I want to spend more?
Dad bought a new car. It’s called a Lincoln Town Car, but I keep calling it a Lincoln Townhouse, and it gets on his nerves.
Here’s another quote for you. Send more back! (Although I don’t understand what “Don’t say mattress to Mr. Lambert” means—is it from Monty Python?) This is my new favorite: “She came home and sewed on the veranda.” I did try to draw you a picture of it, you know, but when I’d finished it looked more like a picture of a woman with a horse trough stuck to her leg, so I decided not to send it.
Anyway, I’m writing this in a “math” class, so I’d better go. Please say thanks to Melanie for her postcard, I’ll write back soon. (Don’t tell her I was taking the mickey, but this is what her card said: ‘Hiya, Helena. How be you these days. Okay yah I hope. Well, life is extremely boring, isn’t it—nein? Anyway, I can’t even think of anything to say—so until another day—Bye for now, Melanie’!!)
Lots of love,
Helena xxx
P.S. The best thing about living here is yard sales. They’re like jumble sales but in people’s front gardens (yes, you were right, they are called yards). I bought a brilliant record last month—it’s reggae, and it’s called The Harder They Come , by lots of different bands. I didn’t know what it was when I bought it, I just liked the cover, but it’s fab. I’ll tape it for you. The best track is called “Sitting in Limbo.” xx
I knew I should have made more of an effort to fit in at school, but I felt so resentful. I’d had a social life in Salisbury. Sam and I had other friends; we were just beginning to get invited to the right parties and be noticed by the right people—but now, for me, that was all gone. It gave me a depressing,
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