Lola Offline Read online

  The student accommodation was on the top floor of the building, overlooking the central courtyard. Fletcher explained, as she guided us upstairs, that most students lived with their parents, with just a small number of senior students living in.

  ‘So we’re like a very exclusive club!’ she said. ‘It’s going to be awesome to have you. We need more ladies around here!’

  I just nodded, feeling too out of breath to reply; this was like doing step aerobics.

  ‘These stairs are a good workout, huh?’ she said, beaming at us. ‘A few more weeks and you’ll have buns of steel! This is the girls’ corridor – the boys are on the opposite side, and the teaching assistants are in between,’ she added, obviously to reassure Mum. ‘This is my room …’ she added, as we passed a door covered with photos and inspirational quotes like ‘Make Today Ridiculously Amazing!’ and ‘#Eat Clean, #Train Dirty!’

  ‘Here we are!’ she said, unlocking the door to my room.

  It was as tiny as a prison cell, with a narrow bed and a low attic ceiling. A tall, narrow window overlooked the courtyard. From the bed, you could reach out and touch the opposite side of the desk. And that was about it, aside from a fun-sized wardrobe. Where did all the fashionistas downstairs keep their Louboutins? Oh, yes. They lived at home.

  ‘What do you think, um, Lola?’ Mum said. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Cosy.’

  Cosy! Mum would have made a great estate agent.

  ‘It’s great,’ I said, hoping I wouldn’t cry.

  ‘It’s pretty small! I know. But look, from your window you can see …’ Fletcher went over to open it, leaning out and displaying a perfectly toned rear end. I couldn’t help but stare at it, then felt like a pervert.

  ‘Oh – sorry!’ she said. ‘I thought you could see the Eiffel Tower. You can from my room, though. Wanna come see?’

  ‘Maybe later, thanks,’ I said. I didn’t want to sound unfriendly, but I had to cut this short before the tears came.

  ‘OK. Well, come and holler if you get bored!’ She mimed knocking. ‘A bunch of us are going for fro-yo later, you should come!’

  As soon as she had gone, Mum turned to me and said, right on cue, ‘She seems lovely!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, sitting down. ‘I’m sure we’ll be BFFs before long.’ Sarcasm seemed the best way to make sure I didn’t break down entirely.

  ‘Come on, love,’ she said briskly. ‘Let’s get your stuff from downstairs.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I was glad she’d been brisk. If she’d been nice, I would definitely have howled.

  ‘Do you want me to help you unpack?’ Mum said, once we had got everything upstairs with the help of a passing teaching assistant.

  I shook my head, assuming she would ignore me and stay anyway to help arrange all my shoes in the right order.

  But she didn’t.

  ‘All right then, sweetie,’ she said, pulling me in for a hug. ‘Let’s talk soon, OK? We can Skype whenever you want. Every day. And it’s only a month to Easter.’

  One. Month. By myself. In Paris. And then another two months and potentially another year. How had I got myself into this situation?

  ‘It’s going to be absolutely fantastic, De-Lola,’ Mum said, again. ‘They are all going to love you. Studying in Paris – what an opportunity!’

  I nodded half-heartedly. I was used to these positive press releases from Mum.

  ‘I just … I do feel bad about the money,’ I said, awkwardly. ‘I know we’ve talked about this but … the fees here…’

  Mum just shook her head. ‘That’s what Eat Easy is for!’ she said.

  Eat Easy was Dad’s app. It allowed you to place an order with any takeaway, without having to phone up. The irony wasn’t lost on me that Dad had made a lot of money by inventing a technology that meant you didn’t have to talk to people.

  We hugged one last time, and then she left. I leaned forward out of my mousehole window to see her cross the courtyard, but I couldn’t see anything. Panicked, I dodged back and forth and up and down, feeling superstitiously that if I couldn’t see her now, I would never see her again. Finally, I had a glimpse of her back, and then she was gone.

  Straight away, I reached for my phone. I needed to feel connected to the world. I needed to see what Jules was up to on Instagram, or read Ellie’s tumblr, or watch Nisha do one of her make-up haul videos. I wouldn’t contact them, of course – I just wanted to watch.

  But there was no internet on this floor. No WiFi networks listed at all. In any case – more to the point – I had closed all my accounts. And I was sick of stalking them. It was time to start a new life, alone, in Paris.

  Another impulsive decision I was starting to regret.

  Chapter Six

  My first thought, the next morning, was that there was absolutely no way I could leave my room and go down to breakfast.

  My second thought was that I had nothing to wear. The thing about wearing a uniform every day is that you don’t get the chance to develop any sense of style. And I wasn’t even sure what my style should be. Was I preppy? Alternative? Classic? I had no idea.

  These were the ten things I knew about myself:

  1. I definitely wasn’t cool.

  2. I was a Ravenclaw, a feminist and a prefect.

  3. I liked languages and politics, but also Jane Austen and sit-coms and stationery.

  4. I loved the idea of baking, but I was terrible at it. My one attempt at a cake came out looking like a crater on the moon.

  5. I was outspoken and idealistic. I always had my hand up in class.

  6. I was also impulsive. And I had a bad habit of saying stupid things and making jokes that weren’t funny whenever I felt nervous.

  7. I wasn’t sporty, though it was technically true what I’d said on my practice UCAS form – that I’d ‘represented my school at basketball’ (once, on the D team).

  8. I wasn’t great at make-up beyond the basics, and I was clueless about fashion.

  9. I knew nothing about drugs. I had been drunk on vodka and coke, and it was fun though I didn’t want to do it every night.

  10. I wouldn’t have minded meeting more boys – or any boys.

  That was who I used to be, anyway. But who was I now? Did I have to be completely different now that I was Lola? If so, how would I even manage that? There was no sorting hat here to tell me where I belonged at Jean Monnet.

  I was having a full-on existential crisis, and it wasn’t even eight a.m.

  ‘Breathe!’ I muttered, looking at myself in the mirror. Finally, after trying on and rejecting my entire wardrobe, I settled on my black jeans and a denim shirt. I spent ages trying to do my make-up with shaking hands. Breakfast with strangers. Nobody to sit with. How would Lola cope?

  Simple. She wouldn’t. She would sneak out, and try and grab a pastry at a café instead.

  At least, that was the plan until I ran into Fletcher, just outside my room.

  ‘Heyyyyyyy, Lola!’ she said, managing to get about five syllables out of the word. ‘There you are! I was just coming to grab you for breakfast.’

  I was grateful to her, genuinely. But I found it hard to relate to her lively chatter about the ‘awesome run’ she’d been on and how pretty the spring bulbs were.

  ‘Do you run?’ she asked, as we reached the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Um, no,’ I said. ‘I’m not a runner. I’ve tried, but it nearly killed me.’

  ‘I was the exact same! You just need to start slow. But there are a ton of other groups, if running’s not your jam. We’ve got debate, art, Culture Vultures, a really great church group …’

  Uh-oh. For the first time I noticed the little silver crucifix at her neck. Not that there was anything wrong with religion, but … it wasn’t for me. Or Lola.

  The cafeteria was really nice by any standards, let alone school. Orange chairs were grouped around round wooden tables, and long white counters were laden with pastries, fruit and bread.

  But what really caught my eye w
ere the boys. Boys, left, right and centre. Walking around, having breakfast, chatting. After an all-girls school, it was pretty bewildering. How was I ever going to get any work done?

  ‘So I try to walk right by these bad boys,’ Fletcher was saying.

  I jumped, thinking she had noticed me staring. But she was nodding towards the glossy pastries. ‘I actually have a blender in my room, and a fridge. I do these kale and almond smoothies that are totally delish. You should stop by for one some time!’

  A kale smoothie? Was she trying to kill me?

  ‘So help yourself – and then come join us! My friends are sitting over there – that’s my boyfriend, Hunter, in the green sweater.’

  Her boyfriend looked like the cruel jock who beat up the sensitive gay guy in every American teen film. Beside him were two other identical perfect couples, all ultra-white teeth and Abercrombie clothes. Wherever I fitted in, it wasn’t with them. And I was sure that Fletcher didn’t want me joining them, not really; she was just doing her duty. So it was my duty to stay away from them – for her sake as much as mine.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I’ll just … I’m having trouble choosing. Don’t wait for me.’

  ‘Sure. I better move away from these … Get thee behind me Satan!’ She held up crossed fingers at the pastries, laughing, and bounced off.

  As I loaded up my plate with croissants, I caught the eye of a girl standing behind me.

  ‘Do you think if she actually met Satan,’ she said, deadpan, ‘she’d try and spread butter and jam on him?’

  I snorted with laughter.

  ‘Cool hair, by the way,’ said the girl.

  ‘Thanks!’ Hers was dyed too – a heavy jet black with one purple streak, pinned up in a mass of wild curls. Her nose was pierced, her brown eyes were world-weary and she was wearing a faded long-sleeved purple T-shirt under denim dungarees. I didn’t think she was the kind of person who would normally want to be my friend. Maybe my new hair was making me look a lot cooler than I actually was.

  As she moved her tray along, I desperately tried to think of something witty to continue our conversation. ‘So … if I’m not having a kale smoothie, what beverages do you recommend?’ Then kicked myself. Beverages? What did I sound like?

  ‘Coffee. Lots of it. Only way I’m getting through IB One.’

  IB One; the first year of the International Baccalaureate – the equivalent of Year Twelve. That meant she was a year younger than me, but she seemed much older.

  ‘Oh, you’re in the same year as me.’

  ‘Then I’ll try and debrief you. Unless you have plans with the Young Republicans over there?’ she said.

  ‘No plans,’ I said. We headed towards the till, and as we walked by Fletcher’s table I gave her an apologetic nod. ‘Just going to catch up with …’ I mumbled.

  ‘No problem!’ Fletcher said. Her friends didn’t seem to care, but she looked disappointed and I felt like a heel. Still, I told myself, it was for the best.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘My name’s Vee, by the way,’ said my new friend. ‘Have you got your meal card? You just swipe it, like this.’

  ‘Lola.’ I copied her, relieved that I had someone to show me – and that I managed it without an embarrassing fuss.

  ‘So when did your dad start his new job?’ Vee asked, as we took our seat at an empty table.

  ‘Um – he hasn’t.’ Not unless you counted a new IT contract in Winchelsea.

  ‘Your MOTHER? Oh my God! I have never ever heard of someone moving because of their mother’s job. That is so cool! I have to tweet this.’

  She pulled out her phone; I shrank away instinctively. I really hated to disappoint Vee, but I had to come clean.

  ‘It wasn’t either of my parents’ jobs. I’m here on my own.’

  ‘You’re so lucky. I wish I boarded.’ She gazed at me wistfully, still clutching her phone. ‘Let me add you on Twitter. What’s your handle?’

  ‘I’m not on it.’

  ‘Snapchat? Instagram? Whatsapp?’

  ‘Nope. None of them.’

  She stared at me, open-mouthed.

  ‘Nothing? Are you Amish or something?’

  I faked a laugh despite my rising heart rate. ‘Nope. Just taking a technology break.’

  ‘But you have email, right?’ asked Vee. ‘Or will you be sending all your homework in by owl?’ She grinned at me, and I grinned back, relieved that she wasn’t going to push it.

  ‘Well. Since you can’t stalk everyone online … Want me to kick it old-school, and explain to you who everyone is?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, God, yes. Please.’

  ‘Let’s see. You’ve already met the Americans.’ Her eyes flickered to Fletcher. ‘Every Sunday they go to the American Church and then to get frozen yoghurt, or Baskin-Robbins if they’re feeling really crazy, and then they go and do glow yoga. I mean the girls do yoga, the boys play lacrosse. They’re a bunch of basics. Paris is wasted on them.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, laughing. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side, but Vee was entertaining.

  ‘Then there are the computer geeks … At least they used to be geeks but now we’ve all grown up, we’ve realised they’re actually kind of cool. Over there, see that table where they’ve all got their laptops out?’ I nodded.

  ‘Then we’ve got the Diplobrats,’ she went on, indicating a group of preppy-looking boys and girls. ‘They’re all terribly international – speak about five languages each, and all want to be politicians. They run the Monnet Mail – that’s our online newsletter – and the Student Council and they’re all off to Harvard and Cambridge. They’re not bad people, they’re just … exhausting.’

  ‘OK.’ I decided not to mention that in my previous life, I was arts editor of our school newspaper, and I spoke five languages.

  The group all turned round as a tall boy approached them, and a couple of them held up their hands for high-fives. It was the same boy who’d held the door open for me the other day. He was in another crisp shirt, grey this time.

  ‘I met that guy already,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that’s Tariq Pirzada. Our future president of the Student Council,’ said Vee. ‘He goes out with Priscilla Adeboye. They’re both our Grade Representatives this year.’

  ‘Is that like a prefect?’

  ‘Yeah. Just more self-important.’

  Ouch. Looking over at the group, I remembered how excited I was to be prefect – sitting on committees and bringing people’s problems to the staff. Lenny said all the power went to my head. But I asked him: would he have said the same thing if I’d been a boy? With a pang, I wondered if Lenny was missing me, or turning into a sexist monster without me. Who would bother to raise his consciousness now?

  ‘The whole Grade Rep system is ridiculous. They’re basically unpaid stooges for the teachers,’ Vee was saying. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want that, can you?’

  ‘I – no, not really.’

  I would have loved to know how the Grade Reps were selected, how long their tenure lasted and what their responsibilities were, but I wanted Vee to like me more. ‘Which one is Priscilla?’ I asked, just to say something.

  ‘She’s at the end – see, the black girl in the white shirt, with the suede skirt …’

  I saw the girl she meant: tall and pretty, with queenly braids piled high on her head. She and Tariq looked as if they were friends as well as being a couple. Vee continued, ‘Her dad works for a massive oil company. She’s also going to be president of something. In a couple of years, I’m sure they’ll all be in the White House, dropping bombs on some village.’

  I looked back at Tariq, who was eating a yoghurt. He didn’t look particularly violent. I wondered what Vee had against them all.

  ‘That sort of covers it as far as our year group is concerned,’ Vee said, waving her coffee cup around. ‘Everyone else is just sort of normal. I do have friends by the way – they’re just not big breakfast eaters.’ An alert was ringing on her
phone. ‘Time for class. What have you got first? Classical Greek and Roman Studies? How retro. Hopefully we’ll have some classes together though.’

  ‘Yes!’ I was so happy I’d met Vee. Of course, at this stage I probably would have made friends with a serial killer, but I was really flattered that someone so cool and interesting was talking to me. It was early days of course – but it looked as if I just might have made my first friend here.

  Chapter Eight

  As soon as I left Vee, though, I was plunged into a world of strangers again. By the time we were five minutes into Classical Greek and Roman Literature, it was clear that the standard was frighteningly high. We were reading a passage from the Iliad. I was pleased that I’d read the book in advance; Priscilla Adeboye, who was sitting near me, had read parts of it in the original Greek. Even the classroom was intimidating; with its high ceilings and elaborate plasterwork, it looked like a place for dukes and duchesses to meet for salons – not clueless teens on the run.

  At least the teacher, Mr Gerardo, was nice: young and friendly, pacing enthusiastically around the room as he spoke. With his thinning hair and flowery shirt, he looked like a Hollywood casting director’s idea of a classics teacher. He wasn’t actually wearing a bow tie, but he definitely looked as if he owned one.

  ‘The other thing you need to decide, quite soon, is the topic of your extended essay,’ he said, towards the end of class. ‘Does anyone want to kick around some ideas?’

  ‘Could I write mine on Achilles and Patroclus?’ asked one boy.

  ‘Yes, great idea. Lots to talk about there including comradeship, cowardice, homoeroticism even,’ he said. ‘Anyone else? It doesn’t have to be something we’ve studied. You can pick anything from the classical world – like Plato’s Symposium, or Ovid’s love poems …’

  I was scared enough that everyone seemed to know exactly what those were, when beside me Priscilla said, ‘What about the Delphic Oracle?’

  ‘Yes, that could be interesting, Priscilla,’ Mr Gerardo said, sitting on the edge of his desk. ‘Do you want to tell the others who that was?’