She was the girl. (standard:Inspirational stories, 2030 words)
Author: E J Reeve	Added: Jan 28 2003	Views/Reads: 3797/2382	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story about jealousy, bulllying and fingernails

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

shoes and artificial smiles and I had enough of them everyday at 
school.   I cringed as my Mum brandished an old Jacobs Cracker tin full 
of cheap custard creams, which were politely declined.  Couldn't 
Annemarie's mother see I wasn't suitable for her daughter?  I had 
stringy hair and NHS glasses.  I bit my fingernails and wore 
hand-me-downs from my gaggle of sisters and brothers.  But Mum was 
excited. 

‘There you go darling, just down the road now.  Maybe they'll be kind
enough to give you a lift to school in the mornings.  No more waiting 
around for smelly buses eh?' 

I was horrified at this prospect and my world was privately coming to an
end.  Annemarie's presence was now indelible in my home. The next day 
Annemarie pinched me. A pinch accompanied by a hiss; ‘Your house 
smells'.  A laugh from her cronies, their glittering hair slides and 
shining eyes taking on a menacing air.    I told Mum on the way home 
from school.  Her head full of organising tea and households chores, 
she told me not to be so silly. 

I used to see Annemarie's polished family car glide past me every
morning as Mum and I waited for the bus to school, bedraggled and 
scowling in bad weather.  I felt she was laughing at me, her encased in 
supple leather and tinted windows, and me terminally bored at the bus 
stop, my satchel strap leaving an angry red mark on my shoulder.  I 
rarely saw her emerge from behind the climbing roses where no doubt a 
rolling lawn and mini-playground were available for her leisure.    
This suited me fine.  I didn't want her joining in the games I played 
with the other kids on the street, hide and seek or cricket on the 
quiet suburban road.  I didn't want her to be offered orange juice by 
the other mums or be able to run into the nearest house for sympathy 
over a skinned knee.  I didn't want her uptight mother to join the 
others as they sat in an elected garden, resting in the fresh air, 
drinking endless cups of tea, sucking an occasional cigarette, one eye 
on the kids playing in the street and chattering frivolously about 
nothing.  I didn't want her to ruin the gentle stability of my home 
life. 

She never did, instead she saved her teasing for school.  A well-timed
nudge, a cat-call across the playground from an eager conscript of her 
gang, and on one terrifying occasion, surrounding me like a pack of 
animals at break time with Annemarie hidden in the centre from the 
playground monitor's random gaze, her precise nails tearing my pallid 
flesh. 

Relief came when we all changed schools.  We were big kids now and were
off to high school. Off to a domain of homework, scratchy uniforms and 
burgeoning sexuality.  Annemarie went off to a private girl's school 
far away from me while I was at the local comprehensive.  I began to 
enjoy my studies and became a bookworm determined to win a place at 
University.  I still saw her occasionally, hanging around town, in 
fashionable clothes, a huddle of pubescent boys following her swinging 
hair.  She went to parties that I was never invited to and wore clothes 
that cost more than my mum's weekly housekeeping bills.  She won the 
hearts of other girls' boyfriends and was seen out with older men who 
wore suits and drove big shiny cars. 

I went off to University. My life became a whirlwind of lectures and
Student Union bars.  Late-night debates over budget red wine in cheap 
lodgings with a circle of close caring friends.   I inhabited a 
different world from Annemarie and continued to do so apart from visits 
home to see Mum.   There I would see her, with her fancy car and 
apartment bought by her parents.  She would still sneer at me, her face 
creamed with artful make-up and her beautifully tailored clothes.  My 
washed-out jeans and cheap shoes, compulsory on a student's income 
contrived to make me look young and uncivilised next to her.  She would 
still be in the town centre, sitting in the café's with an identical 
looking friend, sipping outrageously expensive coffee, inspecting 
painted nails and pouring scorn on the young, smooth skinned teens 
around the town that had replaced her clique. 

I graduated and took out a loan then blew it on travelling the world
before entering the nine-to-five grind.  On return I took Mum out to a 
new restaurant that had just opened.  There was an influx of new 
businesses everywhere in town.  Tapas bars, coffee-houses and cocktail 
bars had appeared whilst I was away.   Glamorous youth from 
neighbouring cities were coming to spend their evenings out here.  
House prices had rocketed and the place was described as 
‘cosmopolitan'. ‘I don't recognise anyone any more' Mum said idly as we 
were seated by an enthusiastic waiter.  We giggled over the menu and I 
showed her my holiday snaps, me excited and gabbling inadequate 
descriptions of the places I had been, Mum looking at me proudly and 
making suitably interested responses.  Then she interrupted my 
hyperbolic rantings, 

‘I recognise her, didn't she used to live near us'? 

A relic from my introverted past, Annemarie.  She was seated in the
corner, a few tables away, opposite a well-groomed man, older than she 
was.  She was playing idly with a salad and I suddenly felt ashamed by 
the glistening steak that had been set down in front of me.   
Annemarie, sweet Annemarie.  She looked older.  Her hair was different, 
gone were the lustrous locks, instead she had an exquisitely shaped bob 
with a glassy sheen.  She was thinner, a fashionable type of thin.  
Angular bones jutting awkwardly out of a chic shift dress.  As I 
watched she waved away the waiters offer of wine choosing to delicately 
sip mineral water instead.  Her dining partner eagerly accepted a top 
up and he attacked his lobster with gusto.   She looked bored and 
automatically I flinched, remembering this to be the motivation behind 
most of her bullying.   Her face was heavily painted, her mouth a slash 
of perfectly applied lipstick.    I looked away quickly shrugging my 
shoulders and continued my holiday anecdotes with less fervour.  But 
Mum's attention was still on Annemarie. 

‘Poor girl, she used to live in that massive house didn't she?  Shipped
around from nursery to day care to private boarding school constantly. 
I remember her mother at PTA meetings.  Always looked permanently 
depressed.   Can't remember her name though, what was it?  I s'pect 
that bloke she's with is her husband, probably loaded like her dad was' 


I turned my Mums attention back to the meal until we were half way
through a pricey dessert.   Fluffs of cream and lashings of Belgian 
chocolate, we grinned our way through it, relishing every sinful 
mouthful, then Annemarie and the man got up to leave. As they walked 
past I noticed he was older, an aroma of alcohol and heavy aftershave 
wrapped around his designer suit.  As Annemarie came past I ducked my 
head and concentrated on the gossamer of her dress brushing past my 
chair.  In low frustrated tones I heard the man tell her to hurry up 
and his large thick hand grabbed her slender wrist.  I glimpsed through 
the window at her hurrying to keep up with his long strides, her arms 
cradling her wrap over her thin shoulders, feet turning in her fragile 
heels. 

My Mum followed my eyes,  ‘I bet he's rich and she's married him for his
money.  Not a lot else for the likes of her to do', she said 
conspiratorially, sucking the remnants of dessert off her silver spoon. 
‘What was her name again?' She turned to look at me still gazing out of 
the window at the echo of stilettos. 

‘She was the girl who pinched me...' I replied quietly, the sweetness of
the last mouthful bleeding into my gums. 


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