Just Peachy

“Most of you have come up from the junior school together, but some of you are new, so I’d like everybody to say a few words about themselves, and about their family, just to break the ice. All right?”

No! I cringed, trying to hide behind the person in front. This was like my worst nightmare come true.

Mrs Bradbeer obviously saw the panic on my face. She said, “Try not to look so worried, Peaches!”

Peaches? Heads snapped round. The whole class stared. I felt like digging a hole and burying myself. Trust Mum! Peaches had been her choice. She couldn’t just pick something ordinary and unremarkable like Amy or Emma. Oh, no! She had to go for something that would make everyone turn and stare.

Mrs Bradbeer smiled reassuringly. “You don’t have to say more than you feel comfortable with. Just a few words will do. Zoe, why don’t you get us started?”

Zoe was one of the ones that had come up from Juniors. Full of self-importance, she pushed back her chair and bounced to her feet. You could tell she was someone that just loved the sound of her own voice. In loud, ringing tones she announced that she was Zoe Kingman and that her big ambition was to be successful and make a lot of money. She said she had a dad that was an architect and a mum that was “in the City”.

“Like she’s really high up in one of the big banks, only I’d better not say which one cos of people getting jealous and thinking she’s probably making too much money, which Mum says is just the politics of envy. I personally think that if you work hard you deserve to make lots of money; I don’t see anything wrong in it. At any rate,” said Zoe, “that is what I am going to do.”

She sat back down with a self-satisfied flump. I noticed that the girl next to me was pulling a face. I felt a bit like pulling one myself but I wasn’t quite brave enough. Several people were nodding, and one girl even started to clap.

Mrs Bradbeer said, “Thank you, Zoe. That’s got the ball rolling. Lola? You next?”

One by one, everybody got up and told us about themselves. They all seemed to have mums and dads that were doctors, or solicitors, or bank managers. I waited for someone to say her dad was a butcher, or her mum was a cleaning lady, but it didn’t happen. I sat glumly, hunched at my desk, wishing I was at Winterbourne instead of having to sit here listening as people went gabbing on about themselves and their hugely important parents. I didn’t think anyone at Winterbourne would really care what other people’s mums and dads did. I certainly wasn’t going to tell them anything about mine!

Mrs Bradbeer was going round the class at random. She seemed to be leaving me till last. Maybe, with any luck, the bell would ring and I wouldn’t have to do it.

“Millie?” said Mrs Bradbeer. “Shall we hear from you?”

The girl next to me sprang up.

“Millie O’Dowd,” she said. “One mum, one dad, three annoying little sisters. My mum’s called Sinead, my dad’s called Kevin, and my sisters are the Diddy People. Well, that’s what I call them. Dunno what else to say, really. Oh, except my mum’s a school dinner lady and my dad’s on the buses, only I’d better not say which one cos of people getting jealous and thinking bus drivers are greedy when they want more money.”

Someone gave a little titter. Mrs Bradbeer put a warning finger to her lips.

“That’s about it really,” said Millie. “I haven’t yet decided what my big ambition is, but hopefully I’ll end up a millionaire.”

This time lots of people tittered. Mrs Bradbeer said, “Thank you very much, Millie. Short and sweet and very pointed.”

Millie grinned at me again as she sat down. It was an impish sort of grin, like, ‘I enjoyed that!’ An uncertain silence had settled over the room. I could almost see people wrestling with the idea that someone should have a mum that was a dinner lady and a dad that was on the buses. I felt suddenly bold, and gave Millie a big grin in return. She mouthed at me: “You in a minute!”

I was still praying that the bell would ring and let me off, but no such luck.

“Peaches?” said Mrs Bradbeer with a kindly smile.

I dragged myself to my feet.

“Peaches McBride,” I said. Well, I mumbled it actually, hoping that maybe people wouldn’t hear. Stupid, really. They were obviously going to find out what my surname was as soon as the register was taken, though maybe if it was just read out along with a whole load of other names, no one would notice. No one would put two and two together and go, “Hey! That’s the name of that radio person’s daughter.” Cos Dad is quite well known, and just last year they’d done a thing about him in one of the newspapers. An article, with photographs. I’d done my best to hide behind Coop, but you could still see that I had blonde hair.

Fortunately it didn’t seem likely that anyone would have read the article, because after all, why should they? Probably none of them ever listened to the radio. It might be like some kind of god in my house, but I bet to most people it is ancient technology. And even if they did listen, they wouldn’t be listening to Dad. He is not at all cool.

Zoe, on the far side of the room, called across to me. “Speak louder!”

“Cheek,” muttered Millie.

Mrs Bradbeer nodded at me encouragingly. “Just a little bit more volume?”

For a moment I had wild thoughts of claiming to be an orphan, but that was a bit too mad even for me, so instead I gabbled really fast.

“I live with my mum and dad plus two brothers and two sisters with me being in the middle. We used to have some stick insects but they died and we never got any more. I have only one big ambition and that is to concentrate on just being me.” And then I said, “Thank you,” and sat down.

“Thank you,” said Mrs Bradbeer.

I could feel my cheeks pulsating. Zoe sniggered, and so did one or two others. I don’t think they’d have done it if she hadn’t. It was like they all followed her.

“That was OK,” whispered Millie.

I smiled weakly. I didn’t think it was OK. I thought it was just stupid. What had I gone and said thank you for? What was that all about?

There was only one person left, a girl called Janine who looked like a garden gnome. She was tiny and stubby with a completely round face like an apple and little black buttons for eyes. She bounced up as if she were on springs. She said, “I’m Mouse,” and everybody laughed. Well, everybody that had been at Juniors. Mouse was obviously popular. I wondered if I would ever be, but I thought probably not. You can’t really be popular if you are anonymous.

As Mouse finished telling us about herself – one brother, two cats, and her dad was a dentist – the bell rang, which meant we had to move on to our next lesson. I took out my timetable. Science, with Miss Jackman. As we left the classroom, Millie said, “Can I ask you something?”

I said, “Of course,” and at once became all tensed up, waiting for her to say, “Your dad isn’t that man on the radio, is he?”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Millie, “but who are you when you’re not being you?”

I was relieved she hadn’t asked about Dad, but didn’t quite understand what she meant. She was looking at me expectantly, her head cocked to one side. She had this very vivid face, all scrunched up and eager, with bright eyes that sparkled wickedly.

“You said you wanted to concentrate on being you?”

“Oh! Yes.” I was embarrassed. Of all the pathetic things to say! It had just slipped out, probably as a result of nerves. Shamefaced, I said, “It’s just sometimes I can’t quite decide who I really am?”

If that made any sense, which it almost certainly didn’t. This was not a good start! I’d only been at the school for about three hours and already I’d made a complete idiot of myself.

“What I mean,” I said lamely, “is it’s like I’m one person in my head and another person when I’m, like, with people, sort of thing.”

Like that made it any better. Probably just made me sound like a total lunatic. But Millie was nodding enthusiastically.

“Same here! It’s like sometimes when you hear yourself talking and you think, is this really me saying all that stuff? Or is this other one really me? This one that’s sitting back listening? And then you think, who is the real me? Who is the real anybody? How are you supposed to know?”

I thought that some people seemed to know OK. I couldn’t imagine any of my family stopping to ask themselves who they were.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I can’t make up my mind whether I’m just Peachy or whether there’s something more.”

Millie skipped out of the way as two huge Year 10s went lumbering past.

“Why just Peachy?” she said.

I’ve always been Just Peachy. Almost ever since I can remember.

“It’s what my family call me,” I said. “Well, it’s not what they actually call me. It’s not like a nickname or anything. It’s more what they say, like, ‘Oh, it’s just Peachy.’ Like there was this one time, when I was little, we’d gone to visit my gran…” Big Gran, it was. “I was clambering round the room on the furniture and I went and fell off and clonked my head and started howling, and Gran came rushing in wanting to know what had happened, and Mum said, ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to worry, it’s just Peachy.’”

“What did she say that for?” said Millie. “It seems a bit mean.”