When Nothing is Ever Simple

CHAPTER ONE

Some people lead such simple lives. You know, those rare few who seem to sail through life without putting in any effort, while the rest of us look on with longing, or envy, or pure hatred. Freya Richardson is one of those people. Pretty, a great house, her parents are together, she somehow manages to be popular with most of the teachers and she's always surrounded by friends. She's like that Barbie doll you see in a TV advert when you're six years old which never turns up in your Christmas stocking.
Everyone wants an opportunity like Freya Richardson to turn up, wrapped in pretty gold paper, in their stocking. I know I do.  But enough about Freya Richardson. I'm just using her flawless life as a comparison to my stressful, chaotic one. Taking care of my six out-of-control little sisters twenty-four seven is not a piece of cake.

Maths is simple, I think to myself, glancing up at the board of equations and half listening to Mr. McCann jabbering on about inequalities. I tune out completely from the teacher's voice as I flit between thoughts. I already know what he's talking about anyway, we've been through it enough times. Maths comes easily to me but I struggle with some of the more creative subjects.
The bell rings, shocking me out of the crazy labyrinth of jumbled memories and thoughts circling my head. I take my time, collecting my books and pencils with deliberation, as I watch my class exit the room. Some have confidence like Freya, some are laughing, some are in huddles, some look half asleep, some just look immensely relieved to be out of double maths.
I wait until Sam Mullins leaves the room. His piercing green eyes are distant and distracted as usual. His tousled inky-black hair is untidy and all over the place, as is his school uniform. But that is the reason I am attracted to Sam Mullins. He's not picture-perfect, his teeth aren't porcelain white, his hair isn't coiffed and he isn't on the school football team like all the other boys the girls in my year lust over are. Take Avery Connelly. He has all of the above and has Freya Richardson as his girlfriend.
"Are you hoping to spend a further fifty minutes doing more questions from the textbook with me Jade?" Mr. McCann gets up from his desk and smirks at me, under the impression he's just said something really funny.
I sigh inwardly, roll my eyes and get up to leave the classroom, knowing I will never have the confidence to talk to Sam. He probably thinks I'm a nerd with nothing to say like everyone else does. I'm not exactly Little Miss Popular.

We moved from our decent-sized flat on the outskirts of Manchester to the city centre a couple of years ago when I was halfway through year nine. All the girls were in their tight-knit groups and it was hard for me to break in. I tried for about a week, being friendly and dropping in witty comments to liven up some of their mundane conversations about the latest make-up brand, boys who don't call back and who said what about who. All I got in return were weird looks and views of people's backs. So I decided I couldn't be bothered and retreated to the library where I make meal plans, shopping lists and do my coursework because I never have time at home, being a full-time mother. I look after the girls because usually Mum is normally either too tired, too drunk, too, depressed or she just can't be bothered.

On my way to the library, I pass the canteen where most of year eleven hang out. Maybe I would join them but what's the use now? Where would I even sit for that matter? Each clique sit at the same table every lunchtime and I'm not really in a clique. I just drift, always on the fringes of other groups.

The popular girls, clones of Freya Richardson, cluster around the circular table by the tall window, never far from Avery Connelly and the rest of the football team who loiter by the food counter and never sit down. The geeky, science types sit at the long rectangular table in the corner poring over their dog-eared school textbooks. I'm okay at maths and science but I don't exactly fit into that category.

Those wannabe kids who strive to be popular and think they're cool because they yell out stupid comments in class and are always laughing loudly about nothing sit round a table near Freya and her cronies. The Asian kids all huddle together round two of the tables in the middle of the canteen, talking in foreign languages. The extra kids who are forced together because they have no one else to hang out with sit around a table, struggling to know what to say to each other. And finally the ordinary, middle-ranking kids sit on the squashy black sofas near the back of the cafeteria, the kind of group I used to fit into when I lived in Stockport.
I pause briefly and Cara Simone gives me a withering look. Cara Simone is on the periphery of Freya's clique. Maybe the reason she isn't quite 'in' is because everyone knows what a bitch she can be to everyone. I'm quite thick-skinned so I don't let her get to me, but I've seen countless girls crying in the loos, wondering if they're too this or too that, because of Cara's regular diatribes.
"Look there's Jade."
"What's she doing just standing there?"
"She's such a creep, staring at us like that."
I don't let her get to me. Tears prick my eyes but I brush them away hurriedly, telling myself they're not worth the bother.
I cram for a science controlled assessment which is next period and eat my sandwiches in the library, alone as usual. The chocolate spread is somewhat thin on the ground. Unfortunately, I'd got the dregs of the jar because I'd used up most of it on the girls' sandwiches and generally the corner shop isn't open at twelve am on a Tuesday night.
I'd been so tired, having spent an hour getting the over-excited twins to bed then having to work on my Spanish essay for a further hour and a half. Mum had been out doing God knows what and was getting back at God knows what time. I'd finally got into bed at approaching twelve before realising with a sinking heart that I hadn't made the lunches for tomorrow. I had stumbled off the mattress, careful not to wake the twins and blearily prepared sandwiches, throwing in random snacks from the cupboard, barely knowing what I was doing.