Chapter 1 (undecided title)

“My name is Kathryn Isola and I am a virgin” - this is what I am often forced to say by the people at school. I am 16 and have never experienced love or affection and it certainly has never been felt towards me.



I am used to the abuse that I am the victim of, and have been for many years. I am different, why else would they hate me? People say that hate is such a strong word and that you could never hate someone, but they hate me – they tell me every day. I am French (as you can probably guess by my surname) and I am often targeted for that reason alone. It is my own fault though; I came to school wearing a beret because my mother had bought me it for my birthday and I fell in love with it. I had one before of course, but it had turned scruffy so I abandoned it.



“You have to have a beret for when we go to Calais in the summer,” she said.



So she bought me one from a French boutique in town. The boutique is called “la vogue” which is painted in an elegant white font with a shiny black background, above the glass doors, which are so clear that you could walk straight into them. The boutique is long but narrow with mannequins stood confidently in the window, wearing glamorous dresses and heels. The clothes are hung in an orderly fashion against the walls, which are the colour of strawberries. In the middle of the boutique are round glass tables covered in bags and accessories. It is truly my favourite place of all time.





I am not just disliked for my nationality though; I don’t look like anyone else in my school. I am distinct, and in England, you have to blend in in order to make friends. My curly black hair touches my bum and my fringe is thick and hides my forehead. This would not be a problem if I was not so pale and with naturally rosy cheeks, it does not get better. I am 5’9 and am often renounced as “the green giant,” despite the fact that I am not green.



Where I live, it is not uncommon for teenagers to be getting pregnant. I think it is the fact that I have never had an abortion that makes me a freak. Not just that, but I have never had a boyfriend either. The girls in my year go from boy to boy – I did not know the world had so many boys to go around! If you see a fifteen-year-old girl with a pram, it is normal. In fact, it is seen as more worrying if the girl is over 25!



I only have one friend; she is called Phoebe. Again, she has not been accepted as “normal” in my school. She has short red hair with blue eyes and freckles scattered across her soft, white cheeks. Phoebe is the opposite of me; she is short with thick-rimmed glasses and large hips. She gets called names for having red hair. Phoebe is very pretty but her A* grades hold her back. She dreams of being a scientist, this is another problem for her. The fact that she gets excited about doing experiments and looking through microscopes at little shapes, which have no value to anyone else, makes her different. It is absurd that being clever and having dreams makes you un-cool.



My dream is to become a writer. I adore every aspect of language; both French and English. When I have studied at university, I want to move to Paris to write books and plays. I am determined for them to be rein acted in London, like Romeo and Juliet for example. I am inspired by Shakespeare, which makes me weird apparently. I get called “book worm” and “Mrs Shakespeare” in English class because I get so in to the books we study that I just cannot help but share my love.



Phoebe does not read; she would rather be more practical. When I say practical, I mean anything but sport. I look so ugly in my bright yellow polo shirt, pleated blue knee-length skirt and white Umbro trainers. All the other girls wear Nike or Adidas trainers and their skirts as belts to show their orange legs. The top button is always undone on the shirt. It is horrible getting changed with other girls; the first day I did PE I felt so uncomfortable as everyone had claimed their spot in the changing rooms and I had to find who would be best to be stuck with. I noticed a free spot in the back changing room so went there. Bad choice – all the popular girls go in here! As I pulled down my trousers on the first day, I heard giggles.



“Nice underwear, Kathy,” Ashleigh sniggered, looking me up and down. Other girls turned to look and laughed as well.



Ashleigh is my main problem; she has straight blonde hair with big brown eyes, which are coated in mascara and eyeliner. Her lips are a bright, glossy pink and she wears skirts with no tights. She has the stomach of an ironing board but has large boobs, which get her the attention from the guys.



I was wearing my pink knickers with little white sheep on them. What’s wrong with them, I thought. I then realised that the majority of other girls had either thongs or French knickers on.



The actual PE lesson was worse; we had to play netball in the freezing cold. My hands were pink and numb so whenever the ball was flung at me, I dropped it. Girls swore at me and complained how useless I am. I made a tactic of running away from the ball but this failed.



“Katherine!” Ashleigh screamed, signalling that she was going to throw the ball at me, despite the fact that I was nowhere near her. I turned and bang! – I was on the floor.



“You are useless, you silly French cow with your baby panties!” She yelled, grabbing the ball from next to my face and continuing with the game.



No one sympathised; they just looked at me. I was the ugly duckling and Ashleigh was my mother; she did not want me, as I am different to the other ducks, the other girls.