The Making of Mia Read Free Page B

Joe Bloggs T-shirt – turned away from her daughter and laughed into the phone, murmuring something distinctly sexual. Jo grimaced.
     She was on the phone to one of her men-friends then, most probably the one who sometimes gave her money for the final demands
     piling up by the front door.
    Jo stepped into the bathroom, where she pulled off the long shirt that doubled as a pyjama top, and heaved herself into the
     bath. Suddenly missing the school’s top-of-the-range power-showers, Jo made sure the plastic shower attachment was tightly
     gripped to the bath taps with rubber bands and let the sorry trickle of water wash over her body. As Jo soaped herself she
     kept her eyes on the flaking enamel of the bath that seemed to get worse every time she washed, and when that became too depressing
     she squeezed them tight, desperate to think about anything but her looming grades and how she should have forgotten about
Saint
for a month or two while she revised.
    In her fantasy Jo became a model in a shower-gel commercial – all leggy with cascading dark hair that shone like glass as
     the water glossed over it. Jo shook her head, and as her hair touched her back she felt like the girl she knew she was, inside
     her extra padding. She could be sexy, she could be flirtatious, and she imagined the make-believe cameraman finding her irresistible.
     As he began to wink at her, Jo turned the other way, flashing her bottom at him while imagining him telling her she was beautiful.
     Jo began to smile despite her shower starting to run cold, and just as she was workingout if the cameraman looked like George Clooney or Russell Crowe in
Gladiator
, her mum’s pissed-off voice broke through the daydream.
    ‘Joanne, your posh friend’s on the phone for ya.’
    For a second Jo was disappointed that she’d turned back into a sad, overweight teenager holding a grubby white shower attachment
     over her head, but she chose not to let it bother her. It was results time.
    ‘Amelia? Hello, is that you?’ The moment she said the words Jo felt stupid, as nobody apart from Amelia ever phoned her. She
     squirmed under the small threadbare towel that didn’t hide her body properly.
    ‘Yah, Jo, hi,’ Amelia said perkily down the phone, and in the background Jo could hear squeals of delight coming from her
     former classmates. Obviously everyone had done well.
    ‘So …?’ Jo was frantic, and couldn’t be bothered with small talk. There would be time for that later.
    ‘Three As and a B,’ Amelia said proudly, and Jo welled up with pleasure – she was going to Edinburgh! Except … she had only
     taken three A-levels. Jo’s brow furrowed slightly, and she realised there was silence at the other end of the phone. Suddenly
     she understood.
    ‘Ames, that’s brilliant, well done,’ Jo gushed, hoping her disappointment wasn’t showing. Amelia deserved good grades. She’d
     worked hard.
    ‘I know!’ Amelia squealed. ‘Would have been top of the year but Susie got
four As.’ Jo’s grin faded and anger threatened to spill out. How had Susie – the girl who spent every evening organising
     her clothes – passed? Had she plagiarised her essays? Jo didn’t think Susie was that smart. It was a backhander from her father,
     most probably. Jo sniffed. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?
    ‘So what about me?’ Jo held her breath – she could barely stand it.
    Amelia cleared her throat and Jo instantly knew it was bad news.
    ‘Just tell me. It doesn’t matter.’
    ‘You got a D in English Lit,’ Amelia began, and Jo made a small choking noise. Amelia hurried on, anxious to make Jo feel
     better.
    ‘But you got a C in General Studies, and a C in History of Art, too.’
    Jo was stunned, and she could feel the blood draining from her face.
    Amelia rushed on. ‘I spoke to Mrs Wickham and she says you can appeal if you want to, but there’s not much chance of your
     grades changing. I think she’s a bit annoyed that Bedales beat us in