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she said, pointing down at the page in my book. I didn’t need to look up to know that the whole class was laughing. I was still on the simple stuff; they were way ahead of me now.
    One day, when the maths teacher was out of the room, the other kids started on me. Even though Mrs Wright was sat by my side, they just ignored her. Instead, a freckle-faced boy sauntered over and asked if he could borrow a pen.
    ‘No,’ I replied curtly. ‘Go away.’
    But he wasn’t giving up.
    ‘Come on, Mophead, lend us a pen,’ he taunted. He looked back at the rest of the class, who began to laugh.
    ‘Don’t be tight. I bet you’ve got loads in there, let me have a look,’ he said, grabbing my pencil case up off the desk.
    ‘Give it back,’ I demanded, but he ignored me.
    ‘God, Moppy’s got tons of posh pens in here! Hey, who wants one?’
    A load of hands shot up into the air.
    I looked at Mrs Wright for support. I waited for her to sayor do something but instead she just sat there. Then she did something that stole my breath – she turned away. The boy saw it. He knew he’d won – he was in charge here now.
    ‘Hey, who wants a pen?’ he said, throwing the pencil case across the classroom. It sailed high above the heads of the other children and came crashing to the ground with a thud.
    ‘Don’t,’ I called, ‘you’ll break them.’
    I looked to Mrs Wright but she refused to get involved. My heart sank – I was on my own.
    ‘Ooh, don’t break Mophead’s precious pens now!’ the boy mimicked in a high-pitched voice. It made everyone giggle.
    Someone picked up the pencil case and threw it again. It happened over and over. I tried to catch it but it was useless by now, the whole class was in on it.
    ‘Urrghh!’ one of the popular girls shrieked, ‘don’t throw it to me!’ She pushed the pencil case off her desk in disgust. ‘I might catch something.’
    Tears pricked behind my eyes. No one cared about my stuff – it was disposable, just like me. To everyone else they were only pens but to me they were special because my mum had bought them. She knew how much I loved writing so she’d got some fancy pens to encourage me. But no one cared about me or my feelings, not even the teacher.
    Wearily, I flopped down into my plastic chair and waited for them to tire of their silly game. But the pencil case continued to fly through the air. I looked to the support teacher, tears brimming in my eyes, but she wouldn’t even look at me. She wasn’t going to help; no one was. This was my life now – I was a target for everyone to poke fun at.
    I didn’t fit in here and I never would. It was a different school – a new start – but I still wore the wrong shoes. Mytrousers were too tight and I carried my books in a backpack instead of a girly shoulder bag. I wasn’t into fashion and it showed. Part of me wanted to fit in but another part didn’t because deep down, I didn’t want to be like them: I knew they were shallow and horrible.
    Mum continued to spray my hair and it soon became so frazzled that even she agreed something had to be done.
    ‘We’re going to the hairdresser,’ she announced one night after school. ‘We need to sort out your hair.’
    I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Was I really that repulsive and stupid? I didn’t know anymore. The bullies had chipped away what little confidence I had left.
    My hair looked dry and coarse and I tried to pull my fingers through it, but every time I did, they just snagged the ends. It was so brittle, it was beginning to snap off. Mum was right, something had to be done.
    The following day was a Saturday, so we caught the bus into town and walked into a nearby hair salon. The shop was packed and suddenly I felt very conscious of my straw-yellow hair. It looked as if I’d poured a bucket of custard over my head.
    A young girl approached us breezily. She looked at me and tried not to laugh – it was obvious she’d seen it all before.
    ‘I