Read Online Not Pretty Enough by Jaimie Admans - Free Book Online Page A

few days before you break up
for the summer holidays, you are going to sweat .
    I tried to get out of it, I
really did. As we walked up to the field with our forms this morning, I
pretended to fall down an imaginary pothole and sprain my ankle, but Miss Raine
just pretended she hadn’t seen me. Because she didn’t see it, she would’ve
thought I was faking it like I do to get out of any other sporting event.
    So I’ve chosen to do javelin and
long jump, because these require the least amount of running. Debs is doing
discus and javelin.
    I think I might have actually
found something athletic that I’m good at. Well, maybe good is too strong a
word, but something that I’m not completely rubbish at, at least. I can throw a javelin. We had it for games earlier this
week, and I actually threw mine farther than anybody else in the class,
including the boys. And, as an added bonus, I didn’t accidentally stab anyone
with it. It’s just a shame that Lloyd Layton wasn’t in our group to see my
achievement. I hope he’ll be there today. I think he will. He’s a total sports
freak so will undoubtedly be competing in every event.
    I’m right about that. Debs, Ewan
and I work our way around the field where all the events are set up and I spot
Lloyd and Darren’s names on every single sign-up form. Even the four hundred
metre race.
    That boy is insane.
    I don’t know why boys are so
attracted to sports. How can anyone actually choose to go running and jumping
instead of sitting on the grass and watching? Besides, don’t they say that being
a spectator is an event of its own? All that cheering people on should be
classed as exercise.
    Javelin, long jump and discus
aren’t until this afternoon so Debs and I have the whole morning to lounge
around on the grassy banks of the field and pretend that we’re cheering the
others on, when really we’re planning what we’re going to do over the summer
holidays.
    It’s only just after nine in the
morning and the first event of the day is the two hundred metre race. I keep my
eyes firmly on Lloyd as he lines up at the starting point with all the other
idiots who choose to run at this time of day. I bet none of them have a chance
against Lloyd with his long legs and affinity for sports in general. He must be
really fit. And he looks extra good when he’s all hot and sweaty.
    Mr Hursh is standing in the
middle of the track with a whistle, and as soon as he blows it, the six runners
take off. There are a few groups of six, whoever wins each group gets five
merit points, and whoever has the fastest overall time gets the prize. I have
no idea what the prize is because obviously I’ve never won an event, but I
think it might be vouchers for fitness equipment. Our school should make the
prizes more desirable and then maybe more people would compete. I might even
compete if the prize was a voucher for shoes or make-up or something even
remotely interesting.
    Lloyd is going like the clappers
around that track.
    “I’m worn out just watching,”
Debs says. “They should at least hold sports day in the winter when it’s not so
hot.”
    I agree. But then I guess it
would be wet and muddy instead. Perhaps we should suggest holding it in the
springtime to Miss Raine as a compromise.
    Lloyd and Darren are neck and
neck as they reach the finishing line, but Lloyd just makes it and wins the race.
    Wow.
    He’s so good.
    “I told you he’d win,” I say to
Debs.
    “Bigger isn’t always better, you
know,” she mutters.
    We both lay back on the grass,
worn out from shaking our fists and yelling, “Come on!” at the runners.
    “Hello, ladies,” says a very
familiar voice.
    Yikes. I sit up too fast and
turn my head around.
    I don’t believe it.
    A very hot, very sweaty Lloyd
Layton has sprawled on the grass near us, drinking out of a water bottle and
wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, which is either very gross or
like something out of a Diet Coke advert. I can’t decide