“If I must,” I groan.
Meg plugs in her tongs. They’re an ancient set she got off a friend at our old school. The heating element on them doesn’t work properly – they get super-hot, super quickly – so Meg doesn’t use them much, mostly only for special occasions, like tonight.
Beth slips away to help Mum with supper and Meg sits in front of the little mirror at the dressing table. I’ve heated the tongs and I start working my way around Meg’s head, winding her hair around the handles.
Meg pores over her phone. I can’t see what she’s looking at, but she’s totally absorbed. I take another strand of hair and apply the tongs, but my thoughts start drifting to Rodriguo and Rachel. Perhaps he should actually attempt to break into her boarding school – maybe by climbing up on to the roof and letting himself down through the chimney.
Suppose he picked a chimney that was being lit for a fire. He could climb halfway down, dirty and choking on the soot, before the smoke started to rise. Then it would be a desperate race against time to make it back up and out of the chimney before the fire took hold.
I can see him now, his dark hair clamped to his forehead with sweat, love for Rachel spurring him on. It’s a scene so vivid I can almost smell the fire nipping at his heels, his heart pounding as he—
“Jo! Jo!” Meg’s cry hauls me back from my dream world. I jump and look down at the tongs. To my horror, a thin curl of smoke rises from the hair still tightly wound round the handles.
“What’s that smell?” Meg shrieks, as the unmistakable aroma of burning hair fills the room.
Meg jumps up, pulling away from me. I drop the tongs, my eyes fixed on Meg’s soft blonde waves. She clutches her scalp and, to our horror, a few long, blonde strands come away in her fingers. The hair on the rest of her head looks frizzy and wild.
“You’ve burned my hair, you idiot!” she yells.
“It’s not that bad,” I say. “Hardly even notice—”
“What’s happened?” Amy flies into the room, her eyes thrilling to the drama.
Beth and Mum are right behind her. “What on earth?” Mum says.
“Look!” Meg gestures dramatically to the back of her head.
“It’s nothing,” I insist.
The others crowd around.
Beth claps her hand over her mouth.
“Your hair is ruined, Meg,” Amy says with theatrical relish. “Totally ruined.”
Chapter 4
Of course, Meg’s hair isn’t ruined. It actually looks quite pretty once Mum has curled the rest and put a couple of strategic pins in place. Trust Meg to be able to pull off singed hair. But it doesn’t stop her from complaining about how clumsy I am the whole way to the party.
After dreading the whole idea of Sallie Gardiner’s party, I’m pleasantly surprised when we turn up at her house and find it full of ordinary-looking girls and plenty of boys, all my age or Meg’s.
“What a relief,” Meg whispers, as Mrs Gardiner leaves us in the hallway in order to seek out Sallie. “I can’t see a single designer outfit.”
I shrug. I wouldn’t know a designer outfit if it bit me. Still, Meg’s right. The kids here seem a lot like the ones back at our old school. And, though none of the Gardiner’s furniture is as threadbare or shabby as ours, the sofa and chairs I can see through the open door opposite look comfortable and lived-in, not anything like the stark, minimalist styles I was expecting.
Meg rests her hand on my shoulder for balance while she quickly switches her shoes. As she slips on the high heels hidden in her bag, Sallie Gardiner appears, with a smile on her face and two cute little boys about two years old, in matching dungarees.
“Hello,” Meg says, her face lighting up – she loves kids. She bends down to talk to the toddlers. “What are your names?”
The boys smile, blinking up at her.
“Meg, meet Tom and Ted,” Sallie explains. “My twin brothers. They’ve got to go to bed, but Mum’s letting me show them to everyone first. Aren’t they cute?”
I roll my eyes. Sallie makes them sound like a couple of fashion accessories.
“Oh, they are so adorable.” Meg chatters away to the little boys, making silly faces at each one in turn – which makes them laugh – then glancing up at Sallie. “I love your dress and those earrings.”
I sneak away and drift outside into the big garden, lit on both sides with fairy lights, and that’s when I see Lateef. He’s standing and chatting with a tall, blond boy whose curls glint in the lights from the house. It’s chilly out here and my breath mists in front of my face. Lateef looks over and sees me. He grins like we’ve known each other for ever, and I smile back, filling with delight that he’s here. Lateef grabs the other boy by the arm and leads him over.
“Hey,” I say.
“Jo March, we were just talking about you,” Lateef says.
The tall blond boy laughs. “Lateef’s hardly stopped,” he says, and Lateef pokes him in the chest.
“I was saying how cool it is to have a bunch of girls in our road,” Lateef goes on. “It’s so boring at home, especially when Uncle Jim makes me stay in just because of a stupid cold.” I notice that the tip of his nose is a bit pink. “That’s why I haven’t been round. By the way, this is Tiny.” Lateef indicates the boy beside him. I wonder, vaguely, why he’s called Tiny when he’s so tall. Then I realize that, of course, is the joke and I’m glad I didn’t ask my question out loud.
“How many sisters do you have?” Tiny asks, ruffling his untidy hair. His voice is surprisingly deep.
“Three,” I say. “Meg’s the only one here tonight – she’s inside.” I indicate back to the house. “The others are at home.”
“Wow,” Tiny says. “That’s a lot of you. Er, wow.”
Lateef pokes him in the chest again. “Jo March doesn’t have a drink,” he points out.
“I’ll get you one,” Tiny offers quickly, and disappears into the crowd before I can thank him.
“Tiny’s really excited you’re here.” Lateef looks straight at me, his dark brown eyes sparkling. We’re almost the same height; Lateef barely a centimetre or two taller. “I am too. I was hoping you’d be at this party, Jo March.”
Embarrassed, I shrug. “Why do you keep calling me Jo March, like … my whole name?”
Now it’s Lateef’s turn to shrug. “Dunno really, maybe ’cos I think it’s the coolest name I’ve ever heard. For the coolest person.” He laughs. There’s no awkwardness in his manner. No hint of shyness. I think he might be the most straightforward person I’ve ever met. And maybe the most charming.
“I’m not that cool,” I say.
“I would disagree,” Lateef says. “But the name’s got to help. And you’re a writer, which makes you even cooler. What d’you want to write?”
So, he’s remembered. I hesitate. Normally when people ask me that question I fumble around, keeping it vague, only half-answering. Normally I don’t want to expose my dreams, to risk the questioner trampling on them. But today I reply with the truth.
“I want to write a really great novel,” I say. “One that means something, that matters, that people remember.”
“OK,” Lateef says, his eyes locked on mine, his voice totally matter-of-fact and sincere. “And I’m sure you will, Jo March.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you can do anything.” He glances back at the house, just as Tiny reappears clutching three cans of lemonade. “And because you’ve obviously got a great family behind you. Your mum was so cool, at the refugee lunch. Everyone I spoke to said what a great listener she was. And I’ve seen you walking along our street with your sisters – you’re always laughing like you’re having a great time.”
I stare at him. I had no idea he was paying us so much attention. “We get on each other’s nerves a lot too,” I point out. “So what happened to your family back in Iraq?” As soon as the words are out I flush. I might feel like I’ve known Lateef for ever, but I know enough from things Mum and Dad
have told me to know that the answer to my question may be unthinkably horrific.
A brief look of pain crosses Lateef’s expressive face and I inwardly curse my runaway tongue. “My family didn’t make it from home,” he says quietly. “My parents sent me and my brothers on ahead on a boat, but I’m the only one who got here.”
“Oh my … that’s … that’s awful.” I wince as I speak. “I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine,” Lateef says quickly. “You don’t have to know what to say. Yes, it was … is awful. But I’m lucky. Like I told you, Uncle Jim fostered me, then adopted me so I’m—”
“Here you are.” Tiny comes over and hands me a lemonade. He spills a little as he drinks from his own can, wiping his mouth afterwards self-consciously, then launches into a rant about the music playing inside and how mainstream and awful it is, and how Sallie should have asked him to DJ instead. I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Lateef losing his entire family and having to have to start again in a strange new country with a different language and a whole other culture.
Until this moment I’d thought that my life was full of incident and adventure, from the squabbles with my sisters to the upheaval of moving last month and the daily fears for Dad, on the other side of the world in a war zone. But now I realize that compared to Lateef, nothing very significant has happened to me at all.
An hour or two pass. Lateef and I talk about everything from the music we like – both of us are into indie dance stuff – and the school I’m about to start at, which Lateef already goes to and claims rather vaguely is “OK, if you like that sort of thing”. We talk about Meg, Beth and Amy too. A lot. Lateef – who has never had any sisters himself – seems fascinated by the idea of my all-girl family.
It gets too cold to stand outside any longer so we go back inside, where Lateef introduces me to a bunch of teenagers from the town, most of whom go to the same school as Lateef and – soon – me. I spot Meg with Sallie Gardiner and some other girls, laughing and talking. Her cheeks are pink as she waves at me. I lose sight of her for about an hour or so until she appears at my elbow, her forehead creased and her eyes dark with pain.
“Jo” she hisses, tugging my arm and pulling me to one side. “Look!”
I peer down. The heel of one silver sandal has snapped half off and is hanging by what looks like a thin thread of cloth and glue.
“They’re ruined,” I say.
“I know.” Meg grimaces. “But it’s my ankle. It really hurts.”
I open my mouth to point out that if she will wear such stupid shoes she’s bound to end up twisting her ankle, then stop myself. Meg’s face is white as milk. She must really be in pain.
“Can you make it home?” I ask.
Meg bites her lip. “I’m not sure,” she whispers.
“I’ll help,” Lateef offers, putting down his drink. He’s been watching us with interest. “It’s only a few streets and if you put your arms around me and Jo, you can keep the weight off your foot.”
Meg looks at him, uncertain. “What about the party?”
Lateef shrugs. “It’ll finish soon anyway. Sallie told me. Her parents were really strict about it ending at eleven.”
“OK. Thank you,” Meg says, her face flushing with relief.
“It’s fine.” Lateef waves away her thanks. “I promised Uncle Jim I’d be home early ’cos of my cold.”
“Plus…” I wink at him. “Plus, Lateef can’t get enough of us, can you, Lateef?”
“Busted.” Lateef grins at me. “You ready, Jo March?”
We get home in about fifteen minutes. I’ve wondered a few times since meeting Lateef exactly where on Fishtail Lane he lives. It’s a fairly long road and – though our own little cottage is almost on the pavement with its tiny, paved front yard – most of the houses here are twice as big and set back from the road behind gravel drives and banks of trees.
“Want to know which one’s mine?” Lateef asks, as though reading my mind.
I nod. Lateef points across the road and my jaw drops. The house he’s indicating is almost opposite our own, but it’s so secluded behind a row of tall trees and a gravel drive and so massive that I had previously only noticed the row of top windows and assumed they belonged to some kind of institutional building.
Mum appears as Meg limps through our hallway, her eyes immediately alight with concern. I’m suddenly aware of how small and narrow the hall is, especially with all our coats and scarves bulging out from their pegs on the wall, but Lateef doesn’t seem to notice.
“Hello, Mrs March,” he says with a smile. “I’m Lateef, we met at the refugee Christmas lunch. Poor Meg tripped and twisted her ankle, so I helped Jo walk her home.”
“Thank you, Lateef.” Mum smiles back. She turns to Meg, who winces as she places her injured foot on the bottom step. “Oh, goodness, Meg, you poor love. Why don’t you rest on the sofa for a bit before attempting the stairs?”
As Mum helps Meg into the living room, Lateef hovers in the hallway. “I’ll say goodnight, then. Will you come over and visit soon?” He points through the open doorway, across to his house. “My room’s the last one at the top there.”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.” I watch him cross the road, then I shut the door and wander up the stairs.
The bedroom I share with Meg is at the front of our cottage. The window is small but I open it and lean out, looking across to the top of Lateef’s house. The room at the end is lit up. Lateef’s room. I reach for my phone and flash the torch on and off a couple of times.
I’ve got no reason to think he’ll either understand or respond. But, somehow I’m sure he will. I watch and wait. And then, just a few seconds later, the light in the room goes off and then on again a few times in quick succession. He got it, I think to myself, beaming. And then I realize how natural that feels – like, of course Lateef got it.
He was bound to get it because, even though we’ve hardly spent any time together, he somehow understands me like he’s known me all my life.
Chapter 5
I’m hunched over my laptop, fingers flying as I write. I only stop, brimming with impatience, to pummel the stupid, sticky r key. In real life I’m on my bed but in my imagination I’m with Rodriguo. My heart races as I picture him tip-toeing through Rachel’s boarding school, trying to find her dormitory. Meanwhile, Rachel herself is trying to escape out of the window. One of the teachers spots her but as he goes to stop her, he sees Rodriguo and goes after him instead. Rodriguo hears the floor creak and he spins around, dropping his torch. The corridor is plunged into darkness and a harsh voice in the shadows calls out: “Stop! Who’s there! I have a gun!”
“Jo! Jo!”
I look up. Mum is standing over me, shaking her head fondly.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” she asks. There is affection as well as exasperation in her voice.
I stare at her, still immersed in Rodriguo’s plight. I’ve half a mind to let him be shot – just a graze – something that means Rachel will have to put her own escape plan on hold. Though any kind of wound will make it harder for them to get away, of course. To be honest I’m putting off their escape from the school because I don’t know what will come after it.
Mum sits down at the end of the bed. The window beyond is frosted with white sparkles, a line of condensation creating what look like bubbles along the bottom of the glass.
“Aunt Em rang,” Mum says. “She wants you to pick up her order of silk cushions from Aspen’s on the High Street.”
“She wants me to go there now?” I groan.
“Yes, she’s got friends coming round to play bridge and she needs the cushions, apparently. You’ve got just under an hour to get to the shop, then drop the cushions at her house, so—”
“But I’m writing,” I mutter resentfully. “Can’t one of the others go?”
Mum folds her arms and gives me one of her sterner looks. “Jo. You said you’d run errands for Aunt Em when we moved here.”
“But—”
“Meg helps with the cooking and the laundry, Beth cleans the bathroom and Amy loads the dishwasher and takes out the rubbish.” Mum’s tone is gentle but steely. “You’re the one who suggested helping out Aunt Em. You said you wanted something to get you out of the house.”
“It’s not fair,” I protest. “Aunt Em’s a dictator.”
“No, she’s not,” says Mum. “She’s super busy at work which makes her stressed, then she comes home and she’s lonely and isolated in that big house of hers. Plus…”
She lets her sentence trail off but I know what she was going to say. Plus, she lent us the deposit to rent this house. We owe her.
I sit back. Dad’s older sister, Emmeline March, only ever known as Aunt Em by all of us, used to terrify me when I was little. She still does scare Beth. All pursed lips and disapproving attitude. I don’t find her scary any more - just difficult and cranky. She’s totally dedicated to her career as the marketing director of a big finance company and she’s always buying expensive stuff for herself and her house – though she often makes out money is tight.
“Aspen’s is on the left bit of the High Street. Just a couple of minutes past the library and almost opposite Tesco’s,” Mum goes on. “If you leave now you’ll be back within the hour.” She pats my knee. “Go on.”
In spite of my objections, it’s actually nice to be outside, the cold air crisp and fresh in my lungs. I hurry towards the High Street, tugging my tartan cap over my ears. It’s not technically my cap; Meg and I found it in the back of our wardrobe when we moved. Meg shrieked and pronounced it “beyond hideous” but I think it’s kind of jaunty.
The centre of Ringstone is completely different from the neighbourhood in London where we used to live. For a start, there’s a proper town centre with a clock tower at the main junction and a High Street running through it. To the east, where we live, a lot of the shops are boarded up. I pass a pound store and a grocery shop, the sun glinting off their dirty windows. Beyond the clock tower, towards West Ringstone, the shops are smarter and more brightly coloured with fresh paint on the doors and window frames. This is where I’m going to find Aspen’s. I pass little boutiques stuffed with old-lady dresses, a kitchen shop with a row of those brightly coloured mixers they use on Bake Off in the window and two jewellers next door to each other.
Becoming Jo Page 3