Becoming Jo

by Sophie MacKenzie

  I purse my lips. Maybe she’s right about Lateef but I need to be sure. The awful things the girls said are burned into my brain, and I couldn’t bear it if Lateef felt the same, even for a minute. I need to speak to him and find out.

  Lateef answers the door when I ring on the bell. He eyes me with concern. “Are you feeling better? I was going to come over later and check on you.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I just wanted to see you.”

  “We spent the whole weekend together,” he says with a chuckle. “Not that I’m complaining. What d’you want to do? Movie? Music? Park?”

  His eyes sparkle as he waits for my answer. Surely he wouldn’t look at me like that if thought I was just interested in his money?

  I wrinkle my nose. “Let’s just hang out, see what happens. It’s nice just being the two of us instead of a big crowd.”

  “’Course it is,” Lateef says. “That’s because I’m the best.”

  “Bighead,” I grin, following him through the hall and up the stairs.

  We go into Lateef’s bedroom and flop down on the sofa. Lateef idly picks up one of the Xbox controllers on the table in front of him and sets up a game. I don’t even notice which one. I try to join in, but my heart isn’t in it.

  Now I’m here it’s not so easy to bring up the subject of money.

  After a few minutes Lateef sets down his controller and turns to me. “Are you sure you’re OK? You seem … I dunno, really down. Are you still feeling ill?” He looks at me uneasily. “You’re not going to be sick are you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, then – did something happen at the festival? At the end?” He moves a little closer. “Did one of the girls say something?”

  I stare into his eyes, so full of affection and concern. Trust my best friend to have sensed what’s really troubling me.

  I shrug. “Yeah, there was the odd bitchy comment…” I affect a yawn. “You know what happens when people are in groups.”

  Lateef narrows his eyes. “It was Zoe Carpenter, wasn’t it? She said something nasty?”

  I look away, my face flushing. “What makes you think that?”

  “Dunno,” he says thoughtfully. “I think she likes stirring things up, getting attention by saying outrageous things.”

  “She certainly does,” I mutter.

  “Well?” Lateef persists. “What did she say?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” And suddenly I realize that’s the truth. It’s not just that it feels really awkward to bring up the subject of money; there’s no point in going into all the details. Meg was right about that. It will only upset him. Maybe even plant the seed of a worry that I am only friends with him in order to get access to all the nice stuff he has. I need to forget all about Zoe and Sallie and their stupid opinions.

  “Are you sure?” Lateef asks. “Because you’re my … my friend, and if you’re upset then I want to know … to help…” He trails off, his expression suddenly serious.

  I stare at him, a lump in my throat. We’re sitting so close to each other that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

  “It was just a stupid thing,” I stammer.

  Lateef nods. “Go on…”

  “Just…” I reach out impulsively and take his hand. “You know that I like you for you, don’t you?” I gesture around his room. “It’s cool that you have nice stuff, but it’s you I like.”

  Lateef gazes at me, an expression I can’t read on his face. Normally I know exactly what he’s thinking. He leans closer to me, like he’s about to whisper in my ear.

  “Jo! Jo!” It’s Amy’s voice, followed by the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. She bursts into the bedroom and Lateef and I spring apart. She’s waving my phone – which I left charging in my room – and grinning from ear to ear. Beth is close behind her, flushed and excited.

  “Your Tallulah story’s gone viral!” Amy gasps. “The one about the parrot and the funfair. It’s got, like, hundreds of hits just in the past two days.”

  I turn to Beth, who is nodding, her eyes shining. “It’s true. Your phone rang just now. Amy answered and—”

  “And it was a publisher!” Amy finishes, grabbing my arm. “Someone called Marianne Steiner. She said she’s an editor at a big London publishing house for children’s books and she wants to talk to you about your story!”

  My jaw drops.

  “That’s amazing!” Lateef is on his feet beside us. He pulls me towards him in a bear hug. “I knew your greatness would be recognized, Jo March.”

  Amy thrusts the phone at me. “You have to call her back. Now!”

  Chapter 4

  I shut myself in my room to make the call.

  “Marianne Steiner.” There’s a crisp, upper-class edge to her voice.

  “Hi,” I say. “This is Jo March. I, er, I think you called me earlier?”

  “Ah, Jo, thanks for calling back,” she says, her voice immediately warm and assured. “I got your details from your blog – I hope you don’t mind me calling?”

  “No,” I say. “No, I don’t mind at all. But I don’t really understand why you—”

  “Let me explain.” Marianne clears her throat. “I’ve been setting up a new website aimed at young teenagers in the UK called Teen Spiral. Have you heard of it?”

  “Er, no,” I confess.

  “Not surprising,” Marianne says briskly. “We only went live a few months ago but the site is getting lots of attention and great feedback. We’re adding new segments all the time.”

  “I see,” I say, though to be honest I’m still completely confused. What does any of this have to do with my Tallulah stories?

  “We’re looking to introduce a new strand to our fiction section called, ‘Our Stories, Ourselves’,” Marianne goes on. “That is, short stories written by teenagers for teenagers. I’ve had a look at one of your blog posts and asked a number of people, including our teenage focus groups, to read the story. Everyone was very impressed by your writing.”

  “Really?” My pulse quickens. That explains all the recent hits.

  “Yes.” Marianne sounds like she’s smiling. “We’d like to invite you to submit a story.”

  “One of my Tallulah stories?” My head feels like it might burst with excitement.

  “No, not exactly.” Marianne clears her throat again. “As I say, everyone on the Spiral team was very impressed by your writing, but we’re looking for fiction that’s a little more realistic. More true to life.”

  “You mean, like, Tallulah but without special powers?” I ask.

  “It’s not that so much.” Marianne hesitates. “More just that if you’re writing about the experiences of a contemporary girl, it would be good to make those experiences feel real, like they could happen to you, to our readers…”

  “Oh,” I say. “I see.”

  I think for a moment. I love Tallulah, and I feel a bit nervous about writing what Marianne suggests – something true to life. My stories have always been full of imaginary heroes and villains. On the other hand this Teen Spiral website sounds like it will reach far more people than my blog ever could. And who knows who might read what I write there? Maybe this is the first step to getting properly published one day.

  “OK.” My mouth feels dry. “That sounds great. When do you want a new story?”

  “Three or four months,” Marianne says promptly. “Because the other thing is … once we’ve got a few more segments in place, we’re planning a big launch for the whole site at the start of next year, with the new ‘Our Stories, Ourselves’ segment firmly front and centre. If what you write meets the brief, you’ll be the site’s first published teenage author, with your story right up there alongside the more experienced writers.” When I gasp, she says hastily, “I’m afraid there’s only a small payment for this, but as I say, it will give you access to lots of teen users and you can link back to your blog from the site, and, well, if Teen Spiral takes off like I hope, then it could be the start of excitin
g things for you. I think you have real talent, Jo, and I’d love to have you on board. If you’re game, that is?”

  I feel an enormous grin stretching my face. “Thank you. And yes, er, I’m game.”

  “Great, well I’ll send you an email with all of this. Now, is there an adult I could speak to, please?”

  “Sure. Mum and Dad are away. I’ll pass you over to my aunt.” I go out of the room and hand my phone to Aunt Em. She’s waiting on the landing with Lateef and my sisters. They are wide-eyed, eager to hear all the details. I can’t face them just yet. I’m too overwhelmed. I make a quick excuse and hurry into the bathroom. I shut the door and sit on the side of the bath.

  I can’t believe it. This is it. I know it. My big break. After all my years of scribbling stories, I’m finally going to have something properly recognized. Out there in the world.

  I just need to write it.

  The next morning I sit down to work, determined to come up with a really good, dramatic idea for a new story that will also be, as Marianne Steiner put it, a bit more “true to life”.

  An hour later I’m still staring at my laptop, totally failing to come up with anything Marianne might consider properly realistic. Real life means no treacherous villains or castles shrouded in mist or teenage girl detectives on super-cool adventures. In fact, I decide, real life makes boring fiction.

  “Jo! I need you – come here, please!” For once Aunt Em’s crisp command doesn’t fill me with resentment. And it’s not just because I want to demonstrate I’m keen to help her lug her bags about on holiday.

  For the first time I can remember, I’m actually eager to get away from my writing. I find her in Mum’s room, consulting a typed list while Amy puts things in a suitcase.

  “And I’ll take two blouses, no, not the khaki, the grey. Ah, Jo.” Aunt Em gestures towards a thickly stuffed package on top of the chest of drawers. “Those papers need couriering. All the information is on the top – the post office can do the rest. Thank you.”

  She turns back to the wardrobe.

  “OK, no problem,” I say cheerfully, without any of my usual eye-rolling. I’m determined to show her how useful and eager to help I am, so I just skip off downstairs and along the few streets to central Ringstone. I take extra care at the post office to send the parcel according to the exact instructions. The last time I sent a package I lost the proof of postage, which led to Aunt Em ranting about my carelessness for twenty minutes straight.

  By the time I get home, Aunt Em and Amy are out and Beth and Meg are watching TV. I head to my room and flop on the bed, determined to think of a story idea. I sit with my laptop perched on my knees, feeling increasingly fidgety for ten minutes or so, but an idea still doesn’t come. I decide to go over the road and see if Lateef is in.

  I tug on one of my sandals, then look around for the other. It’s on its side at the end of Meg’s bed. As I bend down to fetch it I spot the edges of a thick, well-thumbed book under the mattress. I pull it out, curious. Meg hardly ever reads anything.

  Careers in Child Care

  I stare at the title of the book. What is Meg doing with this? She’s only just finished her first year of A-levels. She’s doing really well, too, particularly on her art and psychology courses. Surely she should be starting to think about applying for university or art school? She likes looking after the Gardiner boys, but that’s just for some extra cash over the summer. She surely can’t want to do babysitting as a career?

  The door opens and I turn, the book still in my hand.

  “What are you doing with that?” Meg appears in the doorway, her forehead creased with a frown. “Have you been going through my stuff?”

  “Where did you get this?” I demand, flourishing the book. “And why are you interested in looking after kids as an actual job?”

  “Mum got it for me,” Meg says, her face flooding with colour. “She borrowed it from—”

  “So Mum’s in on this?”

  “Why do you have to make it sound like a conspiracy?” Meg says snippily. “Anyway, why shouldn’t I be interested?”

  “Because … because … you’re so good at design and styling, and you’re so interested in fashion. Why don’t you want to do that? Go to art school or something?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Jo, stop being such a snob,” Meg snaps. “I’ve told you a million times – I don’t want to be a designer. I can’t think of anything worse.”

  “Yes, you do,” I argue. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, deep down, like I want to be a writer.”

  “No,” Meg says, taking a deep breath and running her fingers through her hair. “No, that’s just what you want to think. I love fashion, yes. I love putting together an outfit. It’s fun. But I don’t want to make it. I want to buy it. And wear it. I do like children. I find them interesting. I find child development interesting. And as a nanny, for instance, I could make good money.”

  “Money?” I say, the disgust bursting out of me. “What about art?”

  Meg shakes her head, clearly frustrated. “You’re such an idiot, Jo; you think everyone’s the same as you. But they’re not.”

  “OK, fine.” I look down at the brochure. “Fine if you don’t want to be a fashion designer. But – being a nanny! That’s not creative at all. You need to—”

  “Stop it!” Meg shouts. “Just stop it. Stop thinking you know best for me. This is just like when you applied for that internship. I don’t want to be a designer. Can’t you get that through your stupid head? I want to work with children.” Her eyes flare with impatience and she speaks very slowly and emphatically. “Do you hear me, Jo? Children. The most important things on the planet. And being a nanny is interesting and you can be creative. Just not in the way you think.”

  I drop my gaze. “I still think it’s stupid,” I mutter. “You could do so much more.”

  “There is nothing more important than working with children. Nothing.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Meg’s jaw tightens. “It’s certainly a lot more important than writing stupid stories.”

  I gasp, as if she just slapped me. There’s a long pause.

  “Anyway,” she says coldly, “it’s my choice.” And, with that, she turns on her heel and storms out.

  I lie back on my bed, my insides churning. All our lives, Meg and I have shared everything. We’ve never been that alike, but being so close in age we’ve spent a lot of time together. And we’ve always got on and always understood each other’s hopes and dreams. At least I thought we did. But now, for the first time, I realize that maybe I don’t understand Meg at all.

  My phone rings. It’s Lateef. I curl up on my bed, holding the mobile to my ear.

  “Hey, Jo March.” His cheerful voice makes me feel better right away. “You wanna come over?”

  “I was about to do just that actually.” I hesitate. “Hey, you’ll never guess what Meg’s been up to.”

  “What?” Lateef asks.

  I picture his eyes widening with shock as I reveal Meg’s stupid plans to him. He’ll agree with me – that a career looking after kids is a waste of her talent and we have to persuade her to change her mind. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  At least I have him. At least I can rely on Lateef.

  Chapter 5

  By the time I get to Lateef’s, the brilliant sunshine of earlier has faded and clouds have gathered, threatening rain. Nevertheless, we’re lying on the grass in his back garden – an expanse of bright lawn surrounded by carefully tended bushes and flower beds. Uncle Jim potters here most weekends and they have a gardener on Mondays. Compared to our garden – which despite Beth’s work is overrun with plants and has weeds poking through the cracks in the tiny patio – it’s a paradise.

  I tell Lateef all about discovering Meg’s ambition to be a nanny. Lateef doesn’t say much as I talk.

  “She’s so talented,” I groan, lying back on the rug we’re sharing. “She’s got such a great eye for putting outfits together,
she’d be a brilliant designer. She just…” I stop, wondering once again what exactly it is that puts Meg off going down the path I had always assumed she would take. “I used to think it was that she didn’t believe in herself but maybe she just doesn’t like the sound of all the hard work involved…” I trail off.

  Lateef props himself on his elbow and looks at me, lying beside him. “Looking after kids is hard work,” he says gently.

  “Mmm,” I say, not really listening. “Maybe she just doesn’t have any confidence.” I look up at Lateef, wondering suddenly what his ambitions are. “What about you?” I ask. “I have my writing. Is there anything you really want?” I ask.

  Lateef looks down at me, an odd expression on his face.

  “Are you OK?” I ask.

  There’s a moment’s pause where Lateef looks like he’s hesitating, on the verge of saying something important. Then he lets out his breath in a big sigh and drops down, on to his back.

  “Lateef?” I sit up. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I was thinking we should go on a picnic tomorrow,” he says after another second or two. “Get the bus to the beach. You, me, your sisters, Tiny, maybe a few others. What do you think? Plan?”

  I grin, lying back down again. “Plan.”

  Picnic day turns out to be the hottest of the summer so far. The clouds have cleared and the sun is a fierce orange disk in a bright blue sky. We’re not the only ones who’ve decided to get the bus down to the beach and, after a sweaty, cramped journey, we race across the dunes to a local area known as the Rocks like animals who’ve just been let out of a cage.

  Lateef is in his element, chattering away with everyone, a rucksack of lemonades on his back. Meg has a bag crammed with the crisps and pies that Aunt Em gave us money for. She looks particularly pretty today, her skin glowing and her sunglasses perched jauntily on her blonde waves.

  Not that I have any intention of telling her so. Since yesterday’s row we’ve barely spoken – and then only over practical stuff like what to bring on the picnic. I guess Meg is still angry that I think she’s wasting her artistic talents. Which I do. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with looking after kids, but surely if you’re as style savvy as Meg you should make the most of that gift?