by Melody James
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
‘What?’ I call.
It opens and Mum pops her head round. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’ She throws something. I duck as a banana boomerangs round my head.
‘That’ll keep you going until tea.’ Mum slides out and shuts the door.
With a grunt, I retrieve the banana from where it landed behind the desk. I peel it and type a final line onto Savannah’s horoscope.
Watch out for flying fruit.
It’s Marcus’s turn.
Sagittarius
If your love life is blossoming, you’re luckier than most.
I lean back in my seat, scanning my room for ideas. I can’t see the floor for the heaps of clothes and scattered books.
But don’t let clutter build up in the rest of your life. It might just trip you over when you least expect.
I move onto Treacle. She knows it’s me forecasting her week, so I can write what I like.
Taurus
Beware! There are pirates on the horizon.
Dad and Ben are sword-fighting in the hall.
Hoist the mainsail and head for land.
My bedroom door swings open and Dad backs into my room. He’s swinging a foam cutlass at Ben, who’s beating him back with his sword. As Dad wades backwards through my floor clutter, I dive and snatch my make-up bag clear a moment before his foot lands.
‘Get out!’ I grab a pillow and fling it.
‘Sorry, Gem.’ With a roar, Dad advances on Ben, driving him back through my doorway. I leap up and slam it after them, checking my clutter for damage. There are a few squashed library books, but my make-up is safe.
I return to Treacle’s horoscope.
Move fast and with any luck you won’t lose your treasure.
Aquarius next. Will’s sign. He’s the most arrogant writer on the webzine. He scoffs at everyone else’s work, especially my horoscopes. I decide that it’s time he started taking Jessica Jupiter seriously. He won’t be able to sneer at this prediction because I’m going to make sure it comes true.
I finish typing with a smile and move onto Sam’s sign. Capricorn.
Sam’s horoscope is always the trickiest. I want to warn him against getting mixed up with Cindy, but she knows I’m Jessica Jupiter. She’ll spot the sabotage and, if I mess up her love life, she’ll never publish any article I write.
I sigh and decide to write my own horoscope instead.
Libra
Don’t despair. Doe-eyed couples may surround you, but there’s more to life than love. Keep your attention fixed on your ambition not your heart. If you try, you can achieve anything you want. This will be your week to shine.
Maths is the last class on Monday. I’m sitting at the back next to Treacle. Savannah and Marcus are sharing the desk in front. We’re working silently through equations so brutal they’re probably used as torture in rogue states. Mrs Monroe is at the front of the class, gloating over the answer book.
I’ve got one eye on the clock as I switch xs and ys with as and bs on my page. The webzine meeting’s after school and I’m determined to ask Cindy if I can write a serious article before the end of term.
My mind flits from killer idea to killer idea: Bullying in Social Media. Can Video Games Kill? Is Home Education the Answer to the Crisis in Our Schools? I want to pitch an article that Cindy can’t refuse. Could I dig up some dirt on the teaching staff? Has the Head been hacking student phones? Has Mr Chapman been claiming expenses for training he never attended? Perhaps I should start trailing the teachers and sifting through their dustbins for evidence.
No.
I don’t want to bombard our readers with gossip. That’s hardly better than flinging horoscopes at them. I want to write something that they can identify with. An article that expresses what they feel. I want to give them a voice.
Treacle’s long black hair trails across my page as she leans close. ‘What did you get for question six?’
I twist my book so she can peek.
‘Really?’ Frowning, she looks back at her own.
‘Are you having trouble, Miss Stone?’ Mrs Monroe’s staring accusingly at me from her desk. Put her in a wig and hand her a gavel and she’d look like a judge.
‘We’re just discussing question six,’ I tell her.
‘If you’ve got a question, ask me,’ Mrs Monroe snaps. She’s not into peer sharing.
‘It’s OK,’ I reassure her. ‘I’d rather work it out for myself.’ How long before schools catch up with the concept of collaboration and crowd-sourcing? I bet Facebook’s coding department doesn’t have a No Talking policy.
My pen freezes on the page. I could write a piece on Facebook.
I dump the idea at once. David and Phil are the webzine’s tech reporters. They’ve already done social networking this month: Ten Networking Tools You Can’t Live Without. And Barbara has written a piece for her lifestyle column: Do You Follow Back? The Essentials of TwEtiquette.
Besides, I want to write about something more important than how to make friends and influence people.
Mrs Monroe’s chair scrapes the floor. She’s on her feet, wielding a marker pen. She turns to the whiteboard and start scribbling. ‘Right, class,’ she barks. ‘Write this equation down in your books. I want you to try it at home and we’ll discuss it next time.’
I hear Treacle groan. ‘It’s one of her impossible questions,’ she sighs. ‘Whenever she says we’ll discuss it next time, it means you need a PhD to solve it.’
Savannah turns round in her chair. ‘You could Google it and pretend you worked it out.’
Treacle stares hopelessly at the whiteboard. Mrs Monroe has written out most of the alphabet, decorating it here and there with pluses, minuses and brackets. ‘Do you really think he’ll believe I worked that out myself?’
I’m scribbling the equation down as quickly as I can. The clock’s big hand is sliding towards half past. I add the final (b2 – 4ac)/2a, then quietly shut my book and slide it into my bag along with my pencil case. ‘I’ve got to get to the meeting early,’ I whisper to Treacle.
‘I’ll wait for you in the library.’ The bell rings as she answers.
I check Mrs Monroe.
Without looking away from the board, she signals our release with a wave of her hand. ‘When you’ve copied this down, you can go.’
I escape from my desk and run for the door like a hostage spotting an escape exit. I reach it before Ryan and Bilal, skidding in front of them and haring down the hallway.
Classroom doors are opening ahead of me. I race past them before the students start flooding out and reach the backstairs by the time the corridor starts humming with chatter. I shrug my backpack on and hammer upstairs. I grab the handrail and my shoes slide on the lino as I take the U-turn. Twenty more steps and I’m at the door of the webzine HQ. I pause and listen. Inside the HQ, someone’s clattering a chair across the floor. I open the door and go in.
The smell of dust and polish hits me. This used to be a store cupboard before the caretaker stacked the old books and folders onto the shelves lining the walls. Six battered desks crowd the edge of the room. Six PCs sit on them. Afternoon sunshine slices through the dirty windows and spotlights swirling dust. I love this room. It’s like stepping back in time. The PCs look out of place; I half expect to see yellowing notepads and worn-down pencils in their place.
Cindy’s alone. She has her back to the door. She’s manhandling a chair over a desk, thumping its leg against a PC as she bangs it down to complete a circle of chairs ringing the room.
‘Need some help?’ I offer. I’m schmoozing.
Cindy looks up, her silver bob flicking. ‘Gemma. Hi.’ She looks flustered from chair-heaving. ‘I’m done thanks.’ She looks admiringly round the circle of chairs, then leans and pushes two closer together.
For her and Sam?
I notice the bracelet he bought her sparkling on her wrist and I swallow against a sudden pang in my chest.
‘There’s something I wanted to ask you,’ I venture. Are you and Sam actually dating? I swallow back the dumb question and force myself to focus on the real reason I raced here.
Cindy looks at the clock above the door. ‘Is it important?’
‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘It’s important to me.’
A gracious look moves like sunshine across her face. ‘What is it, Gemma?’
I’m unnerved. She’s giving me the Sugar Plum Fairy act. I don’t trust her when she’s being sweet.
‘I want to write an article for the webzine for next week’s edition,’ I tell her. ‘It’s the last one of the year and I just wanted a chance to publish something serious.’
‘Of course you do,’ she smiles.
I eye her warily. ‘Will you publish it?’
‘If it’s good enough,’ Cindy says. ‘But . . .’
Here comes the but.
‘. . . of course there’s so much to cram into the final issue – school prom reports and leavers’ contributions, and of course Will has planned a big two-parter on inefficiencies in the school budget.’ Cindy turns away and starts rummaging through her bag. ‘But you go ahead and write an article and I’ll look it over.’
In other words, you’ll read it and tell me you can’t publish it. Anger itches beneath my skin.
Cindy turns back to me and fixes me with her bright blue gaze. ‘But I don’t see how you’ll have time to write an article. Jessica Jupiter’s column is so popular. You’ve got more fan mail than ever and I thought we’d try answering two readers’ letters for the final edition instead of just one.’
I open my mouth to interrupt. I don’t care how much work Jessica Jupiter has, I’ll find time for my article.
But Cindy keeps talking. ‘Besides, I need your help on something else.’ She gazes at me like a hopeful cat. ‘I’m attending a fashion show in London on Thursday. Mr Harris has offered to drive me down. I’m writing a review for the webzine, and I was hoping you’d come along and take notes for me while I interview some of the models and designers.’
Take notes? I’m not impressed. Cindy’s done this before: kept me busy with dumb jobs while she hogs the limelight. ‘Can’t Barbara help you?’
‘Barbara’s not our editorial assistant,’ Cindy reminds me. She holds her sugary smile, but her blue eyes are hard as glass. ‘Note-taking’s your job, remember? And you’re so good at it.’
I grind my teeth. One day I’ll have a mantelpiece full of journalism awards – none for note-taking – and I’ll send Cindy photos of them all.
Behind me the door crashes open.
Will swings in, the buckles on his motorcycle jacket jangling.
‘Hi, Cinders.’ He brushes past me like I’m furniture and hurls his bag over a desk. It drops to the floor with a thud as Will slides onto a chair and sticks out his legs.
‘Can’t you sit up?’ Cindy tells him crossly. ‘Some one’s going to trip over you.’
Will pushes his thick dark hair away from his face and gives Cindy a look. ‘Do you want to be the first?’
‘As if,’ Cindy scoffs. ‘Just pull in your feet. You’re a health and safety hazard.’
Will looks at me. I didn’t know he’d seen I was here. ‘Hey, Gem. Go and find some safety cones. My feet are a workplace hazard.’
The door flies open again. ‘A biohazard more like.’ It’s Sam. He flashes me a smile. ‘Hi, Gemma. Where are you sitting?’
I scan the chairs and pick the one furthest from Cindy and Will. I don’t want to get caught in crossfire. Sam flops down in the seat next to me and lets his bag slide to the floor. ‘One down, nine to go.’
‘Nine what?’ I ask, puzzled.
Will grunts. ‘Days till the end of term,’ he explains. ‘Can’t Year Nines count?’
Cindy looks at the two chairs she’s dragged close together. She kicks them apart and sits down. She’s not looking at me, but I can sense her planning my assassination, ninja-style.
I lean down and fuss over my bag. ‘Don’t you want to sit next to Cindy?’ I hiss at Sam. He bought the Ice Queen a bracelet. Doesn’t he have to sit beside the throne?
Sam shrugs. ‘I will if you want.’
Will’s eyes narrow. ‘What are you two whispering about?’
The Ice Queen’s head turns and she glares openly, waiting for Sam to answer.
Sam’s eyes light up. ‘I was just asking Gemma to the prom.’
My heart pounds. What is he talking about? An image of Sam and me walking arm and arm into the prom pops into my head. It disappears just as quickly in a hot haze of embarrassment. Sam wasn’t about to ask me to the prom. Why would I even think that? I fight the urge to climb over the back of my chair and hide. Cindy’s lips have turned white beneath their gloss. ‘He’s kidding,’ I say too loudly. ‘I was just wondering if there were going to be enough chairs for everyone.’
On cue, ‘everyone’ walks in.
Phil and David, the tech twins, wander through the doorway first. Jeff is on their heels, sliding a rolled comic book into his backpack before he takes the seat beside me. What’s he reading this week?
‘Batman?’ I ask him, hoping that a change of subject will help my burning face to cool.
‘Spider-man,’ he grins.
Jeff is mad about four things: football, funny movies, Treacle and comic books (or graphic novels as he calls them). He shares his weird speech-bubble passion with the twins, who are pure nerd to the core.
Barbara’s last in. She doesn’t really walk in; she kind of floats. There’s a serene look on her face like she’s just slid off a pink cloud. She’s been like that since she started dating Rupert.
I could let Jessica Jupiter boast that she brought Barbara and Rupert together, but Jessica wouldn’t be telling the whole truth. She had been trying to use her column to match David (nerd A) with Barbara. But Paris had magic stronger than Jessica’s and it was the glittering city that brought Barbara and Rupert together.
This was a twist I’d not expected since Rupert had been following me like a lovesick puppy since he’d started as new boy at Green Park High. But it seems my allure couldn’t match Barbara’s and it only took an hour trapped in the Eiffel Tower and a thrill ride in Parc Astérix to switch Rupert’s gaze from me to her. For which I am eternally grateful – Rupert knows a thousand jokes and they’re all bad. And since Barbara’s been riding the love wave, her articles have improved. She’s moved from How to Get the Most From Your Homework to Lipstick Not Chapstick: Ten Essential Items for Every Girl’s Pencil Case. Not prize-winning, but readable and more than enough to get your name in print, so long as you’re best friends with the webzine editor.
Cindy crosses her legs with a flourish. As her shiny pink heels whisk past Will’s sprawling legs, I watch him check out her ankles. They’re dainty like twigs. I wait for him to make a sarcastic comment about her pink kitten heels and how health and safety cuts both ways. But he doesn’t; he just lets his gaze slide up to the hem of her mini-kilt before snatching it back and staring at his own size twelve boots.
I glance at Sam. Doesn’t he mind Will checking out his girlfriend’s legs? Sam’s doodling on a notepad. I peek and see he’s writing guitar chords. Is he working on a new song for his band?
Cindy taps her clipboard with a pen and clears her throat. ‘Thank you for submitting your articles,’ she begins. We email them to Cindy on Monday morning. ‘I forwarded them on so you should all have copies. I hope you’ve had a chance to read them.’
I’ve zipped through Sam’s album review, Barbara’s pencil-case exposé and read Will’s piece on the effects on students of funding cuts in school.
Cindy turns her gaze on the twins. ‘I wonder if you could expand your game review before it’s published,’ she asks sweetly.
Phil sits up stiffly in his chair. ‘Something wrong?’
Cindy softens him with a smile. ‘Not wrong, I just thought it could do with a little more balance.’
David leans forward. ‘There’s
plenty of balance. It’s a straightforward review of Guns of Death. We cover gameplay, visuals, innovation, control fluidity—’
Cindy interrupts. ‘And you say they’re all brilliant.’
‘They are.’ David leans back. ‘More than brilliant.’
Cindy’s bob quivers. ‘There must be some downside. What about the extreme violence and the high level of player-skill required?’
David snorts. ‘We’re not reviewing for preschoolers.’
A wicked grin lights up Will’s face. ‘Or girls.’
Cindy turns on him like a cobra. ‘Excuse me?’ she hisses.
Sam stops doodling. ‘He’s winding you up, Cindy,’ he tells her softly.
Cindy’s face freezes and I guess she’s fighting an internal battle: Ice Queen versus Sugar Plum Fairy. Does she hurl icicles at Will or drip nectar for Sam?
Barbara must sense her BFF’s inner conflict. ‘I’m sure Will is just teasing. He knows girls are gamers too.’
Will keeps his gaze fixed on Cindy. ‘When they’re not too busy grooming themselves. What was your piece about, Cinders? Wax or Shave: the Smoothest Path to Beauty?’
Cindy’s eyes flash. ‘Is that why you were ogling my legs, William? Were you trying to guess which path I choose?’
The Ice Queen’s X-ray eyes don’t miss a thing.
‘For your information, I wax,’ she continues pointedly. ‘Now can we raise our gaze and focus on the meeting?’
Is Will blushing? There’s a definite flush below his chiselled cheekbones and he slouches deeper into his chair, ducking under his thick chestnut hair.
The Ice Queen won. I check out Sam. Isn’t he bothered?
He’s grinning. ‘Bad luck, Will.’
I decide he and Cindy must have a very close and trusting relationship. The thought makes me nauseous so I ditch it.
Cindy’s bracelet clinks as she scribbles on her clipboard. ‘Lovely article, Barbara, as always.’
Did Cindy like Jessica’s horoscopes this week? She can’t say it out loud. The rest of the team think I’m just the office junior.
There’s a knock on the door and Mr Harris pokes his head round. ‘Mind if I interrupt?’
Mr Harris set up the webzine at the beginning of the year. He’s let us get on with it, just stepping in from time to time with the occasional comment. Now he shambles in, looking like a bear sleepy from hibernation. His brown corduroy jacket is crumpled, his baggy jeans ragged at the bottom. We watch him in silence and he looks slowly around, nodding knowingly as though we can read his thoughts.