Miss McDougall gets Shane Taggart to be Dodger, Buzz Bielinski to be Fagin and Aisha Patel to be Oliver, with the rest of the class as the pickpocket gang. She produces a stash of brightly coloured silk squares for us to use as hankies and we launch into it again, this time with actions, a whole classfull of dodgy Victorian pickpockets, fleecing the rich of their multi-coloured hankies.
The bell goes for lunch, and there’s a low groan of disappointment, a sound never before heard from Miss McDougall’s class, at least not in living memory.
‘Miss!’ Shane Taggart calls out urgently.
‘Yes, Shane?’
‘Miss, why don’t we do a play? Why don’t we do a play of Oliver! for the whole school to see?’
The class erupts with squeaks of approval, suggestions of casting, volunteers to paint scenery, make costumes, sell tickets.
Miss McDougall stalks the aisles, gathering up silk squares and stuffing them into a bin bag. She reaches the front and faces us sternly.
‘Silence!’ she roars.
There’s silence, except for someone’s tummy rumbling in the row behind me.
‘Class, I don’t think you realize the amount of work involved in putting on a musical play. The singing practice, lines to learn, rehearsals. That’s not to mention scenery, props, costumes, publicity… to try something this ambitious in less than four months…’
She shakes her head. ‘I know it’s your last year at Calder’s Lane. It would be wonderful to go out with a bang, stage something special, but Oliver!… It’s a very, very challenging piece. Are you prepared for the hard work and effort it would take?’
‘Yes!’
We’re all in it together, a great roar of agreement, a tidal wave of pleading and promise.
Miss McDougall holds her hand up and we subside into silence.
‘In that case,’ she says, ‘I’m delighted. Let’s do it!’
We’re late, so it looks like we’re getting the crusty bits from round the edges of the big, empty lasagne dishes, plus wilted salad and soggy tomatoes because the chips and veg are all gone. Miss McDougall sails to the head of the queue and smiles her sweet, friendly, no-nonsense smile. The dinner lady sighs and hauls out a vast, bubbling, brand-new dish of lasagne. Miss McDougall waits, holding her dish out, and eventually a tray of chips and a dish of green beans are produced.
The whole queue is grinning, saved from plates of cold, crusty leftovers.
Another stern look from Miss McD., and a new dish of treacle sponge with a jug of creamy yellow custard, strangely lump-free, appear.
‘Bet they were saving that for themselves,’ Jo whispers.
If Miss McDougall had been around a hundred years ago, there’d never have been all that trouble about the gruel.
We crowd in at one of the few free tables, and for once I don’t mind that Aisha Patel’s squished in with us, because I can choose my moment and drop a few comments about Jo coming over if she tries to get too pally.
It’s not a problem, though, because Shane, Buzz and Iqbal flop down in the three empty seats and all anyone can talk about is the play, Shane taking full credit for the fact that it’s happening at all.
I have a sneaky idea Miss McDougall had it all planned out the whole time, but I don’t want to spoil his moment of glory.
‘I’m going to audition for Nancy,’ Jo says, flicking her hair back and looking at Shane from underneath her eyelashes. ‘It’s the only really good girl’s part, isn’t it?’
‘Bet you get it,’ Aisha gushes. ‘You’re so pretty and confident. I mean, I’d be happy just to help behind the scenes…’
‘Nah,’ says Shane. ‘You’ll get a part, Aisha. You can sing, can’t you? You have to be able to sing for a musical, it stands to reason.’
Jo looks faintly irritated, ‘I can sing,’ she says.
Shane shrugs and dips a chip in his lasagne.
‘You should audition for the star part, Shane,’ Jo pushes. ‘You’d make a great Oliver.’
‘Nah, too wimpy. I’d rather be the Artful Dodger. That’d be a right laugh! Or Fagin. How about you, Indie?’
I pull a face and pretend I’m not that bothered, but the truth is I’d try out for any part, because I love drama. I spend my school days being told off for daydreaming, but being an actor… isn’t that like daydreaming for a living? Trying on other people’s lives to see how they fit?
Suddenly I can feel Shane looking at me, his green eyes searching my face, and my cheeks flame pink. He starts laughing and nicks a couple of my chips, but I know I didn’t imagine it because Jo is staring at me, stony-faced, and Buzz and Iqbal are nudging each other and making leery ‘way-hey-hey’ noises.
‘I’m not really interested,’ I say to Jo helplessly. I mean the flirty looks, not the play, and I hope they all get the message. Jo still looks furious, though.
She offers Shane her chips, but Buzz and Iqbal scoff them instead, and by the time we get to the treacle pudding Shane has switched the conversation to skateboarding and they’re rattling on about half pipes, ollies and grinders.
Jo makes one last attempt to get Shane’s attention. ‘You’re great on that skateboard,’ she says. ‘I’d love to have a try, but it just looks so difficult…’
This is the girl who can do a handstand on the balance beam and follow it off with a somersault before landing in the splits. She’s been doing gymnastics since she was four.
I try to remember what her beloved teen mags say, and decide Jo’s got hormone trouble. Growing up is a very scary thing. I hope it never happens to me.
Shane smiles, and tells her he’d be happy to give her lessons, any time.
‘And you two, of course,’ he adds, with a flash of grin to Aisha and me. Then he’s away, Buzz and Iqbal following in his wake, and Jo’s glaring at me.
‘Did you have to keep butting in?’ she explodes. ‘That was a private conversation. It’s me he likes, Indie, so why do you have to get in on the act? You’re just so childish…’
‘But I didn’t…’
Jo’s eyes flare. ‘You did. Aisha saw, didn’t you, Aish? Why can’t you just back off?’
‘But… Look, Jo, I’m sorry,’ I manage. ‘I didn’t mean anything. I just didn’t think…’
‘Don’t get all wound up,’ Aisha pleads. ‘He did say he’d give you lessons on the skateboard. He must like you. And we don’t want to fall out over a lad…’
We?
But Jo softens. ‘D’you think he really does fancy me?’ she demands.
‘Er, well, probably…’ Aisha says.
‘Definitely,’ I add, wondering when I got to be such a good liar.
We finish our treacle sponge and listen to Jo telling us how she’s been crazy about Shane Taggart since Year Two. I frown. Since last week, more like, but I’m not about to argue.
‘I’m definitely trying out for the part of Nancy,’ she says. ‘Shane’s bound to get a good part, and we’d be rehearsing together the whole time. He’ll definitely notice me then.’
‘Bound to,’ Aisha echoes.
‘Will you two help me learn my lines for the auditions?’ Jo asks, giving us both her poor-lost-little-kitten look.
‘No problem,’ Aisha nods, and somehow that’s the last straw. Shane makes me blush, Jo’s hacked off with me and now Aisha’s moving in on my best mate.
‘We could run lines at my place one night after school,’ I suggest, looking straight at Jo. ‘I asked Mum and she said any night this week would be fine. What day suits you, Jo?’
Jo reels off her social diary. Swimming on Mondays, gymnastics tonight and Thursday, violin Friday… we decide on tomorrow, as long as Jo’s mum agrees.
‘We can listen to CDs and read mags and go through your lines for the audition…’
I’m keeping my eyes on Jo so I don’t have to face Aisha. I don’t want to see her disappointment, don’t want to see her sad brown eyes or her trembly lips.
But Jo hasn’t forgiven me, not quite.
; ‘Is Wednesday OK for you too, Aisha?’ she says. And she’s smiling, because she wants to see if I have the guts to tell Aisha she can’t come. She wants to see me squirm.
My face burns for the second time in half an hour, and I drag my rotten, lousy eyes up from the tabletop to meet Aisha’s.
‘I – I’m not sure – my mum didn’t say about you, Aisha…’
I’m a liar, a worm, a coward.
‘You see, we’ve only just moved in…’
Aisha looks like she’s sorry for me, like I’m something to be pitied: a small, slimy slug that crawled in from the rain.
‘I can’t do Wednesday, anyhow,’ she says. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a shame,’ Jo gushes. ‘Never mind, though, another time, hey? I’ll definitely be there, Indie. I’m looking forward to it.’
Great. That makes one of us, then.
‘Sorry, Aisha,’ I say yet again as Jo and I get our stuff together to walk home on Wednesday. ‘Maybe another time?’
‘Maybe.’
How come I feel so guilty? Possibly because Jo’s been stirring it every chance she can get, till I’m almost wishing it was Aisha, not her, coming round for tea.
‘You can come over to mine any time you like, Aisha,’ Jo puts in, ever generous. ‘My mum’s not funny about visitors.’
I have to bite my lip to stop the tears prickling at the back of my eyes. What is it with Jo? Is this all because Shane Taggart nicked my chips?
We wave bye to Aisha at the gates and turn up towards the estate.
‘Is it far?’ Jo wants to know. ‘Is there a bus?’
I show her the money Mum gave me for bus fares, and we decide to spend it on sweets and walk instead. We buy ice pops and penny chews and strawberry laces, and Jo links my arm as we mooch along on a sugar high, telling me I’m her best, best mate.
Two weeks ago, I know I was. Our friendship was unshakeable, the kind that lasts forever. I could have pictured us sat side by side in the old folks’ home, squirting each other with lavender water, painting each other’s nails lime green and sharing strawberry laces and Ovaltine.
Now I’m not so sure.
And I’m not even sure any more whether it’s Aisha’s fault, or Shane’s or anyone else’s fault at all. It’s just me and Jo.
‘Friends forever?’ Jo squeezes my arm.
‘Forever,’ I say, knowing it’s a wish and not a promise.
‘Good. Aisha’s just my second-best mate, OK? You’re not to be jealous.’
What do you say to that?
By the time we reach the top of Hartington Drive, Jo’s moaning that her feet hurt. ‘It’s stupid to move so far away from Calder’s Lane,’ she sulks. ‘It’s not even on a proper bus route, it takes ages to walk and it’s all gloomy and tatty round here…’
‘It’s not like we had much choice,’ I remind her.
‘No, but… I mean, I’m surprised you’re still going to our school. You must be well out of the catchment area. My cousin’s mate lives near here, and he went to Templars Primary, then Rathbone High. I expect you’ll have to go there.’
‘No, I won’t!’
Jo fixes me with a look. ‘It’s not up to you, is it?’ she shrugs. ‘It’s up to the council. It’s all about catchment areas and where you live. You can’t just choose.’
‘I’m going to Kellway Comp like everyone else,’ I say, and I know that if Jo doesn’t shut up about this I’m going to cry, or slap her, or both.
‘We’ll see,’ she says, and we turn into the driveway of number 33 just as Ian Turner is getting out of his red Fiat, bags and papers flapping as usual.
‘Hello, Indie,’ he says. ‘Hello, Indie’s friend.’
‘Hello, Mr Turner.’
We clatter down the steps and into the flat.
‘He’s pretty lush,’ Jo whispers. ‘Too old for us, but I bet your mum fancies him…’
‘She does not!’
The idea is so loopy it has me laughing again.
‘They could get married!’ Jo suggests. ‘We could be bridesmaids!’
‘In pink and lilac frocks with frills and big bows in our hair!’
Mum comes through from the bedroom carrying Misti, who’s obviously been bathed and dressed in her best stuff specially.
‘What’s the joke?’ she asks, and we collapse in giggles again, but Mum doesn’t mind. She’s got orange juice and chocolate chip cookies and Hula Hoops all set out on the table.
I love my mum.
We scoff the snacks and go through to my room, and it’s all neat and tidy and smelling of joss sticks to disguise any lingering whiff of Misti-accidents. Jo admires the wardrobe, the spotty drawers and the turquoise fun-fur cushions my mum found in last year’s Homebase sale. She chooses a CD and we turn up the volume and stretch out on the bed, doing flow charts and quizzes from a couple of teen mags Jo’s brought along.
We discover that my perfect party snack is popcorn, and Jo’s is peanuts; my dream date is a day at the ice rink, and Jo’s is a candlelit dinner for two; my feel-good fashion is sassy skateboard chic and Jo’s is glitz ‘n’ glam, all high heels, crushed velvet and dangly earrings.
We clean off Monday’s nail varnish and repaint it, using ‘Tangerine Dream’ for me and ‘Purple Passion’ for Jo. No spots, no smudges, no crushed-crisp sprinkles. We even paint three of Misti’s dinky little fingernails before she gets bored and wanders off to dunk all her soft toys in the bathroom sink.
‘Teatime, girls,’ Mum shouts through, and we wolf down sausage, beans and mash. Mum says there’s ice cream for afters.
‘What kind?’ Jo wants to know. ‘My fave is that Häagen-Dazs one with the triple chocolate swirls…’
We’ve got economy vanilla from the cheap supermarket, but Mum lets us crumble a couple of choc chip cookies on top, and Jo says it’s almost as good.
Afterwards, we go through our lines for the audition. Miss McDougall’s given everyone the same chunk of script, because she says she’s just looking for expression and confidence and potential. We’re to get into groups and each read a character from the two-page test script, and Miss McDougall will make a shortlist and do the casting from that.
And Shane was right – we have to sing. Everyone who’s trying out for a part has to do the pickpocket song, solo, in front of the whole class.
Jo reads Nancy, I read Oliver, and we leave out the bits for Dodger because Aisha’s going to do that. Jo reads her lines really clearly, like she’s reading out in assembly, or doing a talk in front of the class. Aisha’s right: she’s pretty, she’s confident. She’ll make a great Nancy.
‘Do we do the singy bit too?’ I ask, and Jo’s away, wiggling her hips, whipping imaginary silk squares out of nowhere. She looks so convincing, you don’t really notice the bits where her voice goes wobbly.
She flops back down on the bed. ‘I have to get this part,’ she says. ‘It’s perfect for me, isn’t it? And I just know Shane’s going to be Oliver or Dodger or something. I really want him to notice me, Indie. If I get the part, we’ll have to practise together loads, and maybe he’ll ask me out or something.’
I stare at Jo. Nobody in our class has ever been out with a boy, except for Carrie Naughton who says she had a holiday romance last summer and showed us a blurry photo of a geeky French kid as proof. And Kelly Murphy, who hangs out with Buzz Bielinski sometimes and says he once kissed her outside the chippy.
‘D’you think he will?’ Jo demands. ‘Ask me out, I mean?’
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘You’re the prettiest girl in the class.’
‘D’you think so? Does he think so?’
Jo looks so sad that I want to stroke her hair and tell her to forget about Shane Taggart cos he’s just a sandy-haired, skateboard-mad, chip-stealing chancer. There’s no way he’s worth all the heartache, the hassle.
‘Anyway,’ Jo says, ‘I fancied him first, so you have to back off. I’d never forgive you if you went out with him, Indie. Never.’
&nbs
p; ‘But I wouldn’t – I don’t even like him, not that way –’
I’m so shocked at the unfairness of it all, I’d laugh if Jo wasn’t so serious.
‘Just remember,’ she says. ‘Back off.’
We run some more lines and Jo tears out two posters from her magazines and says I can have them for my walls, and then Mum calls through because it’s half seven and Jo’s dad’s here.
She’s going.
I wish she’d never come here in the first place.
I’m sitting on the wall at school, eating a strawberry lace leftover from last night and wishing I could rewind my life and start again.
Mum’s left Max, and I miss him, in a funny kind of a way. He shouted a lot and there were way too many rows, but he could be good fun too. And now it’s over, and we’re alone again.
Mum says she’s strong, that she’s come through worse than this, but I’m not convinced.
It’d be OK if only Jo wasn’t losing the plot over Shane Taggart. It’s crazy and irrational and it doesn’t make any sense, so I know it has to be a growing-up thing and the way to go is to blank it, big style, and hope it goes away. It’s not that easy, though.
‘Hiya.’
I look up, and guess what, it’s problem number three, Aisha, hovering a few feet away, smiling sadly and waiting for me to send her get-lost signals.
Somehow, this morning, I can’t be bothered.
‘Hi, Aisha.’
‘How’d it go last night?’
‘Oh, y’know. It was OK. We played CDs and did a whole bunch of quizzes from Jo’s mags, and we went through our lines and stuff.’
‘Sounds cool.’
Aisha gets brave and sits down next to me on the wall.
‘Yeah, it was.’
‘But…?’
‘Oh, I dunno. Jo’s hacked off with me cos she thinks I like Shane. I don’t. D’you think I could be bothered to go chasing after some lad when everything’s so… messed up? Well, anyway, I just don’t, OK?’
I break off a length of strawberry lace and hand it over.
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