Chocolate Box Girls

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Flirting? I didn’t say that.’ He frowns. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

  ‘Let me think …’ I consider. ‘Yup … that would be from Honey.’

  Shay looks puzzled. ‘I never said anything like that, honest. You can flirt with me any time you like …’

  ‘You’re funny,’ I snap.

  ‘I like to think so. No, I just wondered if you were hacked off with me. You blanked me at the cafe.’

  ‘You were busy,’ I sigh. ‘With your girlfriend.’

  ‘Listen, I just wanted to say that maybe Honey is being a little bit less than welcoming right now,’ Shay says. ‘But she’ll get over it, and anyhow, it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I promised to play my guitar for you …’

  My heart leaps, then plummets again as I remember the things Skye said about Shay and Honey.

  He’s good for her.

  I think she really loves Shay.

  Great.

  ‘I’ll let you off that promise,’ I tell him. ‘That was before I knew you were going out with my new stepsister. So … does she know you’re here?’

  ‘Well, no, but …’

  I bite my lip. ‘Shay, why are you here?’

  He grins, and it lights up the darkness better than the fairy lights. He is shallow and fickle and a born flirt, but still, it is hard not to like Shay Fletcher, just a tiny bit.

  ‘Like I said, we can be mates, can’t we?’ Shay frowns. ‘You were going to tell me the story of your life.’

  ‘It’s almost midnight …’

  He pulls a face. ‘So? You weren’t asleep, were you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I bluff.

  ‘Well then. Like I said, I just happened to be passing!’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I sigh. ‘The Twilight fancy-dress thing. I think I prefer vampires …’

  ‘Bad choice,’ Shay says. ‘Why fall for a boy who glitters in the dark and flies you to the top of a tree for a first date? Everyone’s gonna be a letdown after that. No, you’d be better off with a werewolf. Perfectly behaved, except on full moons. So … what’ll it be? Trick or treat?’

  ‘It’s July,’ I tell him. ‘Halloween is months away, and I’m all out of treats …’

  ‘Tell me a story then,’ Shay says, sitting down on the fallen tree trunk. ‘Tell me about you.’

  I sigh, exasperated. This boy could wear down a stone.

  ‘If I tell you, will you go away?’

  ‘If you want me to,’ Shay shrugs, and I feel myself weaken. Talking to him, telling him a bit about my past … would that be a bad thing, as long as it shut him up and made him go away?

  ‘I want you to.’

  I put an arm round Fred and lean my cheek against his fur, searching my mind for the right place to start. I could tell Shay anything, after all. It doesn’t have to be the truth. Does it?

  ‘Once upon a time …’ he prompts, and I sigh and take up the story from there.

  ‘Once upon a time there was a young man named Paddy who wanted to paint the world with rainbow colours,’ I begin. ‘When he left art college he went travelling, and met a beautiful Japanese girl called Kiko. They fell in love and travelled the world and all the colours of the rainbow followed after them …’

  ‘I’m liking it,’ Shay tells me. ‘Where do you come in?’

  ‘I’m getting to that bit! After a while, they discovered they were having a baby. They settled down in a minka house in Kyoto with rice-paper walls and tatami mats on the floor, and when their baby was born they named her Sakura, because it was cherry-blossom time and soft pink flowers hung heavy on trees all around the city …’

  ‘Hang on,’ Shay interrupts again. ‘Who is this Sakura person?’

  I put a finger to my lips.

  ‘So the little girl, whose name meant cherry blossom, grew bigger and stronger, and all the colours of the rainbow danced when she laughed. She knew she would always be safe and loved, as long as her mum and dad were there at her side.

  ‘One day, at cherry-blossom time, Sakura and her mum went down to the park to look at the trees, and a brisk north wind tugged the blossoms from the branches and they drifted to the ground like snow. Sakura started to cry, but her mum hugged her tight and told her not to be sad, because life was just like the cherry blossoms, beautiful but quickly gone, and the trick was to enjoy the beauty of it while you could, to make every second count …’

  Shay has started playing his guitar, a soft, sad tune I’ve never heard before. It drifts through the night like a memory. My voice wobbles a little and I glance at Shay, his face lit up by the twinkling fairy lights, listening.

  ‘A few months after that, Sakura woke one morning and her mum was gone. And all the colour had gone out of her world, and nothing was ever the same again …’

  A tear slides down my cheek, and I blot it with Fred’s fur. The past is full of long-buried feelings. I have never shared those memories, those feelings, with anyone before – not even Dad. I glance at Shay and look away again, quickly. What is it with this boy that makes me dare to show him the things I’ve kept locked inside for so long?

  He puts his guitar down.

  ‘Oh, Cherry,’ he says quietly. ‘Sakura – she’s you, right?’

  ‘You have to go now,’ I tell him. ‘You promised …’

  ‘But the rest of the story!’ he protests. ‘What happened to Sakura’s mum? Where did she go? What happened next?’

  I shake my head. I am stepping into dangerous territory, and it scares me.

  ‘Just go, OK? Please. And stay away, Shay. You shouldn’t even be here.’

  He stands up, shivering, slides the guitar strap over his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Cherry,’ he says. ‘About everything.’

  He pulls on the werewolf mask and walks away.

  12

  I sleep late, and when I wake my lashes are damp with tears. The past is a dangerous place. You can go there in a story, make it seem softer, sweeter, than it really was … but then you sleep and the truth seeps out without you even knowing, and you wake up feeling sour.

  I have a lazy breakfast of chocolate and banana, and pad across to the hammock with Rover, in his shiny glass bowl, in my arms. As the hammock sways, the water in the bowl laps gently against the glass and Rover gives me a dark, reproachful look. Perhaps he’s seasick?

  Maybe Coco is right, and he would like a bigger space to swim around in. I imagine a pond, calm and sleek and beautiful, with a little Japanese-style bridge and water lilies and a stone pagoda.

  That might be quite cool.

  I lower the bowl down into the long grass and gaze down at him with a sigh.

  Rover and I go back a long way.

  I won him on a fairground stall at Largs when I was seven years old, flinging ping-pong balls into shiny fishbowls. I was trying to win this huge pink teddy bear with a red satin bow, but I didn’t stand a chance. I made Dad pay for five goes, but I think that in the end the kid on the stall got fed up with us and handed over a fish just to make us go away.

  When I saw Rover, a sliver of orange-gold beauty flitting about in a plastic drawstring bag full of water, I forgot all about the pink teddy bear.

  Dad chose the name, of course. He said Rover was a great name for a pet, and that maybe we could train him to fetch sticks and guard the flat for us, and it took me a little while to realize he was joking about that. Kirsty McRae put me straight, there, of course.

  Rover had to live in the big enamel soup pan to begin with, but on pay day Dad took me to the pet shop on Byres Road and bought a big shiny glass bowl with a water filter and a bit of plastic weed and a little stone archway to swim in and out of.

  I fed him every day, just a pinch of reddish-brown flakes, and Rover would stop whatever he was doing and fly up to the surface in a split second to eat. I cleaned the water every week, using a soup ladle to empty the dirty water without disturbing him.r />
  I had a library book on looking after goldfish. I took it very seriously.

  It sounds crazy, but I used to tell Rover everything. It said in my library book that goldfish had very short memories, like three seconds or something. That was how come they didn’t get bored swimming round and round in circles, apparently, but I wasn’t convinced. Rover looked kind of bored to me.

  But it was safe to spill my secrets, either way, and if I sometimes got sad, then that was OK too, because Rover would forget it all in three seconds flat, so I never had to feel bad for making him miserable. I was always very careful not to drip tears into the bowl, because goldfish do not like saltwater.

  ‘Shay Fletcher is bad news,’ I tell Rover now, in a whisper. ‘He is off-limits.’

  Rover flicks his tail.

  ‘He belongs to someone else. Someone who hates me …’

  Rover darts through the little stone archway and does a quick slalom run in and out of the plastic weed.

  ‘But … I can’t stop thinking about him. I really like him. Is that wrong?’

  I let myself roll out of the hammock into the long grass, pressing my face against the shiny glass bowl. When I was little, I used to think the bowl was like a crystal ball, that I could look into the glass, the water, and see a little glimpse of the future. I don’t kid myself any more, and besides, there is no future in falling for a boy like Shay Fletcher, no future at all. The thing about a crush is that it’s all one-sided. Shay probably just feels sorry for me, and even the novelty of that will wear off because I am only ever mean and horrible to him. Besides, he already has a girlfriend who is about a hundred times prettier than me.

  As for sitting under the cherry trees with Shay Fletcher, that was most definitely a bad, bad idea. He might think we are friends, but I am not so sure. Friendship isn’t exactly what I feel when I think of Shay.

  I don’t think Honey would get it, either … if she knew about last night she would probably strangle me with her bare hands. And what would Skye, Summer and Coco say if they knew? Or Dad and Charlotte? I can’t kid myself they would understand. Some things are just plain wrong, and hanging out after dark with your stepsister’s boyfriend has got to be one of them.

  I will walk down to the village and post my card to Mrs Mackie, then come back and do everything I can to make the things I have written come true.

  There will be no more late-night stories, I promise myself. I have to stop this friendship now, before it messes everything up.

  Rover stares at me, giving nothing away. That’s the problem with telling your troubles to a goldfish. There is no chance of a cuddle or a discussion, no chance of a heart-to-heart. No matter how many times I ask him for advice, all I will get is the same cool, fishy gaze.

  Typical.

  ‘What are you doing?’ a voice calls, and I sit up, brushing grass from my hair.

  ‘Nothing!’

  Coco flops down into the hammock beside me, and waves at Rover in his bowl. ‘Do you talk to him?’ she wants to know. ‘Like people would with … well, a dog or something?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I lie. ‘He’s a fish! What would be the point?’

  Coco shrugs. ‘Fish have feelings too,’ she says. ‘Don’t you ever feel sorry for him, swimming round in circles the whole time? I know you said you didn’t want him to go in the duck pond, but we could make him a fish pond or something.’

  I push the imagined Japanese-style pond out of my mind.

  ‘Maybe,’ I tell her. ‘He doesn’t need a pond, though. Fish have very short memories – three seconds, seriously. He’s happy in his bowl.’

  ‘Are you sure about the three seconds?’ Coco frowns.

  ‘I read it in a library book.’

  ‘I’ll check it on the Internet,’ Coco decides. ‘Only, if I was a fish, I’d like to have a proper pond. And other fish, as friends.’

  ‘Rover is fine,’ I say defensively. ‘He doesn’t need a whole bunch of fish to be happy.’

  ‘OK,’ Coco says. ‘I was just saying …’

  ‘He just needs me.’

  ‘Sorr-ee.’

  I pick up the bowl and carry it carefully across the grass to the caravan, and I set it back in place on top of the cupboard. Fish aren’t like people, are they? They don’t need fancy ponds or water lilies or stone pagodas. They don’t need families, friends, dreams.

  I peer at Rover. I was exactly like him, not so long ago … stuck in my own little goldfish-bowl world, swimming round and round in circles. Now everything has changed for me. My world has opened out, filled up with challenges and complications and possibilities. It’s scary, sure, but I plan to give it my best shot. I am not going back to that little goldfish-bowl life, not if I can help it.

  ‘Don’t get any big ideas,’ I tell Rover, and he gazes at me, faintly disapproving.

  I think if Rover could talk, he would tell me not to get any big ideas either.

  13

  Summer has a ballet lesson in Minehead on Friday, and Charlotte takes Skye and me to do a supermarket shop while she’s there. We drive past the high school I will be going to in September.

  ‘It’s a friendly place,’ Charlotte says. ‘And besides, Honey will look out for you.’

  Skye looks at me and pulls a face.

  ‘Er … right …’ I mumble, but my heart sinks. Skye, Summer and Coco are still at middle school, of course. Just how will Honey look out for me, I wonder? By throwing my school books out of a top-floor window, my gym kit into a tree? That’s something to look forward to.

  Once Summer has finished her lesson, Charlotte takes us down to the seafront so we can walk Fred along the sand, and she buys us all ice creams from a kiosk by the beach.

  For a little while, eating ice cream with Charlotte, Summer and Skye, watching Fred ricochet across the sand, I forget about jigsaw pieces and misshapen Taystee Bars. I just relax and enjoy the sun on my face, the swish of cool water around my bare feet. Summer and Skye link my arms on either side and it feels good.

  When we get back to Tanglewood, laden down with shopping, the kitchen looks like it has been burgled, vandalized and ransacked by a gang of maniacs. Dirty pans, dishes and trays are piled up in the sink, the dishwasher is chugging along full blast and Dad is scrubbing down the kitchen table. There is a strange, spicy aroma in the air, like chicken korma gone horribly wrong.

  ‘Curry for tea?’ Charlotte asks.

  ‘Ah … no,’ Dad admits. ‘I’ve been experimenting with truffle flavours again. I’ve seen chilli chocolate out there, and I’m a big fan of Indian food –’

  ‘Noooo,’ I groan. ‘Curry truffles? Seriously?’

  ‘It may not be one of my better ideas,’ Dad shrugs. ‘Don’t worry, though, I’ve tried a few other experiments as well … I’ve made six new flavours. I thought we could have a taste test, see which ones you all like!’

  Charlotte looks around at the kitchen carnage, slightly shell-shocked.

  ‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘Um … how often are you planning on making these chocolate experiments, Paddy? I’m not sure my nerves can take it.’

  Dad looks crestfallen. ‘I know the kitchen table isn’t the best place for a chocolate business,’ he admits. ‘But I have some other ideas. Lots of ideas, actually. Now we’ve had a chance to settle in a bit, and everything is going so well, I thought perhaps we could make some plans? If we are really going to do this … well, we need to talk, get organized.’

  Charlotte sinks down into an ancient armchair by the Aga.

  ‘Sounds like time for a family meeting,’ she sighs.

  ‘Good idea!’ Dad agrees. ‘This will affect everyone. It’s a family business.’

  ‘Sounds serious,’ Charlotte says.

  ‘Very,’ Dad agrees.

  None of us has the heart to tell him he has chocolate smeared across his nose.

  *

  By the time Skye has t
racked down Coco, Summer has unpacked the shopping and stacked it away, Dad and I have washed up the chocolate-caked pans and bowls, and the kitchen is looking a little less like the aftermath of a world war.

  Charlotte pours cool fruit juices and Dad sets out plates of truffles along the centre of the table for us to taste. ‘No sign of Honey?’ Charlotte frowns. ‘If this is a family meeting, she should be here too …’

  ‘She was down at the beach,’ Skye says. ‘I told her to come up to the house, but she didn’t seem too keen …’

  Charlotte and Dad exchange a look. ‘Well,’ Dad says. ‘Not to worry. We can always save some truffles for her to try later.’

  The kitchen door swings open and Honey stalks in, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and heart-shaped sunglasses, as well as her usual scowl. ‘What’s all this rubbish?’ she demands, glaring at the display of truffles. ‘What’s so important, anyway? I was busy – and anyhow, I don’t eat chocolate! It gives you spots.’

  She looks at me with a smirk, and I put a hand to my nose where a tiny Barbie-pink pimple has sprouted up overnight.

  ‘Hey, c’mon, Honey, the truffles look good,’ a second voice corrects her, and that’s all I need. It’s Shay, in cut-off jeans and a Muppets T-shirt, with the black beanie still slouching off the back of his head. My heart flips over at the sight of him.

  He grins at me. ‘Anyway, chocolate doesn’t give you spots,’ he says. ‘It’s just growing up that does that.’

  ‘Growing up?’ Honey says under her breath, shooting me a dark look. ‘Yeah, right …’

  I can feel my cheeks turning pinker than my spot. I get the message – there may only be a few months between me and Honey, age-wise, but it might as well be a lifetime. Honey looks grown-up, cool and sophisticated, and I look like a spotty little kid.

  ‘Anyway, we’re all here now,’ Dad announces. ‘So let’s get started – I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’ve created some new truffle flavours for you to try, and I thought we could discuss a few other bits and pieces to do with the chocolate business –’