by Fiona Foden
We stopped kissing and just sat there, looking out over the dark sea. “Ready, Cassie?” Dad called up from the street. “Car’s all cleaned up now. The cheese smell’s gone!”
“Coming,” I called back. Then Sam kissed me again.
“Cassie? What are you doing up there? Come on now, let’s go home…”
“In a minute,” I murmured as we held hands and watched the twinkling lighthouse. Who needs strawberry love potions? Not me.
Acknowledgements
Big thanks to lovely Caroline and Bryony, and to Alice and Catherine at Scholastic for being a dream to work with. I belong to a fantastic writing group who always keep me boosted: thanks to Tania, Vicki, Amanda, Sam and Hilary for lots of fun nights (sometimes, we even get around to doing some writing). Jimmy, Sam, Dex and Erin – you make me smile every day. And where would I be without my friends Cathy, Kath, Jenno and Riggsy? Lonely Street, that’s where.
27 Ocean Road
Copper Beach
Devon
EX11 7FK
14 June
Dear Jupe,
Yes, I know. This is weird because you’re dead. But hear me out for a minute, OK? It’s me – Clover. Remember me? Yeah, of course you do. In fact, I’ve written you tons of letters over the years, which seems a bit old-fashioned – I mean, no one writes real letters, do they, with pens and envelopes and everything? And you never wrote back – not once, even after I’d gone to the trouble of stealing stamps out of the kitchen drawer! Anyway, I still liked writing. It felt a bit like talking to you and that’s something I haven’t been able to do in a very long time. And now I won’t be able to ever again.
I could hardly believe it when Mum came into my room this morning and sat down on the edge of my bed. She was all nervous, twisting her hands together, so I knew it was something bad. “Um, Clover?” she said in a small voice. “Remember Uncle Jupe?” I nodded and felt my chest go tight. “He’s . . . he’s passed away, love,” she explained, clearing her throat. I just nodded and willed myself not to cry. We’d all spent a long time pretending you no longer existed so I had to pretend I was OK.
So I just asked why you died.
Mum’s face crumpled a bit, then she said, “He had cancer. If only we’d known. . .” Then she jumped up from my bed and rushed out of my room. I was glad about that. In front of Mum, I had to pretend to be normal about you dying when actually I remember every tiniest thing about you, even though I haven’t seen you since I was ten. I know you stopped sending birthday cards. No hard feelings, OK? But just to update you, I am thirteen next Friday. I make that three birthdays owing!
I remember coming to your funny, crumbly house in Cornwall where Fuzz was always prowling about. You used to feed him fresh salmon and spoil him rotten. And he’d hiss and spit at me. You said he thought I was a rival cat with my narrow green eyes and wild black hair that looked just like his fur. Thanks, Jupe! Even back then, I didn’t want to look like I had a fuzzy cat plonked on my head.
I forgave you, though. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a real musician like you when you were young. I wanted to travel the world and play for thousands of fans. I wasn’t so sure about the mad curly hair or the tight leather trousers (GOLD leather trousers, ahem!) or your frilly pink women’s blouses. But I could imagine it all – the music and screaming all rolled into one massive noise. It made my heart beat faster just thinking about it.
By the time I was born you weren’t a pop star any more, so this is hard to believe – but Mum said fans used to throw knickers at you. I wouldn’t fancy being pelted with other people’s stinky old pants, but I still caught it. No – not the knickers. The music thing, I mean. You’d sit me down with all your different guitars and make the chord shapes while I strummed, so it sounded like it was me playing. Then, when I got a bit better and my fingers were stronger, it really WAS me.
You changed my life, Jupe. You taught me to play and we’d sit for hours, strumming together like it was our own little world. You treated me like your friend, not a kid, and even though Mum and my teachers get annoyed with me sometimes, you never did. So I always felt good being around you. Not like I was going to mess up or look stupid.
Now you’re gone. At school they’re always lecturing us about drugs and smoking and alcohol. But no one ever talks about death.
I wish I could undo the terrible thing I did that made us all fall out, Jupe. It was my fault and I’m sorry. Even more than that, I’m sorry you died.
To make up for everything, the only thing I can think of is to be the best guitarist I can possibly be and form a real band and be amazing. What d’you think? I’m going to do it – that’s an actual promise. So listen out for me, even when it gets really rowdy up there with all those angels strumming their harps.
Love,
Clover xxx
P.S. I’m not posting this letter, obviously. I just wanted to talk to you like I used to when it felt like I could say whatever popped into my head. Anyway, dead people can’t read (I don’t think).
One
Birthday Bombshell
Thirteen’s too young for a midlife crisis, don’t you agree? It’s supposed to happen when you’re old and start shrieking, “The grass needs cutting, hasn’t anyone noticed? Are we going for a jungle effect out there? Shall we throw in a few baboons while we’re at it?” That’s the kind of thing Mum says. She grabs an idea and runs away with it like an out-of-control horse. As for me, Clover Jones – well, despite being supposedly in the best years of my life (snort), my brain’s gone into meltdown.
It starts with shouting downstairs – Mum and Dad barking at each other like dogs. Yap yap yap! (Mum: small, persistent dog. The kind that snaffles around your ankles, looking like it’ll widdle at any moment.) Woof woof woof! (Dad: large hound with thunderous growl, but soft and lovable really.) At first, when I wake up, I actually assume real dogs are fighting outside. Then Mum yells something clearly. I know some dogs are super-intelligent, but I’ve never heard of one that can shout, “I can’t believe what you’re telling me, Geoffrey!”
Then I know it’s not dogs, but humans. More accurately, my parents, having one humongous row. Hello Shame Street (this leads to Embarrassment Central).
Embarrassment Central is where you wind up when your parents fight in earshot of your best friend. You see, it’s not just me in my bedroom. My little sister Lily’s away on a sleepover, so Mum said I could have Jess to stay last night. Using only my eye muscles, I swivel my gaze towards her. My best friend is lying on her side in Lily’s bed with her mouth open. She’s either really asleep, or trying to protect me from maximum humiliation by breathing slow and deep, like a real sleeping person.
I suspect the latter. If Jupe wasn’t dead, even he’d be able to hear Mum and Dad a three-hour drive away in Cornwall. In fact, maybe he still can from his cloud.
I creep out of bed and pad downstairs in my birthday pyjamas. What I plan to say is, “Mum, Dad, Jess is here – remember?” Because they’ve probably forgotten.
I tiptoe towards the kitchen, starting to feel a little less brave. They’re muttering now, and I start wishing we could rewind to yesterday when I became a teenager at last. That was an embarrassing day too. But at least it only involved Betty next door cooing, “Ooh, Clover, you’re a teenager! And I remember you wetting your dungarees in Superdrug when you were little. One of the girls had to fetch a mop and bucket!” It’s not exactly the kind of thing you want to be reminded of, but a bit of wee in Superdrug is nothing compared to this.
Now I’m peeping round the kitchen door. Dad’s standing in front of our fridge with his hands pressed against it. “Just . . . go,” Mum spits out, not realizing I’m here. At least I don’t think she’s realized. I can’t see her face, only the back of her, with her burgundy hair crinkling down her back, mussed up like a bush. She’s wearing her shiny black nightie and pink satin slippers
. One nightie strap dangles from her bony shoulder.
I can’t run back upstairs, because they’ll hear me and think I’ve been spying and get mad. I can’t bring myself to march into the kitchen either. Dad backs further against the fridge. He looks like he wants to disappear right inside it, along with our murky yoghurts and antique cheese. Some of the things in there are older than Lily. Behind Dad are our fridge poetry magnets – words you can arrange to make surreal sentences like ABNORMAL BANGLES BURN TEAPOT. The phrase YOUR FURRY EYEBALL hovers above Dad’s left shoulder.
Dad spots me and frowns. “Clover, sweetheart,” he croaks, “could you leave us alone for a moment, please?”
“It’s just, um, Jess is upstairs—” I begin.
“No,” Mum announces, swinging round to face me. “Clover deserves to know what’s going on. Why don’t you tell her, Geoffrey?”
My breath catches in my throat.
“I’m sorry, Clover,” Dad murmurs, looking down at his old brown slippers. It’s then that I register the tartan zip-up bag at his feet. Thoughts zap through my brain: he’s going to work away from home, like Mia Burnett’s dad, who does something with minerals in Peru. Or maybe he’s just going to normal work. But he’s not wearing his overalls – and anyway, it’s Saturday. Dad’s a garage mechanic and usually has weekends off. And why would he take a tartan bag to the garage?
Then, before I can convince myself everything’s going to be OK, and he really is only going to work, he picks up the bag and marches right past me. Street noises waft in as he opens the front door; then there’s a bang as he shuts it.
Dad’s gone. In his old brown slippers.
I stare at Mum. “What’s happening?” I whisper.
She looks at me. I know it sounds mad, but I’m transfixed by her face. On a normal morning she’d have full make-up on by now. She’d have the pink blusher, the smoky grey eyeshadow, the burgundy lipstick and layer upon layer of Lavish Lash black mascara. Today is obviously not a Lavish Lash kind of day. “You . . . you know Dad’s life drawing class?” she says faintly.
“Uh-huh. . .” I once had a peek at Dad’s drawings. I wished on our hamster’s life that I hadn’t. Mum and Dad aren’t the types to stroll about in the nude, and I’d never realized how lumpy and hairy and kind of collapsed-looking adults’ bodies can be. If you looked like that, wouldn’t you keep your clothes on, at least in public? I mean, why would you let people draw you?
“He’s . . . he’s met some woman there,” Mum says.
Something crashes inside me, as if I’ve been punched hard in the belly. “What d’you mean?” I blurt out.
“Just that, love. He’s met . . . a woman.” She wipes her fingers across her sore-looking eyes. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“But, Mum. . .”
“Clover, look, I’m so sorry. . .”
“He’s coming back, though, isn’t he?” I cry. “I mean, he’s not . . . he’s not gone for good, has he?”
Mum nods and her eyes are all shiny again. “He wants to be with her. That’s what he said. . .”
“But he can’t!” I yell. “He lives here, with us!” It’s now starting to feel like a really sick joke. My dad, meeting another woman? But he’s old! And he’s a father. What about me, Lily and Mum? I glance towards the kitchen doorway, willing Jess not to come downstairs all smiley and normal. I want her to sleep for a hundred years, like the princess who ate the poisoned apple.
“He used to,” Mum declares, looking angry now instead of sad. “Your father used to live with us, Clover. Not any more.”
With that, she flops onto a kitchen chair and stares ahead like a ghost. I stand there, opening and shutting my mouth like some kind of demented fish. I know I should do something more useful, like hug Mum and say everything’ll be all right. But all I can do is stand here, being a fish.
There’s the creak of a bedroom door, followed by soft footsteps on the landing. “Clover!” Jess sing-songs from upstairs. “What are you doing?”
“Just a minute!” I yell up – but too late. Jess bounds downstairs and into the kitchen in her polka-dot nightie. Her long, light brown hair’s tied back, and her cheeks are pink and shiny. She looks like an advert for healthy living. “Um, OK if I have a drink?” she asks, glancing from me to Mum.
“Course it is,” I say, diving to the fridge for orange juice.
“Well, girls,” Mum announces, “help yourself to anything you like. I’m not feeling too good, so I’m going back to bed for a little nap, all right?” She scurries away in a flurry of black satin nightie.
I hand Jess a glass of juice. “What’s happened?” she whispers.
“I, um. . .” I begin. I sort of want to tell her. But it’s so huge, I don’t know where to start. “It’s Dad,” I mutter. A squeak from the back porch makes me flinch. Cedric, our hamster, is running like blazes on his wheel. Why can’t I have the simple, monotonous life of a hamster?
“Probably just a silly argument over nothing,” Jess says, touching my arm. “My parents yell at each other all the time.”
No, they don’t. They call each other “angel” and “sweetcakes” and are always patting and stroking each other. “No, it’s more than that,” I insist. “Dad’s. . .” I want to say “left us” but it clogs in my throat. “He’s gone,” I add lamely.
“God, Clover. Are you sure?”
“Yeah. That’s what Mum says. . .”
“That’s awful!” she cries. “Did you have any idea?”
I shake my head.
“Want me to stick around for a while?” Jess asks. “We’re supposed to be visiting Auntie Sue in Exeter, but I’ll stay if you want. Mum won’t mind if I don’t go. . .”
“No, it’s OK,” I say firmly.
“Sure?”
“Honestly. Mum probably wants to talk.” Actually, it’s what I want. I don’t feel like having anyone here, not even Jess. I want to grab my guitar and play and play until everything’s fixed again.
Jess nods and hugs me. “Great birthday present, huh?” she says.
I try for a laugh, but all that pops out is a tiny, Cedric-sized squeak...
Cassie’s Crush is about a typical teenage girl – with typical teenage problems! What were you like as a teenager?
I loved music, drawing, reading and writing stories and decided at around 14 that I either wanted to work on a teenage magazine or be an illustrator. I started drawing little comic strips and sending them off to comics, and occasionally a cheque for all of £5 would arrive in the post, which seemed like SO much money. As an only child, I lived in my own imaginary world a lot – it was good training for being a writer. I wasn’t really a fashion or make-uppy kind of girl until I reached about 16, when I became obsessed with the 1960s and started backcoming my hair, wearing ski pants and white lipstick and tons of black eye liner. Until then, I’d just liked messing about on my bike, writing, or doing art.
Where is your favourite place to write?
In my tiny boxroom – it’s warm, cosy and crammed with notebooks with Post-it notes stuck all over the place. I also like writing in cafés or on trains – I’d go mad, being stuck at home all the time.
Do you ever test out your stories and ideas on your friends and family?
My daughter Erin read parts of my books, and a writer friend read the whole book at a very early stage, and gave me the confidence to polish it up and keep working on it.
What tips would you give for young writers?
It’s harder to write a story than to have an idea for a story – so it’s vital to get the words down, even if you don’t feel very confident or want to show your story to anyone at that stage. You can always work on it, improve it, go back to it weeks or months later. It usually gets better and better and eventually you know it’s the best you can make it. That’s when you should give it to people to read.
I loved How I Live Now, by Meg Rosoff, and Ways to Live Forever by Sally Nicholls – beautiful, touching books with unforgettable characters. One holiday in France, my three children and I all read Ways to Live Forever, with each person impatiently waiting for their turn. And I love Cathy Cassidy’s books too – Dizzy is my favourite. My kids and I all read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night time – absolutely brilliant. I read as much teen fiction as adult books.
Tell us a strange fact about yourself.
I used to live on a narrowboat on the canal in North London.
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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2012
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2014
Text copyright © Fiona Foden, 2012
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eISBN 978 1407 14671 3
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