by Fiona Foden
“Hurry up,” she mutters. “We’re going to be late…”
“So,” Skelling yells over the roar of the dryer, “what kind of hilarious costume are you wearing for the carnival this year, Clover?”
“I’m not in it,” I yell back.
As far as the carnival’s concerned, people either regard it as a huge embarrassment and run riot with water guns, squirting anyone who’s dumb enough to have dressed up for the parade. Or they’re the idiots in the parade. My family belongs to the latter camp. In about six years’ time I’ll be sitting with a therapist lady who’ll say, “Tell me about your childhood, Clover.”
And I’ll say in a teeny voice: “My mum made me dress up as a burger.”
My neck’s cricking under the dryer and my head’s scorching hot. I’m scared about what’ll happen as the oil heats up to an almost unbearable degree. Will I start frying, like a chip? Will I walk into Mr Savage’s class with a sizzling head and have to be put out with a fire extinguisher? Hey, that’s OK, because olive oil’s a brilliant conditioner.
Grabbing a fistful of paper towels, I try to blot any remaining damp bits, aware of Skelling’s gaze spearing my cheek. “But your family’s always in it,” she insists. “It’s one of the highlights of the year…”
“Well, we’re not doing it any more,” I say firmly.
She frowns, seeming in no hurry to go anywhere. “What were you last year?”
“Um, can’t remember…”
“I do!” she announces. “You were a burger, weren’t you? A big brown flat thing between your mum and your sister. Weren’t they dressed as … buns? Like, half a bun each? And wasn’t your dad a bag of chips?” She laughs raucously just as Mrs Bryant, the oldest teacher in the known universe, marches in. Her silvery hair is bunned up on her head like a loaf.
“No classes to go to, girls?” she rasps.
“Yes,” we all chime, hurrying for the door. Jess and I speed off to history, with me trying to flatten my fluffed-up hair, and Skelling clip-clopping idly behind us.
I’m furious as we march down the corridor. Furious that I never have the guts to stand up to her. “Never let anyone mess you around, Clover,” Jupe used to say when we visited. “You’ve got spirit and heart. Wait until you’re let loose on the world…” So what happened? No one will notice when I’m “let loose”. Or, if they do, they’ll laugh their knickers off. Thirteen years old, and Mum rakes through my hair in full view of the street, then sends me to school dripping with oil. And Skelling was right about our carnival costumes – we really did dress up as a burger and buns. The costumes weren’t even new or specially made for us. They were part of some publicity stunt that Tony, the chippie owner, dreamed up to attract more customers. I assume he wanted the staff to wear them, but I don’t think anyone ever did. Mum found them stuffed in a cupboard in the café kitchen, stinking of grease. She had to wash them before we’d agree to wear them, and even then they still reeked.
No wonder Dad’s gone. It’s obvious now. We’re all mad and he couldn’t cope with us any longer.
Behind us, Skelling makes a gurgling noise with her throat. You’d never guess one little sound could say so much, but it does.
It says:
Look at the state of you, Clover Jones.
Ever heard of shampoo?
My mum’s a fashion designer. She makes underwear for the royal family. That’s right – silken knickers for royal derrieres. What does yours do? Oh yeah – she works in a chip shop.
With creepy, greasy Tony.
Maybe she can’t afford shampoo.
No wonder your dad ran off.
Did you really think Riley was smiling at you as you were leaving your house this morning?
He was laughing at you, loser, like everyone else in this school.
A lump rises in my throat. Jess catches my eye and smiles encouragingly as we creep into Mr Savage’s class. He frowns at us, but thankfully turns back to write on the whiteboard. We’re doing the suffragettes. Women who were so desperate to vote and be equal to men that they chained themselves to the railings at 10 Downing Street.
I perch on my chair and pull out my jotters and pencil case. Mr Savage drones on. Outside, pale clouds shift lazily against a turquoise sky. I start imagining Jupe, watching me from somewhere up there, asking why a smart girl like me is so upset by an idiot like Skelling. Did he care if people didn’t like his music or wrote bad reviews about his band? Of course he didn’t. He didn’t care what anyone thought, and remembering that makes me feel a whole lot better. “Clover?” Mr Savage’s voice snaps me back to reality.
“Yes?” I say quickly.
“Are you with us today? You looked as if you were miles away there.”
“Um, sorry,” I say. Although my cheeks are burning, I’m actually smiling as Mr Savage turns his attentions back to the suffragettes. It really feels as if my uncle’s here, helping me to be strong. Thanks, Jupe, I write in the tiniest script on the inside corner of my jotter.
I manage to avoid any public discussions about Dad by keeping a low profile all morning. By lunchtime, though, there’s no chance. Mum spent most of the weekend with the phone jammed at her ear, and gossip spreads like wildfire around Copper Beach. “So, will you have to choose who to live with, Clover?” Amy Sheen bellows in the lunch queue. “Like, go to court and stuff?”
“Of course not,” I retort, although I dreamt about that very scenario last night. Only I wasn’t me. I was a dog that two people were fighting over, trying to tempt with juicy bones:
Here, Scamp, don’t you want to live with me? Look at this bone, yum yum, come and get it…
No, you’re staying with me, aren’t you, Scamp? You don’t want bones. We’ll build you a lovely new kennel!
“When a couple splits up,” Amy jabbers on, “they usually have a custody battle over the kids.”
“I … er, yeah, I know that.” I grip my tray with a plate of dried-up shepherd’s pie on it. It’s only just happened and I’m already being confronted by custody and courtrooms and old men in curly wigs. Will I have to take an oath and swear on the Bible? I don’t even know any bits from the Bible.
“Hasn’t he gone off with some naked model woman?” she asks eagerly, as if my life were a soap and not horrible, sleazy reality.
“It’s kind of private,” I snap, grabbing a carton of orange juice.
“What’s your mum been like since it happened?”
“Fine, OK?” I say a bit too loudly. It’s also a complete lie. Mum might be putting on a brave face, but last night Lily and I peeped out into the back garden and saw her smashing up Dad’s tomato plants in the greenhouse.
“Oh well.” Amy shrugs and turns away. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
I’m just recovering from this when a tall, gangly figure marches into the canteen. Riley grins when he spots me. “Hey, Clover,” he calls out. “Your hair looks nice. Kinda … freshly washed.”
Brilliant. So Skelling’s spread the word about my oil-slick head. “Thanks,” I shoot back. “I like to make an effort.”
“No, I mean, really.” He’s closer now, his eyes glinting mischievously. They’re a kind of hazelly brown with flecks of amber. There isn’t a name for those sort of eyes.
I scrabble for something smart to say. But my mouth won’t work, and I’m conscious of a whooshing hotness surging up my neck, as if I’m still trapped underneath the hand dryer.
“Hey, Riley!” Skelling marches in through the door.
He looks round at the sound of her voice. “Got the bird poo out of your hair yet, Clover?” she crows, drawing giggles from around the canteen. I wish Jess were here, but she’s gone home for lunch. And I hate myself for needing her.
Riley rolls his eyes at Skelling as he loads up his tray. I don’t know why he has this effect on me. He usually has Skelling superglued to his
side, which is one major reason to avoid him. Yet he only has to shoot me one of his cheeky looks, and it’s like those neon fish from the pet shop are fluttering madly around my insides. Anyway, I can’t avoid him, as he comes to group guitar lessons every Monday after school. And I’m not giving up those for anyone.
“Hey, Clover,” Skelling sneers, following me to an empty table. “There must’ve been some kind of oil leakage out at sea.”
“Give her a break, would you?” Riley says curtly.
“Oh, so you fancy her, do you?” Her eyebrows shoot upwards, and there’s a chorus of laughter from a nearby table.
I sit down and glare at my lunch, realizing, too late, that the pie has something called a “cheese soufflé topping”. It looks like hair mousse squirted out of a can.
“OK if I sit here?” Riley asks.
“If you like,” I mumble. Riley parks himself beside me, and Skelling nearly sends a gaunt boy in glasses flying as she grabs the seat opposite him. I try a forkful of pie. It slithers, gloop-like, down my throat. There’s an awkward silence as Skelling picks at her tuna salad. “You OK, Clover?” Riley asks.
I nod, my stomach swirling uneasily. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“It’s just…” He pauses, and I can sense him looking at me. I keep my gaze fixed on my hair mousse pie. “I, um, heard about your dad,” he adds gently.
Skelling’s eyes flick up from her plate. I swivel round to look at him, amazed that he thinks it’s OK to bring up such personal stuff in a packed canteen. “Huh?” I say. “What about him?”
“Your dad, I just, um, heard he…” Riley tails off and blushes. “Uh, I’m sorry…”
“It’s got nothing to do with my dad,” I snap, taken aback by a surge of anger. “It’s just been one of those days, OK? But if you want to gossip about my family, go ahead. I mean, everyone else is…” To my horror, my eyes start to flood with tears. Banging down my fork, I stagger up from my seat and blunder towards the canteen door.
“Clover, I didn’t mean…” Riley protests.
“Whoo, touchy!” Skelling yells after me.
Having barely recovered from the hair oil and lunch fiasco, I don’t feel like going to my guitar lesson at Niall’s after school. This is a first. What would Jupe say about that? He’d laugh and puff hard on his roll-up and say, “Jeez, Clover, I can’t believe you’re giving up because of a boy. I thought you were serious about music?” So I have to go, obviously.
As we head out of school I say bye to Jess. Then I loiter at the bus stop so Riley’s ahead of me and we won’t walk down to Niall’s together. By the time I get to his house down by the docks, I’ve managed to convince myself that maybe Riley won’t be here this week. “Hi, Clover,” Niall says, beckoning me into his tiny fisherman’s cottage. “Get yourself sorted; I’ll just grab some tea.”
“OK.” I step meekly into his living room. Damn, Riley’s here already.
“Hi,” he says awkwardly, glancing up.
“Hi,” I say, pulling my guitar out of its case and focusing on tuning it. Normally I can do it without thinking. Niall says I have a brilliant ear. Not today, I don’t. Not one string’s in tune, no matter how hard I try to concentrate.
“I think your top E’s flat,” Riley offers helpfully.
“I know,” I hiss at him. I wish Ben and Kate would turn up so Niall could start our group lesson.
Niall emerges from his kitchen with his customary mug of herbal tea. “Your top E’s a bit flat, Clover,” he says with a smile, plonking himself on a chair.
I have to hand him my guitar to tune up properly. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to do that. As Riley flicks through a wad of music, I glance around Niall’s living room with a stab of envy. It’s so welcoming with its squishy velvet sofa and jewel-coloured wall hangings. The doorbell rings and Kate and Ben tumble in, flushed from the early summer sunshine.
“Sorry we’re late,” Kate offers.
“Not a problem,” Niall says, handing me back my guitar. “Right, everyone, I hope you’ve practised those bar chords we learnt last week. Want to start, Clover?”
“Um, OK.” I try to form the right shapes with the fingers of my left hand. Think. Think. Nothing comes. My fingers feel like limp sausages. Riley’s lunchtime comment rings in my head: I heard about your dad… And Amy’s: Will you have to go to court? Should I just put a full-page announcement in the Copper Beach Gazette?
NEWSFLASH! Clover Jones’s dad now lives with a nudie model. Buy your copy tomorrow for the next thrilling instalment!
Tears prickle my eyes and I blink them away. Riley shuffles in his seat.
“Clover?” Niall says gently. “Everything OK?”
“I, um, I can’t remember the chords,” I mutter.
“Well, never mind,” he says quickly. “Bar chords are pretty tricky at first, but you’ll soon pick them up. I’ll run through them with you again, all right?”
“Thanks,” I say, furious with myself for being so useless. Jupe taught me so much that Niall often asks me to show Riley, Kate and Ben how it’s done. And I usually love these lessons. It feels so good, being able to do something easily. Now the others are waiting patiently as Niall gently manoeuvres my fingers into position. But they still won’t work. First my ears, now my fingers. It’s as if my body’s falling to pieces, bit by bit.
Twaaaang! My strings ring out, discordant and ugly. Riley shoots me a concerned frown. Niall tries again and again until there’s no option but to give up and carry on with the lesson.
I can’t even play the songs we learnt weeks ago. You’d never believe Jupe taught me to play when I was seven years old.
Then my D string breaks and there’s no time to put on another one before the end of the lesson. I zip my guitar into its case, keeping my eyes lowered. “See you all next week,” Niall says brightly as his wife pads downstairs with Miles, their snoozing baby son. How has he managed to nap with the awful racket I’ve been making? Maybe he willed himself to sleep to escape from the horror of it all.
We all step out into the cobbled courtyard. It’s drizzling now, and the sky’s turned moody grey. “Hey Clover,” Niall calls from the doorway. “Everyone has their off days, you know? Don’t stress about it.”
I nod glumly.
“Maybe you’ve got other stuff on your mind, huh?”
“Kind of.”
“Chin up,” he says kindly. “See you next week.”
By the time I head for the high street, the others have disappeared. Then I spot Riley, waiting for me. “Hey,” he says, smiling.
I nod curtly. Gripping my guitar case tightly and trying my best to ignore the dancing fish in my belly, I walk on by.
“Hey, Clover! What’s the hurry?” Riley calls out, scuttling after me into the busy street.
“I need to get home,” I snap. I don’t really, not today. Usually, I have to pick up Lily from her gym class after guitar, but today she’s going to her friend Hannah’s. Mum will be working till six, so there’s nothing to rush home for.
Riley falls into step with me but keeps pinging me quizzical looks. His school sweatshirt’s knotted around his waist, and he’s wearing a creamy-coloured T-shirt that’s close enough to our regulation polo shirts for him to get away with it.
I walk faster, keeping my expression as frosty as possible.
“Look,” he says, a little out of breath, “I’m really sorry about what I said at lunchtime. Mentioning your parents, I mean. It was really stupid…”
“S’OK,” I growl.
“I … I should know better,” he adds, “’cause I’ve been through it too.”
I flick a look at him. For one dumb moment I assume he means his dad ran off with a nudie model too. “I mean my parents broke up,” Riley adds.
I stop and look at him. “Did they? I never knew that.” I assumed I knew everything abou
t Riley Hart, or at least the important stuff: the way he tosses his fair fringe from his eyes and how it flips straight back again. How his cheeks dimple when he laughs, and the back of his neck turns gingerbread-brown in the sun. How he tries and tries in Niall’s lessons, but messes up every time.
And how he makes me go fizzy inside.
“About a year and a half ago,” he continues, “just before Christmas. Great timing, huh? All my aunties and uncles had come to stay…” He shrugs, meeting my gaze, starting the fish going crazy in my stomach.
“That must’ve been awful,” I say.
“Well, I guess it’s never the right time, is it? But you do get used to things being different.”
I turn this over in my mind. Not worse – just different. Will I ever be able to think of it like that? “D’you live with your mum?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, with my dad. Mum went away for a week to London. Well, it was meant to be a week – she told Dad she needed to ‘find herself’.” He smirks. “A week, can you believe that? It used to take her three days to find her car keys.”
I smile, despite the awfulness of my day. “Did she find herself?”
“No, but she found a new boyfriend. Some guy called Mike who seemed to sort out her chakras or whatever they’re called.”
“God,” I murmur. He’s sharing all this as we cross the high street, and I marvel at how he can turn sad stuff on its head and squeeze the funniness out of it. We fall silent for a few moments; then I sense him looking at me. “You’ll be all right next week,” he adds.
“Will I?” I exclaim.
“I didn’t mean about your dad,” he adds quickly. “I mean at Niall’s, with those bar chords and everything…”
“Oh. Yeah, probably.”
“You’re heaps better than the rest of us,” he continues. “You make it look so easy, as if your fingers do what you want without you having to even think … it’s just so natural with you.”