I’ve seen pictures of foxes, of course, but a picture could never capture this quick, perfect creature, the startling brightness of it. The fox turns, its pointed face and amber eyes motionless, studying me. I can scarcely breathe, scarcely blink. My heart is so loud it seems impossible that the fox cannot hear it.
We are enemies, really, humans and foxes. Up until recently people dressed up in red jackets and rode out on horses, hunting foxes with packs of hounds until the foxes tired from the chase and the hounds tore them to pieces. I can’t imagine how anyone could ever want to hurt something so beautiful.
The fox looks right through me, seeing everything. My mouth feels dry as dust.
Abruptly, the fox loses interest and turns, slipping quickly through the bushes and up over the wall, into the woods that fringe the railway line. I stand up, my breath coming out in a long, soft sigh as though I’ve been holding it forever. I take the handlebars of my bike, but I don’t even know what I’m doing here now, alone on a towpath in the middle of nowhere, so early in the morning, looking for a boy with only one shoe.
Crazy.
That’s when I hear it, the loud, swooping swell of saxophone music, up ahead, dipping and soaring and singing through the bright morning air.
I wheel my bike forward, past the tree and along the towpath until a narrowboat comes into view, long and low and painted in vivid shades of red and green, tied up against the bank. Sitting on the roof is a boy in a black trilby hat, playing the sax.
I stand still and watch for a long moment, letting the music wash over me, and then Sam turns and sees me. He lowers the gleaming saxophone and smiles. As he jumps down from the narrowboat roof and walks along to meet me, I notice that he is wearing one black Converse trainer and one red one, the laces undone and trailing, as usual. ‘Hey,’ he says softly. ‘Gingersnaps.’ I haven’t thought this out at all, I can see that now. I rescued the shoe and tracked down the narrowboat, but I didn’t figure out what might happen next. I had some vague idea of leaving the shoe on deck and sneaking away… one of Sam’s random acts of kindness, I guess. It’s not going exactly to plan.
‘I found your shoe,’ I say. ‘It was in a flower bed.’
Sam takes the trainer, dangling it by its laces. ‘Thank you,’ he says.
‘I saw Jas throw it. I was almost sure I knew where it landed, but…’
Sam shrugs. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘Not your fault.’
‘I know, but… I hate things like that. People being picked on. I wanted to stop it, I wanted to say something, only… I was scared, I guess.’
‘Has it ever happened to you?’ Sam asks.
I blink. ‘No, no, of course not!’
He looks at me for a long moment, and I have to look away. ‘You found my shoe, though,’ he says, grinning. ‘And you brought it back. I can’t believe you did that!’
My cheeks flare. ‘I just didn’t like what they did,’ I say, shrugging.
Sam takes the bike and starts to wheel it towards the narrowboat, and I have no choice but to follow along. ‘People do hassle you when you don’t fit in,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t really bother me, and once they suss that they usually leave me alone.’
I frown. ‘Don’t you want to fit in, though?’
Sam considers. ‘Not especially. Why would I? I don’t want to follow their rules and regulations, I just want to be me.’
I don’t ask who ‘they’ are, but I have a feeling Sam’s not just talking about the teachers.
We reach the boat, and Sam props my bike against a tree. ‘Want a drink?’ he asks.
‘Er… I wasn’t going to stay or anything…’
Sam just grins, like he knows I’m not going anywhere.
‘Tea, coffee, something healthy?’ he asks.
‘Something healthy,’ I decide.
The narrowboat bobs gently on the water, a long, sloping red and green cabin rising from the low curve of the hull. Little windows run along the side, red-checked curtains still drawn shut, and a crooked tin chimney pokes up through the roof halfway along. Towards the back, a long panel is decorated with a painting of a castle, white roses decorating the corners. The name Cadenza curves above this in elegant red lettering.
‘It’s Italian,’ Sam explains. ‘A musical term. It means the fancy bit at the end of a solo performance. My dad’s very into his music.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He plays the violin,’ Sam tells me. ‘He’s working with the orchestra in town, that’s why we moved here.’
Sam steps on to the front deck, and I follow. The boat rocks slightly beneath my feet, and I wonder again what exactly I am doing, standing on a narrowboat with Sam Taylor, talking about shoes and drinks and music. Or anything, come to that.
My heart still seems to be beating fast, and I feel kind of dreamy, detached. ‘I saw a fox, just along the towpath,’ I hear myself say. ‘It was… amazing. I’ve never seen a fox before.’
‘I’ve seen it too,’ Sam tells me. ‘A few times in the mornings, early, sometimes at dusk. I’ve seen foxes before, but this one is braver… kind of curious.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And such a gorgeous colour – a sort of burnt orange, like autumn leaves.’
Sam smiles. His fingers reach out as if to touch my hair, then pull back quickly as if he’s had second thoughts. ‘Yeah… autumn leaves,’ he says.
He ducks down through the decorated cabin doors, returning a moment later minus the Converse trainer, but with a plastic bottle of turquoise fizzy stuff and some glasses. He jumps up on to the cabin roof and sits down on the cabin edge, long legs dangling. I scramble after him, settling myself a little further along.
‘What’s it like living on a narrowboat?’ I ask.
‘Cool,’ Sam says. ‘We’re free to do what we want, go where we want, you know? No nosy neighbours, no complaints about the noise.’
‘The noise?’
Sam lifts the sax up to his mouth and blows, and the big, soaring sound of it spirals up into the bright morning sky. He leans into the sax, lifting it up, eyes shut with the effort, the trilby hat tipped back on his dark curls.
I let myself drift, warm in the sunshine, lost in the sound. Then the music dies away, and the air around us is still and silent again.
‘Your neighbours complained about that?’ I ask. ‘It’s fantastic!’
‘Loud, though.’ Sam shrugs.
‘I guess. Doesn’t your dad mind?’
‘I told you, he loves music,’ Sam says. ‘Besides, I put up with him too, playing the violin at midnight when he gets back from the orchestra.’
I grin. ‘No wonder you’re moored up in the middle of nowhere.’
Sam lifts the sax from round his neck, laying it carefully down on the black velvet lining of its battered case, open on the cabin roof. He pulls the brim of his hat down and peers at me from under it.
‘You’re different, here,’ he says. ‘Away from school. Easier to talk to. More… yourself.’
‘You’re saying I’m not myself, at school?’ I ask. ‘Who else would I be?’
His brown eyes flicker. ‘You tell me.’
Sam picks up the bottle of turquoise fizz and pours two toxic-looking glasses. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m not used to company – nearly forgot your drink.’
‘What is it?’ I ask, wrinkling my nose.
‘Blue lemonade. Brilliant stuff!’
‘I thought you said it was healthy? This looks like paint stripper!’
He looks hurt. ‘Lemons are healthy, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, but they’re not blue!’
Sam just laughs and takes a long swig of his drink. Warily, I try mine too. It tastes better than it looks – cool and sweet and bubbly. I drain my glass, look back at Sam and dissolve into giggles. His mouth is stained blue.
Sam raises one eyebrow. ‘You think it’s just me?’ he asks, eyes twinkling. ‘Trust me, it’s not…’
I lick my lips and rub at my mouth. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’<
br />
‘Didn’t think it mattered,’ Sam shrugs. ‘Blue lemonade does stain, a bit. Probably why it’s cheap.’ He fishes about in his pocket for a clean tissue, handing it over, and I dab at my mouth, blotting off swipes of turquoise. I remember that I’m supposed to be meeting Shannon and Emily at eleven, and wonder how I can explain blue lips.
‘Here, let me,’ Sam says. He takes the tissue, looks at it, then scrunches it up and lets it fall to the deck. He leans across, and before I realize it he’s kissing me, his lips soft and gentle and tasting of blue lemonade.
I’ve never kissed a boy before, not on the mouth, not properly. In my dreams, it was always Orlando Bloom or Daniel Radcliffe, someone older than me, someone confident, cool. I didn’t imagine blue lips or funny hats, but I’m not complaining. Seriously, I’m not.
We pull apart slowly, blinking.
‘OK,’ he says, his voice a little shaky. ‘That did the trick. No more blue.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, just to be on the safe side…’
My heart thumps as Sam leans in a second time, and I panic, because I am not ready for this, for weird boys with blue lips and trilby hats, and kisses that make me melt inside.
‘I have to go,’ I whisper. I pull away from him, into the real world. ‘I have to meet Shannon and Emily. I don’t want to be late…’
‘No,’ says Sam. ‘No, sure.’
I jump down off the cabin roof and on to the towpath, grab my bike and start walking away.
‘See ya, Gingersnaps,’ Sam shouts, behind me, but I don’t look back. Up ahead, half hidden in the long grass, the fox moves quickly, silently, red-gold like autumn leaves.
I’ll be late to meet Shannon and Emily anyway, of course. I text them, saying I slept in and will meet them later, and I cycle home to change my clothes, fix my face, sort out my hair. I already know I can’t tell them about Sam Taylor. They wouldn’t understand. I’m not even sure I understand myself…
‘You were out early, pet,’ Mum calls as I let myself in. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just such a beautiful day, I wanted to get out there… I took my bike down to Candy’s Bridge. It was really quiet and beautiful… I saw a fox!’
I also saw a boy with a black trilby hat and a saxophone, and I kissed him until my heart turned cartwheels inside me. I don’t say that, of course.
‘A fox? That’s nice.’
Mum’s looking at me a little too hard. I lick my lips. Are they still smudged with blue? Do they look like they’ve been kissed?
I grab a slice of toast and head for the stairs. ‘Got to dash,’ I tell Mum. ‘I’m meeting Shannon and Emily in town.’
‘Emily?’
‘Emily Croft, from my old primary.’
Mum nods. ‘Ah. I always liked her. I’m glad you’re friends again.’
I smile. We were never friends in the first place, not really, of course, but Mum doesn’t know that. I run up the stairs to my room and shut the door behind me. My dressing table is a mess of makeup, nail varnish, hair serum. I plug my straighteners in and blink at my reflection.
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I catch a fleeting glimpse of someone else, someone shadowy, sad-eyed, lost. I often think if I could just move a little faster, look a little harder, I’d be able to reach out and touch the shape of her face, plumper than mine, tease her downturned mouth into a smile.
She’s still there, behind my eyes, the girl I used to be.
Today, without foundation to hide my freckles, without eyeliner or mascara to darken my golden lashes, without half an hour of brushing and straightening, you’d think she was there for real.
Sam Taylor saw me with no make-up, my hair tangled from the breeze, my lips blue… and he kissed me.
I can’t help smiling, and the shadow-girl smiles with me.
‘You look amazing,’ I tell Emily, and it’s true, she does. Her lank, mousy hair has been trimmed into a jagged, jaw-length bob that dips down over one eye, dyed a rich chestnut brown and streaked with shades of caramel and gold.
Shannon links her arm, beaming. ‘It didn’t even cost much,’ she tells me. ‘Lauren gave us staff discount, and the boss was so pleased with it they took a picture for their files.’
‘Wow. What do you think, Emily?’
‘It’s spooky,’ Emily says, in a small voice. ‘I don’t even look like me, any more.’
Well, that’s a feeling I can identify with.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ I tell her.
We crowd into The Dancing Cat cafe and order smoothies while Shannon plans the rest of our day. ‘We need accessories,’ she decides. ‘Clips and hairbands, that kind of thing. And make-up – eyeliner and shadow and lipgloss, at the very least. And then there’s the clothes…’
Emily bites her lip. ‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ she asks.
I have to smile. Emily is wearing a kid’s pink shirt with a cartoon puppy embroidered on to the pocket, and flared jeans that come up to her armpits, just about. Her shoes are the flat lace-ups she wears for school.
‘They’re just more… practical than stylish, that’s all,’ I say kindly.
‘They’re a disaster,’ Shannon corrects me. ‘Would your mum cough up for a new wardrobe, d’you think?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Emily says. ‘Money’s tight, and she just forked out for the haircut.’
‘Any savings?’
‘Twenty-five quid,’ Emily says. ‘Mum’d kill me if I touched it. Sorry.’
‘When’s your birthday?’ Shannon asks.
‘Not till March…’
Shannon frowns. ‘Only one thing for it then,’ she says. ‘Window shopping. We’ll try some stuff on, show you what would suit you, and when your birthday rolls around, we’ll have a blowout!’
We spend the rest of the afternoon dipping in and out of Top Shop and New Look, picking out our favourite clothes, trying them on and putting them back again. We steer Emily away from the cutesy, pastel stuff and put her in skinny jeans and bright minidresses with leggings and sparkly pumps. She looks great.
‘I didn’t realize,’ she keeps saying. ‘I didn’t know I could look this way.’
‘Do you want to look this way?’ I ask quietly, when Shannon has disappeared off to root through the T-shirts. ‘I mean, it’s OK if you don’t. Don’t let Shannon push you around.’
‘She’s helping me, Ginger,’ she says. ‘Nobody’s pushing me around.’
I shrug. ‘OK, if you’re sure…’
Emily’s eyes flash. ‘You know what it’s like to be an outsider,’ she says. ‘It’s not much fun, remember? You changed, Ginger. I want to change too. I thought you wanted to help me.’
‘I do,’ I protest. ‘But only if this is what you want…’
‘Well, it is.’
By the end of the afternoon, Emily has used her cash card to take out her £25 savings and spent it on a pair of black skinny jeans, a red T-shirt and a pair of canvas cherry-print pumps reduced to a fiver because one of the bows was missing.
‘Will your mum really kill you?’ I ask.
‘Who cares?’ she replies.
Shannon has treated her to hairclips and I chip in with an emerald-green eyeliner from Boots. We dress her up in the loos at The Dancing Cat, snipping the remaining bow off the cherry-print pumps, testing out the eyeliner. Emily is transformed.
‘I’ve had the best day ever,’ she sighs, as we wait for the bus home. ‘I can’t believe it – my hair, the clothes, everything! You’ve been so kind!’
‘We just wanted to cheer you up,’ I say.
‘Well, you did!’
I flash a secret grin at Shannon, but she’s not even looking at me.
‘This is just the start,’ she says to Emily. ‘You can come over to mine tonight, for the sleepover, and we’ll show you how to do the make-up yourself. Bring your school uniform, too, we could customize it…’
I feel cold all over. Satu
rday night is sleepover night, but it’s supposed to be just the two of us, Shannon and me, the way it always is.
‘A sleepover? Are you sure?’ Emily asks.
I glare at Shannon, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I can’t say anything, can I? It would seem mean and selfish and seriously uncool.
Emily’s eyes shine. ‘Wow. I don’t know how to thank you,’ she says. ‘Really.’
‘You don’t have to, idiot,’ Shannon says. ‘You’re one of us now.’
That wasn’t part of the plan.
Emily’s bus comes first, leaving Shannon and me at the bus stop.
‘Is Emily one of us, now?’ I dare to ask her.
Shannon shrugs. ‘She’s really nice, don’t you think?’
‘Well, yes,’ I mutter. ‘But…’
‘But?’ Shannon teases.
‘Nothing, I guess. It’s just… you said she’d have new mates by now,’ I remind Shannon.
‘I exaggerated. So what? Did you really think we’d get her all fixed up in a week? We just need a bit more time. Is that a problem?’
I bite my lip. ‘I just… I quite like it with just the two of us, that’s all.’
Shannon laughs. ‘It is just the two of us, Ginger,’ she says. ‘This is just a game, remember? Well, no, not a game… a good deed. We’re helping Emily, and when she’s all sorted out she’ll make new friends and we’ll go back to the way we were before, right?’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘You don’t think Emily thinks we’re her new friends then?’
Shannon blinks. ‘Oh. I suppose I can see how she might think that.’
‘I just don’t want her to get hurt, that’s all,’ I say.
A finger of guilt curls around my heart. I don’t want Emily to get hurt, obviously, but I don’t want her moving in on my best friend, either.
‘Emily’s not stupid,’ Shannon says. ‘She had fun today – we all did. We’ll have fun later, at the sleepover. That’s it, though – no promises, no friends-forever pacts. She won’t be expecting anything long-term.’
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