Signs of Love - Love Match

by Melody James

  I smile. I’ve got her complete attention. It’s the perfect time to drop my info-bomb. ‘He’s working on the webzine,’ I say casually.

  ‘What?’ She’s hanging off the front of the sofa like a chimp begging for a banana. ‘Writing?’

  ‘Some kind of extra credit thing with Mr Harris.’ I shrug. I’m still acting cool but I’m savouring the moment. ‘He’s going to be the sports writer.’

  If Treacle were a cartoon character, her eyes would be spinning and zigzags would be shooting from her head. ‘You’re going to be working with Jeff? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  Treacle throws up her arms like she’s high-fiving angels. Then she stops and droops. ‘This is so unfair! You’re going to get to work with him, but what about me? How am I ever going to get him to see me as a girl and not just something that kicks a ball about?’

  I look at Treacle. With her baggy joggers, shapeless football jersey and hair skewed in a ponytail, even I’m having trouble seeing her as a girl.

  ‘Perhaps if you dressed more . . .’ I fumble for the right word, feeling guilty for even thinking it, ‘. . . girly?’

  ‘But I’m comfortable like this.’ Treacle looks fondly down at her outfit. ‘It’s my number ten shirt. I always score when I’m wearing my number ten shirt.’

  ‘Yes, but are you going to score with a boy when you’re wearing it?’ I point out.

  Her eyes pop. ‘You want me to dress like Savannah, don’t you? I’d never carry it off.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know Savannah! She’s cooler than an Eskimo eating an ice lolly in a snowdrift. Coolness is part of her operating system.’ Treacle shrugs. ‘If I wore a skirt as short as hers, my knees would start shouting, “Look at us! We’re the knobbly twins!”’

  ‘Your knees aren’t knobbly!’ Treacle’s got great knees – though admittedly, I’ve only ever seen them splattered with mud on a football pitch.

  ‘They’re like oversized walnuts!’ she argues. ‘Where is Savannah, anyway? She said she’d be here at seven.’

  ‘Probably still deciding who to date,’ I say with a laugh. Suddenly I have an idea. ‘There’s an article in Teengirl about how to get noticed by boys.’ I pull Treacle to her feet and shunt her towards the door. ‘It’s in my room.’

  ‘There’s always an article in Teengirl about how to get noticed by boys,’ Treacle sniffs, trudging after me as I bound upstairs.

  As we reach the top and head along the hall, I can hear Mum bargaining with Ben in his room.

  ‘If you go to bed now, you can get up early and play on your Xbox.’

  ‘But Mum, why can’t I play Xbox now and sleep late in the morning?’

  We creep past his door and slip into my bedroom.

  ‘This article’s different.’ I scoop the mag off my desk and show it to Treacle.

  ‘Oh, great.’ She snatches it off me and flops on to my bed. ‘Ten Ways to Nab Your Lad. Well, I need about a hundred!’

  I ignore her whinging and rummage through my wardrobe. What Treacle needs is tough love not sympathy. ‘Here.’ I toss a chocolate-coloured miniskirt at her, and a turquoise top Dad says I’ll freeze to death in, which must mean it’s gorgeous.

  ‘Right.’ I use my fierce voice. I’ve got to get Treacle out of her football jersey. ‘You change into those and then come downstairs so we can practise The Walk.’

  ‘The Walk?’ Treacle sounds horrified, but before she can moan any more I leave her to get changed and take the magazine downstairs. There’s a whole paragraph on walking in the article. By the time I’ve finished she’s going to be strutting like a supermodel.

  I’m so busy skim-reading, I don’t notice Ben’s shoes parked at the bottom of the stairs. I stumble over them and find myself hurtling into the living room a lot faster than I’d intended.

  I grab for the sofa and collapse into it. Teengirl slaps on to the cushion beside me, flopping open on the horoscope page.

  The shiny words shout at me: What do the stars say about your life, love and luck?

  I wince, remembering my super-uncool assignment for the webzine, and flick the living door closed with an outstretched toe.

  Libra. I’m trying not to read it but I can’t tear my gaze away.

  This week, take care of yourself! Manicures and pedicures, a relaxing face mask, and a good night’s sleep are all part of the plan. Swathe yourself in satin and lace and indulge in every girl’s fashion dream.

  Oh, please. It’s so lame.

  Is this going to be my life? A hack journalist churning out fluff pieces for a hard-faced editor.

  A Despair Monster starts tap-dancing on my chest, delighted at recruiting a new member to its dark world of endless misery. I picture my awards ceremony. It’s not me on the podium any more. A glamorous blonde with perfectly straight hair is holding up the award while the audience cheer. I’m sitting at the back, slow-clapping next to a weather girl from breakfast TV.

  Weather girl leans closer. ‘Did you say you wrote horoscopes?’

  I sigh. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what’s in store for Capricorn this week?’ She smiles a glittering smile, utterly unaware that no one ever asks me anything else any more.

  As I reach for a napkin and prepare to gag her, the living room door eases open and Treacle slides in. Jerked back to reality, I sit up.

  Her knees are pressed together like she’s trying to hide them both at the same time.

  ‘You look great!’ Weather girl puffs out of existence and I focus on Treacle. She looks fab. The turquoise top and chocolate skirt are gorgeous on her. All her football training has toned her into a complete babe. I just wish she knew it. Right now, she’s fidgeting like the outfit’s wearing her, not the other way round.

  As Treacle shuffles further into the room, the doorbell rings.

  Mum calls from the hall. ‘Savannah’s here!’

  I sit bolt upright. ‘Treacle, don’t tell her about the horoscopes!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not my proudest moment.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘I swear.’ Treacle nods.

  ‘On your mum’s Jimmy Choos?’

  ‘On my mum’s what?’

  ‘Did someone say Jimmy Choos?’ Savannah whisks in and drapes herself across an armchair, long legs swinging over the edge, arms drooping, hair cascading round her face.

  ‘Jim he chews? Chews what?’ Treacle’s sitting, eyebrows and palms raised like we’re speaking Martian.

  Savannah shakes her head sadly. ‘Shoes, Treacle. They’re shoes.’ She glances down at Treacle’s trainers. ‘Real shoes.’

  ‘Like Nikes but with heels and slingbacks and stuff,’ I explain. I’m no expert at fashion, but occasionally, when Savannah squeals and waves this month’s copy of Elle in my face, I look and learn. I figure if you’re going to be a journalist, you’ve got to know what’s happening in every walk of life – including the catwalk.

  Treacle slumps back in the sofa. ‘I’m never going to understand this girly stuff.’

  Savannah looks at Treacle properly and stares at her, mouth wide. She’s probably never seen Treacle in a skirt before. ‘Nice legs, Treacle.’ She nods approvingly. ‘You should show them off more often. In fact,’ she sits up, ‘if you want to get Jeff’s attention, you should try wearing that outfit on the pitch. You look great.’

  Treacle snorts. ‘Not exactly practical for tackling.’

  ‘Right, let’s get back to the article,’ I say, flicking to the right page. ‘We’re taking some tips from Teengirl,’ I explain to Savannah.

  Savannah raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Tips on what?’

  ‘How to get a boy,’ I reply.

  ‘What for?’ Savannah exclaims, with all the shock of someone who has never needed a tip on getting a boy in her entire life.

  Treacle’s face flushes redder than a stop sign.

  ‘Just for fun,’
I say quickly. I don’t want Treacle giving up out of embarrassment before we’ve even started.

  ‘Oh. Cool!’ Savannah says.

  I throw Treacle an encouraging smile. ‘You’re a girl with more than attitude – you’ve got sass-itude!’ I start reading from the glossy pink page. ‘Don’t wilt like a daisy at sundown. Think sunflower! Stand tall!’

  Treacle grimaces and straightens up.

  ‘Stand with your hips pulled back and your backbone straight.’

  ‘You look like you’ve got wind,’ Savannah snorts.

  Ignoring her, I press on. ‘Chin out and eyes facing front.’

  Treacle thrusts out her chin and glares like Mrs Monroe, our super-scary maths teacher. She looks like she’s about to shred anyone in her path and throw the scraps out of the window. Once again Savannah starts to laugh.

  ‘Any chance you can drop the psycho-killer expression?’ I ask sweetly.

  ‘Try pouting like a supermodel,’ Savannah suggests.

  Treacle cuts the glare, then goggles her eyes and lets her mouth droop into a Vogue pout. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘You look less scary,’ I say helpfully, realising suddenly that the line between goddess and freak is very thin. Right now, Treacle is wobbling towards freak and I’m trying hard not to giggle.

  ‘This is so funny!’ Savannah cries, clapping her hands together. ‘Read some more!’

  I focus on the mag and carry on. ‘Your hair may shine, your eyes may sparkle, but your walk will give away what’s on the inside, so don’t shuffle, strut!’ Who writes this stuff? ‘Be comfortable. Wear shoes you can balance in. Falling over is not an option if you’re trying to make a good impression.’

  ‘Ha – no danger there,’ Savannah says, looking at Treacle’s feet. I follow her gaze. Treacle’s still wearing her trainers. She looks like a gazelle in wellies.

  I don’t comment. We can move on to footwear later. ‘Start walking,’ I tell her, reading from the article again. ‘Don’t stride. Let the air waft you forward. Float like dandelion seed. Let your arms swing freely. There’s no need to pump them. You’re not in the gym.’

  Treacle starts striding across the carpet, chin forward, bum out, arms swaying like they’ve got no bones. She looks more like a chimp in the zoo than a model on the catwalk.

  ‘Don’t lean forward, lean back!’ I order. ‘Lead with your hips.’

  She fires her hips forward, her head snapping back.

  ‘Oh, Treacle, you’re hilarious!’ Savannah exclaims. Treacle glares at her.

  ‘What? I thought you were joking,’ Savannah says.

  ‘Let’s try the other stuff they recommend,’ I say quickly and carry on reading out loud. ‘Try “sweetening up” your behaviour: why laugh when you can giggle? Why tease when you can compliment? Come on, girls! Don’t just smoothe off your rough edges, add some pink frills to them.’ I can feel waves of disbelief rolling off Treacle but I don’t stop. ‘Don’t shake someone’s hand – kiss their cheek and, if you leave a lipstick print, all the better! Just apologise prettily and dab it off with your hanky. Be cute. Smile more often and speak in a higher-pitched voice.’

  ‘OK, Gemmakins,’ Treacle squeaks. She’s standing on tiptoe, a grotesque ballerina, batting her eyelashes like a camel trying to get sand out of its eye.

  Savannah lets out a roar of laughter and even I can’t hold it in any longer. I explode into giggles, dropping Teengirl on to the floor. Thankfully Treacle bursts into laughter too and we all fall back on the sofa, hooting helplessly.

  ‘I really don’t think—’ Treacle’s gasping for breath, ‘—Jeff’s going to be rushing for a date if he sees me like that.’

  I’m fighting hiccups. ‘No,’ I splutter. ‘Maybe we need to try a different approach.’

  ‘Yes, one where I don’t look like I need the loo,’ Treacle replies.

  ‘You just need to be yourself,’ Savannah says, flicking her glossy hair over her shoulder. ‘You want a boy to like you for who you are, not someone you’re pretending to be.’

  ‘Savannah’s right.’ I start to smile. ‘And I’ve got some great news.’

  Treacle looks up like a spaniel who’s heard the word walkies.

  ‘Since Jeff’s working on the webzine . . .’ I begin.

  Treacle’s bolt upright now. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He’ll be watching all of the school matches.’

  Treacle’s flushing. ‘OMG!’ she gasps. ‘Even the girls’?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I’m smiling. ‘And while you’re busy impressing him on the field, I’ll be finding out everything I can about him in our meetings.’

  ‘Good work!’ Savannah says approvingly.

  Treacle starts flapping her hands like she’s drying nail varnish. ‘You can find out if he’s noticed me.’

  I nod. ‘And what he likes and doesn’t like.’ I’m so happy she’s smiling. ‘I’ll make a note of everything and report back.’

  ‘Nice plan.’ Savannah looks at her watch. ‘Right, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Already?’ Treacle and I chorus.

  Savannah stands up and smoothes her skirt, not that there’s much of it to smoothe. But with legs like Savannah’s who needs a skirt? ‘’Fraid so, I’m meeting Josh at eight. Poor Marcus was crushed. But I couldn’t two-time.’

  ‘Where’s Josh taking you?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m taking him to the movies,’ Savannah says, heading for the door. ‘Some shoot-’em-up action thingy. It’s always best to make a fuss of them on the first date. He’ll be so grateful, I’ll get to pick the next five dates.’

  I’m confused. ‘But you picked this one.’

  ‘Yes, but I picked it for him. The next ones I’ll pick for me.’ She sweeps out and the front door clicks shut behind her.

  ‘Was she born knowing this stuff?’ Treacle says, staring after her.

  I grin. ‘Perhaps she gets it from magazines.’ We both look at Teengirl lying on the rug where I dropped it.

  ‘Talking of which.’ Treacle’s gaze zooms in on me. ‘When’s your first load of horror-scopes due?’

  ‘Monday.’

  Treacle leans forward. Her ponytail swings as she tips her head. ‘So you’re really OK with doing them?’

  ‘It’s a start.’ I’m determined to look on the bright side. ‘And at least I’ll finally have my name in print.’

  ‘Ow, not so hard!’

  Ben shouts at me and starts coughing. He’s lying on his nearly-new, super-cool, bells-and-whistles tilt-table, fully adjustable to 1001 positions. Right now he’s on his back, stretched flat, sloping head first towards the floor while I pound his chest like he’s a pair of bongos. Doing this for twenty minutes each morning is part of his treatment; it helps to clear his lungs. ‘Do you want to sing today?’

  ‘No.’

  Ben’s in a growly mood. I’m not surprised. His CF is hard work. He’s only nine years old and all the pills and inhalers and therapy and exercise are Not Fun. Plus they seriously cut into his Xbox time. He can’t do sleepovers either or scoff down pizza without taking a fistful of pills to help him digest it.

  Singing sometimes helps take his mind off the physio. I start warbling, hoping he’ll join in. On a good day, the daft wobble that I thump into his voice makes him laugh. But today he doesn’t want to play.

  I stop yodelling and try patting out rhythms on his chest, hoping it’ll feel more like fun for both of us.

  I’ve been taking turns with Mum and Dad to help with his physio for as long as I can remember. I like helping out, but it’s hard work. When I’m a famous journalist, the first thing I’m going to buy him is a vibrating air vest. After that, I’m going to pay for him to visit a specialist clinic in Sweden where they’ve got some pretty amazing therapies.

  I drift a little, still pummelling his chest, while in my head I’m taking interviews after my awards ceremony.

  ‘I only hope that now I can make my family’s life a little easier,’ I tell The Times’ media correspondent. In my imagi
nation, he’s really handsome and terribly impressed by my brilliance.

  ‘Has your brother’s illness been important in driving you on to such great success?’ he asks sympathetically.

  I touch his knee and look at him earnestly. ‘My pure love of journalism is what’s driven me,’ I admit. ‘But Ben’s illness has taught me a lot about loyalty and tenacity. And about facing the truth head-on.’

  As his eyes glow in admiration, Mum shouts from the bathroom. ‘Has Ben taken his vitamins and antibiotics?’ I’m jolted from my fantasy.

  ‘Not yet, but I’ve got them ready.’ I’ve already lined up the pill bottles on the table. Mum asks the same question every time it’s my turn to do Ben’s therapy, like I might forget. It used to bug me till I realised she needs to ask; it’s her magic spell that keeps Ben from getting an infection. If she asks then he’ll be OK for the day. Like if I check under my bed for alligators before I switch off the light, there’ll be no alligator. It sounds crazy, I know, but I haven’t been bitten by an alligator yet.

  The morning passes slowly. Maths drags like time’s trailing through syrup. I’m relieved when the lunch bell goes. My physio mornings with Ben always make me tired. I have to set the alarm early and then run for the bus.

  ‘Is my hair OK?’ I ask as I head for the lunch hall with Treacle and Savannah.

  ‘Try this.’ Treacle stops and slides a hairband from her wrist.

  Facing the class with hedge-hair is one thing; facing a packed lunch hall is entirely different.

  Ducking behind me, she scoops my hair loosely into a low ponytail. ‘I wish I had curly hair like yours.’

  I stare at her silky black locks. ‘We should swap.’ We’ve been longing to swap hair since nursery school, but we haven’t discovered how to do a whole-head hair transplant yet. If we ever do, I bet she lasts five minutes before she’s begging me to swap back. My hair is not exactly wash-and-go. It’s more light-the-fuse-and-retreat.

  ‘Wait a second.’ Savannah pulls a few stray tendrils round my face. ‘That’s better,’ she says, standing back and admiring her handiwork. ‘Très chic!’

  The lunch hall is warm, wide and sunny. Students mill at the edges and fill the Formica tables. We take a seat at the table by the pasta bar and I scope the hall, self-conscious as I recognise Cindy, Barbara, Sam, Will and Jeff, dotted around the room. I wonder if I’m allowed to say hi to them. We work together on the webzine, but does that mean I can speak to them outside our meetings? I freeze as I catch Sam’s eye. Shyness swamps me and I look away, feeling dumb. Savannah would have just flashed a smile and got on with her lunch. For the millionth time I wish I was her. I fumble with my sandwich box, the sting of a blush heating my face.