by Melody James
‘He’s not working!’ Excited, I leap across the sofa, bowling Ben into the soft cushions. ‘Did you hear that, Ben? We’ve got Dad all Saturday!’
Ben whoops with delight and struggles out from under me. ‘Can we go swimming?’ He rushes over to Dad. Ben loves swimming, which is great because the fitter he gets, the fitter he stays.
‘Who wants a fried egg sandwich?’ Mum pops her head round the kitchen door.
‘Me!’ Ben and Dad chorus at once.
‘Me too!’ I chime in.
‘Can we go swimming once we’ve eaten?’ Ben looks eagerly at Dad.
‘We could go later while Gemma’s in town with Treacle,’ Dad suggests.
Treacle’s forgiven me for embarrassing her in front of Jeff. It didn’t take much. ‘I guess your heart was in the right place,’ she conceded after I’d waited for her outside the changing room and gushed a few hundred apologies.
Dad looks at me. ‘Is that OK with you, Gem?’
‘Yes!’ We get the whole morning together; then Ben gets some precious one-on-one time with Dad while I go for lunch and then check out the sale at Mizz-tique with Treacle. Win-win.
We eat the sandwiches, then I play football in the back garden with Ben and Dad. They teach me about fouls and free kicks and attempts on goal and corners. I want to prove to Jeff I’m not just a moony dweeb.
I frown at Dad as I grapple with the concept of ‘offside’. ‘So if the player gets the ball and there’s no defenders between him and the goal, it’s offside?’ I’m determined to understand. Jeff has to take me seriously if I’m ever going to sell him on Treacle. ‘Doesn’t that make it harder?’
‘That’s the point,’ Dad explains.
Frustration flickers through me. Selling Treacle shouldn’t be this much work; Treacle rocks! Why’s Jeff so blind? It must be his Year Ten goggles. They screen out Year Nines like sunglasses screen out UV.
Ben’s out of breath, but we keep on playing till Mum calls us in.
‘It’s too cold,’ she worries, wrapping Ben in a jumper as soon as he gets through the door.
‘I’m boiling!’ he says, fighting it off.
‘Let’s give him a couple of minutes to cool down and then he can put it on,’ I suggest.
‘Yeah!’ Ben heads for the TV. ‘Do you want to watch cartoons, Gem?’
‘You bet.’ I grab the jumper off Mum and dive for the sofa, bagging the best corner while Ben flicks through the channels.
It’s gone quiet in the kitchen. I bet Mum and Dad are smooching. ‘Turn the sound up a bit,’ I tell Ben. ‘Unless you want to hear the old folk snogging.’
‘Ew!’ he snorts and ratchets up the volume.
We watch cartoons till Dad appears like a genie (without a lamp) at the end of the sofa. He’s crept up quiet as a cat and is wearing a big grin as he rustles Ben’s swimming bag. ‘Ready to go?’ he says loudly.
‘Argh!’ Ben bashes against me, squawking with surprise.
‘One point to me, I think,’ Dad announces with satisfaction. ‘That makes it 74–70.’
Dad and Ben have this ongoing game called Ninja Attack. They get points if they manage to creep up on someone and score a surprise. Dad is currently winning, which has made Ben über-competitive. The only safe place in the house now is the bathroom. Or next to Mum. Mum’s banned them from creeping up on her; she’s dropped too many plates.
Ben’s still grumbling that Dad’s cheated as Dad ushers him out of the front door.
‘Do you want a lift?’ Dad jingles his car keys at me.
I shake my head. ‘No thanks. I’m meeting Treacle on the bus.’
I check my watch. I’ve got half an hour to persuade my hair to cooperate and disguise the zit that’s threatening to erupt on my chin. I move like lightning up to my bedroom, wriggle into my skinny jeans and pull on my favourite hooded top before nearly losing a comb in my hair. I make it to the bus stop, brushed, dusted and booted, just as the number 38 comes grumbling into view.
I wave it down and hop onboard. On the top deck I’m pleased to see the front seats are empty. I slide on to one and relish the massive view as the bus bounces down the road.
Treacle’s waiting at the next stop. She’s just a speck when I spot her. I start waving. My hand aches by the time the bus shudders to a halt next to her. She looks different. No football jersey. No joggers. And is she wearing a skirt? I turn in my seat and wait, holding my breath. A moment later, her glossy black hair appears, bobbing up the stairs. She swings into the seat beside me. I do a double take.
‘OMG! You’re wearing make-up!’ I think that Treacle always looks pretty, but today she’s looking prettier than ever. I take in the rest of her outfit. ‘And a skirt?’ An above-the-knee skirt too! With thick tights and fringed boots that match her jacket.
She’s blushing. ‘Do I look OK?’
‘You look gorgeous!’
She gives a self-conscious smile and I change the subject before I kill the moment with kindness.
We get off the bus near the town hall and dodge through the crowds towards our favourite coffee shop, an olde worlde café with the best home-made cakes ever.
‘Can I have two slices of chocolate cake, please and one half-fat cinnamon latte.’ I lay my money on the counter. ‘And a mocha frappuccino.’ I order for Treacle, then hesitate. ‘That’s still your favourite, right?’ New babe-alicious Treacle might have changed her taste in coffee and cake as well as clothes.
She swings her hair back over her shoulder. ‘Of course.’
We sit at the window, watching the Saturday shoppers stream past.
‘Why couldn’t Savannah come shopping with us?’
‘Why do you think?’ Treacle stirs her frappuccino. ‘She’s seeing a movie with Josh this afternoon.’
Savannah always disappears from the scene when she’s snagged a new boy. ‘What’s the movie?’
‘A rom-com, I think.’
‘Ah, so I’m guessing Savannah chose it?’ I smile and take a sip from my coffee, nearly choking as I spot Sam outside on the pavement. He’s clutching a handful of leaflets and thrusting them at passers-by.
‘What?’ Treacle follows my gaze.
‘Don’t look, but Cindy’s deep-dish is leafleting outside the window.’
Treacle looks, of course, and her stare seems to attract Sam. He peers through the window and I feel an electric jolt of surprise as his eye catches mine. This is becoming a horrible habit. I focus quickly on my latte, hoping he doesn’t think I stare at him as a hobby. Next minute he’s heading for the door of the coffee shop.
I hunch harder over my coffee, wondering what he wants. Perhaps he’s going to ask me for some editorial assistance with his flyers?
‘Hi, Gemma.’ He stops beside our table. ‘Hi, Treacle.’
He knows her name. I look up. He knows her nickname. I wish all Year Tens were as thoughtful as Sam.
‘You’re looking nice.’ He grins at Treacle, his blue eyes lighting up. I break into a smile, pleased for Treacle. Pulling off a makeover takes guts and I’m glad Sam’s given her the seal of approval. ‘What are the leaflets for?’ I peer at the papers drooping in his hand, trying to read upside down.
‘My band’s doing a gig tonight.’ He thumbs off a couple and hands them to me. ‘Why don’t you come?’
I swap glances with Treacle. Her new look is already getting results. ‘Do you want to go?’ I ask her. Please say yes! I silently plead. A Year Ten gig is way too cool to miss.
‘Yes!’ she replies and Sam’s immediately grinning again.
I smile up at him, but my lips freeze as I see Cindy loom over his shoulder. Where did she come from? I check behind her, half expecting to see a puff of smoke, but there’s only Barbara. The two of them are loaded with shopping bags. ‘What’s this about a gig?’ Cindy uses her gooey voice on Sam, throwing dagger-stares at me. She reaches round and slips a leaflet from his hand, letting her silky hair slide past his cheek. ‘Is this your band? Cool.’ She glances at Barba
ra. ‘Shall we go to this?’
I look at Sam. He must be flattered. But he’s just shrugging. ‘Yeah, great.’
Cindy scans the coffee shop. ‘Come on, Barbara, let’s head to Starbucks.’ She stuffs Sam’s flyer into her handbag. ‘This place is a bit too quaint for me.’ She tips her head towards Sam. ‘Do you want to come with us?’
Sam waves his bunch of flyers at her. ‘Sorry, Cindy. I promised the rest of the band I’d get rid of these.’
‘Oh, well, see you later then.’ Cindy shimmers away, Barbara waving goodbye as she hurries after.
‘Then you’re coming tonight?’ Sam says, looking at us.
Treacle nods. ‘Can we invite our friend Savannah too?’
‘Sure.’ He heads for the door and a moment later he’s back on the pavement, flapping leaflets at shoppers.
‘He’s cute.’ Treacle’s eyes are shining in my direction.
‘Cindy certainly thinks he is.’
‘What about you?’
‘Well, duh!’ I glance through the window. The cold January wind is tousling Sam’s shaggy hair. It’s so not fair that a breeze which turns him windswept would froth my hair into a style only the wild beast of Borneo would choose. ‘But he’s a Year Ten. A totally DD Year Ten, and Cindy’s got him in her sights.’ I sigh, and start doing some sums in my head. I calculate that it’ll take Cindy a week to get Sam on a date and a fortnight to make him her boyfriend. Add a year of fluttering eyelashes and she’ll own him for life.
While Treacle texts the good news about tonight’s plans to Savannah, I slump over my coffee and take a sip. It’s frothy and hot and sweet.
‘I’ve told her to meet us on the eight-thirty bus,’ Treacle says, putting her phone back into her bag. We finish our coffee and cake and head for Mizz-tique. We time it just right. The shopping herd has cleared out all of the dull stock and left only the precious gems. You need excellent taste to appreciate them.
‘This would really suit you.’ I grab a frou-frou dress from the rail and hold it against Treacle. The dark red ruffles look stunning against her black hair and olive skin. But I can tell from the look on her face that she’s not ready for frills yet. ‘OK.’ I give in gracefully and put it back on the rail. ‘Keep it simple.’ I browse for myself, knowing instinctively when my gaze falls on a dusky pink top with a butterfly motif that my search is over.
I try it on, Treacle nodding, suitably impressed. Then I pay and let Treacle run her finger across a few rails before she decides on a tartan mini-kilt. I encourage her, sensing she’s still self-conscious about her style change.
‘You are going to look great in it,’ I promise. ‘Even Savannah’s going to be jealous.’
‘Really?’ She looks at me anxiously.
‘Definitely.’ With Treacle’s football-toned legs, there’s no doubt about it.
We browse a few more shops before catching the bus home. As it hisses and whines its way along the road, we plan our night at Sam’s gig.
‘Are you going to wear your new kilt?’ I ask, hoping for a yes. ‘I’m definitely wearing the top I bought.’
‘What are you going to wear it with?’ Treacle doesn’t answer the kilt question and I decide not to push it. She has to make the long journey to babedom at her own speed. Too fast and she may have a fashion breakdown. My memory wanders back to the time that Ryan from our form decided to go emo. One Monday he was denim and long crew cut, the next he was black duster coat and drooping fringe. Brave look for a boy who wears glasses and rides a mountain bike, but he couldn’t follow through. By Friday he was back in denim and cracking jokes at the back of the class.
‘Ground control calling Gemma.’ Treacle snaps her fingers in my face. ‘Come in, Gemma.’
‘What?’ I snap back to the present.
‘What are you going to wear with the new top?’
‘Oh. Jeans I s’pose.’
‘Not something more glam?’ Treacle tempts me. ‘There’ll probably be lots of boys there.’
‘Oh God – Jeff might be there!’ I look at Treacle excitedly. ‘Maybe Sam’s invited everyone who works on the webzine.’
Treacle twitches then slumps. ‘I don’t think he’s into indie rock,’ she sighs.
I shrug. ‘You never know.’
We stare in hopeful silence as Treacle’s stop swings into view. She grabs her shopping bags and gets to her feet.
‘You’ll be round at mine at seven?’ she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the stairs.
‘Definitely!’ I call back. ‘We’ll need at least an hour to get ready!’
As Treacle hops out of the bus on to the grass verge, I wave at her. Excitement’s fizzing through me. We’re going to a real live gig. I wonder what Sam’s band will be like? Will there be other kids from school apart from Cindy? Will my hair stay straight all night? Jeans or skirt?
I’m so lost in thought, I almost miss my stop and have to hammer down the stairs in time to catch the driver’s eye. He screeches to a halt and I thank him breathlessly as I jump off.
I walk home, swinging my Mizz-tique bag by its string handle. My new top is low cut. Dad’s going to hate it. It’ll be perfect for tonight. I hurry up the front path.
‘Hi!’ I call as I let myself in.
‘Hi, love,’ Mum calls from the living room. I go through and find her with her feet up in front of the TV. A black-and-white movie’s flickering on-screen. ‘Dad and Ben should be back soon,’ she says, taking a handful of crisps from a bowl on her lap. I can’t remember the last time I saw Mum looking so relaxed.
I plump down next to her, swinging my Mizz-tique bag on to my knee. ‘Guess what—’ I’m about to tell her about the gig, but she mutes the TV and turns to face me. She’s suddenly looking worried. I frown. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Oh, yes, everything’s fine,’ she says quickly. ‘I just wanted to ask a favour.’
‘Sure.’
‘Will you babysit Ben tonight?’ Her eyes are round and hopeful.
‘Tonight?’ My heart steps up to the edge of a cliff and prepares to dive.
‘Ben’s so well at the moment. He hasn’t had a chest infection for ages. And he’s been putting on weight and sleeping well. Me and your dad thought – since we don’t have to worry so much about him right now – you could sit with him while we went out.’
I let the Mizz-tique bag slide off my lap. ‘Oh.’
‘We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.’ Her eyes are searching mine anxiously.
Guilt swamps me. ‘Of course.’ Mum and Dad never get to have a night out together. They’re usually too tired or too worried about money. I can’t let them down. And it’s not as if we can leave Ben with anyone. There’s his night time routine – the nebulizer and the physio. I force a smile. ‘I’d be happy to.’
Mum’s face lights up like she’s won the lottery. ‘Really?’
‘Sure.’ My heart’s dived and is plummeting towards the rocks. But I keep my smile going. ‘I can catch up with some schoolwork.’
‘Can’t Treacle come over?’ Mum’s looking worried again.
I shake my head. ‘She’s busy.’ My heart splatters on the rocks as I realise I’ve got to break the news to Treacle.
I flip out my phone and start composing a text. Sorry, Treacle, can’t come to gig. Mum and Dad need me to babysit tonight x
She answers straight away. No!!!!
I text back. U can still go with Sav and maybe Jeff will be there x
OK. Her reply feels less than enthusiastic. But it won’t be the same w/o u.
I glance round the sitting room. The coffee table’s crowded with cups. A crumby plate is balancing on the arm of the sofa; Dad left it there after shovelling in a quick snack before leaving.
I could tidy up.
I’m trying to keep the one thought out of my head that most wants to be there. The thought that Treacle and Savannah will be getting ready for a night of fun at Sam’s gig.
How is that fair?
Ben needs me h
ere, I remind myself. Mum and Dad deserve a night out. I check on Ben again. He’s sound asleep, flat out and angel-faced. I wander back to the living room and start to gather up some mugs.
My mind slips back to my webzine assignment. I bet Jessica Jupiter wouldn’t be tidying up. An image shimmers into my mind. I see a woman – half Miss Duvall, a ballet teacher I used to have, and half Bette Davis, an actress in the old black-and-white movies that my mum loves. The woman I’m imagining has bobbed platinum hair, scarlet fingernails like bloody daggers, a cocktail dress and heels. She’s firing words like a machine gun, simultaneously ordering someone else to clear away the mess while composing next week’s horoscopes.
‘Darling.’ I let the mugs clatter back on to the coffee table and address the empty lounge. ‘I see your future before me.’ I lift my chin and stand on tiptoe like I’m wearing four-inch stilettos. ‘And honey, you’d better duck because it’s coming at you fast.’
I smile. Being Jessica Jupiter might not be so bad after all, as long as no one walks in and finds me talking to myself. I scuff across the carpet, my puppy-faced slippers peeping out from under my jeans. My backpack is leaning against the bookcase. I rummage through it and drag out my jotter.
Flopping down on to the sofa, I put my feet up and rest the notepad on my knees. I reach for the pen I know will be tangled in my hair. This is the only thing curly hair is good for – pen storage. I slide out a purple sparkly gel pen from somewhere at the back.
Leo
I underline it.
Leo
What a week you have in store!
I frown. What else? You’ll be kidnapped by aliens? You’ll win the lottery? I could make anything up.
What would Jessica Jupiter write? She wouldn’t be writing for a start; she’d be dictating to a humble secretary. I picture Jessica seated at her dressing table like Miss Duvall getting ready for a performance. Jessica’s dabbing her nose with a big white puff, the fur-edged sleeves of her gown swirling face powder into clouds. Her secretary leans forward on a footstool, quietly choking in the dust-haze while scribbling on to a pad.