by Melody James
‘Who knows?’ I answer innocently.
‘She’s an idiot.’ Savannah flicks her hair back. ‘Where is Josh anyway?’ She scans the class.
I shrug. He’s usually here by now, but there’s no sign of him. I check to see if Chelsea’s missing too. But she’s skulking by the window, one eye on the door.
Savannah sighs. ‘He must have missed his bus.’ She screws up the print-out.
‘Hey, are those Jessica’s horoscopes?’ Chelsea points at the balled paper. ‘Can I read them?’
‘Sure.’ Savannah flings the paper at Chelsea.
‘Thanks.’
I nibble on a nail as Chelsea smoothes out the paper and starts reading. I hope she doesn’t pick up my zodiacal warning. I don’t want her taking evasive action. What’s the point in raising Savannah’s suspicions if Chelsea backs off till the heat’s off? Savannah needs to find out what’s going on.
Treacle’s furiously trying to catch my eye, but I can’t look at Treacle and keep up the innocent act with Savannah. I flash Treacle ‘Back Off’ signals, and am relieved when Miss Davis comes in.
‘OK, class.’ Her tone tells me she’s in super-efficient mode. ‘Quick registration. I want to run through our assembly before first lesson. Susan, have you brought your music?’
Susan nods and waves her iPod enthusiastically. I notice that she’s painted one nail on each hand bright blue.
‘Good.’ Miss Davis looks at the rest of the class. ‘Have you all brought your poems?’ As she ticks off names, we rummage for our books and print-outs.
‘I’ve left mine in my locker,’ Marcus mumbles.
Miss Davis looks up, sucking the end of her pen. ‘You’re Byron, aren’t you?’
Ryan laughs. ‘More like moron.’
Miss Davis ignores him. She’s searching through the pile of books on her table. She pulls one out. ‘She walks in beauty, like the night.’ She passes him the book. ‘Page 204, I think.’
I grab my rucksack, warm from the radiator, and pull out the sheet I’ve printed from the internet. I found a poem I like at last. Emily Dickinson.
I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.
It seemed an appropriate poem for an undercover Cupid.
Miss Davis calls Marcus to the front of the class. ‘Why don’t you start us off.’
Marcus is blushing as he flicks through the book and begins reading.
‘She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies . . .’ His eyes are fixed firmly on the page, face down, neck red as a raspberry.
‘Look up!’ Miss Davis encourages. ‘The audience are going to want to see your face.’
Chelsea coughs. ‘Are you sure, Miss?’
‘Humiliation’ should be top of the list, right next to ‘Throwing Kids in Front of Buses’ as Number One No- No for teachers. My heart aches for Marcus, but Miss Davis seems oblivious to his agony.
He ducks closer to his page, his voice a monotone. ‘And all that’s best of dark and bright.’ His gaze flicks towards Savannah, then back to the page. ‘Meet in her aspect and her eyes—’
Suddenly the door flies open and Chelsea looks up like a dog hearing the rattle of a biscuit barrel.
Josh arrives, panting. ‘Sorry I’m late, Miss. Bus was late.’ He slides behind a desk. Savannah peels away from us and takes the seat beside him.
Chelsea’s watching from the next desk. I see her mouth curve into a smile as she rips a corner from her jotter and scribbles something on it.
Savannah’s whispering in Josh’s ear, but he shrugs her away, looking for something in his rucksack. Savannah scowls and slouches sulkily in her chair. She starts flicking through her poetry book.
And then it happens.
Chelsea makes her move.
I clutch Treacle’s arm as Chelsea reaches out and flaps a note beside Josh’s knee. He zips his bag shut, leans down to stow it against the desk leg and takes the note from Chelsea.
My gaze flits to Savannah. Is she still buried in her book?
No.
She’s staring at the small piece of white paper in Josh’s hand. She snatches it from him and reads it. ‘No way!’
‘Thus mellowed to that tender light—’ Marcus continues reading, but Savannah’s yelp of horror stops him mid-sentence. The class’s attention swivels towards her.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Miss Davis sighs.
‘Meet me behind the bike shed after school?’ Savannah’s reading the note out loud. She glares at Chelsea, her eyes blazing. Chelsea smiles, long and slow. Savannah’s rage fixes on Josh. ‘How could you?’
The whole class is enthralled. Then I notice Marcus. His eyes are round, like a dove’s. There’s no satisfaction there, only sympathy as he gazes at Savannah.
Savannah hasn’t finished. ‘And with her?’ She points at Chelsea. I can see Savannah’s eyes brimming with tears. Guilt surges through me.
It’s not your fault, I tell myself. It’s Josh who’s been two-timing and Chelsea who passed the note. I just tried to give Savannah an early warning.
Savannah blinks, her eyes clearing. ‘I thought you liked me, but clearly you prefer fish that are easy to catch.’ She throws Chelsea a withering glance. ‘We’re finished, Mr Merman!’
Josh gapes at her. ‘What?’
‘Jessica Jupiter was right!’ Savannah tosses back her hair. ‘If you want to flap your tail at Chelsea, go ahead. You can swim away into the ocean and drown for all I care!’
‘Go, Savannah!’ Sally shouts, punching the air.
The class break into a spontaneous cheer. Treacle’s whooping beside me. I feel a flood of pride. Well done, Savannah!
‘Now, now, class!’ As Miss Davis flaps like a dodo making one last attempt at flight, Savannah hunches down in her seat. I want to give her a hug. She looks like she could use one, and when the bell goes, I manage to catch her before we split up for the next lesson.
‘I’m sorry, Savannah,’ I sympathise.
Treacle bobs in beside us. ‘It’s better you found out now.’
Savannah’s half hiding behind her hair. She doesn’t look angry any more, just really, really sad. ‘It’s so embarrassing,’ she mutters.
‘Only for him.’ I throw Josh a death-stare. He’s exiting the classroom with the rest of the class, steering clear of Chelsea who’s eyeing him like a hopeful puppy. Red-faced, he slides into a gaggle of boys and glances ruefully back at Savannah.
Savannah shakes her head. ‘But Chelsea?’
‘He clearly doesn’t have good taste.’ Treacle raises her voice loud enough for Chelsea to hear.
‘We’ll talk about it at lunchtime, OK?’ I give Savannah a quick hug. She’s got German; we’ve got Spanish.
‘Yeah.’ She heads away down the hall. ‘Thanks.’
I glance at Treacle. ‘I hope she’s OK.’
‘We’ll cheer her up,’ Treacle promises.
‘Savannah!’
I hail her across the lunch hall, bobbing and weaving through the crowds to her table, trailing Treacle in my wake.
Savannah is looking surprisingly OK. Sal and Anila are clustered at her table with Marcus.
Laughing, Anila snatches a piece of paper from Sal and starts reading out loud. ‘Aries.’ As she reads on, I recognise Jessica’s words.
‘Star-ling, I have wonderful news. This week may seem to be littered with nothing but empty bubblegum wrappers . . .’
(I’d been staring at the overflowing wastepaper basket in the webzine HQ.)
‘. . . but don’t despair. On Friday a surprise lollipop will add a little sugar to your life.’
(Guess what I was sucking as I typed?)
‘It may not satisfy you, but it’ll keep you going until Saturday when a shopping trip turns out to be sweeter than you think. Just make sure you have your toothbrush handy or you might find a little plaque with your n
ame on it.’
Sal’s clapping her hands like an overexcited seal. ‘This woman’s a genius!’
Savannah’s nodding. ‘How did she know Josh was sneaking around with Chelsea?’
On the other side of the lunch hall some shouting breaks out. A Year Eight girl is waving a piece of paper in front of an embarrassed-looking boy sitting next to her, who I assume must be her boyfriend. ‘Well, you must have done something,’ the girl shouts. ‘Jessica doesn’t lie.’
Her boyfriend runs his hand through his hair. His curly hair. Oh, dear. I hunch over my sandwiches and don’t dare look at Treacle.
‘Listen to this!’ Anila’s reading again. ‘Wednesday morning will bring a nasty surprise.’
(Will had walked into the room while I was typing and made me jump.)
‘OMG!’ Sal claps her hand over her mouth. ‘She knew about the German test!’
Anila slaps the paper down on the table. ‘She’s psychic. No question.’
I lift my lunch box to cover my smile. If only they knew how random my predictions were!
‘I don’t know about you . . .’ Cindy pauses and gazes dramatically around the storeroom. ‘. . . but I don’t think there’s anything here fit for publication.’ She drops a thick wad of papers into the bin beside her desk.
We’re reviewing the article submissions sent in by our readers.
I stare at the bin and grind my teeth. I know what it’s like to be cold-shouldered by the Ice Queen. She’ll probably be picking through the submissions later, looking for something to steal. I imagine her like a bag lady – fingerless gloves, skewed hat, scuffed boots – crouched over the bin, chuckling as she snatches at the discarded papers and scours them for inspiration.
Will’s leather jacket creaks as he shifts in his seat. ‘For once, we agree.’
Sam looks out from under his hair. ‘The article on improving school dinners was OK,’ he ventures.
Will snorts. ‘Who eats school dinners?’
‘We do,’ Phil pipes up.
David nods. ‘They’re really not that bad.’
Will holds up his hands. ‘Well, in that case they don’t need improving.’
Barbara moves to the edge of her seat eagerly. ‘Well hopefully, my suggestion for next week’s lifestyle feature will cheer you all up.’
‘Quick, tell us.’ Will leans forward, chin on hands, eyes wide. ‘The suspense is giving me an ulcer.’
Jeff kicks Will’s leg. ‘Cut the sarcasm, Will.’
But Barbara’s completely immune to his jibes. She’s as comfortable with her dull ideas as she is with her sensible shoes. I silently envy her thick skin as she makes her announcement.
‘How to be the Perfect Prefect.’
Will clutches his chest. ‘You’re killing me.’
Cindy raises an eyebrow. ‘I think it’s a fine idea.’
I fidget in my seat. It’s not a fine idea. It’s as dull as every other Barbara-special. I’ve got to speak up. I’ll regret it later if I don’t. ‘Could I have a go at writing an article?’ The air suddenly feels syrupy-thick.
Will puts an arm over the back of his chair and stretches out. ‘Fourteen Fab Facebook Groups?’
I silently shower him with high-expletive thought-bombs.
Cindy smiles at me like a nursery school teacher admiring a pasta collage. ‘Why don’t we talk about it later, Gemma?’ She turns to the others, pushing back her shoulders like she means business. ‘I’ve already planned my next article.’
She’s dismissed me again! I swallow back rage.
Will lolls in his chair. ‘Go ahead, Cinders. I don’t know if anything can top Barbara’s prefect piece, but it’s worth a try.’
Cindy narrows her eyes. ‘My article next week,’ she announces, ‘will be “Make Every Day a Great Hair Day”.’
Will drops his head into his hands with a groan. ‘I wish you’d warned me I’d be writing for Teengirl.’
Cindy doesn’t flinch. ‘I wish you’d warned me you were so arrogant.’
Sam shifts his chair forward. ‘Look,’ he says like a peace envoy attempting to stop the outbreak of World War Three, ‘we’re bound to have different ideas about the webzine, but I really think there’s room for different voices.’
Phil’s nodding. ‘We are trying to cater to a diverse readership.’
While Sam and Phil broker a peace deal, I’m fighting bitterness. ‘Why isn’t there room for me to write an article then?’ I ask.
Sam opens his mouth, but Cindy butts in. ‘I said we’d talk about that later, Gemma.’ She’s on her feet and swinging her backpack over her shoulder. I can’t believe she’s signalling the meeting’s over.
I look around, hoping someone will want to stay and talk more, but Will’s zipping his bag and the twins are heading for the door. Sam gives me a sympathetic shrug and stands up.
The Ice Queen has silenced me again, but this time she’s not making the fastest exit. She leans over her desk and starts fiddling with papers until the others leave.
‘Wait outside,’ she chirrups to Barbara. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
As soon as we’re alone, she drops her pretty voice. And her sweeter-than-thou act. ‘Look,’ she hisses, ‘Jessica Jupiter is doing great. She’s even getting fan mail.’
‘Fan mail?’ I stare at her.
‘It’s OK,’ she tells me. ‘I’m going to set up an email account in her name and you can check it and reply to everyone.’
‘Thanks,’ I growl.
‘As it’s going so well, I need you to keep concentrating on the horoscopes.’ She switches off her monitor. ‘I don’t want you getting distracted by silly articles.’
‘Like the one you stole off me?’ I challenge.
‘You gave me an idea, I ran with it,’ she snaps. ‘I think you’ll find that anyone can have ideas, but only some of us have the commitment to follow them through.’
Before I can answer, she sashays from the room. ‘Come on, Barbie, let’s go home.’ Her voice echoes in the corridor outside. ‘Switch the lights off, Gem sweetie.’
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. My column’s a success. I’m getting fan mail. But the horoscopes weren’t meant to be my greatest moment. They were meant to be stepping stone to something better.
Still fuming, I head down to the football field. The Year Nine girls’ team are making the most of the fading light to get in extra practice for the semi-final tomorrow. I wave at Treacle, who’s jogging on the spot, trying to keep warm in the icy wind while she waits for her turn to practise penalties. We can get the bus home together.
Jeff’s on the sideline, watching.
I stop beside him. ‘How are they doing?’ I ask as I clap my arms to try and keep warm.
He nods thoughtfully as Jing-Wei lands a penalty kick in the back of the goal. He’s clearly taking his job as extra coach seriously. ‘If they keep practising, they should be OK.’
‘Do you think they can win the Cup?’
‘There are some strong players,’ he answers. ‘Treacle’s great on goal and Anila’s a useful winger. If we can just make the defence stronger, I think they could win.’
I let the Treacle comment pass unhyped. From now on I’m letting Jessica fire the Cupid arrows. Instead, I opt for sport-talk. ‘Treacle says that if they win the Cup, they go on to the regionals.’
‘Yep.’ Jeff stuffs his wind-chilled hands into his pockets. ‘But the regionals are a whole different ball game.’
‘Really?’ I look at him innocently. ‘Do they switch to rugby?’
He glances at me then rolls his eyes as he realises I’m joking. ‘I’m serious. They’ll have to add additional training, like swimming or running, to build up their stamina.’
‘Is that what you do?’ I know Jeff plays football for the county as well as the school.
‘I run every morning before school.’
So does Treacle! I bite my tongue before I blurt it out. ‘Don’t you get tired from all that exercise?’
&n
bsp; ‘Nah. Your body gets used to it.’ His breath billows in the wind. ‘And it’s not like I’m exercising all the time. I still do fun stuff like go to the movies.’
‘You like movies?’ I take out my mental notebook. I’m fact-gathering for Jessica Jupiter. ‘What kind?’
He shrugs. ‘Comedy mostly.’
Football. Running. Funny films! The more I learn about Jeff, the more he seems to be the boy-version of Treacle. I suddenly remember his Comic-Con comment at last week’s meeting. It’s a lead that needs following up. ‘Did you say you went to last year’s Comic-Con too?’ I try to sound casual. With any luck, he’ll just assume I’m chattering away because I’m a girl.
‘How’d you know?’ He snaps his head round.
‘You told the twins at the meeting.’ I shrug carelessly. ‘You said you got Dave Gibbons’s autograph.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he remembers and hunches deeper into his jacket. ‘I’m a total comic book geek.’ He sounds apologetic.
I want to squeal, So is Treacle!
But I don’t. Instead, I cover my mouth to hide my smile as he goes on.
‘Working with Phil and Dave on the webzine is pretty cool,’ he confesses. ‘They know everything there is to know about the Green Goblin.’
I nod wisely. ‘Spiderman’s enemy.’
He steps back. ‘How’d you know that?’
‘Treacle.’ I hold my hands up. ‘When that girl says she’s got issues, she means back issues. About two hundred of them stacked inside her wardrobe. Her dad started her on Superman when she was a kid and now she’s completely hooked.’
‘Her dad should meet mine.’ Jeff grins. ‘Together they might be able to finally decide whether Omega the Unknown or Sword of the Atom is the most underrated comic book of all time.’
I look at him blankly. ‘I’m afraid my only experience of a comic book is the Beano annual.’
‘Watch out,’ Jeff warns. ‘It always starts out with a few Dennis the Menace strips and then, before you know it, you’re on the hard stuff. I need at least three Aquamans to get to sleep at night.’
We’re laughing so hard I don’t see Treacle arrive. She’s standing at my elbow, kitbag swinging, frowning. ‘Are you ready to go, Gemma?’