by Melody James
‘He’s just a boy.’
That’s why I love Savannah. She might be too cool for school, but she’s never too cool for her friends.
I give her a weak smile. ‘Honestly, I’ll be fine. No news is good news, right?’
She smiles back at me. ‘Right. Well, if you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Promise you’ll call me if you do hear anything?’
‘Promise.’
Savannah heads off with Jason and as the crowds thin, I pace the sideline.
Jeff’s hanging around too. He’s holding his notebook. ‘I want to get some quotes from the players for the article,’ he tells me.
Before I can answer, my phone beeps. My chest cracks with fear. I pull my phone out, only half wanting to read the text.
Please don’t let him be worse.
‘Are you OK?’ Jeff’s staring at me.
I read the text.
Fever gone. Ben sitting up, eating.
‘Yes!’ I throw my arms into the air as if we’ve won another Cup.
‘What?’ Jeff’s staring at me like I am a deranged chimp.
‘Ben’s better!’ I’m actually jumping for joy. I have to jump or I’ll explode with happiness.
Jeff waits for me to calm down. ‘Who’s Ben?’
‘My brother,’ I blurt. ‘He’s got cystic fibrosis. He’s been in hospital with an infection since last week. But he’s started getting better.’ I feel like crying as relief swamps me.
Jeff blinks, his blue eyes suddenly bright. ‘You wrote that article!’
I nod. Tears are pressing harder behind my eyes. Ben’s going to be OK.
Jeff cocks his head. ‘Are you all right?’ The kindness in his voice tips me over the edge. Overwhelmed, I start to cry. I feel Jeff’s arms go round me and like a caring big brother, he gives me a hug.
Ben’s going to be OK!
‘What is going on?’ Treacle’s voice makes me freeze.
I back away from Jeff. ‘N-nothing,’ I stammer.
Treacle’s face is set like stone, her eyes flinty hard. She drops her overflowing kitbag and spikes me with a stare. ‘Oh, really?’
I need a plan!
Treacle’s on the verge of a major eruption and Jeff is about to make the toe-curling discovery he’s been named her Man of the Century.
OK, here’s what I have to do:
First: Shut Treacle up.
Second: Calm Treacle down.
I take a deep breath and say the magic words. ‘Ben’s better.’ This stops Treacle in her tracks.
‘Better?’ Her eyes immediately light up and she hugs me hard. ‘Gem, that’s great.’
‘I was just telling Jeff about him,’ I explain.
Treacle grins as she realises why Jeff was hugging me. Then her smile freezes. I can read her expression like it’s flashing headlines. She’s realising that she’s just thrown a jealous hissy fit in front of Jeff. Her gaze creeps nervously towards him.
Has he noticed?
I remember my research: this boy does not read between the lines too well. It was pretty amazing he worked out it was my article, but surely he won’t guess that Treacle’s head over heels for him just because she asked me what was going on?
Will he?
Jeff’s rubbing his nose thoughtfully.
‘You dropped your bag.’ He reaches for Treacle’s kit bag. As he grabs the handles, the football shirt spilling out of the top slithers on to the grass. ‘Here.’ He scoops it up.
Treacle reaches to grab it, but Jeff’s staring at the number ten on the back.
‘Wait . . . you’re number ten!’ he says slowly, like he’s finally understood calculus.
I stop breathing. Is he thinking of his horoscope? The number ten holds the key to your happiness.
‘Yeah.’ Treacle hesitates. ‘I’m always number ten. It’s my lucky number.’ She looks freshly scrubbed from the shower, her newly washed hair gleaming in the sun. She’s not wearing any of the ‘girly’ clothes or make-up that she’s been trying out, but that obviously doesn’t matter to Jeff.
I see a blush spreading from the back of his neck, up into his cheeks. Slowly, he lifts his long, pale lashes and looks at Treacle. Then he smiles. ‘You must be hungry.’
Treacle raises her eyebrows.
‘Do you want to go into town and grab some pizza and celebrate your win?’ Jeff asks her.
She looks at him like he’s holding out a present, but she’s not sure if it’s for her. She turns to me. ‘Do you fancy it, Gem?’ She doesn’t see Jeff’s face fall.
But I do. ‘No thanks,’ I tell her. ‘I need to go and see Ben.’
‘Oh.’ Her brow furrows. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, you go and celebrate.’
Treacle shrugs apologetically at Jeff. ‘Is it OK if it’s just you and me?’
He pushes his hair from his eyes and looks straight at her. ‘That would be great.’
And finally, Treacle gets it. This gift’s definitely got her name on it, and hers alone. I want to hug her but I shove my hands in my pockets, not wanting to give the whole game away to Jeff.
Treacle glances shyly at her feet. ‘OK.’
Jeff shoves her number ten shirt into her kitbag and swings it over his shoulder. Then he stands to one side to let Treacle pass.
She hesitates. ‘Will you be OK, Gem?’
‘Yes,’ I say with a smile. How could I not be OK? Ben’s better. Treacle’s happy. ‘I’ll be fine.’
I watch her and Jeff trekking towards the gate. They’re deep into match analysis by the time they disappear from my hearing.
Jeff and Treacle are going on a date. And my horoscopes helped make it happen!
I look at my watch. There’s half an hour before the next bus to the hospital. Plenty of time to answer the rest of Jessica Jupiter’s fan mail. Then I can spend all evening with Ben and Mum and Dad. I glance hopefully at the school building, wondering if the webzine HQ will still be open. It’s late. It may be locked.
I see the caretaker over by the bike shed. He’s holding a pot of paint and a brush. I cross the playground and stop beside him.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, nodding at the paint pot.
‘Just giving the old place a bit of a makeover,’ he replies.
‘But why, if it’s going to be knocked down?’
He dips his brush into the pot and stirs it around. ‘Haven’t you heard? The powers that be have decided to keep the old place after all.’
‘What?’
‘Yep. Apparently, some article by one of you lot made them change their mind.’
My head starts to spin as it tries to digest this latest piece of information. ‘An article?’
‘Yep. In that new worldwide internet magazine thingy.’
‘The webzine?’
‘That’s the one.’ He lifts his brush from the pot and paints a gleaming streak of black across one of the railings.
‘But I – that article was my idea.’ I am smiling so hard now my jaw has actually started to ache.
The caretaker stops painting and his wrinkly face breaks into a grin. ‘Well, good for you,’ he says. ‘Good for you. This shed’s been here since I was a boy. Place wouldn’t be the same without it.’
‘Wow,’ is all I can say. Today is starting to feel like my birthday, Christmas and Easter all rolled into one.
I glance towards the school. The windows are glittering in the sinking sunshine. ‘Would it be OK for me to go back inside – to the webzine HQ? I wanted to finish off some work. Is the storeroom still open?’
He nods. ‘I haven’t locked it yet. There’s another kid in there.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Gotta lock up in twenty minutes though.’
‘I’ll be done before then,’ I promise.
Inside the school the corridors seem weirdly empty and bright. I take the stairs up to the webzine HQ two at a time and reach the door wondering who the other ‘kid’ is. It’s probably Cin
dy stealing ideas from the bin, or Will following up leads.
I’m surprised when I hear music. I poke my head round the door and find Sam, leaning back in his chair, strumming a guitar.
‘What do you think?’ he asks as I walk in.
‘About what?’
‘My new song.’ He strums another riff.
I smile. ‘It’s pretty.’
He grins and starts playing again. ‘Thanks. I’m not sure I was aiming for “pretty” though.’
When Will says stuff like that, it’s edged with razor blades, but there’s no sharpness in Sam. I switch on my PC. ‘Sorry.’ I swing my hair over my shoulder. ‘But it does sound pretty.’
He pauses. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing. Why? Does something seem up?’
‘No, you just look really happy,’ he comments. ‘You’ve seemed quite down all week. It’s good to see you smiling again.’
I didn’t think anyone on the webzine had noticed. ‘My brother’s been sick,’ I tell him. ‘But he’s fine now.’ Joy bubbles through me like I swallowed a bath bomb. ‘And Treacle just scored the winning goal in the Cup Final.’ I don’t tell him that’s not the only thing she scored. I’m not going to tell anyone till I get the after-date analysis from Treacle. ‘And – I just found out that they won’t be knocking down the bike shed. Cindy’s article made them change their mind.’
‘Your article,’ Sam says, putting down his guitar. ‘This is brilliant. We have to celebrate.’
I click open the latest webzine horoscopes to help me get back into Jessica’s voice. ‘What?’ I look up, distracted.
‘You and me.’ He brushes his hair from his face with the back of his hand. ‘Why don’t we go for a milkshake?’
I focus on the screen. I’m not sure how easy it will be to get into Jessica’s voice when all I want to say is, Ben’s better, over and over again. ‘What?’
Sam gets up and comes to stand next to me. ‘Oh, please don’t tell me you have to consult your horoscope,’ he says, looking at my computer screen and laughing. ‘The whole school seems to think their life depends on Jessica Jupiter and her crazy predictions.’
A blush ambushes me. I pretend to look for something really important in my bag.
‘All right then, let’s see what yours say.’ He leans over my shoulder. ‘What’s your sign?’
‘Libra,’ I squeak, trying to coax my face back to a normal temperature.
He starts reading from the screen. ‘You may feel the scales haven’t tipped in your favour this week. But don’t fret, Star-ling. Good fortune will be linked to a young man with a three-letter name.’
I glance up from my bag. He’s looking at me, grinning broadly.
‘A three-letter name, eh? Well that decides it.’ He goes to his desk and starts putting his guitar back into its case. ‘You’ve got to come for a milkshake with me. It’s written in the stars.’
“This is the worst dilemma ever!” Treacle drops her book bag on to my bedroom floor and starts pacing up and down. “Do I go fashionista or frump?”
I flip on the light to banish the after-school gloom. “Just wear something comfortable.” I start emptying homework from bag to bed, acting casual. Treacle has no idea that I have a surprise for her hidden in my wardrobe. I tighten my lips to stop a smile escaping.
“Comfortable?” Treacle winds a strand of her glossy black hair round a frantic finger. “For me? Or Jeff? Or them?”
“Them” are Jeff’s parents. Treacle’s been invited to their house for tea. It will be her first meeting with Jeff’s Ancestors and she’s not nervous, she’s cup-final-at-Wembley-terrified.
“You must have something suitable,” I reason calmly.
Treacle stops mid-pace. “How do I know what’s suitable?” she squawks. “I’ve never met them! Their idea of suitable might be corsets and a tiara.”
“Have you asked Jeff?”
Treacle’s fast-breathing. “He just says ‘be yourself’.” She starts fanning her eyes with hummingbird hands. She’s welling up. “But I have no idea who myself is!”
“You’re Treacle!” I throw my arms round her. In the month since she started dating Jeff, my best friend has embraced her inner girl like a jackpot winner embracing a quiz show host. She’s changed from hardcore footballer to Disney princess – but she still carries a pair of muddy football boots in her backpack and she’s only a changing room away from her soccer jersey and a pair of stinking sports socks. I squeeze her harder. “And that means you’re FABULOUS and Jeff is lucky to have you as a girlfriend.”
“Really?” She looks at me with hopeful puppy dog eyes.
“Really.” I nod decisively and head for my wardrobe. The smile’s back on my lips, pushing the corners of my mouth wide as I reach through the crush of clothes and drag out a hanger.
A neat, tweed suit hangs from it like knitted moss. Pale green, knee length, gold buttons, square jacket. It is the perfect meet-the-parents ensemble. I had to fight off a gaggle of pension-book fashionistas to grab this outfit in Oxfam.
“Ta-da!” I hold it up for Treacle to admire. “As soon as I saw it in the charity shop, I thought of your visit with Jeff’s old folks!”
Treacle’s mouth is open. She must be getting the full granny-aroma that’s wafting from the tweed.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “The lady behind the counter said it’s been dry-cleaned and that a splash of perfume and some fresh air will blow away the smell.”
“I-I don’t know what to say.” Treacle stammers.
“Try it on.” I’m picking up a vibe that tells me Treacle’s not that impressed by my carefully chosen outfit, but that’s okay. We’re trying to dress her for parents, not a rave.
Gingerly, Treacle takes the suit and lays it on my bed. As she peels off her school jumper and slips into the jacket, I duck out onto the landing and call down the stairs. “Any crisps, Mum?”
Mum’s chatting with my brother Ben in the kitchen. I can hear them laughing. Ben has cystic fibrosis and last month a dark cloud almost crushed our family when he was admitted to hospital, fighting for every breath. He’s OK now, thank goodness, and it’s wall to wall sunshine most days.
“Crisps?” Mum echoes up the stairs. “Hold on.”
A minute later, Ben appears at the foot of the stairs with a tray loaded with crisps, sandwiches and two glasses of milk.
I grin at him as he carries them carefully upstairs. Ben’s seven years old and still pleased when he gets the chance to show how grown up and responsible he can be.
“Thanks, Ben.” I take the tray from him when he gets to the top. “I appreciate it.” I plant a sloppy kiss on his head.
He shakes me off and gallops downstairs. I love it when he seems like a totally normal brother – like he’s not actually ill and doesn’t need heaps of physiotherapy to keep his lungs gunk-free, or medicine to fight off the constant threat of infection.
“Thanks, Mum!” I yell over the banister and barge back into the bedroom, the tray heavy in my hands.
Treacle’s standing, neat as a pin in the pale green suit. “The plan is to meet Jeff’s mum,” she says accusingly. “Not be her!”
She does look mumsy; like a mini-politician. If I pinned a rosette to the sharp-cut collar, she’d probably win the next local election.
I slide the tray onto my desk. “It’s not bad,” I lie. “Okay, so it swallows your shape a bit—”
“‘Swallows my shape a bit’?” Treacle’s eyes pop. “My waist has disappeared and I have armpit lumps. Who has armpit lumps? And the colour . . . the colour . . .” She runs out of words.
I circle her. “It is kind of more cabbagey than I thought.” I don’t tell her the colour of the tweed is high-lighting every greenish tone in her smooth olive skin.
“I look like a toad!” Treacle stares in dismay at the mirror.
“But a well-brought-up, respectable toad,” I encourage.
Treacle cracks a smile.
“The sort
of toad that parents would approve of,” I press.
“It is smart,” she concedes. “I bet Georgina Robyn-Earle dresses like this on the weekends.”
G R-E is a year Twelve. She’s got her own pony and skis every Easter in the Pyrenees.
“Mrs Simpson.” Treacle fixes me with a mischievous look as she pretends I’m Jeff’s mum. “I’ve brought you some jam.” As she holds out an imaginary jar for me to take, she slips into a plummy lisp. “Mummy’s got so many gooseberries this year she doesn’t know what to do with them.”
I take the invisible jam, joining in the game. “Oh, Treacle, dear. How kind. It’s so lovely to meet you. When Jeff said he was bringing home his girlfriend, I was frightened you’d be one of those ravers you see so much of on the television.”
Treacle widens her eyes. “Oh, gosh no. I’ve never raved in my life. Nor do I intend to.”
“You’re not one of those festival types?” I ask suspiciously. “You don’t spend the summer in a tent with your hair in dreadlocks do you?”
“Sometimes we take a picnic to the gymkhana.” Treacle’s holding back a giggle. I can see it in her eyes. “There’s nothing better than a potted crab sandwich in the back of the Land Rover.” She lifts a wilting hand and crosses to the bed on the balls of her feet, like Cinderella tiptoeing in glass slippers. I swallow back a squawk of laughter as she goes on. “Last year at Ascot, Daddy forgot the icebox and Mummy had to drink warm gin from a teacup.”
“Watch out, dear!”
As Treacle lowers herself daintily onto the bed, I dive and grab a pillow from behind her. “You’ll squash the Chihuahua.” I cradle the pillow-pooch in my arms. “Dear little Bubbles. He’s still recovering from when Jeff mistook him for a football and booted him over the fence.” I stroke the pillow lovingly, fighting back giggles. “I think Jeff was practising goal kicks because poor Bubbles flew over three gardens before he landed in the Robinson’s swimming pool.”
“Noooo!” Treacle explodes with laughter and slides off the bed with a thump. She clutches her sides helplessly. “Stop!”
“Poor Bubby!” Hooting, I collapse beside her, the image of a low-flying Chihuahua fixed in my head.
As the giggles slowly ease, an idea sparks in my brain. “Come on!” I sit up and tug her arm. “Let’s try it properly.”