‘You OK?’ Paul presses. ‘You look sort of hacked off.’
‘I’m invisible,’ I tell him, holding up a hand to check whether it’s transparent or not. ‘It’s happening slowly, but it’s happening. Pretty soon, you won’t see me at all.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Seriously’ I tell him. ‘People can’t see me. People can’t hear me. I could disappear any minute.’
Paul Slater laughs. ‘Have you been hanging around with Romeo and Juliet again?’ he asks me. ‘Don’t take it personally. They wouldn’t notice if there was an earthquake right next to them.’
‘It feels like I’m losing my best mate,’ I tell him. ‘It hurts.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he says sadly, and I remember that he does.
‘Hey we’ll survive,’ I grin. ‘Won’t we?’
‘Definitely’ Paul says.
‘Are you sure I’m not looking hazy to you?’ I check. ‘Kind of wishy-washy?’
‘Not even slightly.’
We paint in silence for a while, and then Miss Quinn glides up beside us. ‘No Joey today?’ she asks.
‘Joey’s got a boyfriend,’ I explain, trying the words out for size.
‘Sweet!’ Miss Quinn smiles.
‘Er, no, not exactly!’
‘Oh, well. I don’t suppose it’ll last forever.’ She shrugs. ‘How are those kittens getting along?’
‘They’re fine. They’re eating solid food now, and they’re huge – compared to when we found them, anyway. They’re really clever too.’
‘Almost house-trained,’ Paul chips in. ‘Except for when Itchy mistook Eva’s handbag for the litter tray.’
‘Scary’ says Miss Quinn.
‘Very.’
Later on, in maths, I’m ploughing through a shedload of fractions. Joey, who loves maths (I told you she was weird), has finished and sits doodling hearts and skulls all over the back of her jotter in silver pen.
‘Hey,’ she whispers when Mr Ballantine turns his back to scrawl a few more sums on the blackboard. ‘Was it just a rumour, then, about Benji from Good Charlotte?’
I blink at her. ‘He was there, all right,’ I say ‘He’s much better looking in real life. You missed out.’
‘Show me your tattoo, then!’
‘I can’t,’ I say, my mouth twitching into a smile. ‘It’s in a very private place.’
‘You wouldn’t just be saying that?’ Joey asks, her eyes laughing. ‘To get your own back?’
‘Would I lie about something that important?’
‘Possibly, Hannah. Possibly. But if he were to turn up…’
‘Mmm?’
‘Would you get his autograph for me?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Whatever would Kit say?’ I tease her.
Joey rolls her eyes. ‘Kit?’ She laughs. ‘Kit who?’
CHAPTER 8
On Valentine’s Day, a lumpy black envelope arrives, delivered by hand, decorated with stars and spirals and little pawprints done in silver pen. There’s no name on it, just a cute little cartoon of a face that’s half cat, half human. It’s pretty much a Joey-type stunt, right down to her cool silver pen.
Kit swoops on the envelope and rips it open, grinning from ear to ear like a chimpanzee. He takes out a four-finger KitKat and looks at it, frowning a bit.
‘KitKat,’ I point out. ‘Geddit?’
‘Oh. Oh, yeah. Cool.’
He unfolds a torn scrap of tracing paper with a pencil drawing of a heart on it, a cartoon cat face sketched on top. It has wide eyes and a cute, kittenish look. ‘OK,’ he says, still puzzled. ‘Is it for me? KitCat?’
I peer over his shoulder. ‘Looks like it,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a home-made tattoo. You soak the tracing paper in water, then rub it on to your arm or whatever. Shall I show you?’
‘Suppose so. I’d better put it on, hadn’t I?’
‘Think so.’
Kit rolls up his sleeve and I transfer the tattoo to his forearm. It looks good – I’m impressed. I wonder if Joey got Paul to help her with it? There’s a little needle of jealousy that she didn’t ask me, or even tell me about it.
On the bus, Kit captures Joey the moment she gets on. ‘Sit with me,’ he appeals. Just for today. Please?’
Joey shrugs at me and sits. I knew she would. I just thought it might take a little more persuasion. Well, some persuasion, anyway. But, no, Kit asks and Joey sits, it’s that simple. Paul, coming up the aisle behind her, catches my eye.
‘Seat taken?’ he asks.
‘Nah, go ahead,’ I sigh. ‘It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it? Joey’s busy getting slushy with KitKat over there.’
‘KitKat?’ Paul questions, flopping down beside me.
‘Some people get valentine cards,’ I explain. ‘My brother gets chocolate and a home-made tattoo – Joey likes to be different.’
‘Yeah? She sent him a tattoo and a KitKat?’
‘Well, it wasn’t addressed to him,’ I admit, ‘but it’s pretty obvious. KitKat, y’know? And the envelope was all hearts and swirls, done in Joey’s silver pen.’
‘She’s just given him a big card with a fluffy heart on it too.’
‘Yeuww.’ I grimace. ‘Kit’s giving Joey this skull-and-crossbones silver ring he got Tom to buy for him in Dumfries. It’s one she admired that day they went off in the snowstorm, apparently. And he’s burned her a CD of all this punky stuff he downloaded from the Net. It’s taken him days.’
‘He’s thoughtful, your brother,’ says Paul.
‘Yeah, he’s a regular dream boy,’ I agree. ‘So kind, so helpful, so friendly.’
‘He tried,’ Paul shrugs. ‘Don’t blame him. It was me that messed things up.’
I watch Kit scoffing the KitKat in big, greedy bites and decide to blame him anyway.
Kit and Joey stay glued together all day, outside of lesson times. They snuggle up so close in the lunch hall, you’d just about need a chisel to prise them apart. I give up on Joey and hide out in the art room, washing palettes for Miss Quinn until Paul appears with a bag of chips and a bottle of Cherryade.
‘You’ve been out to the chippy!’ I cry outraged. ‘Not fair!’
‘Better than that mush you get down in the lunchroom,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you some tomorrow, if you like.’
‘Please!’
‘Hot food’s not allowed in the classrooms,’ Miss Quinn says, gliding up behind us. ‘Give us a chip and I won’t tell.’
‘Go ahead,’ Paul grins. We sit down and demolish the chips, then glug Cherryade straight from the bottle. Paul produces a KitKat from his pocket and offers me half.
‘Why should Kit be the only one who gets to eat KitKats?’ He grins. ‘G’mon, Joey says they’re your favourite.’
So we munch chocolate and talk and paint, and lunchtime slips by.
After school, I get off at Joey’s stop and watch her waving as the bus – and Kit – disappear from view.
‘It’s so unfair that he’s grounded,’ Joey says, sulking.
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ I tell her, and she pinches me, hard, on the arm.
I have bought a tin of sardines for the kittens as a special Valentine’s Day treat. I get to cuddle up with Krusty and eat a piece of Eva’s treacle tart while Joey shows everyone her silver ring.
Mikey and Paul are helping Jed put the finishing touches to a cat flap in the kitchen door. It’s not just any old cat flap. Jed has sliced a square out of the door and hinged on a little swing door made from an old fish-box he found on the beach. Now Mikey and Paul are edging it round with little twigs of driftwood bleached white from the ocean.
‘There’s a whole wide world out there,’ Paul tells the kittens, ‘full of adventure and fun. It’s awesome, but you have to take care.’
‘Don’t get run over by a tractor,’ Mikey warns.
Joey slips her new CD into the player on top of the fridge. Kit’s first track is a Good Charlotte song.
‘Oh, he’s so cool,’ she
sighs. ‘How did he know?’
‘Joey, everyone in the school knows you’re obsessed with Good Charlotte. It isn’t exactly a secret!’
‘Well, but he’s just so thoughtful.’
‘You are too,’ I say, just so Kit doesn’t sprout a halo and wings. ‘You put a lot of effort into his valentine.’
‘It took me ages to choose it,’ Joey says. ‘I went to three different shops.’
‘No, I meant the tattoo. Remember when we first learnt to make tracing-paper tattoos from that face-painting book in primary school?’
‘Hannah, what’re you talking about?’
‘You know, the cat tattoo you sent to Kit,’ I say. ‘Dur! And the KitKat too.’
Joey sits down at the table. ‘I didn’t send him that tattoo,’ she says slowly. ‘I thought he just did it himself. And I don’t know anything about a KitKat.’
I blink. ‘It had to be you,’ I protest. ‘It was in a black envelope, all decorated with stars and spirals in silver.’
‘No, not me,’ Joey says. ‘I just gave him the card. I was playing it cool – I didn’t know if he’d make a fuss of Valentine’s Day or not. Kit must have another admirer.’ Her eyes darken, and she looks a little lost.
‘He thinks it was you,’ I point out. ‘We don’t have to tell him any different.’
‘No,’ says Joey. ‘No, we don’t.’
But who else would send Kit a cat tattoo and a KitKat bar? I haven’t a clue, and for once Joey hasn’t either.
CHAPTER 9
‘Dad is just so out of order,’ Kit sulks. ‘I have been grounded for two weeks and five days. Over what? Going out for a couple of hours with a girl I happen to like.’
‘In a snowstorm, without letting anyone know where you were,’ I add helpfully. ‘Dad might have understood if you’d said sorry afterwards.’
‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t sorry’ Kit scowls. ‘And it wasn’t a snowstorm, just a few flakes of snow. I’m sick of being grounded. I’m sick of history homework and EastEnders and early nights. Watch and learn, Hannah. I won’t be grounded much longer – wait and see.’
I watch, and I learn. Overnight, Kit turns into the perfect teenager. He tidies his room, carrying armfuls of festering T-shirts and socks to the washing machine and removing mouldering coffee cups that were last seen when I was about seven years old. He makes cups of tea for Mum and Dad and washes the dishes without being asked. He even hoovers the living-room carpet before school.
‘It won’t work,’ Dad tells him sternly. ‘You’re still grounded.’
‘I know,’ Kit shrugs. ‘I deserve it. But I just want you to know I’ve learned my lesson.’
‘Hmphh,’ says Dad. Kit picks wilted snowdrops from the garden and gives them to Mum, then washes the car and polishes it till it gleams.
‘Don’t you think we’ve been a bit hard on him?’ Mum asks, arranging the snowdrops in a tiny vase.
‘No, I don’t,’ Dad retorts. ‘He stays grounded. He’ll thank me for it in the end.’
Kit waves cheerily from a stepladder in the hallway, where he is dusting the light fittings. I haven’t seen him this helpful since his bob-a-job days with the Cub Scouts, when he cleaned the kitchen floor so well he broke the mophead.
‘He’s growing up, Jim,’ Mum says thoughtfully. ‘He didn’t mean to cause all that fuss and trouble. He’s fallen for Joey and he wanted to spend some time with her. It was a misunderstanding, really.’
‘He’s too young to get mixed up with girls,’ Dad growls.
‘Oh, Jim, it’s not girls, it’s Joey,’ Mum says.
‘Exactly. Next thing we know, he’ll have his tongue pierced and his hair dyed purple. She’s odd, that girl.’
‘What rubbish! She’s been Hannah’s best friend for years, and there haven’t been any problems,’ Mum says fairly. Joey is very well-mannered.’
‘Odd,’ says Dad.
Kit, listening from the stepladder in the hallway, grins with delight, and shakes his duster out all over my head.
Cups of coffee and shiny-clean cars don’t soften Dad, but Kit sticks at it. He cleans the windows, making them so smeary Mum has to do them again, rearranges the CDs so Dad can’t find anything and cooks a totally inedible supper, involving raw chips, lukewarm baked beans and charred steaks. He does it all with a cheerful, smiling face with just the right amount of penitence mixed in.
On Saturday morning, Dad pulls the curtains wide to find Kit has emptied out the potting shed right across the lawn and is sorting it into boxes and bin bags. He begins to weaken.
‘Kit!’ he roars through the window. ‘What are you doing? That’s my stuff you’re messing with.’
‘I know, Dad,’ Kit says brightly. ‘I’m doing it for you. Imagine how good it’ll be to have everything tidy, know where everything is!’
‘I do know where everything is,’ Dad grumbles. ‘At least, I did. It’ll take me ages to get everything straight now. Put it back – and stop this helping-out business. I’m sick of it.’
‘But, Dad, I’m trying to show you how sorry I am!’
‘I believe you,’ Dad huffs. ‘But I want you to stop now.’
‘Dad, I’m just being helpful. It’s not a problem. And, after all, there’s nothing else for me to do now that I’m grounded!’
Dad slams the window shut and Kit hauls the boxes and bin bags of junk back into the potting shed for Dad to sort out. He wanders into the house, whistling.
‘How about a big fry-up?’ he asks, pulling a tin of pineapple chunks and a punnet of tomatoes out of the cupboard. ‘Do we have any sausages?’
‘Kit, love, you don’t need to bother. I was going to make scrambled eggs,’ Mum says with an anxious expression on her face.
‘No bother, Mum,’ Kit says brightly. ‘I can do eggs. No hassles.’
Dad groans and goes outside to inspect the potting-shed disaster, and Kit winks at me. ‘Trust me,’ he whispers, ‘it’ll all be over by lunchtime. Teatime at the latest.’
‘Hope so,’ I tell him, eyeing the egg-and-pineapple mixture Kit is whisking up, and helping myself to cereal.
Over at Beachcomber Cottage, Joey is wallpapering her room with black plastic bin bags. The wallpaper paste doesn’t work so well – the rectangles of black stick for a while, then slither down the wall leaving trails of slime. We have to wipe the walls with a duck-shaped sponge from the bathroom, throw the soggy black stuff out and start again using Eva’s staple gun.
‘They do know you’re doing this,’ Paul asks, ‘don’t they? Jed and Eva?’
‘Of course they do,’ Joey scoffs. ‘It’s freedom of expression, isn’t it?’
‘Right.’
We get one wall covered, but there are only a few bin bags left and we’re running out of staples.
‘Think I’ll leave it there,’ Joey decides. ‘I might get black fur-fabric for this wall, and tinfoil for that one, and the last wall can just be a great big poster collage. What d’you think?’
‘Sounds good,’ Paul shrugs, pouring out mugs of Cherryade. He is getting addicted to the stuff. ‘Sure you don’t want any driftwood sculptures or seashell mobiles? A lampshade made of seaweed and starfish, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you. I had an idea for the lampshade, though.’ Joey cuts the last few bin bags into fringes and staples them on round her existing lampshade. The room is instantly dimmer, throwing spiky flickering shadows across the walls. ‘D’you think I should tie-dye my sheets and pillowcase black?’ she ponders, but Eva shouts us to come downstairs and the room makeover comes to an abrupt end.
Standing in the kitchen, half hidden behind a vast bunch of yellow daffodils, is Kit. Mikey is clinging on to him like a limpet, grinning madly.
‘Hi, Joey,’ Kit says shyly. ‘Thought I’d call over.’
‘Kit! You’re not grounded any more!’
Kit looks at his watch. ‘As of twenty-five minutes ago,’ he tells us. ‘I was giving the fence a coat of creosote, and it dripped all over those nice beige chi
nos Mum got me last year…’
‘Shame,’ Eva says innocently.
‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ Kit beams. ‘Anyway Dad said I’d been so helpful, and he knew how sorry I was and all, so he lifted the ban and here I am! I brought these for you, Eva, to say sorry for all the trouble and worry I caused.’ He offers her the daffodils. I wonder how Mum will feel when she realizes her flower beds have been vandalized.
‘Kit, you shouldn’t have,’ Eva says, but you can tell she’s pleased. ‘There’s no hard feelings, really. We’ve all missed you being around, haven’t we? Mikey has, and Paul.’
Kit nods and looks over at Paul, but can’t quite meet his eye.
‘Joey especially’ Eva grins.
‘Mum!’ Joey huffs. ‘I haven’t! I see him all the time, on the bus, at school, everywhere! There’s no getting away from him!’
‘No,’ Kit grins. ‘There isn’t…’
He untangles himself from Mikey and flings an arm round Joey’s shoulder, and I realize now that there’s nowhere left at all where I can escape from the slushy waking nightmare that is Kit and Joey. I wish I could be happy for them, but I’m not. I’m really, really not.
I fish Krusty out of the cat basket and bury my face in her fur. I know that if I don’t get out of this kitchen fast I will be crying like a little kid. I sniff hard, inhaling a kitteny, warm-milk and fur smell, and put Krusty down, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
‘Anyone want ginger cookies?’ Eva is calling, although Mikey has wandered off to find a football and Paul is curled up in the window seat, reading, and Joey and Kit are on the Planet Slush and therefore oblivious to everything.
I grab my coat from the hallway and slip out of the kitchen door: The driftwood cat flap makes a swish-swish noise as I click the door closed, but nobody notices I’ve gone, not even Krusty.
CHAPTER 10
Beachcomber Cottage sits right on the edge of the Solway coast, as though it just washed up on the shore like an especially gorgeous piece of driftwood. To the right a rocky headland juts out into the sea, while to the left the beach snakes away behind me, stretching back towards the distant harbour in Kirklaggan.
Driftwood Page 5