by Davina Bell
Which is why it’s such a shock to answer her Skype call and see that Tally has been crying. I mean, really crying – I can tell because when she’s upset her voice gets croaky and she sounds older, like she’s at uni and has spent the whole weekend out dancing.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, trying not to sound as worried as I feel. ‘Aren’t you having a good time?’
And then Tally starts sobbing. It’s one of the saddest sounds I’ve ever heard.
‘Can I help?’ I ask. But I don’t think she can even hear me. I wish I could bust my arms through the laptop screen and throw them around her. But even love isn’t that powerful.
Eventually, though, she calms down enough to tell me that the Young Influencers for Peace Conference is filled with people who are incredibly brilliant and incredibly ambitious. ‘Seriously, Loles, they will stand on your throat if it means they can get ahead of you even for a second. When people hear that I hang upside down from a towel rail and sing, they think it’s some sad joke.’
‘That’s mean,’ I say defensively. ‘What do they do that’s so special?’
‘One guy teaches breakdancing in an orphanage in India. Another girl invented a machine that turns takeaway coffee cups into pyjamas for homeless people.’
‘That sounds made-up,’ I say.
‘Oh, it’s real,’ Tally says. ‘I watched her do a slideshow about it. Mostly nobody talks to each other because they’re on their phones the whole time, posting stuff about how great it is to be here. And when they do chat, it’s like, Oh, excuse me, I’ve got to take this phone call with the Queen.’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Yes!’ she says. ‘One time someone literally got a call from Buckingham Palace. And someone else is being followed around by a documentary crew. I feel like … I feel like I’m nobody. Now I’m wondering why I do this stupid stuff. Maybe I should be in Angola, helping street kids by teaching music therapy.’
‘Don’t do that!’ I say. ‘I’d miss you too much. Besides, you help people too, Tally. Remember how you helped us save the clubhouse?’
‘I love the clubhouse,’ she says, ‘but it’s hardly programming drones to deliver medicine to infectious disease zones. I have to do a presentation tomorrow and I have no idea what I’m going to say. That people think my videos are funny because I’m upside down?’ She groans. ‘Why didn’t I ever realise I’m so lame?’
‘You’re not!’ I say angrily. ‘And you shouldn’t let those bozos make you think that. People love your videos because you have a beautiful voice, and the world needs beautiful things as well as all that serious stuff. Tally, just think about that Coco Chanel quote – remember the one that you had on your lunchbox? Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.’
There’s a pause, and then Tally smiles. ‘You’re right. No use pretending I’m some tech genius who’s saving the forests of Costa Rica. I’ll just be me, someone who sings out all their feels.’
‘Well, if you need cheering up, check this out,’ I say, pulling off my Sunnystream Beamers cap. My fringe, predictably, springs up like it’s ready to party. ‘So, this is my life now.’
Tally laughs so hard, she slides off the bed.
‘Hey – is this a cry for help?’ she asks when she’s composed herself. ‘What did you want to talk to me about, Squirt? Seriously, is everything OK?’
‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘I haven’t done the sets. For the musical. And it’s on tomorrow. And I haven’t told the others.’
‘Why not?’
‘Tally, I did something really wrong. And it’s making me crazy. I can’t paint, or anything. I can hardly breathe.’
‘Just how wrong are we talking, Lola? Like, wore-my-terrazzo-earrings-without-asking wrong?’
‘I did that too.’ Of course I did. ‘But this is way worse.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t think of what to do my end-of-term project on. Like, I had no ideas. Clives … The people there, the other kids, they’re all so good. I just make these big stupid photo drawings. I don’t feel like … anyway, it’s been stressful. But that’s not an excuse for what I did.’
‘Which was what, Tiny?’ Tiny was what the family called me before Gwynnie and Pop were born, when I really was the tiniest. I can still remember what that was like, being the baby who was always picked up, given all the head-pats and the fuss. How safe it felt.
‘Loles, I’m gonna have to go in five minutes,’ Tally says gently.
‘I found some artwork at the back of the kiln studio. It was old. Squished between two shelves. And so I took it … and I copied it. Exactly. And I pretended it was mine. Then I wrote a whole explanation about why I’d painted it. How it was about power and …’ I cover my eyes with my hands. ‘And I handed it in.’
There’s a pause while Tally breathes in sharply and crosses her arms. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that was a seriously dumb move. That’s plagiarism! That’s an actual crime. Like, an end-up-in-court crime. They could kick you out for that. They could expel you.’
My whole body goes cold – like shame is dripping through my insides. It seems so obvious now that she says it. Expelled. Truly, I would die.
I swallow. ‘I was thinking … Maybe … Maybe I shouldn’t go back, anyway. To Clives, I mean. Maybe it’s not the place for me. I just won’t go back next term and they won’t know.’
‘WHAT? You listen to me, Lola Powell,’ Tally says in a voice that could only be described as ‘menacing’. ‘Over my dead body. You’re so good at art, it actually makes me sick. And, sure, maybe it’s tough there, maybe you’re not the star. Maybe you’re struggling. But if you waste that opportunity, I am going to slit you open with a sword and pull your spine out through your stomach.’
WHOA. (Also, GROSS.)
‘You don’t just quit when things get hard,’ she says. ‘You tell Mum and Dad what you did. And then you go back to that school, and you confess, and you hold your head up and you start again. And you do the same with these sets – you fess up and then you get painting. Do you hear me?’
‘It’s too late,’ I mumble, suddenly finding some threads on my sock really interesting.
‘DO YOU HEAR ME?’ she shrieks, right as Rishi walks in.
‘I heard you. The whole town heard you,’ says Rishi. ‘Hey – your voice! Have you been crying?’
‘GO AWAY!’ we tell him.
‘And people say I’m the emotional one,’ says Rishi, and slams the door behind him.
‘It’s too late,’ I tell Tally again.
‘Bulldust,’ she says dismissively. ‘It’s never too late to do the right thing. Don’t be a coward, Magnolia Powell. Anything but that.’
Then neither of us says anything for a while.
‘I wish I’d come with you to New York,’ I whisper eventually. ‘I wish I could run away from here.’
‘Yeah, well, believe me: problems follow you everywhere,’ she says. ‘And the longer I’m here, the more I miss Sunnystream. I guess … I guess there’s a part of everyone’s heart that’s always longing for home.’
And I’m still thinking about that for ages after we’ve hung up.
Meet me at CPC ASAP, I message the others. EMERGENCY. PS Except you, Maisie!!
And now here they are, Maisie too, sitting on the stage of the clubhouse in their jackets and beanies.
‘I need to fess up about something,’ I tell them.
‘It WAS you who farted on the bus to year four camp,’ says Maisie triumphantly.
‘Ew. No. That was Sebastian Weekes for sure. Should you be here?’ I ask her. ‘Your competition’s tomorrow!’
‘You said EMERGENCY, all capitals. Of course I’m here,’ she says, and my chest feels tight with love.
I rub my hands together and blow on them. Boy, am I nervous.
Matilda is gazing at me steadily, and I remember that she’s the only one who knows that I could have gone to New York these holidays. It’s like she’s trying to say sorry with her eyes. About New York. About everything. I
just can’t hate her, even though it feels like life would be so much easier if I could. I gaze back at her, and everything feels so complicated.
‘I don’t know how to say this so I’m just gonna say it … I haven’t done the sets.’ I’m so ashamed, I want to stare at the shiny wooden floorboards, but I force myself to look them in the eye.
‘Like, you haven’t quite finished?’ asks Matilda.
‘Like, I haven’t quite started.’
Maisie starts chewing her fingernail. Soph looks shocked. Matilda looks concerned.
‘But you said …’ Belle begins, her eyebrows almost crossing she’s frowning so hard.
‘Yeah. I know,’ I say. ‘And that was awful, and I’m sorry. But I want to make it right.’
‘You still have time,’ says Soph quietly. ‘You’ve got tonight and all day tomorrow. We could help?’
‘I’m great at doing assignments at the last minute,’ says Maisie.
‘But why?’ Belle asks, crossing her arms. ‘I don’t get it. You lied. To my face.’ She looks shocked. And something else, too – hurt, maybe.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell her. ‘But when I sit down to paint, my stomach gets all tight, and I think I’m going to spew, and I have to stand up and go do something else or I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack.’
‘That sounds awful,’ says Soph.
‘That sounds like anxiety,’ says Belle. ‘I’ll lend you my knitting book.’
‘This is what Coach Jack asks me all the time,’ says Maisie, ‘so I’m going to ask you. What are you scared of, exactly?’
The answer comes to me so quickly that I must have been thinking about it without realising. ‘I’m afraid I’m not good enough. I’m not a Tally or a Rishi,’ I tell them. ‘And the kids at that school – they’re geniuses too. I’m scared that I’m not creative anymore. That it sort of … disappeared. And I’m not the arty one after all. So then I’m just nobody.’
‘OK, so I haven’t known you guys for that long,’ says Matilda evenly, ‘but Lola, everything you do is creative. You don’t have to try to be creative – you just are. It’s in every single thing you do. Those cat hats. The flower crowns you made for Soph’s birthday.’
‘And my party! Like, every single thing about it,’ says Sophia.
‘And how you dress every single day,’ Maisie adds. ‘You dress like it’s art.’
‘But that’s just clothes,’ I say. ‘And, like, everyday stuff. Those things aren’t big or important.’
‘Gym is mostly just little everyday training drills,’ says Maisie. ‘Alone, they’re not big or important. But together they add up to a big life. And a big dream. Why’s your art any different?’
That’s the thing about Maisie. She doesn’t say much, but what she does say is powerful. She’s kind of right.
‘Lola?’ Matilda says. ‘Nobody ever feels good enough. You know my mum?’ She blushes. ‘The, uh, movie actor one?’
‘You have a famous mum?’ I say in pretend disbelief, and then I wink.
She smiles back and looks down, fiddling with the cord of her hoodie while she talks. ‘Before every single movie, she freaks out that she’s not going to be able to do it. She never thinks she’s going to be any good.’
‘Even the one she won an Oscar for?’ I ask.
‘Especially that one,’ Matilda says. And then she looks me straight in the eye, and it feels like she really cares. The Matilda Effect, I guess. ‘But you just gotta keep going. You keep going in spite of the voice in your head telling you that you should give up. That’s what courage is. Being brave isn’t about being fearless. It’s about being scared and doing things anyway.’
It sounds so straightforward when she says it. Maybe Rishi’s right – maybe I’ve been overthinking things. ‘Well, that makes sense. And I’ve definitely got the “being scared” part down.’
‘Me too,’ says Maisie quietly.
We all turn to look at her because Maisie never talks about her feelings.
She shrugs. ‘I’m scared about tomorrow. I’m scared about falling and hurting myself again. And I’m scared about failing. I’ve tried so hard, but what if I bomb?’
‘Then we go out for ice-cream tomorrow night,’ I tell her, ‘and we spend the rest of the holidays watching Star Wars and eating caramel and you start again next term. If you want to.’
‘And whatever happens, remember we’re proud of you,’ says Sophia.
‘And next competition, we all come and cheer,’ says Matilda.
Now we all turn and look at her. She blushes. ‘Oh – I didn’t mean to invite myself. Forget I said that. But if we’re all being brave, I’m going to say that these were the best holidays of my life and I’m going to be sad when they end.’
‘Even though I’ve been having a meltdown?’ Belle asks doubtfully. ‘And I’ve been making you listen to me recite the numbers of pi?’
‘Especially because of that,’ Matilda says. ‘It’s nice to see that you’re actually human. Though you’ve ruined the Huckle Roses for me forever.’
‘I’m going to miss you,’ I blurt out, surprised that I’m saying it, and even more surprised that it’s a hundred per cent true. ‘I never thought I’d want anyone else to be part of this group, but now I don’t want you to go.’
‘Me neither,’ says Soph.
‘Me threether,’ says Maisie.
Matilda laughs, but she also wipes at her eyes. ‘It’s like I’ve seen through a door into a magical kingdom,’ she says, ‘and it’s about to shut again.’
‘We’ll always be here,’ I tell her. ‘Guys, bring it in. Group hug.’
I promise Belle, on Tally’s terrazzo earrings, that I’ll get the sets done.
‘I wish you’d told me,’ she says. ‘You know, you don’t always have to act like everything’s so great and sparkly. It’s OK to just be you.’
‘Right back at you,’ I tell her.
I ponder what Matilda said about Sunnystream all the way home. It really is like a magical kingdom. I think about all the things I love about it: Judy’s and the lookout above Merry Creek and Corner Park Clubhouse. I think about the mosaic sundial I made that’s out in the garden, the tree that Gracie carved her name into. I think about sitting on the steps with my friends until nightfall, and running across the park under the stars. I remember how close we came to losing it, and how hard we worked to save it – Belle and Maisie and Sophia and me. About the people who have given me advice these holidays – Tally and Francine and Matilda and Nana Marjorie. I think about Sunny Heights. I think about home.
Paint what’s in your heart, Rishi told me. And now I truly know what’s in my heart. It’s been there all along.
It must be almost midnight and I’m deep in my second painting when my phone lights up with a message.
Out the front. Have pickles
It’s from … Matilda?
I run up the stairs two at a time and creak the front door open – and she’s really there, smiling, a heavy backpack slung over her shoulder. I can’t help but smile back.
‘Hey. I thought you might want some company,’ she whispers. ‘Or at least a midnight feast.’
‘Come in,’ I whisper back. ‘Follow me down the steps. And jump over the last one – it’s really noisy.’
‘Wow!’ she says as she looks at the first painting, laid out in the middle of the basement floor. ‘Oh … Lola. WOW.’
‘Is it OK?’ I ask, frowning at the very wet paint.
‘It’s next level,’ she says, and truly? Her voice is full of wonder. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘But what if it doesn’t dry in time?’ I ask. ‘How am I going to transport it to the clubhouse?’
Matilda puts the backpack down and pulls out a giant jar of polski ogorki, my favourite type of pickles! How did she know?
‘Well … on the sets with my, um, my mum,’ she says, opening the lid, ‘I know they use big fans to dry things quickly. Do you have a fan?’
‘Hmm. The summer
stuff is stored up in the attic, and that’s above Gwynnie’s room,’ I tell her through a mouthful of pickle. ‘If I woke her up, she’d never go back to sleep.’
‘I don’t want to boast,’ she says, ‘but I’m pretty great at sneaking around. It comes in handy at boarding school.’
No joke – Matilda could be a ninja. Ten minutes later, the fan is whirring quietly in the corner. She’s made a clothesline from some curling ribbon that she’s strung between the disco ball and the top of the TV and hung up the painting. I don’t want to boast, but it really does look pretty great. You know what else is great? The peanut M&Ms that she’s cracked open, and the flask of chai latte she’s pouring out for us. I wonder what else she has in that Mary Poppins bag.
‘Do you want me to stay for a bit, or would you prefer to work alone? Totally fine if you do,’ she adds quickly. ‘I was just popping in.’
‘Stay,’ I say immediately, surprising myself with how much I don’t want her to go. ‘Please?’
There’s something about Matilda that’s so steady and capable. It’s like when she’s around, you feel safe. She sneaks upstairs to wash some of my brushes, and when she comes back down, she pulls out the Catilda script and settles into a beanbag – practising lines, I guess. It’s cosy being here together. I wish next term I could get the train with her and Belle to Hollyoakes, and have midnight feasts in their boarding house, and do cross-country running around the forest, and swim in the lake. Matilda and I could hang out while Belle memorises pi.
‘I guess Belle’s asleep?’ I ask as I pour some more black paint onto my palette.
‘Yeah,’ says Matilda. ‘She’s nervous about tomorrow.’
‘She is?’ I ask in surprise. I’ve never seen Belle act nervous before.