CFH is our code for Customers from Hell. “Oh dear. Bad day?”
“Put it this way, I won’t be sorry if I never hear the words ‘but is it gluten-free’ ever again.”
Tyler is so good at his job at Kale and Hearty and so cheery with all the customers it’s hard to believe it’s not what he really wants to do. “How’s the fund for the mixing console going?”
“Slowly, but I’m working all the shifts I can get. Hopefully I’ll have enough soon. So, has Tangerine sent you a poem yet?”
“Clementine!” I shake my head. “Not the last time I checked.” I’ve been looking at my phone all day in the hope that Clementine would give me something positive to take my mind off school hell. I check again but there’s still nothing. “It was a dumb idea anyway.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was my idea – and I don’t have dumb ideas.” He grins at me.
“Yeah, yeah.” I flick a sugar cube across the counter at him.
As Tyler makes my coffee I take my pad from my bag and start sketching. I don’t need Clementine and her poems, I remind myself. I don’t need anyone to help me make my art.
“Hey, Rudy,” Sid says coming out from the kitchen. His apron is stained with what looks worryingly like blood.
“Hey, Sid. What’s going on back there, a vegetable massacre?”
“Yeah, man, I let those beetroots have it. What are you working on?” He looks at my pad. “Cool! Maybe I should get you to design my next tattoo.”
“Do it,” Tyler says, plonking a large coffee in front of me. “I’m getting her to design my first tattoo.”
“You are?” I look at him, surprised.
“Of course.”
My hockey-induced hypothermia starts thawing from the inside out at this latest development.
“Are you any good at drawing dragons?” Sid asks. “I’m thinking of getting one on my back.”
“One what on your back?” Jenna says, coming through the front door laden down with bags from the cash and carry.
“A dragon tattoo,” Sid replies. “I was just asking Rudy if she’d design one for me.”
“That would be great,” Jenna says, going behind the counter and kissing Sid on the cheek. Sid and Jenna are the only couple I know whose PDAs don’t make me cringe.
“Seriously?” I look from Jenna to Sid.
“Of course.” Jenna grins. “You’re a great artist. Come on, Dragon Man, help me unpack these bags.”
Sid and Jenna disappear into the kitchen and Tyler picks up a cloth and goes to clear a table. I take a sip of my coffee, and a chain reaction of ideas sparks to life inside me. Maybe that’s how I could make money from my art – designing tattoos. There are loads of tattoo studios in Brighton. And I bet the people who work there don’t have art degrees. I could be a tattoo artist by day and an urban artist by night. The thaw inside me spreads.
“So, what would you like for your first tattoo?” I call over to Tyler.
“I was just going to ask you for some ideas,” he replies.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Something that will inspire me.”
I turn back to my notepad. Something that will inspire Tyler… It would have to be sound-related.
A group of French students comes clattering into the café, laughing and joking. I pick up my pencil and start doodling a pattern of musical notes.
CLEMENTINE
By the time I get to the dance studio after school the fear that’s been building inside me all day has made my throat so tight I can hardly speak. For so long now, I’ve been focusing on the promise of a role in the summer show as if it were some kind of golden ticket. But what if I haven’t got it? What if I’m not going to be able to lose myself in months of rehearsals? What if my escape route has been blocked?
“Hey, Clementine,” Bailey says with a smile – but is it a smile of congratulations or sympathy?
“Hey,” I reply, my voice barely more than a squeak.
Jody and Abby are chatting away in the corner. How can they be so laidback and bubbly? Why aren’t they struck dumb by fear too? I glance around; everyone looks so relaxed and happy, talking and laughing in their little groups, like islands, while I’m a lone swimmer, floundering in the sea. I look out of the window at the actual sea to try and calm myself down. The pale sun is starting to dip towards the water, the sky smudged with charcoal-grey clouds. I take a deep breath. And another.
“OK, guys,” Bailey calls from the barre. “Can you all gather round?”
The chatter fades to silence. The islands of people form one large mass. I stand at the back of the group, breathing slowly to try and calm my heartbeat. Please, please, please, let me have a part.
“Now, the first thing I want to say is that you all did brilliantly at the audition and it was really hard to make our decision.” Bailey beams her ultra-white, toothy grin around the group. I really hate this bit. I mean, is anyone actually consoled by being told they did brilliantly when they haven’t been chosen?
“But obviously, there were only four roles that we were casting for, so some of you are going to be disappointed.”
OK, OK.
“The dancers we decided to go for in the end are, Sophie … Jada …” Bailey pauses between each name as if she’s announcing the winners on Strictly. Just say them, please! “Jody …”
Clementine. Clementine. Clementine. I will her to say my name.
“And Abby.”
Squeals of delight echo around the studio. The disappointment is a thud to my chest. And now it morphs into fear. I wasn’t good enough. I’m not good enough. I don’t have what it takes to be a professional dancer.
“Well done, girls,” Bailey says. “I’ll be sending you your rehearsal schedules by the end of the week. Now, let’s get on with the class. I’m sure you all must be desperate to dance.”
I can’t think of anything I’m less desperate to do. I want to be as far away from here as possible, alone, so I can try and get my thoughts back under control. As the music starts and we get into our positions, my body follows numbly. But some kind of floodgates have opened inside. I’m not good enough. And not just at dancing. All day, I tried thinking of a poem to send to Rudy but everything I came up with felt dull and clunky. I can’t be a true poet if I always need someone else’s work to inspire me. I’m just a limpet, clinging to the side of someone else’s talent. I’m not good enough to have any proper friends either. Today, I found out that Becky had been to the cinema at the weekend with Molly, without their boyfriends. They could have invited me – but they didn’t. And then my thought spiral leads me to the biggest “I’m not good enough” of all. I’m not good enough for either of my parents to want me. Tears start burning in my eyes and blurring my vision, making me lose my step. Mum always puts Vincent before me, even though he treats her like crap and he’s probably cheating on her. And my dad cared so little about me he moved to another country. Again, I miss my step. Even if I’d got a part in the show it was only ever going to be a distraction. It wouldn’t have really changed anything. I miss another step and panic starts to rise up into my throat. I have to get out of here. I slip away from the group, grab my bag from the corner and without bothering to get changed, I pull my coat on over my dance gear and rush through the door.
Once I get far enough away from the studio I crunch my way across the pebbles on the beach towards the sea. The sun is low in the sky now, creating a pathway of pale gold light across the water. If only I could walk across it, to brighter, better things. I breathe in the cold, salty air. It’s going to be OK, I tell myself. It was only a show. It’s not the end of the world. There will be other shows. But will I be good enough for them? And then a thought dawns on me that’s so unexpected I’m not sure what to do with it. What if I’ve got it all the wrong way round? What if performing in shows isn’t good enough for me? Do I really want a life of disappointment and rejection? A life of forcing my body into fitness regimes and rigidly choreographed routines? I’d been seeing the sh
ow as a distraction from Vincent and home but shouldn’t life be about doing the things that you truly want to do? The things that make you feel free? I think of Rudy and her picture of the girl gagged and bound to the chair. Isn’t that what a life of dance auditions would do to me? Make me feel equally trapped? I turn and start heading back up the beach towards the side street with her picture.
The street’s busier at this time of day, with people heading to the restaurants or using it as a cut-through. I stand in a doorway opposite and gaze at the picture. I don’t want to be that girl, tied and gagged by fear. Finally, words start coming to me, dropping like rain into my mind, washing the disappointment away.
Falling … Rising … Rising … Falling.
It’s not about the falling. It’s about the rising
Lessons … ladder … rungs
I pull my notepad from my bag and start writing.
RUDY
I don’t hear from Clementine until almost ten o’clock. After a dinner of falafel and sweet potato fries with Tyler at Kale and Hearty I came back home and continued brainstorming ideas for his and Sid’s tattoos, studiously ignoring the signs of Dave moving in – the boxes of records and books taking over every spare inch in the flat. By the time my phone vibrates with a message I’ve practically given up hope of hearing from Clementine again and assume it must be Tyler.
Sorry – had a really crappy day and couldn’t get any inspiration
My heart sinks as I read the message. She’s bottling it. I knew it. My phone vibrates again.
But then I went back and looked at your picture of the girl on the chair and it inspired me. It inspired this…
I stare at my phone expectantly until another message comes in.
It’s not about the falling,
the hurting,
the crying…
It’s about the rising,
Turn your lessons into ladders
and start climbing.
Straight away I love it. I love the fierceness of it. The way it commands the reader to get off their butt and do something. I’m about to reply that I love it when another message arrives.
Please don’t worry if you don’t like it. I’ll totally understand.
I LOVE IT!!! I reply. And after the day I’ve had, I needed it. Thank you!
As I wait for Clementine’s response excitement bubbles inside of me and a new picture starts coming to life in my mind. It’s of my alter ego, Lightning Girl, climbing a ladder, high, high, up to the moon and stars, her eyes bright with hope. I could use the same silver paint for her eyes as I use for the stars. Everything about her will say Warrior. She’ll wear her Afro like a halo. She’ll— My phone vibrates.
Seriously???? OMG, you have no idea how much that means to me. Thank YOU!
I think of Clementine and her perfect face and her perfect clothes and how at first she’d seemed to exude privilege but then I’d picked up on the sorrow hidden beneath. It’s clear from her texts that life isn’t all sweetness and light for her either. It’s clear from the poems she writes that speak right to the heart of me. Much as I hate admitting that I’m wrong – about anything – maybe I was wrong to judge her. I quickly type her a message.
OK, so how about I sketch out an idea for our image then I’ll show it to you to see what you think?
That would be great. Thank you!
No worries. Speak soon.
Cool. Thank you.
I fight the urge to reply, Enough with all the thank yous! and reach for my sketchpad instead. Lightning Girl will be wearing boots and skin-tight jeans. And she’ll have the tattoo of a lightning bolt on her cheek. She’ll exude power and strength and vitality. In my mind Lightning Girl smiles and high-fives me, as if to say, “Finally!”
CLEMENTINE
Normally, I hate Saturdays. They remind me of all I am missing – friends, a social life, my dream-boyfriend-who-probably-doesn’t-exist, Luc. But not this Saturday. This Saturday, I don’t have to sit in a café on my own and pretend that I’m mysterious rather than lonely. I actually have somewhere to go and something to do. This Saturday, I’m meeting Rudy. She’s asked me to stop by the café where she works – a vegetarian place on Sydney Street. I’m so happy I don’t even mind when Mum force-feeds me croissants and pancakes for breakfast. I don’t say anything sarcastic when Vincent yells down the stairs that he won’t be helping Mum with the weekly food shop, as he needs a lie-in, because he was out drinking till three in the morning. I don’t say anything but I do think, You selfish pig! And I don’t even get cross when Damon starts kicking my chair and flicking blueberries at me. Rudy wants to show me her idea for our image – that’s what she called it in her message – our image. I still can’t quite believe that she liked my poem enough to use it.
“Have you had second thoughts about the dance thing?” Mum says, finally sitting down at the breakfast table. Her make-up barely conceals the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“Not really.” When I told Mum I hadn’t got the part in the show I also told her that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to dance professionally and that maybe I ought to leave the Academy.
“Once the disappointment fades you’ll feel differently,” she says breezily.
Why? I want to ask her. Why are you so sure? Why do you think you know me so much better than I know myself? But I bite my lip. Now is not the time to start an argument. Rudy has asked me to come down to the café early, before it gets busy. I choke down the last of my pancake.
“Right, I’m going to head into town. I need to buy a book for history,” I say, to give my trip legitimacy.
“OK, love.” Mum gazes into her coffee. She looks worn out and defeated.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” she says quickly. “I was thinking maybe the four of us could go out somewhere together this afternoon – you know, as a family.”
Once again I bite my lip and fight the urge to be sarcastic. “OK.”
“Really?” Mum looks so relieved and surprised it makes me feel sad.
“Yeah, sure.”
She places her hand over mine and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you.”
* * *
It’s raining, the kind of annoying rain that’s more like a haze and totally umbrella-proof. I decide to try and be all Zen and embrace it. This only partially works as it’s hard to embrace being wet and freezing. On a more positive note, Sydney Street is in North Laine, my favourite part of Brighton. Even on a dingy, drizzly day like today, it pops with colour – from the quirky shopfronts to the market stalls and the splashes of street art on every bin, lamppost and corner. I start feeling more excited with every step. Finally, in my boring Groundhog Day life, something interesting is happening.
Kale and Hearty is sandwiched between a shop selling crystals and a secondhand record store. A Van Morrison track is pumping out from the record shop. I recognize it because it’s my dad’s favourite song to drive to. I push away this thought and the pain it causes and look at the café. Every letter in the sign is painted a different colour and the “a” in “Kale” is an apple. I get a weird familiar feeling, kind of like déjà vu. But it’s not because I’ve been here before, because I definitely haven’t. Maybe it’s because this is where I’m supposed to be. I really hope so. I push the door open and go in.
The interior of the café is even more colourful than the outside. The wooden tables and chairs are painted vibrant shades of yellow, red, blue and lime green. The warm air smells of a delicious mixture of coffee and cinnamon, and “Nevermind” by Nirvana is playing through speakers in the ceiling. A skinny guy with floppy brown hair and matching dark brown eyes stands behind the counter, tapping a knife and fork on the surface in time like he’s playing the drums. I can’t help doing a double take when I see him. He looks almost exactly how I imagine my dream boyfriend, Luc, to be. I blink hard, but he’s still there. I haven’t got so desperate that I’m now hallucinating imaginary boyfriends. The Luc lookalike is so engrossed in what he’s do
ing I don’t want to interrupt him. I scan the café for any sign of Rudy. About half of the tables are taken, mostly with people on their own, either tapping away on laptops or immersed in newspapers. I wonder if you need to order at the counter or if it’s table service. I go up to the counter to be on the safe side. As I get there the guy reaches a crescendo with his knife and fork, rattling them against a coffee tin in a final flourish.
“Doesn’t that sound awesome?” he says.
“Uh, yeah.” I laugh. “Is – uh – is Rudy here?”
The boy’s eyes widen. “Are you the poet?”
Annoyingly but oh so predictably, I feel the tips of my cheeks start to burn. I’d made a vow to myself that I’d be way cooler and more worldly this time when I met Rudy. This is not the best of starts. “Er, yes. I guess.”
“You guess?” He tilts his head and looks at me questioningly.
“I am.”
“Cool! Great to meet you.” He extends his hand. His thin wrist is full of leather bracelets. I make a note to add a wrist full of bracelets to my mental picture of Luc. As we’re shaking hands Rudy appears through a door behind the counter. She’s got a scarf in a skull-and-crossbones print wrapped around her head like a turban and she’s wearing an apron over her T-shirt and jeans.
“Oh, hey,” she says. It’s impossible to read from her noncommittal expression if she’s pleased to see me.
“Have you prepped the fruit?” the boy asks her.
“Yeah, it’s all done and in the fridge.”
“Cool.” He turns back to me. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure.” I quickly scan the blackboard on the wall behind him. “Could I have a hot chocolate, please?”
“What kind of milk?” he asks.
I look at him blankly.
“Soy? Almond? Oat? Skimmed? Semi-skimmed? Gluten-free?”
“Gluten-free milk? Is that a thing?” I stare at him.
“No, it’s not.” Rudy laughs. “Let’s just say Tyler is highly intolerant of people’s food intolerances.”
Clementine and Rudy Page 8