Jelly

by Jo Cotterill

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  251 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10010

  Text copyright © 2018 by Jo Cotterill

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Originally published in the UK by Piccadilly Press,

  an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre Ltd, in 2018

  Yellow Jacket and associated colophon

  are trademarks of Little Bee Books.

  Manufactured in the United States of America LAK 1219

  First U.S. Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-4998-1006-6

  yellowjacketreads.com

  For information about special discounts on bulk purchases,

  please contact Little Bee Books at sales@littlebeebooks.com.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  “Do it now, Jelly! Please!”

  “All right,” I say, “but check the door for Mr. Lenck.”

  My friend Kayma scuttles to the open classroom door and sticks her head out into the corridor. “No sign,” she says. “Quick!”

  I take a deep breath and pull myself up very straight. My friends start to giggle because they know what’s coming next, and a ripple of interest spreads across the rest of the class. People turn midconversation, and their eyes light up when they see me standing by my chair. Everyone knows what I can do.

  I walk very carefully and precisely over to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, turning in my toes. Then I whip round, look out over the classroom, and sniff slightly. There’s another burst of giggling. I snap my head to the right and say, making my voice as nasal as possible, “Marshall, I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”

  The class, including Marshall, shrieks with laughter.

  “It’s your own time you’re wasting,” I add, frowning sternly at him.

  More laughter. Marshall guffaws so hard he bends forward over his table.

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling, with its square panels and long rectangular lights, and say, “Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.”

  The giggles are suddenly silenced, and I know what that means.

  A nasal voice behind me says, “Angelica Waters, I don’t know what you think you’re doing.” The voice belongs to Mr. Lenck, our teacher, and its tone and inflections are almost exactly the same as my impression.

  I turn to smile widely at him. “Oh, hello, Mr. Lenck. Did you have a nice lunch?”

  Mr. Lenck rolls his eyes to the ceiling, just as I did a moment earlier, sighs and says, “It’s in one ear and out the other with you, Angelica, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Lenck,” I say. “It’s a compliment really.”

  “Doing impressions of your teachers is a compliment?” Mr. Lenck repeats, raising his eyebrows.

  “You’re so expressive,” I explain. “And you have really good catchphrases.”

  One corner of Mr. Lenck’s mouth twitches. Teachers can never stay cross with me for long. It’s not exactly rude what I do. It’s funny. Even Mr. Lenck finds it hard not to laugh when I do Mr. Harding, the janitor. “Sit down,” is all he says now.

  He starts taking attendance, and I sit back down next to my two best friends, Kayma and Sanvi. Kayma, her long braids swinging forward into her face, gives me the thumbs-up. Sanvi smiles at me, but in a sort of half-admiring, half-appalled kind of way. She has big brown eyes that go very wide when I do something risky. Out of the three of us, Sanvi is the goody-goody. Her family’s pretty strict, so she always does what she’s told.

  Once attendance is over, we go into the hall for assembly. I prepare to be bored, but Mrs. Belize, the principal, has an announcement. “As most of you know, we always have a talent show at the end of the semester.” She pauses dramatically and then says, with jazz hands: “The K Factor!”

  A murmur of excitement goes through the kids squashed cross-legged on the floor. K stands for Kingswood, the name of our school. Anyone can enter, and if you win, you get your name on The K Factor trophy, which stands in the cabinet by the school office.

  I’ve entered every single year but never won it. Last year I did a comedy sketch with Kayma and Sanvi and we came in third. But I’ve been getting better and better at impressions, and everyone loves them. This could be my year.

  Mrs. Belize goes on: “This morning’s assembly is about famous performers and the things they’ve done. And the added bonus is . . . they’re all children!”

  The projection screen rolls down, and she starts showing us videos of kids from around the world doing amazing things, like playing the piano with their feet, or doing twenty backflips in a row, or building a tower of forty-three Life Savers. “Now,” says Mrs. Belize as the presentation ends, “I’m not saying we’ve got the next Mozart at Kingswood. Or the next Harry Potter. Yes, Angelica?”

  My hand has shot up. “Mrs. Belize,” I say kindly, “you do know Harry Potter isn’t real, right?”

  The whole school laughs, and my heart thrills at the sound.

  “Not real?” Mrs. Belize pretends to be shocked. Then her voice changes tone. “Thank you, Angelica. I leave it to you to point that out. I was meaning, of course, that maybe some of you can do magic tricks, or perhaps—yes, Angelica?”

  “Is flying on a broom allowed in school?” I ask politely.

  “If you’re able to pull that off, Angelica, we’ll all be very impressed,” says Mrs. Belize dryly. “Now, the auditions aren’t for several weeks, but I know some of you like lots of time to plan your acts, maybe writing scripts, rehearsing, or finding time outside of school to practice with your friends. And as usual, we’ll have a special guest judge for the finals!”

  She makes this sound very exciting, but we all know that the special guest judge is usually her daughter Julie, who once had a part in Glee. We’re not supposed to talk as we file out of the hall, but of course everyone is whispering to one another.

  “You so have to do your impressions,” Kayma hisses at me. “Mr. Harding, for one. And Mr. Lenck.”

  Sanvi whispers from behind, “Is that really a good idea? I mean, don’t you think people will be upset if Jelly does impressions of them?”

  “Course not.” Kayma waves away this suggestion. “And if they do, who cares? We’re leaving at the end of the year!”

  Sanvi lapses into appalled silence.

  “Thing is,” Kayma says in a normal tone as we head down the hall, “what are we going to do? Me and Sanvi?”

  “We can’t do comedy sketches
without Jelly,” Sanvi breaks in. “We’re not funny enough.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Kayma retorts. “I’m hilarious.”

  I laugh. “I’ll help you figure out what to do. There’s loads of time.”

  “Maybe I could be a magician sawing Sanvi in half,” Kayma mutters as we enter the classroom.

  As we settle into afternoon classes, I am buzzing inside. I love performing. And here’s my chance to do the thing I’m best at—the thing everyone loves about me—onstage, in front of an audience! I can’t wait.

  Chapter 2

  “Hey, Jelly! Wait up!” Will Matsunaga catches up with me in the playground after school. He has cropped ginger hair and freckles that multiply if he so much as looks at sunlight. “I hear you’re going to do impressions in The K Factor. I’ve got a suggestion for you.” He glances sideways at two friends who’ve followed along behind.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A walrus,” he says, and his friends start to snicker.

  “A walrus?” I repeat. A chill races through my veins, and my hands tremble slightly. Walruses are big and fat. I look down at myself, wider around the waist than any of the other girls in class.

  Will and his friends are now openly laughing—and waiting to see what I’ll do.

  The thing is, when people say hurtful things to you, you have a choice about how you respond. Option One is the most obvious: Tell them what they said was hurtful and ask them to apologize.

  I never take Option One. Option Two: Laugh it off.

  I stick my two index fingers in the corners of mouth, like tusks, blow out my cheeks, and pull my shoulders up to the sides of my head, hiding my neck. Then I let out a kind of loud, low growl.

  Will’s face lights up in delight. “Hey, that’s really good! You totally look like one! Put that in your act!” He and his friends run off, laughing—but now they’re laughing with me, not at me.

  That’s why I always take Option Two.

  I set off for home. Mom started letting me go on my own this year, now that I’m eleven. The route takes me across three main roads, down a short alley between houses, and along one side of a park. I slow down when I get to the park. Most people do, I notice. When they walk along gray pavements spotted with ancient gum, they hurry, anxious to move along. When they reach a path bordered by grass and flower beds, they slow down.

  If you want to do impressions, you have to be good at observation. I like watching people, they’re all good material.

  I speed up the rest of the way, turning left at the end of the park and into the cul-de-sac that leads to our block of apartments, low and squat and ugly. We live on the first floor, so there’s no garden. I let myself in the main entrance door and run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Our door is white and could do with a repaint, like most of the apartments in this building. I use the other key on my key ring to open it and call, “Hi!” to my mom. She’s working in her bedroom at a tiny desk. She runs a beauty products business, selling mascara and eye shadow to people. It means there’s a LOT of makeup in our apartment.

  “Hey!” she calls back. “You OK? I’m just finishing up an order, and then I’ll come out for a cup of tea.”

  “No worries!”

  My bedroom is cozy, by which I mean small, but I don’t mind because it’s big enough for me (even though I am not small, as anyone would tell you). The wallpaper is flowery but not in an in-your-face way. It’s peeling off a bit in one corner which Mom says is because of moisture, so we put my chest of drawers there to hide it. I drop my schoolbag on the floor, kick off my shoes, and jump onto my bed.

  I like school. I like my friends and I like making people laugh, but somehow I always feel tired at the end of the day.

  I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s been a really good day, I tell myself. My impression of Mr. Lenck that made the whole class laugh, the announcement of The K Factor . . . Kayma and Sanvi being cool as ever.

  But . . . but . . .

  Walrus. I hear it over and over again, that taunt, and even though it was just one small moment in an otherwise good day, it feels like it’s spoiled everything. It hurt. It always hurts. And no matter how much I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that it doesn’t bother me . . . it does. It bothers me a lot.

  I reach beneath the pillow under my head, because there’s something I do at times like this: when it feels like I’m two people, and the other Jelly, the other me, is screaming in frustration.

  Under the pillow is my special book. It has a pink cover with shell patterns on it and it says, “I’M A PART-TIME MERMAID” on the front. Mom bought it for me last Christmas. It’s very girly, and exactly the sort of thing people assume I’ll like. It’s useful camouflage because the cover suggests I’ll be drawing pictures of hearts and unicorns inside, so Mom never bothers to look through it. If she did, she’d get a shock.

  I find a blank page and reach for my (matching, shiny pink) pen. Then I write:

  I hear the floor in Mom’s room creak and I just have time to shove the book under my pillow before she appears in the doorway. “Hey,” she says, smiling. “How’s it going?”

  I smile back cheerfully. “Good!”

  Chapter 3

  Mom drinks green tea, which smells funny but she says it’s good for you. I like normal tea, strong and with a spoonful of sugar. I do an impression of Mrs. Belize telling us about The K Factor, and she laughs. “You’ve got her to a T.”

  “I’m going to do impressions this year,” I say.

  “On your own? That’s brave. Ooh!” She suddenly springs up. “I got you a doughnut! Hang on . . .” I hear the bread box clang in the kitchen and then she reappears, holding a paper bag. “Here you go.”

  “Yum! Jelly and sugar, my favorite. Thanks, Mom.”

  She sits back down, smiling at me. My mom is very beautiful. Her face is a slim oval shape, and her eyes are green, like mine. When she smiles they crinkle at the corners, and you can see the layers of foundation and powder crinkle too. Her eyelashes are always coated in mascara, making them look long and fluttery, and she uses heavy black eyeliner on her top and bottom lids, even during the daytime. Her hair is light brown really, but she dyes it white-blonde. She’s slim as anything because she does yoga every morning. When she walks down the street, people turn to look at her because she’s so striking. I feel proud when I’m with her.

  I bite into my doughnut and jelly oozes down my chin. Mom laughs and reaches out with one perfectly nail-painted finger to wipe it away. “I read once it’s impossible to eat a doughnut without licking your lips.”

  “Challenge accepted!” I say.

  She sighs a little. “I miss doughnuts.”

  “You could have one,” I say. “One wouldn’t matter.”

  “It’s not worth it,” she replies, shaking her head. “You make the most of it while you’re still young!” She takes a sip of her tea. “I’m going out tonight, OK?”

  Oh. Suddenly the doughnut sticks in my throat.

  I cough and take a gulp of tea. “With Chris?” I say, not looking at her.

  “Yes,” she says.

  Chris is her boyfriend. I don’t like him much. I don’t know why Mom does. He’s . . . well, he’s just not all that nice. Mom won’t hear a word against him, which is strange because sometimes when they’ve been out together she comes home quite upset. He says stuff that isn’t very kind, but she says he doesn’t mean it really.

  I think he does mean it, and I hate it when he spends time here. I suppose I’m glad that at least they’re going out tonight so he won’t be here. “Is Rosie coming over?” I ask. Rosie is fourteen. She lives upstairs and is totally obsessed with her phone.

  “Yes, she’ll be here at seven.”

  “OK,” I say. I look down at the table and don’t say anything else.

  “What’s the matter?” asks Mom.

  “Nothing,” I say, and I smile at her. “I’m fine.”

  She finishes her tea and gets up. “
I’ve got to get back to work. Three new orders came in half an hour ago! The new eye shadow range is just zipping off the shelves. I’m buying in bulk, but I think I’ll have to up my orders . . . and I need to get back to this girl Maisie who wants to sign up as an agent. . . .” She drifts off, calling, “Shout if you need anything!”

  I finish my doughnut and realize I have licked my lips more than once, but I call out, “Managed it without licking my lips!” and she calls back, “No way! Well done!” and I smile because I love praise from my mom.

  When the door buzzer goes, my stomach plunges. I know it’s Chris, because Rosie would just run down from her apartment and knock. I’m sitting on my bed doing my homework, but I get up to close my door. I don’t want to see him. Mom’s spent ages getting ready: redoing all her makeup and changing outfits at least three times.

  I hear voices in our hallway and kissing noises, which make me want to throw up. Then I hear Chris’s voice saying, “What do you mean, she’s not here yet?”

  Mom murmurs something. Chris says, “Yeah, but you told her seven, right? She’s never on time, that girl.”

  There’s another word in between “that” and “girl” which I don’t like hearing because it’s rude and Chris says it far too often. Mom says something in a consoling voice. Chris says clearly, “No, I don’t want a drink here. I’ve had a day from hell and I just want to get out and relax.” That’s another thing I don’t like about him: He’s too loud.

  I don’t really want to listen but I can’t avoid it when they’re just outside my room. Mom says something, and then I hear movement and footsteps on the stairs outside the apartment, and I’m guessing she’s gone up to find Rosie.

  Chris huffs and shuffles around in the hallway for a moment. Then my door opens, making me jump. He’s so rude he didn’t even knock before opening my door.

  His face appears. It’s kind of thin and weasely, like Filch from Harry Potter. His nose is too big, and his eyes are too small. His head doesn’t suit the rest of his body, which is sort of stocky. It’s like his head has shrunk, which would explain the size of his brain. “Hey, Jelly,” he says, staring at me.