Jelly

by Jo Cotterill

  I pay with Mom’s tenner and take my tray over to the only table that’s free. It still has the previous customer’s trash on it. Why can’t people tidy up after themselves? Grumpily I dump my bags on the floor and put my own drink and cake on the table. Then I pile the leftover plates and cups onto the tray and take it to the disposal area. When I come back a man is standing by my table, looking at it hopefully. He’s holding a latte in one hand and a guitar case in the other. The guitar is causing a bit of a problem because of the baby stroller at the next table.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the man, trying to wriggle past him. “That’s my table.”

  “Dammit,” he says. “I was hoping you’d been called away on an urgent matter and I could nab it.”

  “Sorry.” I sit down. The man sighs and rotates three hundred and sixty degrees, looking to see if there are any other tables available. There aren’t.

  I sigh too because now I feel obliged to offer. “You can have the other chair, if you like,” I say in a voice that sounds more inviting than I feel.

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  I look at him properly. He’s tall, kind of hunched over in that way tall people can be when they realize everyone around them is shorter, so they stoop a bit so that they don’t stick out so much. Dark, slightly curly hair with tanned and freckly skin. His eyes are brown and look kind, and his voice is quite deep. He’s wearing a thin shirt and a brown leather jacket that’s scuffed at the edges. He reminds me of Mr. Collery, who used to teach me in second grade and was really nice.

  Unlike Chris’s, the stranger’s head is the right size for the rest of him.

  “It’s OK,” I say.

  “Well, thank you,” he says, and puts his latte on the table. Then he maneuvres his guitar case around so that it’s vertical and sticking up between his knees as he sits. It makes me laugh a bit. “I know,” he says. “Not exactly convenient to carry around. Can’t put it in my pocket like a harmonica.”

  “A what?”

  “You don’t know what a harmonica is?” He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “What do they teach kids at school these days?”

  “Multiplication tables,” I tell him. “And expanded noun phrases.”

  Now it was his turn to stare. “What in heaven’s name are those?”

  “Oh, well . . .” I can’t resist. I straighten my back and lower my head a little. Under the table, I twitch my feet so that the toes are pointing inward. Mr. Lenck’s voice comes out of my mouth: “A noun phrase is a phrase that contains a noun. When you expand it, you add more adjectives to make it more interesting. So, ‘The girl sat at a table’ might become ‘A bubbly, cheerful girl sat at a shiny round table.’ Expanding the phrase makes the writing more interesting.”

  The man smiles at me. “Who’s that then?”

  “My teacher, Mr. Lenck,” I say, relaxing out of the impression and slouching again. “He always talks like that.”

  “Does he sniff a lot too?”

  “Yeah, all the time. We should design him a tissue that hangs from his nose.” Ooh, I like that idea. Must remember it for a future impression.

  “School has changed a lot since I was there,” the man says. “It sounds more boring. And if they don’t teach you about harmonicas, then I can’t see the point of expanded whatnots.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small rectangular object. According to my math lessons, I should call it a small cuboid. Which, in case you’re interested, has twelve edges, eight vertices, and six faces. Briefly I consider doing an impression of Mr. Lenck explaining this, but I decide not to. The poor stranger doesn’t deserve it.

  The man lifts the cuboid (seriously, does anyone actually use that word?) to his lips and blows—and it makes a sound, a bit like a tinny sort of trumpet. He plays a run of notes on it. The people at the next table turn around to frown, which delights me because usually I’m the one being frowned at by grown-ups. “This is a harmonica,” the man says, holding it out for me to see. “It’s a small musical instrument. Pretty useful. You can play tunes and chords on it, and it’s very popular in blues and country music.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s kind of cool.”

  He looks pleased as he tucks it back into his pocket. “It’s a very underestimated instrument. You should check it out on YouTube. Have a look at Sonny Boy Williamson. And Stevie Wonder.”

  “OK.” I take a bite of the squillionaire’s shortbread and nearly die, it’s that good. “Oh my gosh.”

  He smiles. “That looks tasty.”

  I can’t speak. If you try to talk while eating shortbread, you inhale crumbs and choke. I’m always starving after school, and the squillionaire is soon an ex-squillionaire. The caramel whippy-shake, or whatever it is, is delicious (so I won’t be asking for my money back), and the horrid feeling in my tummy caused by finding Chris at home starts to go away.

  The woman at the next table with the stroller gets up. The man at my table has to squeeze in tightly so she can get the stroller out. “Thanks,” she says to him. “I don’t know—they should make these things smaller! I got stuck in a door the other day! It’s like they think moms don’t go anywhere!”

  I prick up my ears at her voice. It’s quite distinctive and her lip does a funny thing whenever she says the “m” sound. Without even thinking, I start to make the same shape with my mouth as the door swings shut behind her.

  The man glances behind him at the now-empty table. “I could move across now, if you like. Give you more room.”

  “I don’t know,” I say in the woman’s voice. “You’d think they’d make tables smaller, so that people didn’t have to squash up so much! In fact, they should just get rid of tables, so that we don’t have this problem at all!”

  The man’s eyebrows shoot up in delighted surprise. “That’s very good,” he says admiringly. “That’s just like her! You’ve got a great ear for voices, haven’t you?”

  I shrug, smiling. “I like doing impressions. I’m entering my school talent show.”

  “Well,” he says, “I bet you’ll win.” He moves across to the free table, takes out his phone, and begins scrolling through something on the screen, his eyes flicking from left to right as he reads. I wipe condensation off the sides of my drink and look out the window. People wander past, some quickly, some slowly. All the high schools are out, so bunches of teenagers are hanging around, shouting, jostling, and checking their phones. The girls roll their skirts up at the waist so that their long skinny legs are on show. The boys have their pants hanging loose at the waist so you can see the tops of their underpants. Fashion is weird.

  All those people, those happy-looking people. I bet they don’t go home and write terrible poetry because they feel they don’t fit in anywhere. Why does everyone else have it figured out and I don’t?

  “Bye then.”

  The voice jerks me back to the coffee shop. The man with the guitar and the harmonica is standing by my table. His latte glass is empty, apart from the frothy bits of beige milk that cling to the sides like tiny clouds.

  “Oh!” I say. “Bye.”

  He smiles at me. “Keep practicing that gift of yours. And don’t forget the harmonica players: Sonny Boy Williamson and Stevie Wonder.”

  “I won’t. Thanks.”

  He goes, deftly maneuvering around anyone coming into the shop and ensuring that nothing bangs into his guitar case. I’d like to play guitar. I don’t play any musical instruments. When my friends started to learn clarinet and violin at the age of seven, Mom didn’t have any spare money. Now her business is doing well, maybe I could ask for guitar lessons.

  More and more people come into the coffee shop, and my plate and mug are empty. Reluctantly I squeeze out of the too-small space I somehow got myself into, pick up my bags, and take my tray to the disposal area. I want to say goodbye to Fliss, but she’s busy creating three different smoothies for the teenage girls who’ve just come in, so after hesitating a moment I he
ad out of the shop.

  It’s been about forty minutes since I left the apartment, so it should be safe to go back. I walk slowly, dragging my PE bag along the pavement even though I know it scuffs the fabric.

  As I unlock my front door, I see the same jacket hanging on the coatrack and smell the same smell. He’s still here. I feel a bit sick, but I take a breath and call in my this-is-normal voice, “I’m back!”

  Chapter 8

  “Hey, darling!” Mom’s voice comes from the bathroom. “With you in a minute! Chris is here.”

  “OK,” I call back, when it’s anything but OK.

  I go into the living room and dump my bags by the table. Chris is sprawled in the armchair, flicking through channels on the TV with the remote. He looks up. “You alright?” He turns back to the TV.

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  Mom comes in in a waft of shower gel. She’s all flushed and pink, wearing a strappy top, thin swishy skirt, and no shoes. “Hello, gorgeous,” she says, giving me a hug.

  Chris gives a kind of snort and, not taking his eyes from the TV, mutters, “No one would guess you two were related.”

  Mom is gorgeous. So I know what Chris is saying, and it stings.

  Mom gives a kind of tinkly laugh and cups my face. “It’s just puppy fat,” she says to Chris while smiling at me. “When she hits her teens, she’ll lengthen out. You’ll see.”

  I smile back at her, trying to scrub the words “puppy fat” from my brain.

  A frown flits across her face and she glances at the clock. “Aren’t you back later than usual? Was there something happening after school?”

  I can’t tell her about the coffee shop. She might ask how I had enough money, and then I’d have to lie or she’d know I’d been in the apartment earlier.

  “Yeah,” I say, and overelaborate as usual. “Miss Keegan asked me and Kayma to help her reshelve the library books at the end of class, and there were way more than we thought, and the next thing we know Mr. Harding is coming along and is all like, ‘What are you still doing here? I need to get up in the ceiling to fix one of these lights,’ and Miss Keegan was all, ‘Oh no, girls, I’m so sorry, the clock’s not working and I just lost track of time!’ and Mr. Harding was like, ‘So now the flipping clock isn’t working and no one told me. These things are meant to be reported!’ and Miss Keegan went all pale and fluttery and said it wasn’t her fault and then—” I take a breath “—we go out the usual way but the school gates were already locked so we had to come back in again and go out through the office. Sorry, I should have texted.” This is a safe lie because there’s no way Mom will check on it.

  Chris gives an exaggerated sigh of boredom and turns up the volume on the TV.

  “Well, that’s worth staying for,” Mom says, amused. “Don’t worry. I got caught up in something myself.”

  I say nothing.

  “I thought we might get Chinese this evening,” she goes on, “since Chris is here.”

  “Is he staying over?” I say, glancing in his direction. Mom laughs, sounding embarrassed, and turns away. “Oh, I don’t know. We haven’t thought that far ahead. Want a cup of tea?”

  I follow her into the kitchen. “Aren’t you still angry with him about last night?” I say in a low voice.

  She does that fake tinkly laugh again. “Angry? I wasn’t angry, love.”

  “He made you walk home on your own,” I remind her.

  “He didn’t make me,” she corrects me, switching on the kettle. “I chose to walk home by myself. Honestly, Jelly, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill!”

  Her voice is sharp, and I feel properly told off. Shame swirls in my stomach. I shouldn’t have said anything. Desperate to put it right, I say, “Hey, I’ve got a new joke! Knock, knock!”

  Mom sighs and says, “Who’s there?”

  “Ya.”

  “Ya who?”

  “Aww, I’m excited to see you too!”

  Mom pauses for a moment while she figures it out and then smiles in a small way, the type of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Very good.”

  I feel anxious. The joke wasn’t good enough. “Try this one: Knock, knock.”

  “Jelly . . .”

  “Come on,” I urge.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Scold.”

  “Scold who?”

  “Scold outside, let me in!”

  She nods. “That one’s good too.”

  “I’ve got another one—”

  “No, Jelly. Not now. Why don’t you go and look at the take-out menu?”

  I ate squillionaire’s shortbread only an hour ago, but my stomach feels hollow. When the order arrives, I eat way too much food.

  Later, much later, I go to my room and to my book.

  I am woken in the morning by the sound of the apartment door slamming, and Mom crying. I stare at the ceiling and feel the churn of last night’s supper in my stomach. Then I get up and go to her room.

  She’s sitting on the side of the bed in her nightie, head in her hands, shaking. I sit next to her and put my arm around her. She gives a huge sniff and reaches for a tissue to wipe her face. “Oh, sweetie. Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

  “No,” I lie. “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh . . .” She draws a shaky breath and stares at the carpet. “He’s left me, that’s all.” She shrugs. “I mean, I was kind of expecting it. He says I’m no fun anymore. I text him too much. And he doesn’t want to be tied down.”

  “Tied down?”

  “He thinks I’m trying to trap him into marriage or something.” Her eyes overflow again. “I always mess up. Even when I was a kid, I couldn’t do anything right! I guess I should be used to it by now.” She bites her lip for a moment. “Back to being just us two again.”

  “I like it that way,” I tell her. “Two is the perfect number.”

  She kisses me on the top of my head. “I’d better get in the shower,” she says.

  I sit on her bed for a few moments longer. I’m sad for Mom of course. I hate seeing her upset. But I’m relieved that Chris won’t be coming around anymore. I didn’t like him, and he wasn’t nice to Mom. I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want Mom as a girlfriend. She’s kind and a great mom, and she’s so beautiful. When she smiles—a real, heartfelt, deep-inside smile—it reaches right up into her eyes and they sparkle and shine. It warms me: It makes me feel good.

  Mom would say beauty is mascara and high heels and nice hair and skinny pants. She works for a beauty company so I guess she’d know.

  But I’d say that beauty is eyes that sparkle when you smile.

  Chapter 9

  It’s Sunday afternoon, and Sanvi and I are in Kayma’s bedroom. Kayma lives in a duplex, with four bedrooms and a big kitchen/dining room downstairs, as well as a sitting room. Fliss, Kayma, and Hula have a bedroom each, which makes their house feel HUGE to me. Hula is sweet but kind of annoying because she always wants to be doing whatever Kayma’s doing, and she’s two whole years younger. Kayma hates her tagging along. Today she’s coloring a “HULA KEEP OUT” sign to go on her bedroom door.

  I feel a bit bad to have left Mom at home on her own, but she said she was going to catch up on work anyway. She spent yesterday sending hundreds of texts, though she said none of them were to Chris. I hope that’s true. She also spent an hour and a half on the phone talking to Cass from work, though I’m not sure it made her feel any better because she drank three cups of green tea when she’d finished.

  “Why don’t we do the same comedy characters we did last year?” Kayma suggests, and I drag my attention back to the present. She and Sanvi are trying to decide on their act for The K Factor. “We could do a new sketch.”

  “We can’t do it without Jelly,” objects Sanvi. “And besides, Mrs. Belize didn’t like it.”

  Last year our sketch centered around the three of us dressed up in wigs and old people’s clothes, trying to buy things in a store and not understanding the answers. Mrs. Belize said
she felt we were stereotyping the elderly and it wasn’t kind. But Kayma pointed out that her great-granny was exactly like the character she was playing, and so Mrs. Belize had to admit defeat. Especially as Kayma’s great-granny was actually in the audience and laughed her head off. And Mrs. Belize’s daughter Julie, the “special guest judge,” said we showed “enormous talent in acting ability and comic timing.”

  “What about a song?” I suggest.

  Sanvi bites her lip. “I dunno. I get really nervous about singing.”

  “You’ve got a really nice voice,” I tell her. “You could totally do a song. Kayma could do the first verse and you could do the second, and you could sing the choruses together.”

  Sanvi looks shyly at me. “You think I’ve got a nice voice?”

  “Course I do,” I tell her. “Remember you got that solo in one of the Christmas carols last year? It sounded amazing.”

  “Yes, but I puked beforehand,” Sanvi points out, “because I was so scared.”

  “But you still sang it,” I say. “So I bet you could do it again.”

  “We could design our own outfits too,” Kayma says, tossing over a heavy magazine from beside her. “Look at these.”

  The magazine is so thick it makes a thomp noise as it lands. “Vogooey?” I say, trying to pronounce the title.

  “Vogue,” says Kayma. “Like, to rhyme with . . . um . . . rogue. Fliss didn’t want it anymore. She gave me a whole pile of stuff. She used to buy fashion mags all the time.”

  Sanvi and I flick through the pages. The magazine is full of pictures of women wearing weird outfits. Some of them are truly bizarre.

  “Why would you want an entirely see-through dress?” I exclaim. “I mean, why would you want the whole world to see your . . . bits?”

  Sanvi giggles. “Can you imagine wearing that out to the shopping center?”

  Other outfits just look boring. Gray sweaters that hang shapelessly. Black leggings that look just like the ones you can buy in practically any clothes store ever. Only they cost . . . “Two hundred and fifty-nine dollars?!” I say in astonishment. “For leggings?”