by Jo Cotterill
Lennon gets up. “I’ll make it,” he says. “Jelly has something to tell you.”
My eyes widen in alarm. He’s not talking about the poetry, surely? I thought he knew it was private!
“About what happened to her today at school,” he continues, giving me a reassuring wink.
I breathe out again in relief.
Mom sits down. “Something happened to you? Are you all right?” She looks down at the tub as though noticing it for the first time. “Have you been eating ice cream?”
“I started my period today,” I say, and the words seem to fall from my lips quite easily, as though it’s a perfectly normal thing to say, to anyone, at any time.
Mom gasps. “Oh, my goodness! Are you sure? That’s—oh, my little Jelly!” She leaps up and comes round to throw her arms around me.
My little Jelly makes me simultaneously want to laugh and do a fake puke. But I like the hug and I hug her back. The new perfume slides up my nose and makes me want to sneeze.
“I can’t believe it!” Mom says, stroking my hair and cupping my face so she can look at me. “My little girl is growing up!” Her eyes fill with tears. “Are you OK? Did they sort you out with something at school?”
“Er . . .” I say. “Not exactly. I . . . um . . . I used toilet paper.”
Mom laughs tearfully. “I did exactly the same thing!” She blushes suddenly as she sees Lennon standing in the doorway. “Oh, goodness—you don’t want to be hearing all this girl stuff.”
He says, “It’s fine.”
“He got the ice cream out for me,” I point out.
“You did?” Mom stares at him. “Well, that’s . . . wow. That’s nice of you.”
“I offered hot chocolate and a hot water bottle too,” he says, “but they were rejected.”
Mom laughs in a kind of astonished way. “It seems I’ve finally met a man who isn’t weirded out by this stuff.”
“She fainted too,” he comments. “When she first got home.”
“What?” Mom turns to me and immediately starts looking in my eyes and feeling my forehead and all the things people do when you’re ill. “You fainted? Lennon, why didn’t you come and get me?”
“I didn’t want to leave her unsupervised,” he says.
“Oh. Oh—well, all right, I can see why. . . .” She frowns at me. “How are you feeling now?”
“Fine,” I say. “I left my things in the bath,” I add in a lowered voice. “I didn’t know what to do with them.”
“I’ll put them in to soak,” she says, with a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. Did you find what you needed?”
“Yes, I took one of yours.”
She gives me a very tight squeeze, so tight that it almost hurts, and kisses me on the top of my head. “I’ve got a grown-up daughter!” she says. “I feel so old!” Then she goes off to the bathroom.
Chapter 23
I love our time at the resort over spring break. There are activities laid out, from surfing to glass painting to archery, and best of all there’s an all-you-can-eat buffet every evening with a massive range of options. They do pizza, curry, casserole, roast, chicken nuggets, pasta. . . . Every day I go swimming and running and dancing, and every evening I take a plate and load it up with all my favorite things. Mom has smoked mackerel and quinoa and arugula and a glass of wine, and we are happy as anything. We both miss Lennon quite a lot, but we FaceTime him a couple of times, and he sends Mom a new song he’s been working on.
I wonder if he’s started work on the song from my poem, but I can’t say anything to Mom about it because then she’d ask about my poetry and I still don’t want her to know. Somehow showing the book to Lennon is different from showing it to Mom. It feels less scary.
I like the resort for another reason: The people there are all sizes, and lots of them are kind of big. I’m not the fattest kid in the place by a long way; in fact, I feel almost thin. There are whole families of really fat people. And they’re all having a great time, so nobody cares what size anyone is.
I make friends with a girl named Keris. She’s got curly hair and a round smiley face and is exactly the same size as me—I know this because one day we decide to swap clothes for the evening disco, and her dress fits me perfectly. We dance for a whole hour without stopping, and we persuade our moms to buy us lemonade and a bag of popcorn and Chex Mix, and it’s the happiest I’ve felt for ages.
We’re away for five whole days, and in all that time, I don’t write in my poetry book once.
On the last Saturday of spring break, Lennon comes for the afternoon to take Mom out to dinner. He’s brought his guitar, and he winks at me when he sees me. I am filled with excitement but also panic. How can I get Mom out of the way so he can play the song?
Lennon takes the decision out of my hands. “Got another new song to play you both,” he says, unzipping the guitar case.
“Another one?” asks Mom. “You have been busy!” “This one’s different,” he tells her. “You have a listen and see what you think.”
My hands prickle with sweat as he tunes up and pauses, placing his fingers on the frets. Then he begins, a picked little melody to start with . . .
Is this me? Is this you?
Is this the best that we can do?
Hiding behind a web of lies
Hoping you can’t see in my eyes
Tell a joke, be a clown
Don’t let you see when I am down
Keep all my worries deep inside
Don’t let you know I cried
Cos I’m a happy face
Hiding an empty space
Yes I’m a happy face
But if you could see beyond the smile
Would you still be there?
Would you want to be my friend,
Would you even care?
Cos I’m a happy face
Hiding an empty space
Life is cool, life is fun
That’s what I tell everyone
Nothing you say can hurt me, see?
That’s my identity
Cos I’m a happy face
Hiding an empty space
Yes, I’m a happy face
But if you could see beyond the smile
Would you still be there?
Would you want to be my friend,
Would you even care?
Cos I’m a happy face
Hiding an empty space
And if you could see beyond the smile
Would you still be there?
Would you want to be my friend,
Would you even care?
Cos I’m a happy face
Hiding an empty space
Yes I’m a happy face
Hiding an empty space
Being a big disgrace
To the whole human race
Keeping my smile in place
Remember my happy face
I listen, spellbound. He’s changed some of my words around and added more to make it longer and fit the structure of the song. In the middle there’s a little bit where he hums a melody before singing the chorus again. And the melody seems to just fit the meaning behind the words. Melancholy and sad but sounding kind of bright and cheerful every now and then, as though it’s fooling itself.
The last notes die away, and I can’t quite speak. Lennon looks up to meet my gaze and tips his head on one side, as though asking me if I approve. I try to smile, but have to settle for nodding hard.
Mom sniffs, and I realize there are tears on her face. “Oh, goodness,” she says, trying to dab them away without ruining her mascara. “That’s so sad. You do write such beautiful lyrics.”
“Actually these lyrics aren’t mine,” Lennon says. “They’re by . . . um . . . a friend.”
“Then I just want to give your friend a big hug,” says Mom, doing one of those emotional laughs that aren’t quite amusement or misery. “He sounds like he needs it.”
I press my lips together very hard. It’s me, I want to say. I wro
te it. I’m the one who’s pretending everything’s fine when, underneath, it’s not. I hate how people judge me for the way I look. I hate how I can’t tell anyone it bothers me. Most of all, I hate that I’ve created a version of myself that I can’t step away from, because it’s too scary to let people see how I really feel.
But I can’t say it, even to Mom.
I know Lennon knows, and I’m glad I trusted him. I know he’ll keep my secret.
“It’s a beautiful song,” I say in the end, when I’ve gotten control over my voice.
“You know that bit in the middle,” he says, “where I was humming? I was thinking it would work really well on harmonica. Do you think you’d like to learn it?”
I could play on my own song? That’s . . . awesome. “Yeah,” I say, beaming at him.
“Good,” he says, “because I brought you something.” From his bag, he pulls out a small box. And I know just what’s in there. “I asked your mom,” he says, passing it to me, “if it was OK to give you a present. It’s not a fantastic-quality one. But it should do the job.”
I’ve had lots of presents over the years. Mom usually buys me makeup or clothes or handbags or shoes. Cute T-shirts, pretty skirts, glittered sneakers, that kind of thing. Nan and Grandpa have always given me books, though they’re stuck in the past, so none of the books are ever the ones I would choose to read for myself. Auntie Maggi tends to send me parcels of whatever she’s been given for free.
But this is a musical instrument. No one’s ever given me one of these before.
I open the box and stare at the shiny silver object. It’s much shinier than the one Lennon lent me. I guess his must be quite old now.
“I thought it was better to have one for yourself,” Lennon says. “Rather than having to borrow mine all the time.”
“Say thank you,” Mom nudges me.
“Thank you,” I say, stroking the harmonica like it’s a small pet. “Thank you very much.”
He smiles. “No problem. Shall I teach you the tune for the middle bit of the song?”
I don’t mind that Mom and Lennon go out for dinner without me. I don’t mind Rosie coming and slumping on the sofa, her thumbs flying over the surface of her phone screen as usual. To be honest, I’m quite glad for the space to be on my own, in my room, just . . . breathing in everything. My words have become a song. That’s . . . that’s amazing. I open my poetry book, but for once I don’t know how to start.
Instead I pick up the harmonica. It feels different against my mouth from the other one. It has a different tone too. This one sounds . . . sweeter, maybe.
I practice the melody from the middle of my song. My song. No one’s ever written me a song before. I want to hear it again, but we didn’t record it. I’m upset about that. I should have asked Lennon. Maybe I could ask him to record it when he and Mom get back. . . . No, it’ll be late. That would be ridiculous.
I go to the living room to tell Rosie I’m going to bed, but I see the back of her head over the top of the sofa and I know she’s got her earphones in and is messaging or beautifying selfies or whatever and I don’t want to interrupt her, so I just go back to my room.
I open my book to the page with the original version of my poem, and I realize I don’t know if Lennon gave my song a title. I hum it in my head, trying to remember the extra lyrics he wrote. I should have asked him to write them down for me. I’ll get Mom to ask him when I see her in the morning.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Usually I don’t feel all that great when I’m going to sleep. Things I’ve said during the day, a sideways comment from someone at school, that extra Twix I took from the cupboard that I shouldn’t have had . . . everything congeals into a soup of negative feelings and eventually I fall asleep exhausted from the stuff I can’t talk to anyone about.
Tonight I fall asleep with a song in my head and my heart.
Chapter 24
I am on fire at The K Factor auditions! The first round is held in our classrooms, so I only have to perform for my friends, but I have to impress everyone enough to make them vote for me. Only the two acts with the most votes from each class will go through to the final, and the adrenaline whizzes through my body, making me sharper and funnier than ever.
I’ve worked hard on the new material about Mrs. Belize going to the dentist, and it goes down like wildfire! Everyone is laughing. Will Matsunaga laughs so hard he falls off his chair. Even Mr. Lenck can’t stop laughing as I do an impression of him holding a drill, saying, “I couldn’t take the stress anymore! Now I never have to deal with the superintendent again! Don’t worry—I’ve watched lots of instructional videos on YouTube. I know exactly what I’m doing. Hold still—it’s your own time you’re wasting!”
Cheering breaks out at the end of my performance. People slap me on the back as I make my way to my seat. Kayma, still giggling, says, “You’ve got this in the bag, Jelly!”
Not everyone in our class auditions. Some people don’t like performing, others just haven’t got their act together in time. Marshall does a magic trick that would have worked if he’d hidden the colored scarves up his sleeve a bit better. Avalon plays the violin and I try not to flinch. Two of the girls do an awkward gymnastics routine, which isn’t easy in the classroom, and Will does a beatbox thing, which is surprisingly good. Kayma and Sanvi sing their song, and poor Sanvi forgets half the words to the second verse, so I clap extra-enthusiastically at the end to show it didn’t matter (it did, of course). “I can’t believe I messed it up!” she says miserably as she sits back down. “I know the words! I got too nervous. I’m so sorry, Kayma.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kayma tells her, but I can see she’s disappointed.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I reassure her. “I bet most people didn’t even notice.”
We vote at the end, writing down the names of the two acts we liked best. The vote is anonymous, so Mr. Lenck says we can vote for ourselves, since he won’t be able to check. So of course I vote for myself, and for Kayma and Sanvi, out of loyalty.
“Thank you,” says Mr. Lenck, collecting all the slips of paper. “I’ll announce the top two winners tomorrow morning.” Loud groans break out at this. “Those are the rules!” he exclaims. “All the classes will announce at the same time.”
“Whaaaaaat??” Marshall falls to the floor dramatically. “I’ll die from anticipation!”
“Marshall, I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” says Mr. Lenck drily. “Get up. I’m about to give out a math sheet.”
“Then I may as well be dead!” cries Marshall.
“Me too!” I cry, and slump forward across my table, making a groaning sound. A ripple effect sets off everyone in the classroom doing fake deaths, and it takes Mr. Lenck several minutes to get control again. Marshall high-fives me as he’s sent back to his chair.
As we collect our bags at the end of the day, Kayma says to me confidentially, “You’re in, Jelly. A hundred and ten percent.”
“What?” I say, glancing around. “How do you know?”
“Cos I’ve been asking everyone who they voted for,” she says with a grin. “You’re in the lead by miles.”
Of course, it’s not actually confirmed until tomorrow, but I walk home feeling really good about myself. I even shout out a hello to the man with the harmonica who’s in the park again, playing another sad tune. “Play something happy!” I call. He looks surprised, and then breaks into something by Beyoncé, which sounds really odd on harmonica, I can tell you.
“Hello, gorgeous!” says Mom as soon as I come in the door. She’s wearing a thin, floaty summer dress with poppies on it and she has a huge smile on her face. She looks amazing.
“Hi!” I say, smiling back.
She gets up from the dining table with something in her hand. “Fancy going shopping?” she asks, showing me a fistful of dollars.
I beam. “Now? Yes!”
I quickly get changed, and we start walking into town. “A big order came in,” she
explains. I look into Coffeetastic as we pass in case I need to wave at Fliss, but I can’t see her. “This woman is having a bachelorette party, and she wants to give all the girls coming a beauty box. She’s absolutely loaded, this woman. I mean, she’s ordered, like, twelve of everything: foundations, eye shadow palettes, lipsticks, serums, all sorts. It’s bonkers what people will spend on their weddings.” She sounds a bit wistful.
I glance at her. “Do you want to get married, Mom?”
She gives a sort of half laugh. “Oh, well, I don’t know. You know, there’s something nice about the . . . the whole idea, isn’t there? I wouldn’t mind getting to wear the white dress and all that. The fairy tale.” The smile slides off her lips and she shrugs. “Fairy tales aren’t real life though.”
I wait for a moment and then I say, “Would you marry Lennon if he asked you?”
Her eyes flick straight to me, as though I’ve said something really shocking. “Lennon? What makes you say that?” Her voice trembles a bit.
“I just wondered. He’s really nice, Mom.”
“Yes, he is, but . . . marriage is a big thing, Jelly.”
“I know that. I was just wondering.”
“Well, don’t,” she says almost sharply. “There’s no use in wondering. Things are either meant to be, or they’re not. Wondering doesn’t change anything.”
I don’t say anything else until we reach the shops. “I think it’s time for some new outfits,” says Mom, and we head straight into H&M. I love new clothes. There’s something about so many colors and fabrics all in one place that makes me a bit loopy. I grab things off racks that I know won’t really suit me, but they look so pretty hanging there that I have to try them!