by Jo Cotterill
“Six items maximum,” says the lady at the changing-room doors. She smiles at me. “I think you might have more like fifteen there.”
“Sorry.” I count out six and hand over the others for her to keep aside for me. “I love this shop.”
“Well, that’s nice to know,” she says cheerfully before separating out six items from Mom’s arms too.
In the cubicle, I pull on a nice pair of black pants and then frown. They won’t go up around my waist. Sighing, I start to push them down again, when the curtain twitches aside and Mom comes in. “Look at this!” she says excitedly. She’s wearing a lovely white tunic top with little holes in it, like you’d make from a hole punch. It looks great on her. “Oh, those pants look nice—pull them up so I can see.”
“No,” I say, struggling to get them past my knees. “They’re the wrong size.”
“Wrong size?” She frowns. “Turn around.”
Before I can stop her, she’s twisted me around so she can reach the label at the back. “But this is your usual size,” she says. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They don’t suit me,” I say, feeling a rising panic. “I just don’t like them.”
“Show me.”
There’s no choice. Heat burning in my face, I slide the pants back up. Even if I suck in really far, I can’t do up the button.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “Oh, that’s . . . Oh, Jelly.” She is staring at my tummy, and I can’t bear it.
I push down the pants so hard the plastic tag scratches my thigh, but I don’t care. Tears sting my eyes. “I told you they didn’t suit me.”
She reaches out to hug me, but I pull back, losing my balance and stumbling against the wall. “You know I hate shopping!” I say fiercely, which is a total lie, but the angry dark cloud in my stomach is twisting my words. “Why did you even bring me here?”
Mom takes a breath as though she’s about to speak, but then she turns and goes back out, pulling the curtain closed behind her. I stare with blurred vision at the brown-and-cream stripes and my knees feel weak, and I reach out to the side of the cubicle to steady myself, because I think I might fall down otherwise.
Then I see myself in the full-length mirror. Why do they make changing-room lights so harsh? I stare bitterly at my hips, my stomach, my thighs, all round and squidgy. I turn sideways and study the tops of my arms. Even the top I’m trying on is pulled tight across my chest. The clothes are the right size and shape for someone my age. But I am not the right size or shape for the clothes.
I have always been the wrong shape, ever since I was little. In baby photos, you can see I’m just a pudge. My bare baby feet are almost square blocks. When babies start to walk, they’re supposed to stretch out, become leaner. I didn’t. “Such a good eater,” everyone cooed over me. I remember people saying it to me. I even remember Nan and Grandpa saying it. Before Grandpa started to point out that I was “chubby” and “too fond of my food.”
It’s so unfair. Verity Hughes eats loads, and yet she stays as thin as a stick figure. It’s not as though I’m unfit either. I can run, I’m good at soccer, I’m in Level Four swimming. So why is everything too tight? Why do I have to look for clothes that are for older girls just so I can get into them? Why doesn’t elastic stretch farther?
And more than anything, I think, as I stare at myself and the tears stream down my face, more than anything, I wish I didn’t have to be the funny one. Making everyone laugh so that they don’t notice how fat I am. Fat. Fat. Fat. If they’re laughing with me, they can’t be laughing at me, right? And I couldn’t bear it if they laughed at me. Or, worse, found me disgusting. I know that’s what they really think. And that’s why I am the funny one.
If I’m not funny, no one will like me.
Chapter 25
“I waved at you,” Kayma says the next morning in the playground. “Outside H&M yesterday afternoon, but you didn’t see me. Did you get anything?”
Images flash through my mind: the black pants that wouldn’t go up, my shame, running out of the shop (leaving all the other items on the hook untried), the changing-room woman openmouthed, Mom racing after me and trying to talk to me. For once I couldn’t laugh it off. For once I couldn’t use Option Two. It was terrifying. I felt raw and naked and exposed. Mom didn’t know what to do because I wouldn’t talk to her, and when I got home I shut myself in my room and cried soundlessly for half an hour. When I finally came out, she made me a cup of tea and gave me a Mars bar to cheer me up.
That was yesterday. Today I am Jelly again, the one everyone knows.
Only half a second passes before I reply to Kayma. “Nah, couldn’t find anything I liked. Sorry I didn’t see you. I was probably thinking about this new idea for a sketch, where Ms. Jones is trying to teach the Queen how to Hula-Hoop, and the corgis keep getting under her feet.”
Sanvi giggles. “That sounds brilliant.”
“Does it have to be the Queen?” asks Kayma. “Everyone does the Queen. Maybe . . . er . . . maybe a pop star? Can you do Lady Gaga?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Does she have dogs though? Because it’s not funny without the dogs.”
We’re still discussing this while we head into the classroom, but as soon as Mr. Lenck comes in everyone quiets down immediately because we know he’s going to announce the two winners. Mr. Lenck makes us wait ages while he takes attendance, and I start to fidget. He glares at me. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Angelica Waters, but I’d like it if you kindly stopped doing it.”
“I’ve got ants in my pants,” I say, making everyone laugh. “Aren’t you going to tell us who won?”
“If you insist on asking, I’ll make you wait until after lunch,” Mr. Lenck says acerbically.
Instantly people start hissing at me, “Shut up, Jelly!”
I fall silent, gazing at Mr. Lenck with intense anticipation.
“Right,” he says, folding up the attendance sheet. “Now, The K Factor. It was close, you know. Very close.”
My heart thuds and I gulp. Have I just missed out? Maybe the gymnastics girls were more popular than I realized?
“We do have two winners,” Mr. Lenck continues, “and I have them right here.” He holds up a piece of paper. I can’t stop wriggling.
“The first person going through to the final,” Mr. Lenck says, “is . . . Will Matsunaga, for his beatboxing act.”
I clap and cheer along with the rest of the class. Will looks embarrassed and proud all at the same time.
“And the second person going through . . .” Mr. Lenck pauses, with a slight smirk, “though I hope she won’t take it as a signal that she can shout out in class even more . . .”
Yesssss! It’s me! I don’t even hear him say my name because inside I’m already doing a jig. The class is cheering and I can’t stop grinning, and for the whole of the rest of the day people come up to me and slap me on the back and say, “Good old Jelly! I voted for you!”
Good old Jelly. Yessss. Indeedy.
I’m still beaming when I get home, and to my great delight Lennon is on the sofa with Mom. They spring apart when I come in, but I hardly notice, because I’m already shouting, “Guess what, guess what! Guess who got to the final of The K Factor?” Then I dump my bags and do some twerking. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah . . .”
Mom leaps up. “That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!”
Lennon comes and gives me a hug too. “Well done. They liked your impressions then?”
“They loved them,” I say. “Will Matsunaga laughed so hard he fell off his chair!”
Lennon beams at me. “Clever you.” He suddenly breaks into a song I don’t know: “Make ’em laaaaff, make ’em laaaaff . . .” He does jazz hands and everything, and even though I don’t know the song and neither does Mom, we both join in with “laaaaaff” and do jazz hands and impressions of tap dancing, and for a moment it is . . .
. . . like a family.
And the moment I think that, my stomach drops w
ith nerves. Because I’ve never had this before. Family has always been just me and Mom, and we didn’t need anyone else, or at least I never really thought we did, but now. . . .
“Jelly.” Lennon knocks at my door. “I’m heading off in a minute, but can I talk to you?”
For one weird whirlwind of a wish, I wonder if he’s about to ask me if he can marry my mom.
I pause, the poetry book half shoved under my pillow. “Um . . . yeah.”
He comes in, closing the door behind him. This is definitely weird. He glances around and then folds his legs under him to sit on the floor. “I wanted to say I think it’s really amazing about you getting through to the final of this talent-show thing.”
“Thanks.”
“Do people . . . ?”
He stops, and it’s like he’s trying to work out what to say next. “Does anyone . . . ? Can you change your act, once you’re through to the final?”
I stare at him. “What do you mean?” Inside, my tummy aches a little that this isn’t about marrying my mom.
“Well,” he says slowly, “I was just thinking, the talent show would be a fantastic opportunity for you to perform one of your poems. Or maybe . . . do your song.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
He rushes on, because he knows I’m about to object, very loudly and firmly. “Listen, just hear me out. I know you hide a lot of yourself away, under this jolly outside. I get it: I totally see why you need to do that. It’s like a survival mechanism. But . . . thing is, it’s not who you really are, the girl who cracks jokes all the time. You’re way more than that, Jelly. You’re smart and clever and you feel things, and you have a real talent for writing, such a way with words. You’re so expressive, and nobody sees it. I don’t think you know quite how unusual you are, to be able to write poetry like you do. To be so self-aware at your age, to be able to see behind faces and pretenses and look at life and the world in that way . . . it’s extraordinary, you know? You’re pretty unique. And I think . . . maybe the world should see it. You. The other Jelly.”
I find my voice at last. “I can’t.”
“I know how it feels,” Lennon says. “Sometimes I write a song and, when I sing it, it feels like I’m exposing everything inside me. It’s inviting people in to see what I’m really like, bad thoughts and stupid mistakes and all. And, even more frightening, people can see what I hope for and long for.” He falls silent for a moment, and then says, “Anyway, this isn’t about me. If you did do your song in the talent show, I’d come along and play guitar for you. And sing with you, if it would make you feel better. And think: Everyone could hear you playing the harmonica too! You’ve got so good at it, and I bet you haven’t shared it, have you?”
I shake my head. I can’t speak.
“Will you think about it at least?” Lennon asks. “When is the final anyway?”
“Next week,” I say, in a voice that sounds faint and faraway. “Friday evening.”
He nods. There is silence again. After a few moments he gets to his feet and says, “You don’t have to, of course. You can go on and do your impressions, and it sounds like you might even win, you’re that good. But . . . it’s still pretending to be someone else. You could show them the real you. You could show them the Jelly I see, who I happen to think is freaking awesome. I think you might be surprised at how people react. Anyway. Think about it, okay?”
He leaves, and I can’t move. I’m sitting on my bed, staring at the carpet and hearing his words in my head over and over. Smart . . . clever . . . you have a real talent for writing . . . you feel things . . . freaking awesome. . . .
No one has ever said anything like that to me before.
Ever.
But the idea of performing my song to the whole school and their parents . . . no way.
No. Freaking. Way.
Chapter 26
The next day is Friday. “You OK?” asks Kayma at break. “You’ve been really quiet all morning. Mr. Lenck hasn’t had to tell you off once!”
I open my mouth to do an impression of Mr. Lenck trying to work out what’s going on, and then I close it again. Instead, I say, “I don’t know. I feel a bit weird, you know?”
“What kind of weird?” asks Kayma.
I shrug. “Sort of . . . mixed-up weird.”
“Like a tummy ache?” asks Sanvi. “Do you need to go to the office?” She lowers her voice. “Have you got your . . . period again?” Of course, I’d told both of them the next day what had happened. Kayma immediately said, “Yuck!” and Sanvi said, “Wow, you’re grown-up now,” and I felt quite important, being the first one of us to start.
I shake my head. “It’s not that.”
“Maybe,” says Kayma, a twinkle in her eye, “your body is being taken over by aliens. . . .” She and Sanvi immediately go, “Oh, no!” and do mock terror, their hands over their mouths.
It’s no good. They’re not used to me being serious. I don’t feel brave enough to tell them what Lennon said—because if I did I’d have to tell them about my poems, and then they’d want to read them, and I . . . can’t. They’re so used to me being the clown. So that’s what I give them.
“Oh my gosh, you’re right!” I exclaim, clapping my hands to my stomach. “I think . . . I think it’s going to . . . aaargh!” I fall to the ground, writhing, spasming, gargling, miming an alien bursting out of my stomach. Kayma and Sanvi giggle, and before many seconds have passed a little crowd has gathered, watching me. I die heroically, gasping out, “Tell my mother . . . the money is in the . . . aarrgghhh . . .”
The spectators drift away. I hear someone saying, “Doesn’t she know when to stop?” and suddenly my performance doesn’t feel quite so much fun after all. The enjoyment I got from knowing people were watching fizzles out, like air from a punctured balloon.
The weird feeling returns, like something inside me is really trying to get out but can’t find the way. What if people don’t find me funny anymore? What will I do then?
Mom is behaving strangely during the weekend. She can’t seem to settle on anything, keeps picking things up and putting them down again, moving stuff around and then back again. She even opens a bag of chips (unheard of!) and chomps down four before saying, “What on earth am I doing? Here, Jelly, you have the rest. . . .” She passes the bag to me and then, as it leaves her fingers, her gaze suddenly flicks to my stomach, startled, as though she’s just remembered that I don’t fit into pants anymore, and her hand stays outstretched for a moment, as though she’s not sure whether she should snatch back the open bag.
It takes less than a second, I suppose, though the moment feels burned into my memory, especially as it ends with her giving a faint shrug and turning away.
I eat the chips, even though I guess I shouldn’t.
On Sunday morning, the phone rings. It’s Nan and Grandpa, inviting themselves to dinner again on Wednesday, since they’ll “be in the area.” Mom’s face tightens as she speaks to them, her voice light and airy but her eyes hard. She puts down the phone and goes to make herself another green tea, her third of the day. The phone rings again. “Can you get it?” she calls to me.
I pick up. “Hello?”
“Jelly!” comes Auntie Maggi’s voice, bright and very loud. I wince and hold the phone away from my ear. “How are you, dahling? It’s simply years since I’ve seen you. When are you going to come visit?”
“Um . . .” I say, but it doesn’t really matter because Auntie Maggi is steaming ahead at 100 miles per hour.
“I was just saying to your mom the other day, you must be getting so big! Is it ten you are now?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven, no way! Did I miss your birthday? I didn’t, did I? I’m so terrible at remembering things, you’d think I’d be better at it by now. I’ve bought a new organizer and I’m determined to write absolutely everything in it so I don’t forget important things like birthdays and holidays and stuff. So tell me everything! How’s school, do you have lots of friend
s, what do you do for fun, what should I cook you when you come visit?” She pauses, out of breath.
I feel out of breath myself. Auntie Maggi isn’t usually like this on the phone. It’s as if she’s been sped up, like someone pressed “fast-forward” on her remote control. “Er,” I say, not sure which question to answer first, but again she doesn’t give me time to. Her voice streams on, like chattering sparrows in a hedge, the sounds rising and falling over themselves.
To my enormous relief, Mom comes back from the kitchen with her tea and I hand her the phone.
There’s a weird feeling inside me, like I want to do something but I don’t know what. I’m all jittery, itchy on the inside of my skin. And at the back of my mind, tapping on an imaginary door, is this little voice saying quietly: You know the talent show . . . ?
No. Don’t even think it.
You could do your song. . . .
No, no, no, no!
By the time Lennon comes later that day I’m desperate for some sane company. Mom was already twitchy and weird, and since Maggi’s phone call she’s doubly so. Both of us are like grasshoppers in a jar.
I give Lennon a big hug when he comes in, and he looks surprised but pleased. “Can we play something?” I ask. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Course,” he says, removing his guitar. “Let me just say hello to your mom first.”
“Careful,” I warn. “She’s in a funny mood.”
“OK.” He nods.
I go into the living room and fidget while their voices talk softly in the kitchen. Well, Lennon’s voice is soft. Mom’s sounds . . . odd, still. Eventually they come out, Lennon leading Mom by the hand. He raises his eyebrows at me but otherwise makes no comment.
Lennon and I play the one about the long and winding road that he played that first time. And then we play my song too, and this time I join in on the singing as well as the harmonica line. Lennon drops his voice so he’s only singing quietly, which unnerves me a bit, but he smiles at me reassuringly, and after all it’s only him and Mom here, isn’t it? So I sing more confidently and at the end he says, “That was amazing,” and suddenly all the horrid itchy-on-the-inside feelings go away and instead I feel like I’ve just been dunked in warm honey.