by Jo Cotterill
Sanvi takes my arm. “We could do something else instead,” she says. “Who needs a talent show? We’ve got friends.”
It’s the cheesiest line ever, but I’m glad she said it.
That afternoon, I burst through the door to our apartment. “Mom! Mom, has he called back?”
She comes out of her room, on the phone and giving me that “don’t make a loud noise” look. “Yup, that’s fine,” she says into the phone. “As long as next Tuesday is OK. I’m really sorry I can’t get it to you before then, it’s out of my hands . . . Yep . . . Yep, OK. All right then . . . Yes, the minute it comes in . . . All right. Talk soon, bye!” She hangs up. “Hello, you.”
I give her a big hug. “Has he texted you?”
“No.”
I draw back. “What? Not at all?”
“No. I sent him another, just saying . . . oh, saying nothing really. But he hasn’t . . . he hasn’t texted.” She does that expression when people are trying to be brave. “I think maybe we just need to accept it. . . . He’s not coming back.”
“Oh.” I sink into a chair at the table. “Oh. Well, that’s . . . that’s . . .”
“Yeah. I know. Cup of tea?”
“Yeah, all right.” It’s eighty degrees today, but still we have tea. That’s what you do, isn’t it?
Her phone beeps as she goes to the kitchen and she sighs. “That’ll be Maggi again. She’s had your nan on the phone, all upset about yesterday. I don’t really—” She breaks off, and I hear a gasp.
“What?” I call.
“It’s him.”
I leap up. “Lennon?”
“Yes. He—oh. Well, is that good or bad? I don’t know. Jelly, what’s this about?” She holds out the phone so I can read the message:
King’s Arms, 7pm. Bring Jelly.
I stare at it. Adults are so confusing. Why can’t they say what they mean? But then I guess maybe I haven’t been great at doing that either. Humans, right? We do so like to make things complicated.
We go, of course. Mom is a blubbering wreck, dropping her keys, and forgetting her purse, and catching her floaty scarf in the door as we leave and having to go back in and change it for an almost identical one and . . .
I’m really glad it’s not me who’s in love with Lennon, if this is what love does to people. My mom has been replaced by a complete idiot. I have to keep saying, “Come on, Mom, you can do this.” She grabs my hand and holds it very tightly.
It’s a Thursday evening in late spring and it’s warm, so lots of people have decided to go to the King’s Arms and stand around outside, holding their drinks and blocking the doorway. I feel young and uncomfortable. Why did Lennon tell Mom to bring me? Wouldn’t it have been better to meet her alone?
Then I hear music, and I know why.
Lennon’s band is playing. Mom’s hand grips mine as we push our way through the throng of people.
There are only three of them in this band: Lennon singing and playing guitar, a woman playing a double bass, and a man on a drum kit. It’s probably just as well there aren’t more, as they’re squashed into quite a small space. The room is stifling.
The song finishes just as we get near enough to see, and a smattering of applause breaks out. “Thanks,” says Lennon. Then he sees us. Well, to be fair, he sees Mom. I mean, I guess he knows I’m there too, but he doesn’t look at me. He clears his throat. “This next song . . . it’s new. In fact, this’ll be its first tryout. Hopefully we’re up to speed on it.” He grins at the bass player and the drummer. “It’s a last-minute addition to our set, but I wanted to include it because it’s for someone very special who’s here this evening.”
A whole bunch of eyes swivel in our direction, which is really unnerving. Mom goes bright red and squeezes my hand so tightly I wince.
The song starts, and even though it’s a hot evening, even though people have come here to have a drink and a chat, silence falls over the audience. It’s the sort of song that pulls you in and makes you feel. Everyone watches and listens, even the big burly guys closest to the bar who have vests and tattoos.
Lennon’s voice is strong and he sings with such feeling I’m almost embarrassed. It’s one thing to hear it in the privacy of our living room, quite another in a public place crowded with strangers.
You make me bigger, make me stronger
Make me better, make me long for
You
Only you
When the song dies away there’s a huge cheer, which makes me jump in shock. Lennon nods and thanks people, and then he says, “Guys, we’re going to take a short break, OK? Back in five.” He takes off his guitar and threads his way through the crowd to us. I know loads of people are stealing glances, even though they’re pretending to talk to one another again.
Lennon stands in front of my mom and says, “Hi, Arlene. Hi, Jelly.”
“Hi,” I say automatically.
“Did you want to talk?” he says to Mom.
“Not really,” she says, and I want to scream in frustration. She’s doing it again!
But—no, she isn’t. Instead she’s kissing Lennon, right there, in the middle of the pub, in front of everyone.
Oh my gosh, this is so embarrassing.
I don’t know where to look, so I stare at the floor and then the door, and then at some people, but they’re cheering at the sight, so that’s no good. I mean, I’m pleased, obviously, because it means they’re getting back together again, but honestly I’d rather this wasn’t happening here, right now, with an audience.
I’m just wondering whether I should go and stand outside and wait until it’s over, when suddenly it is over, and Lennon is holding out a hand to me and smiling. “Hey, Jelly,” he says, “see what happens when you bare your soul to everyone onstage?”
“I’m good with the cheering,” I say airily, “but if anyone tries to kiss me, I’ll kick their butt.”
He laughs. “Fair enough. I have to say, it’s the first time it’s ever happened to me.” He looks down at Mom’s shining face. “Though I hope not the last.”
“Oh, yuck,” I say. “Please don’t or I might be sick.”
“Sorry.” He’s laughing again. “How are you? I’m so glad you both came. Now I can accompany you in the talent show tomorrow, like we planned.” Then he sees my face fall. “What’s happened?”
Chapter 32
On Friday morning Lennon and Mom come to school with me. While I head to my class, they ask if they can see Mrs. Belize.
I can’t concentrate on anything Mr. Lenck says. He might as well be speaking Swahili. When Miss Rasheed appears in the doorway, my heart leaps. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says. “Could Mrs. Belize borrow Angelica for a moment?”
Mr. Lenck looks puzzled. “Sure,” he says.
I know everyone is staring at me as I walk to the doorway. I know they’re wondering why I’ve been called to the principal’s office. My heart is thumping a samba as I follow Miss Rasheed. Has it worked? Has she changed her mind?
My palms are sweaty and I wipe them on my skirt. Mrs. Belize is sitting behind her desk, and Mom and Lennon are sitting opposite. Lennon gives me a wink as I come in and my breath catches. Does that mean . . . ?
“Have a seat, Angelica,” says Mrs. Belize, indicating a chair next to Mom. I sit down. I should blink. I think I’ve forgotten how.
“Now,” says Mrs. Belize, “I’ve been having a very useful discussion with your mom and Mr. Maloney here.”
Maloney? His surname is Maloney? How come I didn’t know this?! Lennon Maloney. It sounds cool.
“And I gather things have been quite tricky for you at home recently,” Mrs. Belize continues. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel able to talk to anyone here at school about it, but I understand that sometimes that can be difficult, to open up to people.”
It’s nice that she’s being all sympathetic and everything, but I just want to shout, “CAN I BE IN THE K FACTOR AFTER ALL??” I dig my teeth into my lower lip to stop myself saying any
thing because I know what happens when I open my mouth without thinking first.
“I would like to put a support plan in place for you, Angelica,” Mrs. Belize says, and if my eyes were lasers they’d have burned a hole right through her by now, I’m staring that hard. “I’d like you to see Mrs. Coulson once a week, our guidance counselor, just to keep abreast with your situation.”
She said “breast.” I think I might explode with hysteria.
“But in the short term it appears there is something the school can do to support you in a rather . . . unusual way.” Mrs. Belize pauses. “I gather you and Mr. Maloney here have written a song. Not a comedic song, a serious one, based on a poem you wrote. I have to say, I’m very excited by this idea, and also that you have apparently written a lot of poetry. It’s a side of you we haven’t seen here at Kingswood, but I think it’s a wonderful step that you feel able to share it now. I shall write to the head of English at Marston Junior High and ask him to look out for you.”
I gulp. That’s . . . cool . . . I guess. Get to the point!
“Anyway, given the circumstances, I think it would be reasonable of the school to offer you a platform to perform this song before the end of term. A kind of celebration of your so-far-hidden talents.” She smiles. I have been listening so hard, but I can’t work out whether she’s actually said it or not. My confusion must be showing on my face.
“Jelly,” says Mom gently, “Mrs. Belize says you can perform tonight in The K Factor.”
Oh! Oh.
Oh, good.
Wow, I must be really happy about that. Aren’t I? “Jelly?” Mom says, and I realize everyone is looking at me.
I let out a very long breath, and then I say, “Cool. Yeah, I mean, thanks.”
They all laugh, and I think that’s a good thing, but my head is buzzing so much I honestly can’t tell.
The hall is packed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in it. I’m sure it’s breaking fire regulations. Parents and kids are standing at the sides and trying to take photos, and younger siblings are wailing or running about, and it’s a kind of chaos.
I sit through the whole of the first half, tingling and frightened out of my mind. Lennon and I only had time for a hasty couple of run-throughs at home before it was time to come back to school. I haven’t yet played the harmonica bit without a mistake. I’m in a scratchy skirt, which I only wore because it made Mom go misty-eyed, and then she insisted on putting makeup on me, so I’m not quite sure I look like me at all. I kind of feel like I should have refused the makeup, because this song is supposed to be about showing people what I’m really like on the inside, but I would like to look nice on the outside while I’m doing it. . . .
Sometimes life is way hard to figure out.
The first half has some really good acts in it. A girl in third grade plays the violin and I swear she’s good enough to go on America’s Got Talent. And a boy in fourth grade does a tap-dance routine that makes everyone cheer, and some of the people in the audience stand up. No one does any decent comedy though. A girl tells some jokes but she’s not very good. If I were doing my impressions, I’d be feeling fairly confident about my chances, but this song . . . well, let’s just say I don’t expect to win.
During the intermission, Kayma and Sanvi and I hang around in the corridor, jittery and biting our nails. “I’m terrified,” Sanvi whispers, her eyes as big as I’ve ever seen them.
“You’re terrified?” I exclaim. “It’s not even you onstage!”
“I know!” she says. “I just don’t want you to mess up!”
“Oh, thanks very much,” I say sarcastically. “I’m bound to now.”
“Nooo,” wails Sanvi. “I didn’t mean that!”
Kayma laughs. “Sanvi, chill. Jelly, you’re going to be amazeballs.”
“You’re not going to stop doing impressions though, are you?” Sanvi suddenly says. “I mean, now you’re doing songs and poetry, you’re not going to be serious all the time, are you?”
I grin at her. “Sanvi, are you saying you like my impressions?”
“Of course I do!” she exclaims.“You’re so talented!”
I give her a big hug. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “No way am I giving up the fun stuff.”
Kayma joins in the hug and we all start squeezing too hard and then I lose my balance and step back right onto Marshall’s foot.
“Ow!” he says. “Watch it, Jelly!”
“Sorry,” I say. “Really sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“It’s like being trodden on by an elephant,” he grumbles.
I take a breath. “That’s not a very nice thing to say. I am not an elephant and I don’t like being compared to one, thank you.”
He stares at me, gobsmacked. “What?”
“Second half!” someone calls from farther down the corridor, and suddenly I don’t want to go back into the hall.
Kayma and Sanvi give me more hugs. They know what I’m going to do, though they haven’t heard the song. But no one else even knows I’ve been allowed back into the final. “You’re going to be brilliant,” they tell me as we go back in and take our seats.
The hall is filling up again and, toward the back, I can see my mom, and Lennon, holding his guitar and trying to keep it from accidentally hitting anyone. It reminds me of the day I first met him in Coffeetastic, and the memory makes me smile.
I’m not on till the end, but for some reason everything goes incredibly fast, and before I know it—before I’m ready—Ms. Jones is standing on the stage. “Now,” she says, “you’ll see from your programs that we’ve finished the acts, but in fact we have a last-minute addition.”
A puzzled whisper comes from the kids in the audience.
“Angelica Waters qualified for a place in the final,” Ms. Jones continues, “but it wasn’t until today that we knew she would be performing. Many of you will know that her qualifying act was impressions—”
The pupils start grinning at one another and turning to look at me.
“—but this evening we’re going to see another of Angelica’s talents, as she’s going to sing a song based on a poem she wrote.”
Now everyone is staring at me in confusion. This was a mistake. I should never have agreed to it.
“She will be joined onstage by her friend and musician, Lennon Maloney,” Ms. Jones says, consulting her piece of paper. “So I’d like you to give a big round of applause to . . . Angelica Waters!”
Stairs aren’t usually that hard, are they? I mean, I go upstairs all the time, not thinking about it. But this evening I look at them very carefully as I place my feet one in front of the other. Imagine falling up the stairs on your way—no, don’t imagine it! Oh my goodness, my brain is trying to sabotage my own legs!
“Hey, Jelly,” Lennon’s voice breaks into my internal mayhem. He’s pulled up a chair and is sitting down, tuning his guitar. He adopts a New York accent. “How you doin’?”
Automatically I respond in the same accent. “I’m doin’ fine. How you doin’?”
Those of the audience who can hear us giggle amiably. The sound is reassuring.
The microphone is too low down for me, so I move it up a bit, my palms slipping on the stand. In my pocket is my harmonica. If that slips out of my hands in the middle of the song, I’m going to look really dumb.
“Ready?” asks Lennon, and I nod, because if I stand here any longer without something to do or a joke to crack, I think I’ll faint.
He starts to play the introduction, and for a terrifying moment, I can’t remember the first line. But then it comes. And so does the rest of the song.
Chapter 33
The last note dies away, and for a moment it’s as though everyone is frozen in time. My mom, hands to her mouth, eyes streaming with tears (of pride, I hope), Ms. Jones on the end of the front row, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. The three judges, one of which is indeed Mrs. Belize’s daughter, Julie (from Glee), gazing at me as though spellbound—and Mrs. Be
lize herself, who gives an audible sniff, and the silence is broken.
The wall of noise is extraordinary, making me rock on my feet slightly. Cheering and clapping and whooping, and people stomping their feet, and Kayma and Sanvi jumping up and down and yelling, though I can’t hear the words.
I don’t know what to do for a moment, it’s disorientating. And then Lennon stands up next to me and says in my ear, “Take a bow, Jelly. You deserve it.”
So I do, and then he gives a little bow before stepping back to clap me, and then I get off the stage because although I’ve always loved performing, I’m kind of glad it’s over and now I just want . . . well. I guess I just want my mom.
Everyone hugs me or pats me as I make my way down the hall, and all the parents are crying and smiling, and I think, Wow, they must really have liked it. And Marshall says, “That was awesome, Jelly, and I’m really sorry about what I said,” and it all kind of floats around and through my head in a haze. A few rows back, my mom catches my eye and points to the doors that lead into the corridor.
Then the noise drops and I know Ms. Jones is explaining how there will be a ten-minute interval while the judges make their decision. But I don’t hear what she says because I’m out in the corridor and Mom is giving me the biggest hug I think I’ve ever had in my life, whispering into my ear how proud she is of me and how amazing I am and how from now on she’s going to think of this moment whenever she needs courage. . . .
And to be honest it’s all a bit overwhelming and I sort of burst into tears. Lennon comes to find us, and Mom holds out a hand to him, and he joins in the hug. “Good work, Jelly,” is all he says, but it’s enough.
Later they announce the winners, and I come in third, just like last year. I go up onstage to collect a miniature trophy, and the cheering and stomping from the audience makes me want to cry with pride. Kayma and Sanvi are screaming and jumping up and down again, and Mom and Lennon are clapping so hard their hands are a blur.
It was worth it. It was all worth it.
“You should have won,” Mom tells me as we emerge into the playground.