Secrets, Lies, and Locker 62

by Lil Chase

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s natural for a girl your age to like clothes …’

  Mr Kahn nods along. ‘I will have to make one rule though.’

  ‘What?’ asks Zeba, preparing herself for the worst.

  ‘You can only listen to that awful music with your headphones!’ he says, and laughs.

  We all laugh too, but Zeba looks insulted. ‘You lot have no taste. We are starting regular VDP appreciation lessons, every evening at eight!’ she says, and I wonder if she actually means it.

  ‘Mr Swift, the poet, read your poem, Zeba, and he thought it was really good,’ I tell her.

  Zeba beams. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He said it was excellent and it showed lots of potential.’

  ‘Potential?! Ha!’ Zeba scoffs. ‘My poem is absolutely brilliant already!’

  We all smile at her hissy fit.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Frankie says. ‘Looks like we have a poetry diva on our hands!’

  ‘I’d love to hear it, darling,’ says Zeba’s mum. ‘Will you read it out for us now?’

  ‘Do you have a spare copy?’ I ask her.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ she says. ‘I know it off by heart!’

  She stands and clears her throat. ‘“All Made Up”,’ she says, ‘by Manar Sakina Adiba Khan.’

  Frankie and I share a secret giggle at Zeba’s expense, but then Zeba takes a deep breath, we all fall silent and she starts:

  Sitting at my mirror,

  staring at my face,

  plaster on the warpaint,

  so nothing’s out of place.

  First I start with cover-up,

  cover up my lies.

  Then apply the colour

  to the shadows on my eyes.

  Outline the lips with liner

  so no one hears their words,

  gloss over them with sparkle

  and their meaning starts to blur.

  I must have concealer,

  the foundation of the truth,

  they might guess, but I’ll not confess

  and they’ll never have the proof.

  While I perfect the visage

  just after I wake up

  no one sees the girl who’s me

  just the person I make up.

  When she’s finished we let the words sink in for a second, then clap like mad.

  Mrs Khan gets up from the table. ‘That was lovely, darling,’ she says. ‘Why don’t I clear these plates?’ Then she sniffs and runs from the room.

  Zeba looks at her dad, who says, ‘You are a very talented poet, azizam.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she says. ‘I was thinking of sending it to VDP, to see if they want to use it as lyrics.’

  ‘Go on, you girls,’ her dad says. ‘Get upstairs. Leave us in peace before she starts singing one of their songs!’

  We all push our chairs back and run upstairs.

  Frankie goes first, then Zeba and then me. But I’m walking slower than the other two, looking at the pictures on the walls. So many show family gatherings that it makes me think.

  We pile into Zeba’s room, where a bed and two mattresses are laid out side by side. The other two jump on to Zeba’s bed while I stand there. They’re ready to do normal things, like try on clothes and make-up and talk about boys. No more of this secrets stuff – it’s too intense.

  ‘Did I tell you?’ Zeba asks. ‘After you left the poetry competition Mark Nowicki stood up and publicly called Karmella a liar. He says he never kissed Rochelle. Him and Amanda are back on!’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say.

  ‘And,’ Zeba continues, ‘Rochelle has changed her relationship status on Facebook!’

  ‘Really?’ asks Frankie. ‘To what?’

  ‘In a relationship … with Billy Beckworth!’

  Frankie gets up and whoops with joy. ‘That’s great news!’ She high-fives Zeba. ‘She obviously doesn’t care what evil Karmella thinks any more!’ Then they both turn to high-five me but they are stopped by the expression on my face.

  ‘You know what?’ I say. ‘I don’t think Karmella is evil.’

  Frankie guffaws.

  ‘She is evil,’ I correct myself. ‘But she’s also sad and lonely like everyone else. She just deals with it in the wrong way. And she’s so cool that everyone likes her and lets her get away with it.’

  Frankie frowns and looks thoughtful. ‘Maybe you’re right, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think there are people who are cool and there are people who are nice. Both are popular, but not everyone likes the cool people.’

  Frankie might be on to something there.

  ‘I know which I would rather be,’ she says.

  Finally I know that too.

  ‘Well, I have a surprise for you both,’ says Zeba.

  ‘What?’ asks Frankie.

  ‘It’s something that I’ve been working on on my own, but I think you’ll be impressed.’

  ‘Tell us,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve found Hillary Randle,’ she says.

  ‘What?’ I feel as if all the air has been squeezed from my lungs.

  ‘WHAT!?’ shouts Frankie. ‘When? How? Are you sure? I thought we said no more secrets!’

  ‘This isn’t a secret, it’s a surprise! Totally different.’

  I sit down on the bed and fight back my tears. ‘We have to talk to her,’ I say.

  Both of them look at me, clearly wondering why we have to speak to this old woman from ages ago, and clearly wondering why I’m doubled over at the end of Zeba’s bed.

  There is still one secret left to solve.

  ‘I’m the same age as Mum when she found me and she chose to keep me. It must have been so hard for her.’ I gulp.

  ‘She must love you very much,’ Frankie says.

  I hadn’t thought about it like that. I’m looking at Frankie in her My Little Pony tracksuit top, and I’m amazed that they even make My Little Pony clothes for people over five years old. I’m glad she hasn’t changed. Frankie can be very wise sometimes.

  ‘But why do we have to talk to Hillary Randle?’ Zeba asks.

  I look up at them with tears in my eyes. ‘Because I’ve been thinking about it.’ I take a deep breath. ‘And I’m pretty sure she’s my mother.’

  Epilogue

  Two months later …

  I get out of the car first and Mum follows. Neither of us says anything as she hands baby Patrick to Dave, her new diamond engagement ring sparkling on her hand. The baby squirms a little and then goes straight back to sleep. He’s such a good baby and I love him so much, probably because I’m his favourite thing in the world. He gave his first ever smile when he was looking at me.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ asks Dave.

  I’m terrified, and part of me would like Dave to be there to make sure everything’s OK. But this feels like something that me and Mum should do on our own. The social worker who’s handling our case – Miss Carmichael – said that would be for the best.

  ‘We’ll be here if you need us,’ Dave says to me, but I know that he’s talking to Mum too.

  Mum looks awful. This is almost as big a day for her as it is for me.

  ‘Good luck,’ says Dave.

  ‘Good luck!’ screams the mob from the back. Dave had to hire a people carrier to take us from our new house in Greenford up to Manchester, because as soon as Frankie insisted on coming for moral support, Zeba did too, and Luke wanted to come as well.

  I shoot them a weak smile.

  Mum and I turn towards the small terraced house. I take Mum’s hand and we start up the path. ‘Are you OK, Mum?’

  ‘I should be asking you that,’ she says. ‘I know you’ve had to look after me a lot, Maya. Well, not any more. I’m your …’ She stops herself from saying mum. ‘I mean, I’m the adult.’

  ‘You’re my mum, Mum,’ I say. She’s loved me and looked after me from almost the moment I was born. Yes, she’s made mista
kes, but she was young and she’s only human. ‘You’ve always been here,’ I say.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she says.

  ‘I feel sick.’

  I know she knows that we’re coming, but what if she’s changed her mind and she doesn’t want to meet me after all? What if she left me in the girls’ showers because she didn’t want to know me? And what if she still doesn’t?

  Mum bends down and gives me a big hug.

  ‘What if, when she meets me, she thinks I’m a disappointment?’ I say.

  Mum pushes me gently back by my shoulders and looks me in the eye. ‘Anyone who knows you feels lucky to know you. You are marvellous.’

  But she has to say that because she’s my mum.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  Mum knocks on the door. The inside of my mouth feels dry like concrete. My legs are wobbly and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stand here for long.

  I hear movement inside – footsteps – and through the mottled glass in the front door I see a shadow coming towards us.

  I swallow, trying to work out what to say.

  The door opens a crack, and I see a woman, a bit older than Mum, with blue eyes like mine and blonde hair like mine and a definite bump in her nose.

  Hillary Randle, my mother, stands in front of me. She looks at me and her face crumples.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. A bit lame, but it’s the best I can do.

  Her eyes are full of tears and her lips tremble as she speaks.

  ‘Baby?’

  THE END

  Interview with LIL CHASE

  Hi Lil! So, are you any good at keeping secrets?

  Yes! That’s what good friends do.

  But if it’s a really juicy secret I’m bursting to tell … well, that’s what my dog is for. If Stella (my Staffy cross) could talk, she’d be a canine Locker 62.

  What would you have done if you had been assigned Locker 62?

  Definitely try to find out who wrote what, and if someone was in love with someone else I would matchmake. But knowing everyone’s deepest darkest secrets is quite a lot of responsibility. Eventually I think I’d tell a teacher.

  Lots of people in your book feel different, or like ‘freaks’ compared to other people. Did you ever feel like that? Or were you the super-cool popular girl?

  ‘Super-cool girl’? Ha! Good one!

  I was in a popular group when I was at school, but I was the least cool girl in it … which made me feel even more of a freak.

  Recently I went through all the old letters that friends had sent when I was a teenager. Almost every one said how weird/stupid/crazy/ugly/out of place we felt. It’s sad because we were all feeling the same way, which meant we weren’t out of place at all.

  Did you always want to write books, or was it something you became interested in as an adult?

  I wanted to be a million things when I was young – an actress, a forensic pathologist, an opera singer – but one thing that never went away was writing. My first book – Boys for Beginners – was actually based on a story I wrote when I was ten, called ‘Gwynnie Goes Girlie’. When I say ‘based on’, I really mean ‘stolen from’: it was exactly the same story. I just polished it up and got rid of the terrible drawings.

  Where do you get the ideas for your books?

  Boys for Beginners I found in my parents’ attic. Secrets, Lies & Locker 62 was harder to come up with.

  It came from two pretty bad ideas: one about best friends who put their secrets in a piggy bank, and the other about a girl at military school who had her girlie things hidden in a pink locker. I combined the ideas, changed the piggy bank of secrets to a locker full of secrets, and Locker 62 was born!

  And finally … tell us a secret!

  I have a not-so-secret crush on all the boys I write about in my books, and the biggest crush on Luke Marshall. The secret is that Luke is based on a boy I know.

  That boy’s name? There’s no way I’m telling you!

  For more about Lil and her books visit

  www.lilchase.co.uk

  Gwynnie is a real tomboy, but when she turns fourteen she realizes she might want to be more than just friends with a certain Charlie Notts …

  Charlie says, ‘Hey, Gwynnie, I don’t have your number.’

  OK, it’s not the completely romantic way that I’d hoped he’d ask for my number, but he’s still asked for my number.

  He gets out his phone. ‘Call me and I’ll save it.’

  ‘Er, I don’t have a mobile yet.’ This is why I need a mobile phone. Mobile phones were invented exactly for moments like these.

  ‘Oh.’ Charlie, like everyone, is shocked by this fact.

  Jenny cuts in as if she’s trying to be helpful. ‘It’s OK, Charlie, Gwynnie can always get you on my phone.’

  ‘Nah, that’s cool,’ says Charlie. ‘I’ll take your home phone.’ He starts tapping at his keypad. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll add you to my “Mates” group.’

  Charlie Notts has just said that I’m his mate! This is fantastic. I wonder if he means mates like friends, or mates like mates on nature shows.

  He gives me his phone to type in my number. There don’t seem to be any girls’ names in his phone. This is great! I am the only girl who Charlie wants in his phone.

  Hang on a minute. Doesn’t he have Jenny’s number?

  ‘Do you want to enter Jenny’s number after I put in mine?’ I ask.

  ‘I already have it,’ he says.

  ‘But it’s not here,’ I say.

  Something about the way Charlie sort of blushes and looks at the floor tells me that I’m not going to like what I am about to hear. ‘No, er … this is my “Mates” group. I put Jenny into my “Girls” group.’ Jenny beams, but when Charlie turns to look at her she drops the smile. ‘Sorry, Jenny, I hope you don’t mind.’

  Jenny nods in a kind of forgiving that’s OK kind of way.

  I am destroyed. Charlie doesn’t think of me as a girl. He thinks of me as a mate! And obviously not a nature-show-type mate.

  ‘I can put you in under “Girls” instead, Gwynnie. If you like.’ He grabs the phone off me and gets to the Girls group, then hands the phone back to me.

  I am astonished at how many girls he has in his phone. It just makes it all the worse that he doesn’t think of me as one of them.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say, and type in my number. ‘Anyway, see you at school tomorrow.’ I give him back his phone and run away from them, not able to even say goodbye.

  Maybe if I was more ladylike then he wouldn’t just think of me as a mate. Maybe Kevin’s right: I have to act more like a girl if I want guys to notice me.

  Will it work? Maybe it won’t. I’ll have to give up football and Xbox and start hanging around with all those stupid BB girls. But then again, it would be so amazing to be Charlie’s girlfriend, to kiss him, to go out on dates and stuff.

  OK … That’s it … I am going to do it.

  Gwynnie Lewis is going girlie!