Life is Sweet

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘What … is something up? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Cherry tells me. ‘Just the opposite. We have good news!’

  ‘We’ve been talking to your parents,’ Nikki explains. ‘Over the last few days. And we think we have come to an agreement, but of course you’d have to be up for it too …’

  ‘Up for what?’ I ask.

  Mum and Dad appear in the reception doorway.

  ‘We got the final go-ahead,’ Nikki tells them. ‘I thought we should come and tell you in person. Tell Shay.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘I saw your new song on the internet,’ Finch takes up the story. ‘“Bittersweet”. It’s amazing … totally the best thing you’ve done. Just full of feeling. And the more I played it the more I realized it would be absolutely perfect …’

  ‘Perfect for what?’ I frown.

  ‘The film,’ Nikki says. ‘We’ve finished shooting now, so it’s just a matter of editing and putting it all together. We had a few pieces of music in mind for the title sequence, but nothing as powerful as your piece, Shay. We’d like to use it – the message echoes the storyline in our film perfectly, and we’d pay you, of course!’

  I blink, waiting for the news to sink in, start making sense. It doesn’t.

  I look at Cherry, Skye, Summer; they knew, of course. I remember the whispered hints, the giggles, the smiles. But Mum and Dad? Could they have known too? I notice the glint of pride in Dad’s eye, the relief in Mum’s smile. This is something they’ve been arguing about, perhaps for days. Somehow, miraculously, they’ve come to an agreement.

  ‘I can see it could be a good opportunity, son,’ Dad says. ‘We’ll put the money away for you, for when you’re old enough to use it for something sensible.’

  ‘No way,’ I say. ‘You’re OK with it? Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Mum grins. ‘If it’s what you want, Shay?’

  ‘It’s what I want,’ I blurt. ‘Definitely, totally. I mean … whoa!’

  ‘This won’t be the same as signing to a big record label,’ Nikki points out. ‘It’s a much gentler way to make your mark. You’ll get a lot of exposure, but it’ll be all about the music itself … not about turning you into some kind of teen pop idol. Your parents are much more comfortable with that idea.’

  Dad raises an eyebrow, as if he’s not too sure at all, but is doing his best to live with it. ‘Might all come to nothing,’ he says gruffly. ‘But if you end up being famous, remember your old dad, won’t you?’

  He smiles cautiously, and fifteen years of misunderstandings begin to fall away. It doesn’t matter, not now. With families, it is never too late to start over.

  Much later, I am walking over to the storeroom den at sunset, the blue guitar slung over one shoulder, when I see a lone figure down on the shore. Honey is looking out at the horizon, her blonde choppy bob ruffling in the breeze, arms wrapped around herself in the chill evening.

  ‘Hey,’ I call, and Honey turns, snapping out of her dream. ‘I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me? For what?’

  ‘Well … I think you made that music page on SpiderWeb,’ I say quietly. ‘And the page went a bit crazy …’

  ‘Viral,’ Honey supplies. ‘Not me, though. I don’t have time for good deeds, or the internet – I spend all my spare time studying these days.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ I grin. ‘Anyway, lots of people saw it, including Finch and his mum … they got the TV people to listen, and now it turns out that “Bittersweet” is going to be the opening soundtrack on that movie they were making. It fits in with the theme, apparently. You probably know all this … half your family came over to the sailing centre earlier, with Finch and Nikki, to tell me the news. The best bit is, Dad finally stopped being pig-headed and he’s going to let me do it …’

  ‘I knew something was going on,’ Honey says. ‘Your luck turned then?’

  ‘I guess. And I have you to thank because you took the video, and I’m pretty sure you posted it online. Everyone’s been talking about it but nobody seems to know who’s behind it … Cherry and the others thought it was Ben, but he’d have said. Besides, he doesn’t even have SpiderWeb.’

  ‘What does it matter who made the page?’ she shrugs. ‘Just leave it. One of life’s great mysteries.’

  ‘I’ve solved it,’ I smile. ‘I loved what you did with the video – very arty.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Best if they think Ben made it, though. We don’t want you getting into trouble again, do we?’

  ‘That won’t happen. Cherry and me, we’re fine now – unbreakable.’

  ‘Right,’ Honey says. ‘Well. That’s … good.’

  I catch the bright glint of tears in her eyes and look away, embarrassed. When I glance up again there’s no trace of sadness, just perfectly painted eyeliner, a glossy smile, the cool, hard look I know so well.

  ‘Run along, Shay,’ she tells me. ‘You know what happens when you’re seen hanging out with me. I’m bad news. Trouble. Selfish to the bone.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘I know you don’t,’ Honey says, and the ghost of a smile flickers across her face. ‘You never did, and I sometimes think you were the only one. But trust me, Shay … some things are better left unsaid.’

  She turns and walks away along the sand, back towards Tanglewood, and she doesn’t look back.

  The next story in this collection is all about the adorable Alfie Anderson – and Summer, of course! The story takes place after the events of Summer’s Dream. It was cool to write a story with a Valentine’s twist … I think you’ll like it. Curl up with your book and a little chocolate treat and enjoy!

  1

  I am never very sure if it is lucky or unlucky to have a girlfriend whose birthday falls on Valentine’s Day. On the up side, you get two major celebrations over in one go; on the down side, you have to pull something pretty amazing out of the hat to show that you care. Let’s just say that a packet of Love Hearts and a cheesy card won’t really cut it.

  Not when your girlfriend is Summer Tanberry, anyhow.

  Summer is my dream girl. I have been crazy about her ever since Reception class, when she and her twin Skye were mirror-image cuties with big blue eyes and blonde pigtails. They looked identical, and even the teacher used to get them muddled up, but I knew right away how to tell them apart.

  Skye spent the whole of Reception year wearing a tattered feather boa from the dressing-up box that was usually reserved for rainy days. So Summer was the one without the boa, to begin with. There was something bright and burning behind her wide blue eyes, a kind of flame, a promise of something awesome just out of reach. She always had about a million friends, and the teachers loved her too.

  They didn’t love me. I got told off for painting my hands blue with powder paint and making handprints on Miss Martin’s skirt. I got told off for eating seven chocolate puddings and going all hyper in the lunch hall. I got told off for writing in my news book that I had a monkey as a pet, and when Miss Martin asked me if this was true I said it wasn’t, only my new baby sister looked a lot like a monkey, and then of course I got told off again.

  When I looked at Summer I saw fire and ambition; she was going places, places I could only dream of. I didn’t dare imagine tagging along with her, at least not until I saw her dance. We’d been practising for the nativity play in the school hall, thirty small children disguised as shepherds, wise men, angels, camels and innkeepers, a final dress rehearsal before the play itself next day. We said our lines and sang carols about stars and donkeys and stables, and Miss Martin smiled throu
gh gritted teeth when Marisa McTaggart was sick all over her angel dress and had to go to the office to be cleaned up.

  Miss Martin wasn’t too impressed with me either. I remember her telling me off for changing the words of a carol about the three kings to include a line about them selling ladies’ underwear. She frogmarched me back to the classroom at the head of the line where she could keep an eye on me, and that’s when I realized I’d left my papier-mâché crown in the hall. It wasn’t a very good crown, but I had made it all by myself and added jewels made of scrunched-up sweet wrappers and so much glitter the school cleaners complained the next day because they couldn’t get it all out of the carpet tiles.

  Miss Martin rolled her eyes and told me to go back and fetch it before the cleaners found it and put it in the bin. When I reached the hall doors, I could hear Miss Martin’s CD player still playing ‘Silent Night’, which was a bit strange because we’d finished for the day. Was somebody in there?

  I pushed open the door and looked inside. Summer Tanberry was dancing to the music, her eyes closed, her tinsel halo askew. Her angel dress swirled out around her as she dipped and spun, and her skinny blonde plaits flew.

  I closed the door quietly and crept back to the classroom. When Summer came in a few minutes later, there was so much chaos while everyone changed and hung up their costumes that I forgot about the papier-mâché crown. The cleaner probably did chuck it in the bin, because I never found it and I had to wear a tissue-paper one that came out of a cracker for the actual play. Miss Martin was furious and when we had our Christmas party lucky dip a few days later I got a gift-wrapped tin of baked beans while everyone else had cool stuff. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a coincidence.

  All that was a long time ago, of course.

  We grew up. I got into more and more trouble as the years went by … I developed a skill for practical jokes and acting the clown. I could make most of my classmates laugh, but Summer’s eyes would slide right past me as if I was invisible. I always wished she’d notice me because she was my idea of perfect. She was clever, popular, beautiful, talented – everyone knew she was brilliant at ballet. Once, in Year Seven, we had to write about our hopes and dreams in class, and Summer wrote about wanting to be a ballerina, wanting to dance onstage at the Royal Opera House in a white tutu with feathers in her hair. Swan Lake, or something.

  The English teacher made her read out the whole essay, and Summer’s eyes burnt bright with determination. Her dream was so real we all believed in it. It wasn’t a question of if it would happen, just when.

  Summer was so far out of my league I got altitude sickness just thinking about it, but I couldn’t help myself.

  I talked to Skye, her twin, gathering information, planning how best to make Summer notice me. I cut back on the clowning around, rationed the practical jokes, cut my hair and tried my best to look cool and mysterious. Skye said Summer would like that better than ‘clueless’ and ‘idiotic’.

  Harsh words, but I did my best. I bought a silk flower hairclip and wrapped it, then left it in Summer’s locker with a card ‘from a secret admirer’. It backfired bigtime – she thought the flower was from Aaron Jones and started dating him instead. I almost gave up then, but you can’t switch your feelings on and off that easily, can you?

  Summer has my heart, always.

  And when the fire in her eyes began to flicker and fade, and she began to fall, I was there to catch her.

  Summer was lost, burnt out, pushing herself so hard she began to lose the plot. She stopped eating, stopped thinking; her eyes were dark and full of fear. It was as if she was trying to disappear, to make herself invisible, lighter than air.

  I saw it early on, the way I saw everything Summer did. I saw the plates piled high with lettuce leaves, the way she’d lift a spoonful of pudding up to her mouth and laugh and start to talk as she put it down again, untouched. I noticed everything.

  She was unravelling.

  She ended things with Aaron Jones and one day she looked at me instead of through me, and although I knew she didn’t see me as anything more than a friend, it was a start.

  I had waited a very long time for her to see me at all.

  So, yeah … you could say that Summer Tanberry has taught me to be patient, to take things slowly. It’s like a dance, a slow, careful, perfectly choreographed one. Trouble is, I am really not a dancer. I have two left feet … possibly three. OK, OK, I know … It’s just that it feels that way.

  We danced past friendship and on to the handholding stage, then right on forward to kisses and promises and whispered secrets. Things are good … very good. I worry that the tempo will change, that I’ll mess up and get the steps wrong, that I am treading on eggshells, dancing on them even. I worry that everything will fall apart.

  And when Summer looks at me with her lost-girl eyes, I wonder if I’ll ever see that flame again, that fire.

  2

  I’m working the late afternoon shift in Mum and Dad’s shop, but things are quiet. The only customer in the place is an elderly bloke in socks, sandals and corduroy trousers, browsing the herbal tea section, trying to decide between liquorice and nettle.

  Mum appears, her green velvet skirt jingling a little as she walks. Living above the shop, she sometimes uses it as a kind of extension to the kitchen cupboards, and now she is ransacking the shelves for lentils, soya cream and paprika.

  ‘I’m making buckwheat pancakes for tea,’ she tells me. ‘It’s a new recipe.’

  ‘Wow,’ I reply, as politely as I can. ‘That’ll be … um … amazing!’

  ‘I know you weren’t keen on the chickpea flour variety, but buckwheat tastes totally different,’ Mum says. ‘Nutty. Very unusual. An acquired taste.’

  It’s the story of my life, but I love my hippy-dippy parents and my mad little sisters. I love the healthy food they make, even when Mum’s quest for nutritional variety takes us into the darkened realms of chickpea flour and buckwheat pancakes.

  ‘You OK on your own until then?’ Mum checks. ‘You’ll cash up and everything?’ I tell her I’m fine, that I’ll most likely use the shop computer to do some homework, and that I’ll cash up. She disappears back upstairs as the old guy brings his shopping to the till. He has settled on a tea called Acorn Infusion which I happen to know (from bitter experience) tastes like old socks. He has also thrown in a heart-shaped bar of vegan chocolate with a big red bow round it.

  ‘Valentine’s Day prezzie?’ I ask brightly, and the old bloke tells me he’s going to ask a lady at his art class out on a date for Valentine’s Day, and is hoping the vegan chocolate will help.

  ‘Can’t go wrong with chocolate or flowers,’ I say. ‘Guaranteed to win her heart!’

  I wish it was that simple with Summer. When the old guy has gone, I log on to the shop computer in search of inspiration. I have been looking for the perfect present since January, trawling the shops in Minehead and coming up with nothing. Mum and Dad may be flaky, New Age types, but they pay me for the hours I put in. I worked quite a bit over Christmas and New Year, helping people to pick out their tofu turkey cutlets and advising on gluten-free mince pies, so I have some money saved.

  I just don’t have the inspiration. A box of chocolates is out of the question, clearly. Summer’s stepdad runs a fancy chocolate business, but that’s not the problem … it’s more that she is struggling with food right now. She’s been going to an eating disorders clinic in Exeter, and I think it has helped a little, but right now she sees chocolate as the work of the devil. She won’t even go into Paddy’s workshop, in case she inhales some calories by accident.

  Not chocolates then. Flowers are the next option, but that see
ms so predictable. And they’d be gone in a week, leaving nothing behind but shrivelled petals and crispy leaves. I’ve looked at scarves, bags, earrings, lockets … but choosing seems impossible.

  I check my watch and turn the open sign to closed. I cash up at the till, rearrange the display of organic vegetables, sweep the floor.

  What would Summer like? I really don’t know.

  Just a couple of days ago I asked her what she’d like most in the world, and she said she wanted to get well again, properly well, and to be able to dance again. She’s doing one ballet class a week these days, but she says it’s all messed up, that her steps are stilted, wooden.

  ‘I’ve ruined everything,’ she sighed. ‘Thrown it all away.’

  I told her that wasn’t true.

  ‘It kind of is,’ she said. ‘It’s like one thing goes wrong and everything else follows. I wish Honey would come back from Australia too … I hate it when she’s not here. Sisters are supposed to be together.’

  ‘Wish I could help, but I’m not sure my savings can stretch to an airline ticket,’ I pointed out, and Summer laughed.

  ‘You did ask,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It’s too bad that the things I want I just can’t have. I want not to be sick any more. I want to stop feeling so frozen, so lost. I want to be me again.’

  ‘You’ll get there,’ I said, feeling helpless.

  ‘Will I?’ Summer challenged. ‘I don’t know, Alfie. It never used to be this difficult. When I was a kid I was so sure of everything – my hopes and dreams were so real I thought I could just reach out and take them, like apples from a tree. I remember staying behind in the school hall one Christmas, switching on the CD player when everyone had gone and dancing like mad to “Silent Night”. It was perfect.’

  I blink. She’s describing the day of the nativity play rehearsals, the day I peeked through the doors and saw her dancing. The day I lost my heart.