Mates, Dates and Sleepover Secrets

by Cathy Hopkins

  It got worse.

  ‘She’s arm-wrestling champion as well,’ continued Lucy, who was oblivious to the fact that I was squirming in my seat. D’oh. Thanks for the great introduction, Lucy, I thought. Like hi, I’m TJ Watts, brainbox with muscles. How sexy is that? Not.

  Steve put down his book and did what all boys did when my arm-wrestling talent was mentioned. He put his hand out.

  At that moment, the back door opened and another boy burst in and flung his bag on the table. Blonde like Lucy, he looked younger than Steve, maybe fifteen or so, whereas Steve looked like he was in sixth form.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the boy, plonking himself down next to me. ‘Arm-wrestling. I’ll play the winner.’

  ‘TJ, other brother Lal,’ said Lucy.

  We nodded at each other as Steve and I locked hands and put our elbows down. Steve tried to test my strength before we began. I let my hand go limp in his, so he’d think I was weak. This was going to be easy.

  ‘Ready, steady, GO,’ said Lal.

  It was all over in two seconds.

  ‘I wasn’t ready,’ objected Steve, as his lower arm hit the table. ‘You called GO too soon.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Lal, pushing Steve out of his chair and sitting in his place. ‘You’re a puny weakling. Right. Now me.’

  We locked hands and this time Steve called.

  ‘Ready, steady, GO.’

  Lal was more of a challenge. Ten seconds.

  ‘Wow. You’re pretty good for a girl. Do anything else this well?’ he said, picking up my hand and this time stroking it and looking at my mouth with what I can only describe as longing.

  Lucy whacked the back of his head. ‘Take no, notice, TJ. Lal thinks he’s Casanova.’

  Lal dropped my hand and Steve did a kind of smirk. ‘Don’t suppose you can mend computers as well as you arm-wrestle, can you?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ I said.

  The rest of the evening went brilliantly.

  I fixed Steve’s computer no problem. He had one the same make as mine, complete with same operating system. He was well impressed when I pressed a few keys and, hey presto, it worked. He dropped his superior act after that and we got chatting about books. The shelves in his half of the bedroom were heavy with them.

  ‘So who’s your favourite author?’ he asked.

  ‘God, so many. Can I do top three?’

  He nodded.

  ‘OK, I know that they’re kids’ books but I still love the Narnia books by C S Lewis.’

  ‘Yeah. They’re cool,’ he said.

  ‘And I like Bill Bryson.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Steve, pointing to his shelf. ‘I’ve got all of his.’

  ‘And I loved Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood.’

  ‘How’s the computer?’ called Lucy from the corridor.

  ‘Mended,’ Steve called back.

  ‘Then stop hogging TJ. She’s my friend,’ said Lucy, bursting in the door. ‘Come and look at my bedroom.’

  I got up to follow her, feeling well chuffed. She’d called me her friend. I hoped I would be. Steve and Lal too. They were all really easy to be with and, for once, I hadn’t been tongue-tied when meeting boys.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, as Lucy opened the door to her room. ‘It’s like a princess’s room. An Indian princess.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lucy, looking pleased. ‘Me and Mum did it last year. The curtain material is from a sari. I got it in the East End.’

  On one of her walls were cut-outs of people from magazines. Not the usual pop bands and actors – I didn’t recognise any of them.

  ‘Who are all these?’

  ‘Dress designers. Gaultier. Armani. Stella McCartney. I want to do design when I leave school.’

  ‘Well, I can see already that you have a good eye for colour, Lucy. This blue, lilac and silver looks gorgeous. I wish you’d come and do my room. It’s so boring. I think the paint Mum used was called Death by Magnolia.’

  ‘I’ll show you some clothes I’ve made,’ said Lucy, opening the wardrobe and pulling out a selection of skirts and tops.

  She held some of them up against her and they looked good, even to me, someone who doesn’t know a lot about clothes.

  ‘Maybe you could do a fashion piece for my newsletter. Like, what’s in for the summer.’

  ‘Sort of five top tips?’

  ‘Yeah. Summer sizzlers,’ I laughed.

  ‘Love to,’ said Lucy. ‘And are you going to change the name of the newsletter? Freemont News sounds sooo boring.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought. I was going to change it. What do you think of calling it For Real?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Lucy, ‘because that’s exactly what it isn’t at the moment and it’s exactly what everyone wants. You’re going to be so good at this, TJ. I can tell already that you’re going to win.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ll give it a go. But I was amazed to find out how many others are going for it after Sam’s talk.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lucy. ‘Even stinky Wendy Roberts, though she was mega-miffed after Sam didn’t go for her answer. I saw her face at the back. She was livid. Even more so when he loved yours.’

  ‘She’s even more mad with me today. She borrowed my maths homework and I’d got most of it wrong. Not my fault if it’s my worst subject.’

  ‘Serves her right,’ said Lucy as the doorbell rang downstairs. ‘Don’t worry, one of the boys will get it. Probably Nesta, she said she’d come over.’

  Sure enough, Nesta appeared moments later.

  ‘Hey,’ she smiled at both of us and flopped on the bed. She looked slightly surprised that I was there, but not unduly bothered. The whole evening was going so well. Maybe I could be friends with her too?

  ‘We were just discussing the newsletter,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Cool,’ said Nesta. ‘So, you going to go for it?’

  I nodded. ‘And Lucy’s agreed to do a fashion piece.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Nesta. ‘And I tell you what readers like more than anything. A make-over. You know, before and after sort of thing.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Lucy.

  Nesta was staring at me. ‘And you know who we should do?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You, of course. You could look fabulous if you wanted to.’

  Lucy looked shocked. ‘Nesta. TJ does look fabulous. Honestly, you and your big mouth. You don’t think before you open it, do you?’

  ‘What? What?’ said Nesta, looking flustered. ‘I didn’t mean anything . . . I only meant . . .’

  I tried to smile but I wanted to die. She thought I looked awful. I knew I didn’t wear all the latest fashions, but she didn’t have to rub it in. I got up to leave.

  ‘Oh, don’t go. TJ,’ said Lucy.

  I looked at my watch and made for the door. ‘I have karate at seven and it’s the last one before the summer hols, so I can’t miss it. Honest, really, it’s OK.’ I did my best to look cheerful, but Lucy didn’t look convinced.

  ‘TJ, I hope I didn’t . . .’ started Nesta. ‘Oh, hell. I mean . . . I was only trying to say, I don’t think you make . . .’

  ‘Nesta. Button it,’ said Lucy, linking my arm. ‘Come on, I’ll show you out.’

  When we got to the front door, Lucy made me promise I’d come again. ‘You sure you’re OK?’ she asked.

  I nodded. I wanted to get away. And I did have karate that night, not that I was in the mood any more. I really wanted to go home and talk to Hannah on email.

  I looked back at Lucy’s house after she shut the front door. No way was I going to go there again for Nesta to point out how awful I look. It’s all right for her, she’d look fab in a bin-liner.

  email: Outbox (2)

  From: goody2shoes@psnet.co.uk

  To: hannahnutter@fastmail.com

  Date: 15 June

  Subject: Best friends

  To Hannahnutter

  I was so wrong about thinking I could be mates with Lucy. Not in a million years. Not while she�
�s friends with Nesta Williams. You won’t believe what she just said . . . That I need a make-over. So everyone at school pities me. And thinks I’m a swot. And ugly. Everything over here is awful.

  I called Scott to ask if he could think of anything I could do to improve my appearance. He laughed and said, you could wear blue more often, it will go with your veins. He thought it was really funny. I said I was upset and needed cheering up and he said he’d phone me back after watching a repeat of ‘Friends’. He hasn’t phoned back yet.

  I miss you loooooaaaaads. Spik spoon.

  TJ

  From: goody2shoes@psnet.co.uk

  To: hannahnutter@fastmail.com

  Date: 15 June

  Subject: Where are you?

  Hannah. Where are you?

  Even Scott hasn’t phoned me back and he promised.

  And Paul will be on the other side of the world now. Probably on some amazing island like in The Beach.

  I feel so alone.

  Love TJ

  Oh, I met Lucy’s bros tonight. They’re sweet and the eldest one Steve is OK when he drops his snotty act. He gave me some brill book titles and suggested I put them at the back of the school magazine as a sort of silly fun page.

  Bubbles in the Bath by Ivor Windybottom

  A Stitch in Time by Justin Case

  Chest Pain Remedies by I Coffedalot

  Skin Rash Remedies by Ivan Offleitch

  WHERE ARE YOU? I have to go to sleep now as it’s late.

  Chapter 6

  I woke up the next morning feeling better. It was the weekend and Mum had promised to take me to Battersea Dogs’ Home. Who needed girlfriends? I was going to get my new best friend of the furry kind.

  I got dressed and hurtled down the stairs. Nobody in the kitchen. No one in Dad’s study. No one in the living-room.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked, on finding Dad sitting out on the patio reading the paper and having a cup of coffee.

  ‘She got called out on a case. Good morning, TJ.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Morning. Good. When will she be back?’

  ‘She couldn’t say . . .’

  ‘Oh, no!’ I wailed. ‘We were going to go to the dogs’ home. And I have football this afternoon . . . We won’t have time if she’s not back soon.’

  ‘I’ve got the day off,’ said Dad. ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘School all right?’ asked Dad, as he drove down Edgware Road towards Hyde Park.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Not long until the summer holidays?’

  ‘No. Not long.’

  ‘Feeling all right?’

  ‘Yeah. You, Dad?’

  ‘Yes. Fine, thank you.’

  I could see that he was trying, but I wasn’t in the mood for telling him how I was really feeling. He’d never understand how much I missed Paul and Hannah and what it was like to be the only girl in Year 9 without a best friend. Plus, I didn’t want to get him started on Paul and how he’s wasted his opportunities. The last thing I wanted was a lecture on how I must focus on school and my career and get good grades.

  I felt relieved when he gave up and switched the radio on, even if it was to listen to classical music. He means well, does Dad, but sometimes, he’s so busy offering his solutions that he doesn’t realise that he hasn’t really listened to the problem. It’s much easier to talk to Mum. She understands better that sometimes people don’t want to be told what to do, they just want someone to listen and give a bit of sympathy.

  I spent the rest of the journey looking out of the window as we drove down Park Lane, towards Victoria then over the Chelsea Bridge.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to come here,’ said Dad, as we parked the car near Battersea Park. ‘I’ve been wanting a dog for ages.’

  ‘Really?’ I said as we got out and walked round the corner to the Home. ‘I never knew that. Have you ever had a dog before?’

  Dad nodded. ‘When I was a lad. Best friend I ever had. Being an only child, he was my constant companion.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Rex.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died after I left for university. I was heartbroken. I thought it was my fault, you know, because I’d gone away and left him. But my mother said it wasn’t like that. She said it was his time to go and that he’d waited until I’d gone so as not to upset me.’

  We walked into the reception area at the home and I watched Dad as he found his wallet to pay our entrance fee. I swear his eyes misted over when he’d talked about Rex. It made me see him in a new light. Dad clearly had a soft side when it came to animals.

  ‘Pound for you,’ said the lady behind a counter. ‘And fifty pence for the young lady. Have you come to look or to buy a dog or cat?’

  ‘Buy a dog,’ I said.

  ‘Then you need to have an interview with a Rehomer first. Follow the red paws on the ground and someone will come and talk to you. See what sort you want and so on. Then you follow the blue paws and go and have a look.’

  I couldn’t wait and felt really excited. I could see Dad did as well. He’d turned from Scary Dad into Smiley Dad.

  We followed the red paws and went to sit in the waiting room with a group of other people. A sign on the wall told us that it cost £70 for a dog and £40 for a cat. After a short wait, a man in a red tracksuit came out and called us into a room where he asked loads of questions about where we lived and whether there were other children or cats and if was there a garden.

  It was funny because he was stern like a headmaster and Dad had to really sell the fact that we would be good owners.

  ‘Our chief concern,’ said the man, finally relaxing, ‘is that the dogs go to a permanent home where they will be happy and well cared for – for the rest of their lives. Hence the interrogation. Many of our dogs are here because their previous owners couldn’t or wouldn’t care for them. Last thing we want is for a dog to have another bad experience.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Dad. ‘I can assure you that we’ll take very good care of whoever we get today.’

  ‘OK, then. Let’s go and look at the dogs,’ said the man.

  Dad looked at me and winked as we followed the man along the path of blue paws through a courtyard to a building at the back.

  Inside it was like a hospital with long sloping corridors leading up to different floors. Each corridor had a different name: Oxford Street on the ground floor where the clinic was; Bond Street and Bow Street on the first floor where the dogs were kept; Regent Street and Baker Street on the second with dogs and cats and a private floor, Fleet Street and Pall Mall on the top.

  ‘Here we go,’ said our Rehomer, opening a door to a side ward. ‘I’ll leave you to look around. Take your time, then, when you’ve decided, we’ll bring the dog to you for an introduction and see if you get on. Takes about fifteen minutes. Then, if all parties are happy, you can go.’

  Two things hit us as soon as we entered the ward. The sound of barking. And the smell. Not a bad smell, but distinctive nonetheless. Like wet hay mixed with dog food.

  ‘Phworr,’ I said.

  ‘Aromatherapy of the canine kind,’ laughed Dad, as we looked in to see the first hopeful face looking out at us from behind bars.

  ‘It’s like they’re in a prison cell,’ I said as a Jack Russell poked a paw through at us and barked in friendly greeting.

  We spent the next hour walking through all the wards on every floor. We must have seen about fifty dogs. Each one had a little room in which was a blanket, water, a toy and outside access to a corridor at the back.

  There were all sorts of characters to choose from. Collies, Beagles, Jack Russells, mongrels of every colour even a Samoyed, which Dad told me was a rare breed. He looked like a big white teddy. At the side of each cage was a report with the dog’s details: the breed, name, age, history and whether they liked cats or children. Whether they needed an experienced owner and whether they were destructive or not!

  At the end of their report
was a comment as though written by the dog. ‘I make a good companion.’ Or ‘I need commitment.’ Or one big dog whose comment said, ‘I am a majestic individual!’

  ‘That one sounds like you, Dad,’ I said, pointing at the last one. With his tall stature and silver-white hair, Dad did have a majestic air.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he laughed, then pointed at one that said, ‘And there’s one that sounds like you – “I have a strong will and need a lot of training”.’

  On one ward, a black mongrel called Woodie was doing everything he could to get people’s attention. All sorts of mad antics – bouncing off the walls, paws up against the bars. It was as though he was saying ‘pick me, pick me, look what I can do . . . back flips, jumping, bouncing!!!! Pick me. Pick me’.

  Another old brown-and-white collie sat looking at us with pleading eyes. She looked as though she had a bad wig on.

  ‘This is heartbreaking,’ said Dad, reading her report. ‘She’s called Kiki. She’s thirteen.’

  Kiki put her paw through the cage and even though there was a big sign saying not to touch the dogs, Dad took her paw and stroked it. ‘Hello, girl.’ Then he turned to me and I swear his eyes were misting over again. ‘Poor thing. At her age, she’s probably here because her owner died or something. She looks as though she’s been well looked after though. Shame, because a lot of people come here and only want the young dogs. They see “thirteen years” and see the expense of vet’s bills.’

  I was finding it excruciatingly difficult. I wanted all of them. Every ward we went into, the dogs would perk up and start wagging their tails as though Dad and I were their best and oldest friends. So pleased to see us. It was like they were saying, ‘Oh there you are, hold on a mo, I’ll just get my stuff and we can go.’ Then, as we walked past their cages, their faces would fall and their tails would go down as if thinking, ‘Come back. Hey, where are you going? I thought we were outta here?’

  ‘Can’t we hire a coach, Dad, and come back with it and say right, everyone in? And then go and buy a big house in the country . . .’

  ‘I wish,’ said Dad. ‘But, sadly, we can only have one. Have you made up your mind?’