3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream

by Cathy Cassidy

  Alfie, the most annoying boy in the western hemisphere, appears at my elbow.

  ‘Swap you,’ he says, wafting his dish of syrup pudding and custard right under my nose. ‘Go on … sure I can’t tempt you?’

  The pudding smells gorgeous, but I know it is bad news, the kind of pudding that should carry a government health warning. Death by syrup pudding. At least you’d die happy, I guess.

  ‘Get lost, Alfie,’ I sigh. ‘Dancers don’t eat that kind of stodge.’

  ‘You could eat anything you wanted to, Summer,’ he shrugs. ‘You’re really slim and pretty. And dancing must burn up about a million calories a second anyhow …’

  Slim and pretty? I look at Alfie and he smiles, his brown eyes holding mine. He’s good, I have to admit. He almost has me fooled. A part of me actually thinks he might mean the compliment, and then I remind myself that Alfie lives to wind people up.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he says quietly. ‘You’ve been surviving on rabbit food lately.’

  Anger catches in my throat, hot and sharp and sore. Alfie has no right to be watching me, noticing what I choose to eat. I always make healthy choices, but I have made a conscious decision to eat mostly salads lately. I can’t shift Jodie’s words about being told she was the ‘wrong’ shape for dancing, and I’m determined nobody will ever be able to say that to me. Nothing is going to come between me and my dance school dream.

  ‘Don’t watch me then,’ I whisper. ‘I never asked you to. I mean it, Alfie. I don’t need your wisecracks right now.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Aaron demands, appearing at my side and squeezing my waist as if marking out his territory. ‘Is he bugging you, Summer?’

  ‘No more than usual,’ I say. ‘Alfie didn’t want his pudding, so he offered it to me, but … I don’t want it either. Obviously.’

  ‘She’s keeping an eye on her figure,’ Aaron says with a grin. ‘I’m keeping an eye on it too, and between us we have it covered, Alfie. We don’t need your help. Clear off.’

  My cheeks burn.

  When Aaron first asked me out, I was so flattered I just about fell over myself to accept. These days, he seems to annoy me more every time I see him. When he puts his hands on my waist in the middle of the school canteen and tells the class joker he is watching my figure, I just want to cringe.

  Alfie shrugs sadly, hands me the syrup pudding and walks away. The aroma of hot syrup and custard makes my mouth water, but I know it is not the kind of thing my body needs. It would be a bad idea to even taste it. Wouldn’t it?

  Aaron rolls his eyes, lifts the dish out of my hands and tips the pudding into the bin.

  School is winding down in a muddle of school trips and sports days. Even on ordinary days, the teachers shift down a gear, filling lesson time with quizzes and films. Less homework means more time for dancing, but I’m looking forward to the holidays when I’ll have weeks to devote to rehearsing for the audition. My friends are looking forward to summer for different reasons, though.

  ‘This is going to be the best break ever,’ Tia says as we loaf on the school playing fields at lunchtime the next day, making daisy chains and trying to soak up some sunshine. My friends are snacking on crisps and doughnuts; I have chosen an apple instead.

  I am writing a sneaky rota in the back of my homework diary, planning out the next three weeks. I pencil in regular ballet lessons, dates for our extra sessions, days when the senior studio at the dance school is free. Then I block out time at home to work on my expressive dance and time for general practice.

  ‘We’re thirteen years old,’ Tia is saying, in between mouthfuls of doughnut. ‘Proper teenagers! We should make the most of every minute!’

  ‘Too right,’ Millie chips in, nudging Skye and me. ‘Especially you two, with no parents keeping an eye on you for three whole weeks – Tanglewood can be party central!’

  ‘No chance,’ Skye laughs. ‘Our gran is staying to keep an eye on us – we’ll have to be on our best behaviour!’

  Millie shrugs. ‘Grans are pretty soft, right? You can wind them round your little finger usually. Just say you’re missing your mum and need to have lots of parties with your friends to take your mind off it all …’

  ‘That wouldn’t be fair on Grandma Kate,’ I say.

  I add a list of things I can do to help Grandma Kate to my rota, then frown. My days are looking pretty full. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for socializing.

  ‘Come on,’ Tia says. ‘You have a movie being made right on your doorstep, and a whole bunch of crew camped out in the next field. Not to mention the important ones right there in your house. It’s the most exciting thing to happen in Kitnor in ages! You have to have at least a few parties!’

  Tia peers over my shoulder trying to see what I’m writing.

  ‘Summer! That looks like the dullest holiday ever!’ She grabs the pen out of my hand and writes FUN across the page in giant letters, in case I am not getting the message. My neatly drawn rota is wrecked, but I try not to mind.

  ‘We could try to squeeze in the occasional party,’ Skye says. ‘We’ll work on Grandma Kate!’

  Tia and Millie and Skye start planning beach bonfires and picnic parties and whether to invite boys from school or try to get to know any cute teen-boy actors taking part in the film. I frown and decide to copy out my rota again, once I get home. Minus the fun. I pick some daisies and thread them together instead.

  ‘There have to be some boys in the film,’ Millie frowns. ‘It’s the law of averages, right? And teen-boy actors are bound to be hot.’

  ‘They’ll be better than the local talent anyhow,’ Tia comments, watching Alfie and a bunch of other boys running piggyback races across the grass. There is lots of staggering, flailing arms and yelling. ‘It’s really quite depressing. No offence, Millie … I know you like Alfie. He isn’t bad-looking, but he’s just such a clown!’

  Millie and Alfie hooked up at my thirteenth birthday party, although they’ve avoided each other since. Alfie is polite but distant with Millie, as though the kiss never happened, but I think she still has a bit of a crush going on. There is no accounting for taste.

  There’s a bloodcurdling scream and Sid Sharma charges towards us with Alfie on his back, his mouth stretched wide into a victory yell. Sid gallops into the middle of our group and lets go of Alfie abruptly. He crashes down at our feet, and as he falls, his trousers somehow slither to half mast, revealing a billowing pair of lime-green polka-dot boxers. Sid runs away, laughing, and we howl and cover our eyes.

  ‘Gross!’ Tia yelps. ‘Pull your trousers up, Alfie!’

  ‘I feel sick,’ Millie says. ‘Girls, I’m over him. It’s official.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Alfie grins brightly, wrestling his trousers back up to a respectable level. ‘Sid can be a pain sometimes. He thinks he’s funny.’

  ‘He’s not,’ I say crisply. ‘And nor are you, Alfie. Scram, OK? We’re in the middle of a very serious conversation!’

  ‘I can do serious!’ Alfie protests. ‘Just go right ahead, girls. Don’t mind me. I like political debate, and culture, and … um … well, whatever. Talk away!’

  Millie gives him a withering look and turns her back on him. ‘It’s a very serious conversation indeed,’ she agrees. ‘We’re discussing the film they’re making in the village this summer.’

  ‘Cool,’ Alfie says, peering over Millie’s shoulder and pulling a sad face at me. ‘I’m happy to talk about that …’

  ‘Ignore him, Millie,’ I sigh. ‘It’s the only way.’

  ‘I am,’ she huffs. ‘Don’t worry. What I was going to say was, d’you think they’ll let us actually watch the filming? Because they might pick one of us out of the crowd and give us a part. I might shoot to stardom and end up rich and famous, like Emma Watson or something …’

  ‘Don’t give up the day job, Millie,’ Alfie Anderson quips. ‘If I remember rightly, the last time you were in a school play you forgot your lines, tripped over your angel dress and fell right o
ff the stage.’

  ‘I was six years old!’ Millie huffs. ‘Honestly, Alfie, my acting skills have improved a LOT since then.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he shrugs. ‘Only … if anyone was going to get a bit part in the film, I’d say it would most likely be Summer … she’s had tons of experience in the spotlight. She’d be brilliant.’

  Alfie grins and a familiar panic begins to flutter inside my chest. I hate it when he winds me up. He has been making jokes at my expense ever since I can remember, and even though his words seem innocent enough this time, I’m pretty sure he is laughing at me.

  ‘Not funny, Alfie,’ I say.

  ‘Wasn’t meant to be,’ he shrugs. He winks at me and picks up the daisy chain I’ve been making, slipping it into his pocket before sauntering away. Some boys really are infuriating.

  ‘Definitely no lads from school at our beach parties and picnics,’ Millie is saying.

  ‘What about Aaron?’ Tia asks on my behalf. ‘You can’t ban boys!’

  I can’t help thinking I’d quite like a summer without Aaron, but I feel disloyal. You are not supposed to get bored with your boyfriend this easily, not when they are one of the popular crew.

  ‘Aaron can come, of course,’ Millie concedes. ‘He’s Summer’s boyfriend! The cool boys can come … but no Alfie Anderson!’

  ‘Alfie’s OK,’ Skye says kindly. ‘He’s a mate, yeah?’

  ‘Well,’ Tia shrugs. ‘Long as he keeps his trousers up.’

  Millie sighs. ‘You lot are too soft,’ she says, but she’s smiling, imagining a long, sunny summer of sandy beaches and swimming in the ocean, the excitement of the filming, warm nights filled with driftwood bonfires and guitar music and laughter and kisses.

  I can’t imagine any of that. When I try to picture it, my mind goes blank, like a computer screen that has crashed and died. I listen to my sister and my friends planning endless treats and fun in the sun, and all I can think of is ballet practice and auditions, of making the dream real. I slip the homework diary with its ruined rota into my school-bag.

  There’s a low, gnawing ache in my stomach, and I can’t tell whether it’s anxiety or hunger.

  10

  It’s the last week of term, and Paddy and Mum are preparing for their trip. Our gypsy caravan has been wheeled down to the woods to create one of the film sets, and Paddy has employed a retired teacher from the village to keep the chocolate business running while he is away. Every morning Harry wheezes up to Tanglewood on an ancient bicycle, ready to learn the mysteries of making the perfect truffle. He is cheery and eccentric, with a grey handlebar moustache and a selection of jaunty bow ties.

  Paddy gathers us all together to run through the plans. ‘Harry will manage the day-to-day running of the chocolate workshop,’ he explains. ‘Keep things ticking over. There’s enough stock in the fridges to last a lifetime so he may not actually need to do anything from scratch, and Grandma Kate can bank the cheques and keep an eye on the website. It’s only three weeks and we haven’t put any fresh ads in the press so things shouldn’t get too crazy …’

  ‘Stop worrying, Paddy,’ Harry cuts in. ‘You can count on me. The girls will help out if we’re snowed under with orders, right, ladies?’

  ‘Right, Harry,’ Skye, Cherry and Coco chorus. I nod weakly, but I really hope I’m not needed because I can’t see when I’ll have the time. I don’t have a single idea for my expressive dance and I need to settle on something soon, I know. I’m already doubtful that I’ll be able to help out at the summer sessions week at the dance school, even though I promised Miss Elise I would – it’s just so close to the audition date.

  Honey doesn’t share my guilt. She just raises an eyebrow, amused. I am pretty sure Harry won’t be getting any help from her while Mum and Paddy are away.

  I’m just getting used to Harry mooching about the place when Tanglewood House is invaded. The film production team move in, colonizing the B&B rooms and turning the guest breakfast room into an office. We pass them on the staircase, or see them in the garden tapping away on iPads or laptops in the evening sun. They look cool, creative and scarily busy.

  ‘We’ll be self-sufficient really,’ Nikki the producer explains, sipping black coffee at the kitchen table. ‘We’re not expecting cooked breakfasts or daily room tidies. We just want peace and quiet to work, good Wi-Fi and landline phones and a place to get away from the film sets sometimes.’

  ‘We can certainly manage that,’ Mum assures her. ‘There’ll be cereal, bread, jam and a toaster in the breakfast room, along with a microwave and a small fridge stocked up with milk, fruit and juice. If you need anything else, just ask.’

  ‘We won’t be any trouble, I promise,’ Nikki replies. ‘Although I suspect Jamie might like some teenage company when he’s not working … he’ll be here on Saturday, once school finishes.’

  ‘The girls will sort that out,’ Mum promises. ‘Right?’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘We’ll introduce him to our friends, make sure he doesn’t feel left out. Won’t we, Skye?’

  ‘Definitely,’ my twin whispers.

  Nobody but me notices her blush.

  Friday is the last day of term, the last day ever at Exmoor Park Middle School for me and Skye. There’s a leavers’ assembly with Mum and Paddy and everyone else’s parents squished on to plastic chairs, dabbing their eyes with tissues and looking proud. I remember when Dad used to come to things like this, school plays and carol concerts and parents’ evenings, back when we were at primary. Well, he came once or twice.

  Some of the boys have formed a band and play a song about reaching for the stars, Tia reads a poem about always doing your best and there’s a slideshow of photos to watch. There we all are in kayaks; at a science fair; on the Year Seven trip to Alton Towers; in a school production of Bugsy Malone (I was Tallulah, and I loved the dance scenes – of course).

  It’s weird to see how we have changed from bright-eyed nine-year-olds in shiny new school uniform into proper teenagers, reliant on hair gel and straighteners and eyeliner. We have outgrown middle school now. We don’t talk about dolls and ponies these days, we talk about boy bands and make-up and who fancies who.

  We laugh and chew gum and touch up our lipgloss in the corridor between classes, but I wonder how many of us wish we could be nine again, go back to simpler times when we didn’t have to worry about bras or periods or boys, when it was still OK to play make-believe games or eat a chocolate bar without thinking about the calories. Sometimes I think that being a teenager is an act, a role we have to take in a play where nobody bothered to show us the script. We scoosh on bodyspray that smells of strawberries, admire the same bands and pretend to be more grown-up than we really are.

  We hope that nobody can see through the act. They might see that we’re not as confident as we look, that behind the eyeliner and the easy laughs we are actually kind of lost. Or is that just me? It’s all such hard work – keeping up appearances especially.

  Tia jabs me in the ribs and I snap to attention as the Head begins giving out the end-of-term awards. Everybody gets something. There are awards for the ‘brightest smile’, the ‘wackiest hair’, the ‘cheekiest grin’ and the ‘cheesiest jokes’. Yes, that last one goes to Alfie Anderson. Tia gets an award for being a genius at maths, Millie for being good at netball, Skye for having ‘the most original sense of style’. Aaron gets the ‘sports star’ award for being brilliant at footy and I get ‘girl most likely to succeed’, and everyone claps and cheers and tells us what a great couple we make.

  I smile and smile until my face aches.

  Later, when the afternoon has crumbled into good-natured disorder, we sign our names on each other’s shirts in felt-tip pen, hug and promise to stay in touch forever. For most people, that won’t be so difficult. Most of my classmates are moving right up to the high school, but this is not just my last day at Exmoor Park Middle School; it could be my last day of ordinary school ever.

  I hold my award tightly, a laminated she
et of A4 that feels like a promise. Does it mean I will succeed at my audition? I hope so.

  What if you don’t? the voice in my head asks nastily. What then?

  I push the thought away. You cannot let the mask slip, not when you are the ‘girl most likely to succeed’.

  11

  When we get home from school that afternoon, Grandma Kate is there, sweeping through the house like a small whirlwind. She rolls up her sleeves and chases Mum from the kitchen, telling her to run a bath, relax, get into honeymoon mode.

  Mum and Paddy are in the living room checking passports and travel documents, finishing their packing, modelling ancient sun hats and dodgy sandals. Their minds are already several thousand miles away from here, in the Peruvian rainforest, dreaming of organic, fairly traded cocoa beans and llamas and the Lost City of the Incas.

  ‘Be good for Grandma Kate,’ Mum says, her face creased into a frown. ‘Try not to be any trouble, and help make sure everything runs smoothly. Be friendly. Be helpful. And whatever you do, don’t forget the room-changes on Saturdays …’

  ‘Mum, we won’t,’ I promise. ‘It’s all sorted – I’ve made a list so everyone knows when to help. It’ll run like clockwork!’

  ‘Your curfew is eleven, so no later than that, promise?’

  ‘We promise,’ we chorus, except for Honey who is suddenly busy checking her phone.

  ‘Honey?’ Mum prompts.

  My big sister looks up sulkily. ‘Eleven?’ she asks. ‘Seriously? I’m fifteen, not five!’

  Mum stops packing and turns to Honey, hands on hips. ‘We agreed, Honey,’ she says. ‘Eleven. The last thing I want is Grandma Kate worrying about where you are. If you can’t go along with that, the whole thing’s off.’

  Silence falls around us, and Paddy rakes a hand through his hair, despairing. Honey breaks the silence.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she laughs. ‘Don’t panic, it was a joke, yeah? I will stick to the curfew. I promise.’