Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey

by Cathy Cassidy

  It takes just minutes for my brain to freeze over. Maths has never been my strong point. Let’s face it, my only strong points seem to be breaking the rules and messing up, and already I am top of the class in those.

  ‘I expect you’ve done calculus back in England?’ Mr Piper asks, pausing beside my desk. ‘I don’t need to explain?’

  ‘No, no,’ I bluff. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Anything you don’t manage today, just finish up for homework,’ he says.

  ‘Right …’ I copy out question one. It doesn’t even look like a maths problem, more like a mysterious code that I don’t know how to crack.

  I look around the classroom. Everyone else is working, heads bent over their books, pens scratching away studiously. The girl beside me is on question five already. I don’t even know where to start – I was way behind in maths back home. When my classmate Anthony offered to help me with informal after-school study sessions I jumped at the chance, but in spite of his cleverness he was never any use at explaining stuff. It wasn’t long before I got bored and started sabotaging the lessons, and Anthony didn’t do a thing about it. He was hooked by then. I had him wrapped round my little finger.

  It ended in tears, of course. Anthony was the friend who hacked into the school computer system for me, altering my grades and sending out a fake report card. We got found out, and both of us were expelled. I am not proud of the way I treated him. I dragged him down with me, even if the hacking thing was his idea. It doesn’t matter – I know he’d never have even thought of it, if it hadn’t been for me.

  Anyway, Anthony is history now, and if he ever tried to teach me calculus, I definitely wasn’t listening. I begin to sketch a plump, angry chicken with a bouffant hairdo in the margin of my exercise book, and the girl beside me giggles.

  ‘Awesome,’ she whispers. ‘It’s Birdie, right?’

  ‘I just thought … she’s like this kind of bad-tempered mother hen.’

  ‘I know!’ the girl agrees. ‘One crazy chook …’

  ‘A tough old Bird …’

  Mr Piper looks up abruptly, eagle-eyed, his teacher-radar on red alert. ‘Is there a problem, Miss Woods?’ he enquires. ‘Miss Tanberry?’

  ‘No problem, Sir,’ we say together.

  I go back to doodling in the margins, but this time I’m smiling.

  At breaktime Tara Woods introduces me to her friend, Beneditte Jones, whose hair cascades down around her face in an avalanche of tiny braids. She has mocha-coffee skin, a curvy, cuddly shape and a riotous laugh. I like her instantly.

  ‘Call me Bennie,’ she says. ‘Everybody does.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘So … does nobody around here ever break the uniform rules? Really?’

  ‘Not much,’ Tara admits. ‘Lots of schools here have strict uniform rules, it’s not just us. Birdie says it takes the pressure off – we get to be ourselves.’

  ‘What if being myself involves wearing this neckerchief in my hair?’ I frown, and Bennie rolls her eyes.

  ‘Oh boy!’ she says. ‘I think I’m going to like you!’

  ‘I might be a bad influence,’ I tease.

  ‘Definitely,’ Tara says. ‘It could get interesting!’

  ‘Very interesting, trust me,’ I say. ‘Thing is, I need to stay on the straight and narrow. It’s not a great time to transfer schools, and I don’t want to mess up. I wasn’t always a grade A student back home, but I want to do better and I have a feeling I’m going to be out of my depth. I didn’t understand one single thing in maths.’

  ‘Maths is easy,’ Bennie says. ‘It’s just practice.’

  ‘We can help you,’ Tara offers. ‘Not just with maths, but … well, y’know. Getting used to Sydney, used to Willowbank. If you want …’

  I look at Tara and Bennie, two perfectly nice Australian girls who seem willing to be my friends. Thing is, they are probably too nice for me. They will see my true colours and ditch me fast, or else I will ruin them, bring them down to my level. Tara’s face is bright, innocent, believing; all those things I used to see in the mirror before I buried them deep beneath layers of bad-girl kudos. I know you can’t turn back the clock, but sometimes I think I’d like to …

  ‘That would be brilliant,’ I say to Tara. ‘Thank you.’

  You have new friend requests from:

  Cherryblossomgirl

  AlfieAnderson

  LondonFinch

  Millz4eva

  TiaHere

  BennieJ

  Tarastar

  Surfie16

  Accept or reject?

  6

  I lounge beside the honeysuckle arch, my back against the flower-tangled framework, my school books scattered around me to give an impression of studying. I have four lots of homework to get through – I mean, seriously? Do Willowbank students actually have a life? Clearly not.

  I’ve just had a quick chat on the phone to Mum, skirting round the small detail that I’m not actually at the school she thinks I am and telling her all went well. I don’t think she sussed, and I told myself the lies were necessary to make sure she didn’t have a go at Dad for not keeping her in the loop. My mum worries about stuff, and I do not want her pulling the plug on my Great Australian Adventure before it has even begun.

  Emma brings me out an orange juice and tells me that dinner will be at seven – apparently, Dad is bringing home a Chinese takeaway to celebrate my first day at Willowbank.

  ‘It’s your favourite, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘He remembered!’

  ‘Wow … he really did!’

  Long ago, when we were still a proper family, Dad would sometimes bring home a Chinese takeaway as a treat. He had to drive to Minehead to fetch it, so it was a really big deal, and I remember thinking that it was very sophisticated and grown-up. My little sisters weren’t keen, and always ended up picking at plain white rice while Mum saved the day with a plate of hasty cheese and tomato sandwiches.

  I wanted to look grown-up, so I always tried a bit of every dish, even if it meant choking down slimy beansprouts or strange vegetables dipped in hot and sour sauce. ‘That’s my girl,’ Dad used to say, so I’d eat it all up just to please him.

  When Dad left, we never ate Chinese takeaway again.

  ‘I’m so glad it went well today,’ Emma is saying. ‘Look at you, getting stuck into your homework already! Greg will be proud!’

  ‘Can you do calculus, Emma?’ I ask.

  She frowns. ‘Can I do what?’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll ask Dad later.’

  As soon as Emma goes back inside, I slide a finger across the screen of my iPhone and check my new SpiderWeb page. My sisters have posted good luck messages, and there’s a bunch of new friend requests from earlier.

  I screw my nose up at Cherry’s. I didn’t send a request to her; why can’t she get the message? Still, I can imagine the hassle it will cause with Skye, Summer and Coco if I refuse.

  I click Accept all. Millie and Tia, friends of my sisters; Alfie, Summer’s annoying boyfriend; Finch, Skye’s holiday romance; Tara and Bennie from school today – that makes me smile.

  Finally, I notice an add from Surfie16. I didn’t have anyone on my old SpiderWeb page with that username. Maybe it’s Shay? He didn’t have SpiderWeb for ages, until I made a music page for him; perhaps he’s made a personal page too?

  I click on to Surfie16’s profile page, and right away I know it’s not Shay. The profile picture shows a close-up of sunbrowned feet in golden sand, part of a battered surfboard just visible in the corner; the banner is a wide, turquoise ocean with the sky streaked red and gold.

  My heart starts to race. These pictures were taken in Australia, surely? I think of Riley – another boy, another beach, a romance that sparked in the sunshine and fizzled just as fast to nothing.

  Well, maybe I was wrong about that.

  He said he’d add me on SpiderWeb, and he really has. I scan his page for clues, but Surfie16 has strict privacy settings. I can’t see his friends, only a few pos
ts on his page which range from rock-music videos shared from YouTube to short, snappy status updates about surfing. It has to be him, though!

  I click on to private message.

  Hey, Riley? Is this you? Great to hear from you again!

  Honey xxx

  Within minutes, a message appears in my inbox.

  Hi, gorgeous! How’s it going?

  I laugh out loud. Maybe he decided that the age gap didn’t matter after all – and it looks like I definitely didn’t imagine the chemistry. I message again.

  Today was my first day at school in Sydney. It will take some getting used to! How was the party, anyhow?

  Honey xxx

  A reply pings back almost at once.

  Party was OK, but I wish you’d been there. Another time?

  I grin, typing out a reply.

  Maybe. And maybe I’ll see you at the beach again soon?

  xxx

  I wait for Riley’s reply, but a full ten minutes tick by before his answer arrives, by which time I’m panicking that I’ve scared him off. When a message finally does appear, it’s short and sweet.

  Sure. Got to go now, speak soon.

  My shoulders slump, but hey, Riley’s made contact – I can’t help feeling flattered about that. I promised Dad I’d swear off boys, parties and trouble, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have boy friends, does it? A SpiderWeb friendship will hardly get me into trouble, and a little flirtation never hurt anyone. I argue myself into deciding it’s OK. I am turning over a new leaf, after all, not entering a nunnery.

  I turn back to my homework with a smile on my face, determined to show the teachers I can be the ‘bright, talented’ kid they’d been told to expect. Why not? I can be charming when I want to be, and right now it makes sense to keep the teachers onside.

  Eventually, Dad arrives home with the takeaway. I have tried my very best with the homework; the science seemed straightforward enough and I ran the French translation passage through an Internet translate site. It doesn’t look quite right, but hopefully it will be convincing enough. Besides, it’s the best I can do right now – it’s a few years since I paid any attention in French class. I still have two chapters of Animal Farm to read before tomorrow but hey, if jet lag strikes again tonight, at least I’ll have a distraction. It’s just the maths I can’t get a handle on.

  I tidy up my books and carry them to the house just as Dad appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asks, flinging an arm round my shoulders. ‘Lots of homework? That’s what I like to see!’

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as I thought,’ I say. ‘I’m a bit stuck on the maths, though. Calculus. Can you explain it for me?’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he says. ‘Haven’t done any for a while, but I’m sure I remember the basics. Let’s have a look at it after supper. This is top-quality stuff; we don’t want it to go cold!’

  I ditch my books on to an empty sunlounger and follow Dad across the patio. Emma puts a tablecloth and fresh flowers on the outdoor table, uncorking a bottle of wine while Dad dishes up the takeaway.

  ‘Willowbank went well then?’ he asks, handing me a laden plate. ‘That’s excellent. First impressions count, Honey. Be smart, be confident …’

  ‘I was smart all right,’ I say, remembering the way I’d cheeked Miss Bird. ‘I definitely made an impression.’

  Not a good one, though. A long way from good. What was I thinking?

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Dad says, digging into his food.

  ‘Miss Bird doesn’t seem to know much about what happened back home,’ I venture. ‘About me being expelled and all …’

  Dad laughs. ‘You think I’d broadcast that?’ he says. ‘There’s no need for them to know the gory details. This is meant to be a fresh start, and as far as I’m concerned that means a clean sheet. You need to leave the past behind.’

  ‘I plan to,’ I say. ‘But … Miss Bird says you’ve arranged for my old school records to be sent on. She won’t be pleased when she finds out the truth.’

  ‘She won’t,’ Dad tells me. ‘I haven’t spoken to your old school – that would be asking for trouble. With any luck the old bat will forget anyway, but if she asks we can just say the papers got lost in the post.’

  I blink, slightly confused. This is the kind of trick I’d pull – there’s no doubt at all that my rebellious streak comes from Dad. I’m not sure that a skill for lying is a great quality for a middle-aged businessman to have, but then what do I know?

  Emma has switched on the music centre with its cool outdoor speakers, and the yellow light from the dining room spills out through the open patio doors. The night is warm and Dad is talking about a new account he managed to nail today. Emma tops up his wine and tells him how brilliant he is – she is laying it on with a trowel, but Dad seems to like it, and from the way they’re cuddling up I think it’s time I made myself scarce. Seriously, you’d think older people would be past all of that mushy stuff. Shouldn’t they be focusing on middle-aged pastimes like golf or gardening?

  Whatever. This is clearly not the moment to mention maths homework.

  I scoop up the empty foil trays and stack the plates and cutlery, carrying them into the kitchen. I rinse the foil trays and fold them flat for the recycling bin before stacking the plates in the dishwasher. I never did much around the house at home, not if I could help it, but here I need to look keen. I need to make myself useful.

  The telephone rings, and I lift up the handset and click on to the call.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ I ask brightly.

  There’s a pause, and for a moment I think the call could be Mum, or one of my sisters, calling from the UK. I think I can hear a faint breath, a whisper of silence.

  ‘Hello?’ I say again, and abruptly the line goes dead. I tap in the code to find the number, in case it really was Mum, but an automated voice tells me that the number cannot be disclosed.

  ‘Honey, love, can you bring out the fruit salad from the fridge?’ Emma calls, and I shrug off the phone call and carry out the big bowl of jewel-bright fruits.

  ‘Somebody rang,’ I say, setting everything down on the table. ‘But the line went dead as soon as I spoke.’

  ‘Probably one of those automated dial things from a call centre somewhere in who knows where,’ Dad says, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘Maybe,’ Emma agrees, dishing out the fruit salad. ‘Or maybe it’s just some sad little creature who thinks it’s OK to call up a family in the middle of their supper and then hang up.’

  I blink. Emma’s reaction seems a bit over the top, but who knows, perhaps she’s had a hard day at work?

  ‘Emma,’ Dad says, ‘it was an automated sales call. No big deal.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Emma shrugs.

  I tune out their low-level bickering and think of this afternoon’s messages from Surfie16 with a smile. So far, on balance, Australia is looking good. I open up Animal Farm and start to read, and darkness wraps itself around me, soft and warm.

  Charlotte Tanberry

 

  to me

  Hello Honeybee …

  Great to talk to you earlier. I’m so glad your first day at school was good, but still, I can’t help missing you. The big chocolate order is finished now and Lawrie and his mum and sister are leaving tomorrow, so we’re having a farewell supper. Guess it’s night-time where you are, but I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.

  Love you,

  Mum xxx

  7

  I am not sure how long jet lag is meant to last, but I’m pretty sure it should be gone by now. I have been in Sydney for ten days, but even though I fall asleep at roughly the right time each evening, I am still waking up at four in the morning, head buzzing. I think I am becoming nocturnal.

  Instead of staring wall-eyed at the ceiling, I pick up my mobile and click on to SpiderWeb. Coco has posted a photo of Caramel, her new pony, on to my wall, so I hit
Like and write cute underneath it. It is easier to be nice to my sisters when they are thousands of miles away, somehow.

  A new message pops up almost at once.

  Hey, big sister! Missing you. Mum says you’re probably asleep but I wish we could talk …

  Coco

  Grinning, I type out a reply.

  I’m not asleep. Want to Skype?

  Seconds later, a new message appears.

  You betcha!

  I shrug on a sweatshirt and pad through to Dad’s study, picking up his laptop and bringing it back through to my bedroom. I am only supposed to use it for emergencies, but talking to my sisters in the middle of the night has to qualify, right? There’s a familiar whoosh as the Skype icon launches; with two more clicks the screen is filled with a fuzzy image of the kitchen at Tanglewood, my sisters leaning in towards the camera, pulling faces.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ Coco yells, loud enough to wake the dead. ‘Can you see me?’

  ‘I can see your left nostril really clearly,’ I tell her. ‘Everything else is a blur, but … hang on … think you might have forgotten to wash your neck this morning, Coco!’

  ‘The cheek!’ she rages. ‘A whole week, I have been pining for you! Weeping into my pillow! Playing violin laments from the treetops! You are heartless, Honey Tanberry, heartless!’

  ‘That’s why you love me,’ I tease.

  ‘Coco, move back a bit, let your sisters see the screen!’ Mum’s voice cuts in, and as Coco pulls back and flops down on to a kitchen chair I can finally see Mum, Skye and Summer crowding in behind her. My sisters are laughing, waving, huddled in thick jumpers next to the Aga, cradling mugs of steaming hot chocolate. For a split second I wish I was there with them, in the crowded, cosy evening kitchen at Tanglewood and not here, alone, on the other side of the world.

  ‘We have got so much to tell you!’ Coco blurts.

  ‘We miss you!’ Summer adds.

  ‘Come back, all is forgiven!’ Skye says. ‘Seriously! It’s just not the same without you here! Are you settling in? Are you still loving it?’