Cathy Hopkins is the author of the incredibly successful Mates, Dates and Truth, Dare books, as well as the highly acclaimed Cinnamon Girl series. She lives in North London with her husband and cats.
Cathy spends most of her time locked in a shed at the bottom of the garden pretending to write books, but she is actually in there listening to music, hippie dancing and talking to her friends on email.
Apart from that, Cathy has joined the gym and spends more time than is good for her making up excuses as to why she hasn’t got time to go.
Find out more about Cathy and her books at
www.cathyhopkins.com
Thanks to Brenda Gardner, Anne Clark and the fab team at Piccadilly and to all those readers who wrote to me and said, ‘We want more of Lucy and Tony from the Mates, Dates series.’ They inspired this book, so this is also dedicated to them.
First published in Great Britain in 2009
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
Text copyright © Cathy Hopkins 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Cathy Hopkins to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 84812 018 1
eISBN: 978 1 84812 288 8
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustration by Sue Hellard
Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD
CONTENTS
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
Lucy
Tony
It was a moment that was to change my life for ever.
I was sitting in the passenger seat, staring out of the window as Dad drove us home. It was raining – which seemed fitting for the grey mood I was in.
‘How was school?’ asked Dad.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘OK,’ I replied. I didn’t feel like talking. I was thinking about Izzie. She’s been my best mate since junior school but something weird has been going on lately. A new girl arrived at the end of the summer term. Nesta Williams. She created quite a stir. She’s stunning for one thing – tall, dark-skinned with black hair like silk down her back, and she’s so confident. She’s everything I’m not. I’m small, blonde and totally unsure of who I am or where I fit in.
This September, we went into Year Nine and Izzie started hanging out with Nesta and now she’s always like, Nesta said this, Nesta did that. I’m scared that Izzie feels that she’s outgrown me, like I’m boring compared to her glam new mate. Or too childish.
The other night, we tried to get into a fifteen movie and we were turned away. I knew it was my fault because Izzie and Nesta both look sixteen. I couldn’t kid myself otherwise thanks to Josie – a mean girl from our school who was there in the queue. She looked my way then called out for everyone to hear,‘ Anyone can see the midget’s underage,’ and when she swanned into the movie with a bunch of Year Elevens, she said, ‘Leave the children to play.’ That hurt. And Nesta looked cross – probably because we hadn’t got in and it was because of me. I think she felt embarrassed to be seen with me too. So . . . I’m not sure if there’s going to be room for me in Izzie’s life any more. She clearly wants to move on and hang with the more grown up cool crowd.
Dad slowed down the car as the traffic lights changed and it was then that I saw him. A vision of boy babeness. He was coming out of the school gates at St Michael’s and he crossed the road in front of us. Dark. Handsome. Chiselled jaw. A Disney prince in a schoolboy’s black-and-white uniform, alive and walking the streets of North London. My heart sped up. It really did – boom banga bang in my chest – and I felt my stomach twist as I watched him. He didn’t see me. He was talking to another boy. They were laughing about something.
Ohmigod, I thought. After all these months of looking for a boy and only finding weedy wombats. There he is.
‘Lucy, you’re blushing,’ said Izzie later that same day.
‘No, I’m not,’ I objected, although I felt colour flush to my cheeks. Izzie is lucky, she never blushes. She has the looks of a typical Irish colleen: dark hair, green eyes, pale skin. Pale skin that always looks cool and in control.
I hate that I blush, I thought. It always gives my secrets away. I bet Nesta never blushes. I’ve tried wearing pale make-up to hide my red cheeks but it doesn’t work – nothing does and my embarrassment is always evident to anyone who happens to be looking at me.
Izzie raised an eyebrow and gave me a look as if to say, ‘Pull the other one’. I turned away from her and the computer where we’d been checking our horoscopes. I’d gone straight round to her house as soon as I’d had supper.
‘So. What’s going on?’ asked Izzie.
There was no point in hiding it. I could never keep anything from her for long and I was bursting to tell her my news. ‘I’m in love,’ I blurted.
‘Brilliant,’ said Izzie. ‘Who’s the lucky boy?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘I haven’t actually spoken to him yet.’
‘Ah. Do you know his name?’
I shook my head. ‘I know what school he goes to. St Michael’s.’
Izzie smiled. ‘I suppose that’s a start. And, er . . . how do you know it’s love?’
‘I just do,’ I replied. I did.
‘OK,’ said Izzie. ‘You just do.’
I nodded and settled back on the beanbag on the floor of her bedroom. I felt so much better. It was me and Iz doing our horoscopes and chatting like we always did. And I had seen the perfect boy. ‘Yeah. I’ve never felt like this before and I just know he’s going to feel the same when we meet. Er . . . don’t tell anyone though, will you?’
‘Course not,’ said Izzie. ‘Not if you don’t want. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘So come on, Tony. Tell us your secret,’ begged Robin as we crossed the road outside school. ‘I need help.’
‘No secret,’ I said. When we reached the other side, I saw that Annabelle Wilson and her mate Mira Jones were coming towards us on the pavement.
As soon as she spotted us, Mira flicked blond hair ba
ck off her face. ‘Hi, Tone,’ she said in a low voice and gave me a flirty look.
‘Hi, girls,’ I replied, and gave her a flirty look back (eye contact held a second too long, slightly raised eyebrow and slow smile) then I did the same to Annabelle. She blushed pink. I’d dated both of them last year. Not at the same time. I’d never have got away with it seeing as they’re mates. Mira in the winter for six weeks (a record for me as my cut off is usually around four), and Annabelle in the spring for just a few dates. She was sweet but boring after a while. I like a girl who can hold her own in the conversation stakes. Mira was more interesting but she got possessive and I don’t do clingy as she found out after yet another ‘And where have you been and who with?’ conversation.
The girls walked past and Rob and I continued on our way up towards Highgate. Rob turned around.
‘They’re watching,’ he said.
I shrugged and carried on walking. ‘Rule number one, my friend, never turn around. Makes you look too keen.’
‘Oh right,’ said Rob. ‘I forgot. Treat ’em mean to keep ’em keen.’
‘Ish,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to be mean, just don’t look desperate. Girls always want what they can’t have. Remember that.’
Rob did a mock salute. ‘So come on, Tony, spill. You clearly have the ability to pull any girl you want and I need a few hints.’
‘Don’t try too hard. Don’t do needy.’ I didn’t know what else to tell him. I’ve never had to try. Girls like me. Always have, but I don’t think it’s because of anything I say or don’t say, do or don’t do. Sometimes I joke around and say I am the Master when it comes to girls but I’m not totally serious. It’s simple. I like girls, they like me. Lucky me.
When we got up to Highgate, we went into Costa. We go in most nights after school and always try to bag the stools by the window. That way, we can check out the babes on the street as well as watch the ones inside.
Robin went to get our drinks while I got our places. He’s been my mate since I changed schools at the end of last year. Like mine, his family had just moved to the area so he was a newbie too. He’s a good guy. On the level. Nice-looking boy, Robin, but no real talent when it comes to pulling. He’s always, like, ‘Hey, I’ve got this real cool chat up line, want to hear it?’And I’d go, ‘Robin, reality check, man. You don’t need a chat up line to get on with girls, you just talk to them like you like them, like you’re interested in what they have to say.’ Works every time.
Now he reckons he’s in love. Hannah is her name. I’ve never seen him like this over a girl before. He only met her last week when we went bowling. She’s OK. Not my type. Bit tomboyish – figure like a boy’s too, straight up and down, and she doesn’t seem to make much effort with her clothes, she’s always in jeans and an old T-shirt. I like girls to look like girls. Especially those with a bit of style about them.
At that moment, Sienna Jeffrey waved from across the street. I waved back. She giggled and headed for the bus stop. About two minutes later, my phone bleeped that I had a text. It was from Sienna. Wot R U doing Fri pm? XXX
Rob came back with our cappuccinos and read the text over my shoulder. He sighed. ‘Sienna again? Isn’t that the hundredth text this week?’
I nodded. ‘Might have to change my phone.’
‘Just text her back and say, there’s a queue and you’re way down the line.’
I laughed but I could never be that cruel. Girls have feelings and it’s hard letting them down sometimes. We had a snog at a party a few weeks ago and now she thinks that we’re an item. But Rob is right. There is a queue. My mobile bleeped that I had another text. This time it was Carrie Johnson. I know you feel the same way as I do, she’d written. ’Fraid not, I thought as I pressed delete, then glanced up to see that Jess Macdonald and Charlotte Rosin were on their way over. Rob perked up immediately as they are two total Barbie babes.
‘Don’t look so keen, look cool,’ I whispered to Rob.
‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ he said and assumed a bored look and turned to look out the window.
Atta boy, Rob, I thought, you’ll get there in the end.
‘I do not believe you did that! How could you?’
‘I’m sorry, Luce,’ said Izzie as we went into assembly on Monday morning. ‘It just slipped out.’
I was mad. Really mad. Izzie had told Nesta my private business about being in love. ‘It was meant to be a secret,’ I said.
‘I know, I know, but we were talking about boys and love and stuff on the phone last night and it just came out.’
Grrrrr, I thought. GrrrRRRRRRRR. I wasn’t sure if I was more mad that she’d told Nesta my secret or because she’d been having a laugh with her about boys. Having a laugh and chatting about boys was what I did with Izzie. Iz and me. Me and Iz. The two of us. Two. It was another example of how things were changing with our friendship and I wasn’t sure I liked it.
‘I don’t want her coming with us on our “Find the Mystery Contestant” outings,’ I said. We’d agreed two things at the weekend. One was that we were going to refer to the boy as the MC, the Mystery Contestant, and the other was that I needed a plan to meet him. Izzie had suggested that we go up to Highgate and hang out after school every night. It was a good plan. A great plan and I felt excited about it. I could see it in my mind’s eye. I’d spot him. He’d see me. He’d feel the connection just like I had when he crossed the road in front of me. Everything would go into slow motion. Sadly the image in my mind’s eye kept getting poked out by Nesta. What if he saw her first? I wouldn’t stand a chance. She’s a boy magnet. She could be a model if she wanted. I’m not even near her league.
‘No worries,’ said Izzie. ‘Nesta’s got rehearsals for the school show just about every night.’
‘Does she know about the plan?’ I asked.
Izzie looked sheepish.
‘Izzie!’
Izzie threw up her hands. ‘Give her a break, Lucy. She was really pleased you’d seen a boy you liked. And OK, so she knows the plan but she’s not going to ruin it for you. She won’t be coming with us. She wants to be friends, you know.’
‘She wants to be friends with you,’ I said and then I hated myself for acting like a strop queen. I don’t know what’s the matter with me lately. Jealous. Moody. Cross! And that can all be in the space of five minutes some days. Not only that, our teacher Wacko Watkins has given us a project – What Makes Me Me? It feels like the final straw. Seems everyone in our class has done it no problemo. They all know what they want to do when they leave school, what they’re about, what their goals are. Not me though. I don’t know who I am, what I want to be or where I fit. The one thing I have ever been sure of in my life was that Izzie Foster was my best friend and now even that isn’t a definite any more.
Lucy
24th September
Quelle week terrible (to be read in a French accent). Actually, if anyone does read this, I will have to kill them (that’s YOU, Lal). Note to self – remember to always lock my diary away after I’ve written in it, especially after the humungous secret I am about to write in here. Also change the hiding place from under my mattress because I think Lal may have cottoned on to where I’ve been keeping it and we all know how nosy my dear brother is. Luckily I haven’t written too much in it so far, but, now that Izzie isn’t as available, I probably will. So, Lal, if you ever find my new hiding place and read it again, you are a dead man and I mean that.
What a week! After three evenings up in Highgate with Izzie, looking for my mystery boy in the cafés, at the bus stops, at the school gates, we were beginning to think that maybe I had dreamed him. We saw boys of every shape and size, but did the MC appear? Not on your nelly, as my gran used to say.
And then . . .
This evening, after checking out the school gates, we headed up to Costa and that’s where my life, my dreams, my future were shattered for ever. Just before we got to the café, Nesta appeared. My heart sank because I could see that every boy in the vicinity w
as checking her out. I thought it was game over for me. If mystery boy saw her, he’d fall in love, think that I was her pet elf (although I think I have grown a quarter of an inch and am now four foot ten and a half!) and that would be it, end of story.
Just as we were about to go into Costa, Nesta took a detour into the newsagent’s. Iz and I went to get drinks and scanned the café. So far so good – no sign of my boy.
I looked out of the window in case he was on the street. Suddenly my mouth dropped open. Nesta was coming out of the newsagent’s And she wasn’t alone. She was with him! HIM! My MC!
I could hardly believe my eyes. Iz and I had spent almost a whole week looking for him and, not only had Nesta bumped into him, but in two minutes, two minutes, she’d got chatting to him! Talk about a fast worker, I thought.
Seconds later, Nesta and his lovely lovelinesss were standing before me. (He was even better-looking close up.) And then Nesta introduced him as her brother, Tony! Brother?!!! I swear my jaw must have hit the floor. It didn’t add up. Nesta is dark-skinned. Tony is white. (I was a colour all of my own. Red, red, red.) Turns out he’s Nesta’s half-brother. Same dad, different mum. Nesta’s mum is her dad’s second wife. But MY MC IS NESTA’S BROTHER!!!!!!! Ugabugabulah!
And that’s when I knew that I could never tell anyone – not Izzie, certainly not Nesta – that Tony was the boy I’d been looking for all week. If he ever found out that I’d been up there looking for him, he’d think I was totally desperate. And if Iz and Nesta found out, it would be a huge laugh for them but utterly humiliating for me.
And then things got even worse – so bad, that I think the tiniest detail of our conversation will be imprinted on my brain for ever. My mind has been replaying and replaying the scene over and over in the fear that I may have given my secret away.
‘So. Which one of you is Lucy?’ Tony asked.
‘I am,’ I whispered. I felt wobbly and faint.
‘Nesta tells me that you’ve got your eye on one of the St Michael’s boys.’ (Hah! Like, yeah. Like, I have and it’s you. Argh!) ‘I go there, so I might know him.’ (Hahahaha. Not. More like double argh!) ‘I’m in Year Twelve. What year is he in? What does he look like?’ (What does he look like? YOU. Argh. Oh! My! God! This is like my worst nightmare. It can’t be happening.)
The Secret Story Page 1