by Skuse, C. J.
“Jody, hot dogs, please!” calls Mum again.
I sigh. Mac and I have been trying to evade the party celebrations for most of the afternoon, having done a few rounds of “Ooh haven’t you grown” and “You two dating?” and “My boyfriend Mac and me are both going to college together in the fall — he’s studying drama, I’m studying art.” We just want a break.
“Can’t you send Hal?” I call back.
“Not on her birthday, no,” Mum shouts. I fling Mac upright and he follows me out to the kitchen. The breakfast bar is covered in bowls of chips, crudités, dips, mini sausages, and cakes, and in the very center is Halley’s cake with a massive “15” candle in the middle of it. I take a couple of macaroons, shoving one in my mouth and sneaking one behind my back for Mac. Mum comes back in the kitchen from outside.
“Jody, hot dogs, now, please? Teddy’s doing seven sorts out there because he thinks we’re going to run out.” She hands me a tenner.
The barbecue is on the patio outside. Mac’s dad is doing it (his first barbecue in ten years, hence the smoke) and has even shut the pub for the afternoon, the first time since, well, forever. The yard is filled with all sorts of different chairs and kitchen stools and Halley’s friends and Mum’s friends from the bank. Tish is there, too, with Cree, looking in the flower bed for snails. (Roly mysteriously disappeared from her animal carrier, so we told her he and Man had gone to live on a happy farm in Australia. It was the nicest thing we could think to say that wasn’t close enough that she’d want to go and visit.) Some pub regulars stand around the barbecue with pints, laughing and trying to sort out the smoke problem. A couple of them are the builders who are going to start on Mum’s addition next month. She’s using some of her money to have the kitchen extended and my bedroom’s going to be bigger, too. It’ll have its own bathroom and, get this, its own staircase that will lead straight down into the garage, which has now officially become my art studio. How cool is that?! Halley’s getting all new bedroom furniture and a puppy and private tennis lessons, so she’s happy, too.
“I want to go to the Trose!” says a little voice as Cree runs in from the garden in her new summer dress with the little dragonflies on the shoulders.
Mac scoops her up. “Oh you heard that, did you? No, you won’t like it at the Trose. It’s run by the nasty witch.”
“The nasty witch is at the Trose?” she asks, twizzling his ear stud. Mac nods. “Will the witch eat me up?”
Mac nods again and winks at me. We’ve lost our last bastion of privacy today what with Mum turning the garage — my art studio — into a walk-in gallery for people to view my canvases. She’s insisted I put them all out on the easels she bought me so people can go in and look at them. So embarrassing.
“I want to come to the Trose, Dody.” She puts her arms out to me.
I take her from Mac. “You can come to Waitrose, Cree. I’ll make sure the nasty witch doesn’t come anywhere near you.”
“OK, Dody.” She smiles at Mac who tickles her until she’s writhing like a little fish in my arms.
We go out to the hallway. There’s a stack of mail on the hall table. A menu advertising “Gluten Free Night” at the local fish bar, a Carnival Cruises holiday leaflet for Grandad, a phone offer for Halley, and, amazingly, two envelopes for me. I haven’t had any mail in weeks. I’ve given up on the whole rushing-downstairs-when-I-hear-the-letter-box thing. I put Cree down and hand one of my envelopes to Mac. “Could this be our tickets at last?” I ask him.
He smiles, tearing it open. “Yep, two tickets, two weeks.” He kisses my head. “Our first holiday. Just us and Italy for two whole weeks. It’s going to be amazing.”
He’s right, it will be amazing. I can’t wait. We’ve got tickets to see Van Morrison, live in Venice, while we’re there, too. Mac says I need to “exorcise” the concert demon. I’m happy about it, I am. But going away just reminds me about him. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. How he went away. How I don’t know how far he got or if he’s OK. If he’s happy now.
I hope the gondola ride is as romantic as Mac says, not all open sewers like I’ve heard.
I hope I don’t fall in. I hope I don’t make some scene in the Sistine Chapel when I’m attempting to scatter Grandad’s ashes.
I hope not. I really hope not.
I note the postmark on my other envelope. Weird symbols and a mountain. Definitely foreign. I stand looking at it for a long time. I almost can’t bear to open it.
“What’s that one?” Mac asks.
“I don’t know,” I lie. But I do know. I know exactly what it is and it’s what I’ve been waiting for. Praying for. I’m shaking as I rip open the envelope.
And a single pink cherry blossom falls out onto my hand.
Many thanks to Richard O’Brien for his permission to quote “Sweet Transvestite” and “Don’t Dream It” from The Rocky Horror Show (© Richard O’Brien/Rocky Horror Company, 1973).
“Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Noel Gallagher, from the album (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? (© Noel Gallagher/Oasis, 1995), quoted with kind permission of Oasis.
“Black” by Eddie Vedder and Stone Gossard, from the album Ten (© Pearl Jam, 1991), quoted with kind permission.
“Bohemian Rhapsody” by Freddie Mercury, from the album A Night at the Opera (© Freddie Mercury/Queen, 1975), quoted with kind permission.
Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers would be pleased to rectify any errors or omissions brought to their notice, at the earliest opportunity.
Barry Cunningham, Imogen, Rachel, Esther, Laura, Elinor, Chrissie, and the wonderful Chicken House. Kirsten Stransfield and Nicki Marshall for their amazing editorial skills.
My lovely mum, Auntie Maggie, and Uncle Roy for all the grist that keeps the mill going. Jamie, Angie, Alex, and Joshua for the loan of their house to home my wayward rock star. And to Josie, who named my baby Cree. My cousin Emily Snead (sorry, Em, I just had to use the puke experience). Owain Gillard for his all-seeing eye.
Matthew Snead, who wanted a line of his own in this one.
The usual suspects plus some new ones — Manic Street Preachers, Allie Moss, The Prodigy, The Killers, Paramore, Kings of Leon, Green Day, Foo Fighters, Antony and the Johnsons, 30 Seconds to Mars, Oasis, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Avril Lavigne, Metallica, Queen, Van Morrison, and the endlessly inspirational My Chemical Romance for being the constant soundtrack to my thoughts.
Holly Grainger, Adam Lambert, Seth Gabel, Lorraine Ashbourne, Dakota Fanning, Monica Potter, and Billy Connolly. Although you didn’t know it, these characters wouldn’t be who they are without you.
C.J. SKUSE loves graphic novels, ’80s sitcoms, Gummi Bears, My Chemical Romance, and malamutes. She hates omelettes, carnivals, and coughs. BCCB called her debut novel, Pretty Bad Things, “a fast-paced action adventure [that] provides a subtle sociological study of the effects of living in a hyper-mediated culture”! Or, as acclaimed YA author Kevin Brooks described it, “so good I’d even recommend it to people I don’t like.” Rockoholic is her second book. Friend her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter @CeejaytheAuthor.
Text copyright © 2012 by C.J. Skuse
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. CHICKEN HOUSE, SCHOLASTIC, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc. www.scholastic.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2011 by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS. www.doublecluck.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Skuse, C. J. Rockoholic / C. J. Skuse. — 1st American ed.p. cm. Summary: Sixteen-year-old Jody Flook is known for doing stupid things, but when she accidentally kidnaps her idol, rock star Jackson Gatlin, at his only concert in the entire United Kingdom, and he does not want to leave her garage, she is in real trouble.
ISBN 978-0-545-42960-3 [1. Kidnapping — Fiction. 2. Fame — Fiction. 3. Musician
s — Fiction. 4. Rock music — Fiction. 5. Best friends — Fiction. 6. Friendship — Fiction. 7. Wales — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S43748Roc 2012[Fic] — dc23
2011046582
First American edition, November 2012
e-ISBN 978-0-545-47004-9
The display type was set in Champion and Old Typewriter.
Cover design by Whitney Lyle
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.