by Melody James
I’ve already slipped off my blazer and hung it over the back of my chair. The damp weather has sent my hair frizztastic.
‘Crack open a window, Cinders.’ Will looks up from his keyboard. ‘We’re suffocating in here.’
Cindy is leaning over Sam’s shoulder, reading his review of the Elastic Funk gig he went to last night. Her sleek, silvery hair slaps his cheek as she snaps her head up and glares at Will. ‘Do it yourself.’
‘Are you scared Sam’s spelling will slip if you leave his side for a second?’ Will crunches down hard on the end of his pencil.
‘I’m the editor, not the office junior,’ Cindy sniffs.
Will leans over and tugs one of my corkscrew locks. ‘Hey, Lizzie Siddal, go open a window.’
I scowl at him. ‘Lizzie Siddal?’ How did he come up with that nickname?
‘Google it, doll-face.’ Will turns back to his keyboard and starts hammering.
Cindy leans closer to Sam. Sam’s got his eyes fixed on the monitor.
‘Give the poor lad some air,’ Will growls, without looking up. ‘He’s probably choking on your perfume.’
Cindy turns her perfect nose towards Sam. ‘I’m not crowding you, am I, Sam?’
Sam’s flushing. ‘Not really.’ His eyes meet mine and I look away like he’s caught me spying.
‘I’ll do it.’ I get up and head for the window, but Sam’s already on his feet.
‘Let me.’ He slides his hand under mine and takes the stiff metal handle and cranks it open. ‘Elizabeth Siddal was an artist’s model,’ he whispers. ‘Will’s just turned in an English essay on the Pre-Raphaelite painters. She had hair like yours.’ Before I can answer he’s gone, sliding in beside Cindy.
‘Thanks, Gemma.’ Barbara looks up at me gratefully. ‘I was boiling.’
‘Sam opened the window, not me,’ I point out.
‘It’s the thought that counts.’ She’s working with pen and paper, sketching out next week’s feature. I notice her nails are painted today. And her chair is turned towards David’s desk.
David is huddled beside Phil as they surf the web, looking at Amazon’s top ten gadgets. ‘We could put together a list of the five most affordable cameras with the best reviews,’ David suggests.
‘And a list of the five with the worst reviews,’ Phil adds.
Cindy looks up. ‘Just make sure you quote your sources,’ she warns. ‘I don’t want the webzine accused of plagiarism.’
‘What’s plagiarism?’ Jeff stops typing.
I scowl. ‘It’s when someone steals another person’s work and pretends it’s all their own.’ I throw a meaningful look at Will, but he carries on typing.
I feel Sam’s gaze on me. ‘If someone tried to steal my work, I’d stick up for myself.’ His blue eyes are dead serious.
Is he trying to tell me I should have challenged Will about stealing the limelight for our article on Dave Wiggins? I head back to my desk. Easy for you to say, Sam. I slam down into my chair. You’re not a lowly Year Nine.
Cindy rests her hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t let anyone steal your work, Sam.’
Will grunts. ‘Keep your friends close, but your editor closer,’ he mutters.
Cindy flicks her hair back and ignores him. ‘Have you checked your inbox, Gemma?’ She’s prodding me towards Jessica’s fan mail.
‘I was about to.’ I pull my monitor close so no one can see what I’m working on. I need to find an email for Jessica’s Reader-of-the-Week feature.
The first is asking my advice.
Dear Miss Jupiter,
My cat has an appointment at the vet’s on Monday. She’s fourteen years old and has been sick. Please can you tell me if she’ll be OK or not.
She’s Sagittarius.
Yours anxiously
[email protected]
My shoulders slump. Now I’m doing cat horoscopes.
I save it for later and open the next email.
Dear Jessica,
You said that pride comes before a fall. How did you know I was going to fall off my chair? Are you really psychic?
Ryan
I squash back a smile and click Reply.
Star-ling,
I don’t have to be psychic to know that you’re the sort of kid who drops off chairs. Leos love to show off. It’s part of their charm, but it also leads to accidents. Be careful, pussycat. Keep your paws firmly on the ground in future.
Jessica
I move on to the next fan mail.
Dear Ms Jupiter,
I’m not sure how to begin, so let me start with a confession. I’ve fallen for a girl who works on the webzine. I’m not used to talking to girls and I was hoping you might be able to advise me. I can tell from your horoscopes that you are a bright, sensitive woman of the world, so I’m hoping you can give me a few tips on how to woo this most wonderful girl. If it’s any help, my star sign’s Gemini.
Yours truly,
Lovelorn
‘Gemma?’
I hardly hear Sam calling me.
‘What?’ I stare at my screen, heart racing with excitement. This email has to be from David. He’s a Gemini. He must be asking how he can get Barbara’s attention.
‘Are you going on the Paris trip?’ Sam’s question buzzes at the edge of my whirling thoughts.
‘Why would Gemma be coming on our trip?’ Cindy sounds indignant. ‘It’s Year Tens only. Barbara and I have been looking forward to it for weeks.’
Will answers. ‘Madame Papillon has invited some Year Nines to fill up the places. Are you scared she’s going to ask you to babysit?’
I have a light bulb moment. Cindy just said Barbara is going on this trip. What better place to fall in love than Paris? ‘David?’ I lean round my monitor. ‘Are you going?’
David drags his gaze away from his screen. ‘To Paris? I haven’t decided yet.’
Barbara shifts to the edge of her chair, her pen twitching in her hand.
I leap in. ‘You must go,’ I blurt. ‘Think what a great experience it would be.’
David frowns thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it would be interesting to see the Métro. And the Channel Tunnel.’
‘Precisely,’ Cindy chimes in. ‘The more Year Tens, the better.’
You mean more Year Tens, fewer Year Nines. I ignore her and press on. ‘I bet you could pick up some great comic books.’
Jeff looks up. ‘I’ve been researching the shops.’ His eyes are shining. ‘There are some great bookstores with whole floors full of graphic novels.’
‘France is the home of Tintin,’ I add.
David grins widely. ‘Tintin was my first graphic novel.’ He glances at Phil. ‘OK. I’m going.’ I fight the smile that wants to burst all over my face.
Barbara’s staring down at her work, her cheeks pink.
‘So are you going, Gemma?’ Sam asks again.
‘Yeah.’ I’m busy wondering how I should answer David’s email.
‘Who cares if Gemma’s going?’ Cindy moves to block Sam’s view. ‘She’ll be in the Year Nine group anyway.’ She taps his screen with the end of her pen. ‘Do you really think your first line is punchy enough, Sam?’
As he looks back at his screen, I start typing.
Dear Lovelorn,
Follow your heart, Star-ling. You’re a Gemini! True love is written in your stars. The girl of your dreams may be inexperienced in love, so approach her gently. Make sure she knows exactly how you feel. Admire her. Compliment her. Don’t let shyness stop you. If she works on a webzine, she must long to be a writer. So woo her with words. How could she resist when the stars are on your side?
Yours ardently,
Jessica
I tip back in my seat and imagine David and Barbara under the Paris moon. Then I remember in a flash that I’m going too! I can’t wait to smell the boulangeries and the fresh coffee, and see the elegant women clicking along the smart pavements in high heels, wafting Chanel. I vow to capture it all in a feature article that wi
ll share my Parisian experience with all our readers. I’ll make it so good, Cindy will have to publish it.
Finally, I’ll be taken seriously on the webzine. And if I can help Barbara and David fall in love at the same time, it’ll be perfect!
Pleased with my plan, I email Cindy a copy of my answer to David’s lovelorn email so she can paste it into her horoscope feature page, then power down my PC. With Jessica in charge, what could possibly go wrong?
‘Come on, Gem!’ Treacle hauls me to my feet. ‘We’ve got to do something.’
It’s Sunday afternoon, just starting to turn dark outside. Treacle has been pacing my room for five minutes working out how to persuade Savannah’s dad to sign the Paris form. Wednesday’s the deadline. If Savannah doesn’t hand it in, she’ll miss the trip.
Treacle shows me Sav’s text again.
Dad’s still not signed form
‘Won’t it be a bit obvious if we just turn up at her door and start begging him to sign?’ I reason. What if Savannah’s on the verge of persuading her dad that she won’t choke on garlic butter or be seduced by the Three Musketeers while she’s in Paris? Persuading parents is a delicate business. Like herding goats. Too much pressure and they panic and turn stubborn just to prove they’re in charge.
Treacle picks up her book bag. It’s heavy with the history assignment we’ve been working on all afternoon. ‘We’ll just say we’ve come round to swap notes and see how it’s going.’
I give in. Treacle’s got her penalty-scoring face on – the one that tells me she’s determined to get the ball in the back of the net. ‘Come on then.’ I slide Twentieth-century Europe into my bag and heft it onto my shoulder. Treacle’s already out the door and hammering downstairs.
‘Mum, we’re going to Savannah’s!’ I yell from the hallway.
Mum hoots from the study, ‘Be back in time for tea. It’s a school night, remember?’ She must think I have the memory of a goldfish.
‘OK.’ I swing open the front door and follow Treacle out.
The pavement’s wet and the street lights are just starting to flicker on. Treacle’s hair reflects an orange halo as she passes under them.
I wonder about my own. ‘Do you know anything about the Pre-Raphaelites?’ I ask Treacle.
‘Weren’t they that droopy bunch who were into knights in shining armour and damsels in distress?’ She’s striding along, bag bumping on her back.
‘Did they have nice hair?’ I ask hopefully.
Treacle looks at me sideways. ‘Why?’
‘Someone said I had Pre-Raphaelite hair,’ I shrug. I’ve Googled Elizabeth Siddal of course. She was droopy. There’s a famous painting of her floating like seaweed in a pond. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.’
The corners of Treacle’s mouth are wrinkling into a smile. ‘It’s a good thing, Gemma. Kinda romantic. Who said it?’
I shudder, thinking of Will. He’s not exactly the knight-in-shining-armour type. And definitely not romantic unless your idea of romance is being cornered by wolves. I decide he must have been working the droopy angle. ‘No one special.’ I stare at the glistening pavement blurring beneath my feet.
Treacle gasps. ‘Was it Rupert?’
The thought fills me with horror. ‘No way!’ I prefer Will. At least his humour has wit, even though it’s so razor-sharp you could shave with it.
Treacle narrows her eyes, but doesn’t push. She knows I‘ll spill eventually; I always do. Besides, we’re three strides from Savannah’s driveway. Treacle cuts across the grass and crunches over the gravel. The porch light flashes on as she reaches for the bell.
‘Hello, Mr Smith.’
Savannah’s dad has answered the door by the time I catch up.
He’s a tall man, his hair greying at the edges, a pale yellow golfing sweater gently hugging his belly. He beams as he recognizes us. We’ve known him forever. He used to buy us ice cream on the way home from playschool. ‘Hello, Tracy. Hi, Gemma.’ He glances out into the darkening sky. ‘It’s a bit late to be out, isn’t it?’
Treacle shows him her watch. ‘It’s five o’clock, Mr Smith. We’re not six years old any more.’
Mr Smith shakes his head and sighs. ‘I guess not.’ He turns and calls behind him. ‘Savannah!’ Then he steps out of the way and waves us in. ‘She’s probably on her laptop playing Facebook with some lanky-haired layabout in Kuala Lumpur.’ I swear I see another hair turn grey as he speaks.
‘Gemma! Treacle!’ Savannah pops her head out of the living room door. ‘Come in! Have you finished that history essay? It’s sooooo hard.’ Gabbling, she herds us into the living room where cushions are piled into a nest in the middle of the wide, cream carpet. A laptop sits in the nest, snapped shut, like a precious egg she’s been trying to hatch.
She kneels on the cushion and cracks it open. ‘I’m on the conclusion.’ She blinks up at me as I sit on the sofa and tuck my legs under me. ‘The First World War was everyone’s fault, right?’
Treacle flops next to me. ‘That’s pretty much what I decided.’
Mr Smith is loitering in the doorway. ‘Juice and biscuits?’ he offers.
Savannah rolls her eyes at him. ‘Da-ad,’ she groans. As his face falls, she softens. ‘Some Coke would be cool.’
‘No biscuits?’ he presses.
Treacle sits forward. ‘What sort?’
‘Double choc chip,’ Mr Smith answers like a man who knows his biscuits.
Treacle grins. ‘Yes please.’ She starts to get up. ‘Can I help?’
My Smith shakes his head. ‘You stay and gossip. Savannah’s been stuck in with no one but me for company all day.’
As he disappears, Treacle’s attention snaps to Savannah. ‘Well?’ she demands. ‘Any progress?’
I’m more gentle. ‘Has he signed the Paris form yet?’
Savannah slumps on her cushion nest like the last dodo surrendering. ‘He’s acting like I’m asking him to sign my death warrant.’
‘Should we say anything to him?’ I ask.
Savannah’s super-smooth brow crumples. ‘I don’t know,’ she wails. ‘I’m trying to act grown-up and responsible, but I am this close—’ she pinches her finger and thumb a millimetre apart, ‘—to having a full-on tantrum.’ Her hair sweeps the cushions. ‘I think you’re just going to have to go without me. Just promise you’ll send postcards so I can at least see what I’m missing.’
‘Refreshments.’ Mr Smith breezes in, carrying a tray. He’s decanted Coke into cut-glass tumblers and the biscuits are piled high on a plate. Treacle’s gaze is darting manically from the biscuits to Mr Smith. I guess she’s trying to decide which to do first: wolf down cookies or bring up Paris.
Mr Smith slides the tray of goodies onto the coffee table. Treacle grabs a cookie and practically swallows it whole, then reaches for a glass of Coke and starts to sip. Mr Smith is lingering, swaying from one foot to another, with the nervous look of a Year Seven in the school office. Then he sits down suddenly on the edge of an armchair and rests his elbows on his knees. ‘Savannah says you’re both going on this Paris trip.’
Treacle gurgles as she tries to speak through her Coke.
I fill in for her. ‘Yes.’ I nod furiously. ‘We are really looking forward to it. It’s such a great opportunity. I’m hoping to write an article about our experiences for the school webzine.’
‘You’ll be travelling with Year Tens?’ Mr Smith looks wary. ‘Aren’t they a bit . . .’ He creases his brow. ‘. . . mature?’
Treacle puts her Coke on the table and fixes Mr Smith with an earnest look. ‘I’m dating a Year Ten, Mr Smith, and I promise you, he’s not at all mature.’
I butt in. ‘You don’t have to worry about Year Tens. I work with some on the webzine.’ Is he worried they’ll lead us astray and take us to seedy nightclubs and spike our lemonade with absinthe? ‘They think Year Nines are way uncool. We’re invisible as far as they’re concerned.’
Mr Smith is still frowning. ‘But who’ll be chape
roning you?’
‘Madame Papillon and Mr Chapman,’ Treacle pipes up. ‘There’s a list of the teachers on the form. We’re practically outnumbered. I think half the staffroom are going.’
Mr Smith turns back to me. ‘You say you work with Year Tens on the webzine?’
‘Treacle’s boyfriend is the sports reporter,’ I tell him.
‘Are many of them going on this trip?’ Mr Smith presses.
‘I think the whole editorial team’s going,’ I tell him. ‘They’re really nice.’ I’m thinking of Sam, Barbara, Dave and Phil. ‘Really sensible.’ I push home my point. ‘Between them and the teachers, I’m sure we’ll be well looked after.’
Treacle shifts forward on her seat. ‘I know you’re worried for Savannah, but I promise we’ll watch out for her, Mr Smith.’
‘We won’t leave her alone for a second.’ I can see him softening and hold my breath as he taps his fingertips together.
Then he stands up. ‘I just need to think about it a bit more.’ He exits and Savannah collapses onto her cushions and buries her face. A muffled groan seeps out.
I squash down next to her and hug her. ‘I really think he wants you to go,’ I comfort. ‘He just needs to get used to the idea.’
Savannah sits up and drags a stray lock of hair from between her lips. ‘Thanks for trying, guys,’ she sighs. ‘But I think he’s just going to build me a Rapunzel tower and lock me in it.’
Treacle slides onto the floor and tugs Savannah’s hair. ‘You’d better start growing this then,’ she teases gently. ‘Marcus will need something to climb up.’
‘I’m pleased to see so many of you made it to this special meeting.’ Cindy gazes up from behind a monitor. ‘I know it’s early.’
Webzine HQ is dingy beneath the single bulb. Outside, the sky’s hardly woken up. I glance at the clock. Eight fifteen. I stifle a yawn, still drowsy from the rumble of the early bus.
Jeff is looking flushed. He probably jogged to school. Sam’s rubbing his eyes as though he’s trying to massage them into life. Dave and Phil are damp and smell fresh with shower gel. Barbara’s neat as a pin, as usual, though there’s a dark smudge above each eye. Has she been experimenting with make-up?