Glitter Gets Everywhere

by Yvette Clark

  Sharing Is Caring

  Imogen has a sleepover with three of her friends for her fourteenth birthday party, and it’s after eleven in the morning when the self-named Glossy Posse finally leaves. Imogen opened her presents while her friends were here, but she didn’t touch the cream letter, which has been sitting on the counter all morning. It radiates magnetic waves, and I find myself moving out of my usual chair and sitting in Dad’s, which is closer to the letter. I can’t wait to read it.

  The kitchen table is still overflowing with wrapping paper and ribbons. I’m relieved the card isn’t at risk of being picked up and thrown into the recycling bin. I wish Imogen would hurry up and open the letter, but she’s currently studying her new makeup palette as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe. She finally picks up the envelope and skips off toward the door, ponytail swinging jauntily. Imogen got highlights done for her birthday present from Dad, even though Gran disapproved of her coloring her hair. They catch the light in the sunshine like strands of gold spun for Rumpelstiltskin. I think for the hundredth time how unfair it is that her shiny ponytail looks like a Palomino stallion’s and mine looks like Sir Lancelot’s stubby tail.

  “Imo, wait! Where are you taking the letter?”

  “To my room. Ciao.”

  “Can I read it after you?” I say.

  “Nope. Bye.”

  “But I let you read mine! It’s not fair.”

  Imogen stops and turns around.

  “I never asked to read your letter, Kitty. You just passed it around on your birthday and said we could all read it as long as we washed our hands first.”

  “But still, I let you.”

  “And I’m not letting you. End of discussion.” She looks at Dad with a defiant expression on her face in case he’s contemplating intervening. He shrugs.

  “It’s her letter, Kitty. It’s up to her.”

  As Imogen sets off up the stairs, I yell after her, “Your hair looks yellow, by the way, and you’re going to have dark roots when it grows out. You deserve them.”

  “It’s so unfair,” I complain to Kate when she takes me to lunch to try to cheer me up the following weekend. “Dad should have made Imogen let me read her letter.”

  “Your dad’s right, Kitty. It is your sister’s letter, and you have to respect her choice to keep it private.”

  “But I let her read my letter. Now it’s like she got to hear from Mum twice since she died and I only get to hear from her once. There’s no way I’m letting Imogen read my next letter. No way.”

  Kate studies my face, which is probably scarlet, I’m so angry. The only colors I don’t like are the ones that betray my feelings. Dad always says I’d be a terrible poker player. My face turns red when I’m furious, white when I’m shocked, gray when I’m sad, greenish when I’m ill, pink when I’m pleased, and fuchsia when I’m embarrassed.

  “Okay, time to go,” Kate says, waving to the waiter and miming for him to bring the bill. “Let’s head back to my place. It’s going to be such fun!”

  “What’s going to be such fun?” I ask as she bustles me out of the restaurant, waving jauntily to a few of her clients as we leave. Wherever she goes, Kate knows people.

  “It’s a surprise. Come on. Matt’s out at the Arsenal game, so we’ll have the apartment to ourselves.”

  When we get back to Kate’s, she heads straight for her desk and produces a compact disc.

  “I bet you don’t even know what this is,” she says. “They were all the rage in my day.”

  “Of course I do. It’s a CD. Mum and Dad have loads. Well, Dad has loads. Which album is it?”

  “It’s not an album,” Kate says, hopping around and looking as if she’s about to burst with excitement. “It’s a video I found of your mum and me on holiday in America! I was looking for the photos I told you about ages ago, but I’d completely forgotten that there was some video as well.”

  I gasp. I thought I’d seen every photo and video of Mum. Discovering that there is some new footage is like a lifetime of Christmases and birthdays rolled into one.

  We spend the next hour watching and rewatching nineteen-year-old Mum and Kate’s adventures in America. In the first clip, Gran is dropping them off at Heathrow airport. Mum and Kate are both wearing enormous backpacks and huge smiles. They are stunningly fresh-faced and absurdly healthy-looking.

  Gran is issuing instructions urgently.

  “Call twice a week, only use the emergency Visa card in an actual emergency, stay together at all times, no drinking, no smoking, no drugs of any type, don’t get into a car with any strange men, actually don’t get into a car with any men full stop.”

  “It’s okay, Mum. We’ll be sensible. Bye, Dad. Love you.”

  The camera moves down while Mum hugs the person taking the video.

  “Grandpa!” I gasp.

  “I know. It’s such a shame we don’t get to see him in the video. Your grandpa was the best.”

  Grandpa had died when I was a baby. It suddenly strikes me how terribly sad it is that only two of the four people in this film are still with me. Kate pats my knee.

  “Cheer up, Kitty. Next stop, New York City. Oooooh, that rhymes!”

  Kate makes me laugh until my sides hurt and tears roll down my cheeks as she tells me stories of their trip and how they’d used the emergency Visa card to buy numerous nonessential items, including denim jackets in NYC, Converse basketball shoes in Chicago, and vintage roller skates in Malibu that wouldn’t fit in their backpacks, so they tried to wear them on the plane. Eventually, one of the flight attendants took pity on them and let them go on barefoot, carrying their skates.

  “We thought we were so cool. We got into so much trouble with your gran when she got the Visa bill. It took us ages to pay her back!”

  “Kate, can you make copies of CDs?”

  “I already did—this one’s for you. I printed you a copy of the photos of the trip too. Look, this is my favorite.”

  Kate holds out a picture of Mum standing on a boat, the Statue of Liberty glistening in the background. Mum’s pushing her golden hair out of her eyes and grinning from ear to ear. She looks impossibly young and so full of life I can feel the breeze blowing off the water on my cheeks.

  “I went on that boat on my first day in New York!” I say.

  “I know, your dad told me. He says he has lots of photos of you and your sister on the boat. It would be fun to look at them next to this one. You’re starting to look more and more like Laura each day.”

  “Thanks for today, Kate. You’re the best.” I hug her. “I can’t wait to show the video to Imogen when we get home. Can you stay and watch it with us so you can tell her all the stories you told me?”

  “Of course I will.” Kate smiles at me fondly. “I knew you’d want to share it with Imogen, even though she didn’t let you read her letter. You’re such a sweetie.”

  How could I not share this treasure with my sister? Mum always used to say that sharing is caring. Too bad Imogen has forgotten.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Be My Valentine

  I haven’t had a Valentine’s card since I was seven years old when Toby Kettering, who lived across the street, hand-delivered one to me. He told me proudly that it was the first time his mum had let him cross the road on his own, but she stood outside their house watching the whole time. With his mop of sandy hair, freckles, and winning smile minus his two front teeth, Toby was a real charmer. For weeks afterward, I practiced my signature, writing Kitty Kettering in pink ink and playing weddings with Jess, me as the blushing bride and her the grumpy groom. When Toby and his family moved to Oxford a few months later, Jess consoled me by saying Kitty Kettering sounded like a tongue-twister, but I thought it had a certain ring to it.

  Maybe this will be the year I get a real Valentine’s card, preferably from someone with all his front teeth and eyes the color of a green-bean casserole. When Valentine’s Day arrives, there’s nothing in the mail for me. Imogen gets a c
ard from Josh, which she rips into pieces, takes a picture of, and posts on Instagram. She gets 229 likes. Two days later, though, a white envelope addressed to me appears on the doormat, with an American stamp on it. I tear open the envelope, and a postcard falls out. On one side is a drawing of a smiling rainbow-colored girl with golden-brown eyes standing next to a blue-haired boy with green eyes. I flip the card over, my heart skipping in my chest. On the back of the card is a question mark. It’s perfect. Perfectly perfect. I take a picture of the front and back and text it to Jess with lots of smiley faces, love hearts, and exclamation marks.

  I know I probably shouldn’t give her more reasons to tease me about Henry, but I can’t resist telling Imogen about my card that evening. She’s always the one with cards lined up on her windowsill at this time of year.

  “Do you think I should have sent one to him?” I ask her, as she examines the card, a critical look on her face.

  “It’s homemade,” Imogen says. “How . . . sweet.”

  “I like it,” I say defensively. She can keep her red sparkly store-bought cards. “But do you think I should have sent Henry a card?”

  “Did you want to send him one?”

  “If I’d known he’d send me one, then I would have done.”

  “So the answer’s no.”

  “Well, do you think I should text him to say thanks? I mean, it’s obvious it’s from him. What with the drawing and all.”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  That was a surprisingly helpful conversation with my sister.

  “Thanks, Imogen.”

  “You’re welcome. Oh, and Kitty, when you text him, make sure you ask him why he couldn’t be bothered to buy a card, and why it was two days late!”

  I shut Imogen’s door firmly, even though I have some follow-up questions about the timing and contents of the text message. Should I text Henry tomorrow morning so he’ll be asleep and I won’t be sitting here waiting for a reply, or do I send it now when he’s likely to see the message straightaway? I sit down on my bed, consult the clock, and decide to send it now. It’s eight o’clock here, so he’ll be just getting out of school. Before I start texting, I need to figure out precisely what I’m going to say, and how to reply to a range of potential responses. Otherwise, there’ll be awkward pauses where I’m obviously trying to think of what to say. Or worse, the stopping and starting of typing that the recipient can cruelly see on their end—the text equivalent of stuttering. When I’ve written out the various scenarios and decided on my all-important first text, I begin to type,

  “Hi. Kitty here.” Best to clarify who I am, just in case he doesn’t have my number in his phone anymore. “Just wanted to say thanks for the Valentine’s Day card. It’s great.”

  I wait for the response. Half an hour later, still nothing. God, maybe the card was from someone else, but Henry drew it for them. But who else would have sent me a card? After another excruciating hour, my phone chirps.

  “”

  That’s it. What am I supposed to say now? While I’m deciding what to write, my phone pings again.

  “Good to be back in London?”

  That’s an easy one.

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing you miss about NYC?” he types.

  Ugh, what should I write back?

  Thankfully my phone pings again.

  “Just finished with my therapist.”

  “How was that? I am NOT missing Dr. F.”

  “More Yodaisms! Too bad you’re not here. I could tell you all about it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “You will find only what you bring in.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  I consider this piece of wisdom. I actually think I know what the doctor means. Maybe I’m getting good at therapy. Perhaps I’ve inherited Mum’s talents.

  “I think I know what that means!” I type.

  “Me too. We’re becoming experts.”

  “”

  “Well, gotta go. My dad’s here causing drama on Broadway.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye, Kitty, let’s talk soon . . .”

  Henry is text stuttering!

  “. . . ” he types.

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  “,” I reply.

  I fall back onto my pillows, grinning. Wow! Just wow. I grab the Farrow & Ball book of colors that Kate gave me for Christmas and flick through the pages to the pinks. Getting a card from Henry makes me feel like Rangwali, color number 296. I read the description out loud. “This color is exotic, happy, and vital. The most adventurous of our pinks.”

  “Did Kitty tell you about her Valentine’s card?” Imogen asks Kate as we sit around the table for lunch that weekend.

  “Imogen, shut up!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Kitty, don’t you want anyone to know about your boyfriend, Henry?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, scowling at Imogen.

  “And, Kitty’s boyfriend has a famous dad,” says Imogen, ignoring me and pausing for effect. I’m surprised she doesn’t do a drum roll with her knife and fork. “James Davenport.”

  “No!” says Kate. “James Davenport is absolutely gorgeous! Kitty, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Henry is not my boyfriend!”

  Kate raises an eyebrow at me. I give a minuscule shrug of my shoulders and try and fail to hide a tiny smile. She grins back. I can tell she wants to jump up and down and ask me loads of questions, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns to Imogen.

  “So, Imogen, how many cards did you get this year?”

  I relax back in my chair listening to my sister drone on about fancy cards, chocolates, and a dozen red roses, while I think about a handmade card, blue hair, and green bean casserole–colored eyes. Henry’s definitely not my boyfriend.

  I’ll probably never see him again, but maybe, if I did, he would not-not be my boyfriend.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Unhappy Anniversary

  The next big day of the year is one that has been looming for months, but nobody has marked it on the family calendar. Nobody needed to. It’s stamped onto each of our hearts.

  “I know this is going to be a rough day, girls,” says Dad, looking at his watch. “In twelve hours, we can all just collapse on the sofa. How about watching a movie this evening after we go to Primrose Hill? You can choose. We can get pizza too.”

  We nod mutely. He’s trying his best, but the fog is back. The house is Plummett gray again, color number 272. It has always been my least favorite of the Farrow & Ball colors. It’s named after the lead weights fishermen use on their lines. I feel like I have a lead weight around my waist.

  “Hello,” says Gran, taking off her coat and kissing each of us, even Dad, which she doesn’t usually do except on special occasions, which I suppose this is, in the worst kind of way. She looks fragile and tired. “I thought I’d walk to school with the girls.”

  “Morning all, only me!” Mrs. Allison appears, Sir Lancelot panting at her heels, and she dumps a big cake tin on the kitchen table. Sir Lancelot’s wearing yellow-and-black-striped legwarmers that Mrs. Allison must have made for him to go with his jacket. His legs look like chubby bumblebees. He seems so disgusted with his legwarmers that I feel a small smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. Mrs. Allison notices Dad studying Sir Lancelot, a look of surprise on his face.

  “Doesn’t he look smashing, Rob?” she says.

  “Smashing,” says Dad. “We needed a bit of light relief, so thank you both for providing it.” He bows at Sir Lancelot, hugs Imogen and me, and heads off to the office.

  We walk to school in silence, three abreast, each holding Gran’s hand and therefore taking up the entire sidewalk. Gran scowls at approaching pedestrians, who step swiftly into the street to avoid her wrath. She can look quite terrifying, especially if you don’t know her. “Cold hands, warm heart” was what Mum always said about her. The sun casts a gentle light on the trees, and birds twitter in their
branches, a background track to our melancholy progress to school.

  “Kitty, the fox family came back!” says Jessica when I walk into the classroom. Her cheeks are rosy, and she is giddy with excitement. “The babies are teenagers now in fox years. They’re not as cute as they were last year, but I’m so happy to see them.” She takes a breath and looks at me. “What’s up?”

  “You don’t remember what today is, do you?” I say.

  It’s not like I expected a card or special treatment, but you’d think my best friend would remember. Jessica puts her head to one side, looking puzzled.

  “It’s one year today since my mum died,” I say, shoving past her and sliding into my seat.

  “I’m so sorry, Kitty, I had no idea,” she says, and she looks sorry too. “Do you want to come and see the foxes after school?”

  “No! I don’t want to see your stupid foxes.”

  Jessica looks as if I’d slapped her, and I feel even more awful. It’s not her fault. None of this is her fault.

  “Maybe tomorrow?” I say. She nods and rests her hand on my arm.

  Primrose Hill is surprisingly busy that evening as we trudge to the top in silence. Dog walkers and runners are taking advantage of the unusually mild weather, and the bench we always sit on is occupied. Imogen and Gran glare at the unsuspecting family as we walk past our spot and sit on the grass, looking down at the city. The sky is an inky blue dotted with pinpricks of stars. The four of us sit quietly, shoulder to shoulder, wrapped up in a cloak of our individual memories. Sentences from Mum’s letter, which I know by heart, pop into my mind. “I think of sitting on a star, dangling my bare feet, and I’m so full of love that I swear you will be able to feel it shining down on you . . . I have trillions of light-years of love for you that can never stop shining . . . I love you to the moon and stars and back again.”

  I’m not sure what I believe happens when you die. Sometimes I can feel Mum so strongly that it takes my breath away. It often happens at random moments, like when I’m buttering toast, or playing with Cleo, or waiting in line for lunch at school. But today, today of all days I can’t feel her with me. I stare at the faint stars until my eyes hurt, but there’s nothing. She’s not here. We stand to leave and brush the grass off our clothes. Without us noticing, the family has left, and our bench is now empty. Who knows how long we sat there, an empty seat behind us?