Becoming Jo

by Sophie MacKenzie

  I nod. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have fled your own country yet not be able to make a proper home in another.

  “Help how?” Meg asks, always practical.

  “Well, several of the refugees are children not much older than you, and lots of them have lost their parents,” Mum goes on.

  “Oh, that’s so sad,” Beth breathes, hanging on Mum’s every word, her eyes huge. “Those poor people.”

  “I was thinking,” said Mum, looking at each of us in turn, “that we might go along later today and help with their Christmas party.”

  “What would we have to do?” Amy asks suspiciously.

  “Whatever needs doing,” Mum says. “Serving, clearing, chatting to the people who come. Try and cheer them up a bit.”

  “We can do that,” I say.

  I’m thinking that it will be nice to help the refugee children, but also that maybe I’ll get some material for my Rachel and Rodriguo story. I’ve written about Rodriguo’s encounter with the robber and the monkey in the wood, and I’m a bit stuck trying to decide what disaster should next befall him in his quest to rescue tall, skinny, clumsy Rachel from her horrible, oppressive boarding school. So far he’s survived a deliberate attempt to run him over, being shot at by a hitman and almost suffocating in a freak earthquake.

  “I’m going to put on my red top, then,” Meg announces, sweeping out of the room. “It’s the most cheering-up thing that I own.”

  “I want to help, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to talk to anyone,” Beth says, her lips quivering slightly as she sets down her knitting.

  “You can just sit with me while I do it then,” I say, giving her a wink. “If the point is to cheer up some unhappy people, then you’ll be able to do that without trying.”

  Beth smiles gratefully at me.

  “Though if that’s the criteria, maybe Amy should stay at home,” I can’t resist going on.

  “Jo,” Mum says with a weary shake of her head.

  “Hilarious,” Amy snaps, and then her hand suddenly flies to her face. “But, oh, suppose they look at my nose?”

  I roll my eyes. Amy is obsessed with a tiny bump on her nose that she claims disfigures her entire face.

  “Then they’ll look,” I say impatiently.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your nose, Amy,” Mum adds, concealing a smile.

  “There really isn’t,” Beth insists.

  “There is,” Amy pouts. “It’s Jo’s fault for dropping me when I was a baby.”

  I let out an exaggerated sigh. The story of how I picked Amy up on my fifth birthday – and how she promptly slid out of my hands and landed on the floor – is part of our family folklore.

  “Girls!” Mum’s voice holds a warning note. She hardly ever loses he temper, but we all know not to push her. “Not today. Today, let’s try and be kind.”

  The hostel dining hall is hot and heaving. The scent of roasted vegetables and the sound of earnest chatter and clanking cutlery fills the air. Mum spots Mrs Gardiner, the chairwoman of the Refuge Now charity, and hurries over, leaving the four of us huddled in the doorway. It’s a bit overwhelming to be honest. None of us have a clue what to do.

  I look around the room. Everyone here is seated, either talking to their neighbour or bent over their food, eating hungrily. Mum’s right that there are a lot of young people here. Mostly boys about my age and Meg’s. They’re dressed in old, ill-fitting jeans and oversized jumpers that must be second-hand – they look like they belong on middle-aged men.

  One of the boys wanders over and starts talking to Meg. He’s handsome, with caramel skin and soft, floppy dark hair. Meg blushes and smiles. Ugh, how irritating. I can’t bear it when she gets like that. Beth shrinks closer to me. Amy juts out her chin. Mostly, the people here are glancing over, then turning back to their dinners and chatting.

  Mum bustles over, the charity chairwoman in tow. Mrs Gardiner looks harassed, the powder on her face patchy under a gleam of sweat.

  “Thanks for coming, girls,” she says. “There’s a table for the younger people in the far corner. Perhaps Abdul can show you?” Mrs Gardiner asks, gesturing at the boy talking to Meg. “While I have a quick chat with your mum.”

  “Sure,” Abdul says, with a grin.

  Mum glances at me, then at Beth, and I give her a reassuring nod to show that I’ll make sure Beth’s OK. Even so, as Mrs Gardiner whisks Mum away and the rest of us troop after Abdul, I’m sure my own heart is beating as hard as Beth’s.

  There are nine or ten boys and a couple of girls at the “younger people” table. Abdul sits down, ushering Meg into the chair next to him.

  Beth is blushing furiously while Amy’s chin is stuck firmly in the air, a sure sign that she’s also feeling awkward. I take a deep breath and grab Beth’s hand.

  “Come on,” I say, “it’s going to be fine.” We walk towards the empty seats. Nobody gives us a second glance. Across the room I notice a rickety old piano.

  “D’you fancy playing something, Beth?” I ask with a grin. Beth loves the piano, though she hates playing in public. We’ve never been able to afford our own instrument, but Beth took regular lessons at our old school and the teachers let her practise there whenever she wanted. They said she had real talent.

  Beth gazes up at me, horrified. “No,” she gasps.

  “Are you sure,” I tease. “It’s a real piano.” Since we moved, poor Beth has had to make do with our ancient, second-hand keyboard.

  Beth shakes her head furiously, clearly too overawed by the situation to speak. As we reach the chairs a girl who looks about sixteen, the same age as Meg, drifts over. She’s elegant with dangling earrings, a long flowing dress and the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “Hi,” she says. “I’m Samira.” She sits down between me and Beth and we start talking. Her English is amazing considering she has been in this country for less than two months. She tells us how she’s here with her mother and father but they’ve been separated from her two brothers, and her parents are going mad with worry not knowing where they are.

  “That’s awful,” Beth says, wide-eyed, clearly forgetting her shyness for the moment in characteristic sympathy. “I know it’s not the same – but we don’t know where our dad is most of the time and I can’t stop worrying.”

  While she and Samira chat away, Amy wanders off. I see her a few minutes later, talking to some girls her own age. I grin. Trust Amy. She always lands on her feet. Meg calls me over and I sit down next to her. Abdul leans across.

  “My friend Lateef wanted to meet you.” He points to the boy sitting opposite.

  I give him a thoughtful look. He’s clearly younger than Abdul, I’m guessing about my own age, with bright, cheerful dark eyes and a cheeky grin.

  I like him immediately.

  “Hi, I’m Jo,” I say. “Jo March.”

  “You’re a writer?” he asks. Unlike Samira and Abdul, he has no trace of an accent.

  I glance at Meg, who gives a tiny shrug.

  “Well, you are,” she says. “You’re always writing. I’ve just been explaining how when we leave school you’re going to do it professionally.”

  “Hopefully,” I add. And then, to show I’m not the only one in my family with big ambitions, I say: “Meg’s going to be fashion designer.”

  “No, I’m not.” Meg rolls her eyes and turns back to Abdul.

  “I hate writing,” Lateef says cheerfully. “I get bored. Uncle Jim’s always saying I need to make more effort with school.”

  “Uncle Jim?” I ask.

  “Yeah, he fostered me at first, then officially adopted me a bit later. I’ve always called him Uncle.” He glances around the room, his expression suddenly serious. “I was like these guys when I got here. No family, just arrived in the country. It kind of messes with your head. I got moved around a lot for the first few months, before Uncle Jim took me in.”

  “How long ago did you come here … to England?” I ask.

  “Seven y
ears,” Lateef says. He smiles. “So, Jo March … I’ve never met a real-life writer before.”

  I smile back. “I’ve never met a refugee. Though my mum has. She used to be a social worker.” I nod in the vague direction I last saw Mum. “She’s over there somewhere.”

  “What about your dad?” Lateef asks.

  “He’s in Syria. Is that where you’re from?”

  “Iraq,” Lateef says.

  “My dad isn’t … he just looks after people; he’s a humanist minister,” I say quickly. I’m not exactly on top of Middle Eastern politics, but Mum and Dad have strong views about westerners going into countries and trying to boss everyone who lives there – and I don’t want Lateef to think Dad is like that.

  “You must miss him,” Lateef says. His dark eyes meet mine and, in that moment, it feels like he can see right into the saddest corner of my heart.

  The chattering and clinking sounds of the room whirl around us.

  “Do you live in Ringstone?” I ask at last.

  “Yeah, on Fishtail Lane,” Lateef says, eyes twinkling.

  My jaw drops. “No way!” I shriek. “We live on Fishtail Lane too.” Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of Meg’s head turning. She’s frowning, presumably at my loudness.

  “Lateef lives on the same street as us,” I hiss at her.

  “OK, but you don’t have to tell everyone in the room,” Meg snaps. “You … you always take up so much space when you talk, Jo.”

  “Then it’s lucky,” Lateef says quickly, catching my eye, “that Jo obviously has so many interesting things to say.”

  He winks at me. I grin. Meg rolls her eyes.

  “I already knew you lived on Fishtail Lane actually,” Lateef goes on. “I saw you moving in a couple of weeks ago. You’ll find that when it comes to the big social events in Ringstone, nothing much get pasts me.”

  We both laugh.

  Meg now leans across the table. “So, why haven’t you come over to visit us before, Lateef?” she asks.

  “Too shy,” Lateef says. “Too many pretty girls to deal with.”

  Meg giggles.

  “Lateef?” A burly man in a dark suit, with pink, jowly cheeks and tousled grey hair is calling from the end of the table. He is frowning and looking at his watch, his voice deep and gruff. “Time to go.”

  Lateef jumps up. “’Course, Uncle.” He glances down at me and Meg, lowering his voice. “We’re going to visit some of his family. Dull as. Back in a few days, maybe see you then?” He bounces off.

  “He seems nice,” Meg says approvingly.

  I nod, my head spinning.

  Because I have a sense, though I can’t explain why, that I’ve just met the person who’s going to be my best friend in the whole world.

  Chapter 3

  Almost a week goes past and we don’t see Lateef, though I do wander up and down Fishtail Lane a couple of times, wondering which house is his. Presumably he’s still away from home, with Uncle Jim’s family. Whatever, I’m certain he’ll be in touch soon. I don’t tell my sisters how I felt when I met him – they’d just tease me and make out that I liked him. Which is so not what this is about. Seriously, handsome and charming as he is, I don’t fancy Lateef. I don’t think about him that way. I just… It’s hard to describe, but it feels like Lateef understands me in a way that nobody else ever has.

  Does that sound crazy? After just one meeting?

  Maybe it is; maybe I’m exaggerating the connection between us. The truth is that I’ve always found it easier to make friends with boys instead of girls. At our last school, Meg and Amy had these cliques of girls they hung around with, and even Beth had two or three special girlfriends. But I always played mostly with the boys – football in the playground when we were at primary school and more recently just hanging out together and enjoying the banter. I like the way boys can be rude about each other without getting all offended. Most girls don’t seem to get that it’s just teasing, done for fun. Nothing to fall out over.

  Girls fall out all the time over everything. At least that’s how it seems to me.

  Which means that my first reaction is to say no thanks, when Mrs Gardiner – who organized the Refuge Now charity lunch – calls Mum on Boxing Day and asks if Meg and I would like to come to her daughter Sallie’s New Year’s Eve party. Meg is delighted, but I’m not. I can just imagine what it will be like – an overheated living room full of gossipy knots of girls who won’t know what to make of me. In the end I agree to go, to keep Mum happy – she thinks it’ll be a great way to make friends.

  For the next few days the party takes over as our main topic of conversation in the house. Amy is furious she can’t come – as she reminds us on an hourly basis.

  “It’s so unfair,” she says repeatedly.

  “But everyone at the party will be older,” Meg tells her with more patience than I can manage. “They’ll be our age, in our years at school.”

  At the mention of our new school both Beth and Amy fall silent. I get how they’re feeling, not that I’d let on. We’re all nervous about starting a new school. It’s hard to walk in somewhere different, especially when it’s not even at the beginning of the school year. I know Beth’s been particularly anxious about it. I try not to think about it – after all, what’s the point in imagining problems before they happen. I’d rather imagine all the fun stuff that I can do.

  Not that Sallie Gardiner’s New Year’s Eve party qualifies as fun in my book. My greatest fear is that we’ll turn up and I’ll be faced with a bunch of overdressed girls and no boys to talk to at all. Meg spends two solid days obsessing over what she’s going to wear. I couldn’t care less.

  New Year’s Eve arrives and Beth and I are helping Meg to get ready – she still hasn’t decided what to wear. Amy is off somewhere else in the house, sulking probably.

  “Trouble is, I don’t know how smart to go,” Meg moans, pulling more clothes out of the wardrobe she and I share. She holds up three tops, one after the other, throwing each in turn on the floor. “The Gardiners have loads of money. Mrs Gardiner’s outfit at the Christmas lunch must have cost hundreds.”

  “Mum always says you should wear what you feel comfortable in,” Beth suggests timidly from my bed, where she is curled up next to me like a kitten.

  “Well, she never had to meet a load of unknown girls from her future school at a party in a strange new town with only rubbish, out-of-date clothes to wear.” Meg chucks yet another rejected top on the floor.

  “I’m not sure I’d describe Ringstone as strange,” I muse, letting my gaze drift to the pictures above my bed: an array of postcards and photos of the places I want, one day, to visit, from the Taj Mahal to the Grand Canyon to Notre Dame in Paris. “Ringstone seems more dull than str—”

  “I just mean I don’t know how the girls act here,” Meg snaps.

  “Girls are the same everywhere,” I say. “ I don’t get why you’re so bothered. I’m going in black trousers and this top, and who cares what anyone thinks?”

  Meg casts an appraising eye over my blue cold-shoulder top. It was once hers of course; I never buy new clothes for myself. She narrows her eyes.

  “Is that food?” she demands, pointing to a tiny yellowish mark on the shoulder.

  “No.” I grimace. “It’s pollen, from lilies at Aunt Em’s.”

  Meg rolls her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, Jo,” she sighs.

  “It’s fine,” I insist. “I’ll keep it covered with my scarf.”

  Meg shakes her head. “Your big wool scarf will look stupid with that top.”

  “How are you going to do your hair, Meg?” Beth asks quickly.

  I shoot her a grateful glance, knowing she’s trying to deflect Meg’s attention away from the shortcomings of my outfit.

  “I was thinking ‘up-do’ earlier, but now I’m all about curls,” Meg says, pausing for a second to smooth her fair hair off her face. She shoots me an envious look. “I wish I had thick hair that stays in one style like you
rs, Jo. My hair’s a nightmare.” She sighs. “OK.” She yanks a pale green shirt out of the wardrobe and holds it up next to pair of turquoise trousers. “There,” she says. “If I cut the bottoms off the trousers I’ll get a frayed hem and they’ll be the right length.”

  I stare at the clothes. I would never have thought of altering the trousers, or pairing them with that top, but the colours actually complement each other perfectly. Meg really does have an eye for this sort of thing. She totally should be a fashion designer.

  “Nice,” I say.

  “All I need now are some heels…” Meg says, laying the outfit on her bed. “High heels.”

  “Mum won’t like you wearing those,” Beth says, sitting up with an anxious frown.

  She’s right. Mum hates high heels and has forbidden us to wear them. She says they make girls vulnerable and are a way of limiting your potential “whether you need to run away from danger or climb a mountain”.

  “What heels?” I ask. I don’t possess anything that could be remotely identified as a high-heeled shoe and, as far as I know, Meg doesn’t either, despite having fought with Mum over the issue many times.

  “These.” Meg bends down and draws a cardboard shoebox from the back of the wardrobe. I hadn’t noticed it before, but then I generally spend about two seconds getting dressed – usually just selecting jeans or trousers from my quarter section of the hanging space, then yanking a T-shirt or a jumper (depending on the weather) out of my one drawer.

  Meg opens the box and reveals a pair of spindly silver open-toed sandals. They sparkle in the light – undeniably pretty but also, to my eyes at least, hopelessly impractical.

  “Where did you get those?” I demand.

  “Charity shop,” Meg explains. “They were only a few quid.”

  “Mum won’t let you wear them,” Beth says, her frown deepening.

  Meg tosses her head. “She won’t know, will she?” She fixes Beth with a glare. Beth nods quickly.

  Meg slides the shoes into her bag and tugs on a pair of canvas flats.

  “Jo, will you do my hair?”