Becoming Jo

by Sophie MacKenzie

  As you’ve probably guessed, burying myself in my imaginary world is how I deal with my anxieties about the new school. Plus I’ve got Rowena Riddell’s signing on Tuesday to look forward to. I was planning on taking all my books for her to sign but now I’m thinking I’ll just get the new one signed and hopefully a selfie with her too.

  I’ve just finished a scene in which Rachel tenderly bandages Rodriguo’s damaged ankles then has to fight off the caretaker’s fierce guard dog on her way back to her dormitory, when Amy sticks her head around the door.

  “You have to go to Aunt Em’s in an hour,” she says.

  “What?” I look up. “Why?”

  “She’s having a drinks party and wants you to hand out the nibbles.” Amy smirks. “Mum says it’s ’cos she’s got some last-minute guests from work and doesn’t want to add to the catering costs by asking for more staff.”

  Mum herself walks in at this point.

  “I can’t go to Aunt Em’s party,” I cry, jumping up and knocking my half-drunk mug of tea across the kitchen table. Luckily it misses my laptop and simply splashes a bit over the floor. “I’m about to write the most important scene in my story where Rachel and Rodriguo make their first, proper attempt to escape together.”

  “Oh, Jo,” Mum grabs a tea towel and mops at the table. She hands me a dishcloth so I can clear up what’s on the floor. Amy, I notice, has already slunk off. “You’ll just have to carry on writing when you get back.”

  There’s no point arguing. Grumbling, I let Mum coax me into a dress so that I’ll look presentable at Aunt Em’s stupid party. It’s actually one of Mum’s old pinafore dresses, a beautiful shade of green – which is my favourite colour. Meg helps me team it with a pale grey jumper and DMs, then gives a sigh.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are, Jo,” she says. “That dress is too long for me – I’d look swamped in it.”

  “I’d happily be less tall if it meant I didn’t have to wear a dress ever again,” I groan, now struggling to pull a brush through my tangled hair.

  Aunt Em’s house is bustling when I arrive, with a chef in the kitchen sweating over the canapés and three young men in tuxedoes fussing over trays of food and bottles of wine.

  “Very nice, Jo,” Aunt Em says when she sees me. “That green suits you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Aunt Em is dressed, as usual, in her signature black, though instead of her usual uniform of black jeans and a cashmere sweater she’s wearing a cocktail dress, knee-length, with a choker of massive diamonds to match the ones on the rings on her fingers.

  “What do you need me to do?” I ask, trying to sound helpful.

  “Just hand around the trays,” Aunt Em says. “And you may say you’re my niece and talk about how you’ve just moved here. But don’t pester people. If they’re deep in conversation, just move away.”

  As if I want to talk to her stupid friends anyway!

  The evening passes slowly. Very slowly. A few people do ask me about myself, mostly the same two questions: how old am I and where do I go to school? Some are only interested in what canapés I’m serving and the rest actually behave as if I’m not even there, as if the tray I’m carrying is being wafted around by magic!

  I can’t wait to get home, which is probably why I’m hurrying back to the kitchen with my empty tray, just as one of Aunt Em’s guests – clearly someone very important from the way she’s been fawning over him all night – walks into the living room.

  Wham. I hurtle straight into him, the empty tray catching the glass of red wine in his hand and sending its contents soaring into the air. Time seems to slow down as Aunt Em, the Very Important Guest, and I, watch the liquid arc and spread and land all over the man’s crisp, white shirt. Drops spray on to his face.

  “Aagh!” Aunt Em shrieks.

  The Very Important Guest freezes, wide-eyed with shock.

  “Oh my gosh, sorry, I’m so sorry,” I gabble, snatching up a napkin from the pile on a nearby table as I advance towards him. I dab at the man’s chest, but he backs away, his thin lips pressed together in an expression of extreme distaste.

  “Jo!” Aunt Em’s ice-cold voice stops me in my tracks.

  Our eyes meet. She shakes her head. “I think you can go home now,” she snaps.

  “Yes, OK, sure, er,” I turn to the Very Important Guest again, offering him the wine-stained napkin clutched in my hand. “I really am very sorry.”

  And with that I duck and hurry away, snatching up my coat and racing out of the house as fast as possible.

  Mum is open-mouthed when I tell her what happened. She shakes her head sorrowfully as I describe how the guest and I collided, although when I tell her how he backed away from me as I brandished a napkin at him, her lips twitch and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.

  Aunt Em calls later, of course, complaining to Mum about my “wildness”, which puts me in a bad mood. Not for myself so much, but because I hate it when anyone gives Mum a hard time.

  The following morning, however, I wake to a message from Lateef saying that he’s got three tickets for a preview screening this very afternoon of the latest film adaptation of Rowena Riddell’s Blacktower series. And do Meg and I want to go with him?

  Of course we do. I’m beside myself with excitement at the prospect and spend the whole day looking forward to the movie. Meg – who has a crush on the lead actor – is almost as delirious as I am.

  The only thing threatening to spoil our plans is Amy.

  Ever since she found out about the screening, she’s been whining that it’s not fair and that she should be allowed to come with us.

  “We can’t take you,” Meg says in what – as far as I’m concerned – is far too conciliatory a tone. “Lateef only has two spare tickets.”

  “Not that we’d want you to come anyway,” I mutter.

  Meg glances sideways at me, an exasperated frown creasing her brow. “Jo, don’t be mean.”

  I glare at Meg, irritated. I know most of the time Meg finds Amy as irritating as I do, so why does she always take Amy’s side in arguments?

  “You know what she’s like in the cinema,” I point out.

  “You mean asking about the story during the film?” Meg frowns again. “She hasn’t done that for years.”

  “See?” Amy pouts. “This is so unfair, Jo. You wouldn’t act like this if it was Beth who wanted to come with you.”

  “That’s because Beth doesn’t act like an idiot when she goes out,” I snap. “Meg can say what she likes, but I’m glad you’re not coming to the cinema with us.”

  Amy’s face reddens, two dark red spots emerging on her cheeks. Her eyes glitter dangerously. I brace myself, expecting her to yell at me, tell me how much she hates me or burst into tears. But instead she simply clenches her fists.

  “I’ll get you for this, Jo,” she hisses. And then she stalks out.

  I laugh, part relieved that she’s gone, part amused by her indignation, part wishing I hadn’t been so mean. Of all of us, Amy is normally the one most likely to go into histrionics when she doesn’t get her way. That icy tone is new, and it makes me uneasy. Then I shake myself – Amy is just being dramatic. She might be upset now, but it will all have blown over by tomorrow. And, if it hasn’t, I’ll apologize then.

  As soon as we’ve left the house I forget all about Amy. It’s a sunny day: crisp and chilly but with no sign of rain.

  “Are you seriously wearing that tartan cap?” Lateef asks me, a huge grin on his face. He’s sporting a three-quarter length black jacket that Meg has already informed me is a Hugo Boss worth over two hundred quid, and swinging a long black umbrella from his hand.

  “I know, isn’t it hideous?” Meg sighs.

  “You two just don’t understand my style,” I banter back. “And I don’t see how you can complain about my cap when you’re carrying that ridiculous umbrella, like you’re forty-seven, when it isn’t even going to rain.”

  Lateef throws his head back and guffaws. “The umbre
lla is my style,” he counters. “Sharp, classic and useful. None of which can be said about your cap.”

  “Whatever.” I poke him in the ribs.

  This is one of the things I love most about Lateef, how he gets my humour. I don’t have any other friends who I could have this kind of conversation with. Lateef doesn’t take what I say personally and I don’t feel hurt by his teasing either.

  It turns into a brilliant afternoon. The film is amazing. Being at the preview screening is the coolest thing. A couple of the actors from the movie are even here – though not the leading man, much to Meg’s disappointment.

  Afterwards, Meg spots a friend and goes for a hot chocolate. Lateef and I chat about the movie all the way home. He’s completely converted to Rowena’s amazing world.

  “And that bit at the end, when the best friend turns out to be her long lost sister…” Lateef makes a gesture with his hands, spreading them wide to show how the impact of the revelation was just too awesome to be described in words.

  “I know, that’s my favourite part,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to read the book – the whole series in fact. You should start with the first one.”

  “Way ahead of you,” Lateef says with a grin. “I’ve already downloaded the movie of it. I thought we could watch it at mine.”

  I open my mouth to say he should read the book first, but Lateef looks so pleased with himself that I can’t bring myself to ruin his plan.

  “That sounds perfect,” I say.

  As we turn on to Fishtail Lane, I glance across the road to our house. It’s dusk and the lights are already on in the living room though the curtains aren’t drawn yet. Mum is sitting alone at the table, writing something. Probably another job application. I feel a twinge of concern. She’s been out of work for months now. I peer up at the windows above, wondering idly where Beth and Amy are. There’s no sign of them; all the rooms are dark. As I watch, a light goes on in our room. It can’t be Meg – she’s still out with her friend. Perhaps it’s Beth putting our ironing back on our beds.

  “Come on, slowpoke,” Lateef urges. And forgetting my own home for the moment, I turn and follow Lateef along his drive and into his.

  Chapter 9

  The hallway of Lateef’s house is in darkness, but light glimmers from the dining room and the sound of piano music, gentle and lyrical, drifts towards us. Uncle Jim is in the doorway of the room, presumably watching whoever is playing the piano. He turns towards us as we walk in, his finger to his lips.

  Lateef shuts the front door silently behind us. As we draw closer to Uncle Jim, tiptoeing so as to make no noise, I realize that my heart is in my mouth. There’s something magical about the moment, about the ethereal music and the soft glow of light – in a room where a girl once played, who is now dead. It is as though her ghost is laying her hands on the keys. I reach the door and peer into the room.

  No ghost. But the identity of the actual pianist is no less astonishing.

  It’s Beth.

  Her head is bowed over the piano, her fingers running expertly up and down the keys. She’s lost in whatever she is playing, a soft smile on her sweet face.

  We’ve been totally silent, but something – maybe the cold air that’s swept into the house after us – makes Beth look up.

  Her eyes widen as she sees us all and there’s a discordant twang as her fingers crash on the keys. She jumps up from the piano, shoulders tensed, as all three of us start speaking at once:

  “Bethy, that was beautiful,” I say.

  “I had no idea you could play like that,” says Lateef, sounding awed.

  Beth turns to Uncle Jim. “You said you were going out,” she says, her face flushing.

  “I was going out, Beth,” Uncle Jim says, a crack in his voice. “But I got delayed upstairs with a phone call and when I came down and heard you, it brought back such… It sounded so lovely… I’m sorry. I couldn’t help listening, just for a moment.”

  Beth hesitates. “That’s OK,” she stammers, her kind heart clearly winning the day. “I just hate being listened to.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Lateef says with a broad grin. “You’re amazing.”

  Beth’s blush deepens to a dark crimson and I swell with pride.

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” I agree. “Like the rest of us all think we’re so creative, but Beth’s the one with the real gift.”

  “Oh, Jo,” she says, shuffling from foot to foot. “I just practise a lot.”

  “You’re welcome here anytime you want,” Uncle Jim says. “It would be a pleasure.”

  “Thank you.” Beth is still fidgeting. She rubs her finger over the chip on the edge of the piano lid. “And thank you, Mr Laurence, for letting me use this beautiful piano. But I have to go now … er, Mum needs me at home.” And with that she scuttles across the room and brushes past us. The sound of her shoes tapping lightly over the wooden hall floor echoes across the room. A second later the front door opens and closes with a soft thud. Another blast of cold air swirls around us.

  Uncle Jim stands, staring at the piano, lost in his thoughts.

  Lateef tugs at my sleeve. “Come on,” he whispers, his eyes on his uncle. “Let’s go and watch the movie.”

  We go down to the home cinema and Lateef puts on the first Blacktower movie. I’m not really concentrating on the story. I can’t stop thinking about the look of pain in Uncle Jim’s eyes as he watched Beth play. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that he was reminded of his dead daughter. I’ve never really thought much about what that kind of loss would feel like. I guess I’ve been lucky so far, that nobody I love has ever died. We did have a dog once who had to be put down and Beth and Mum cried buckets, but though I felt sad about losing Handsome (Amy was the one who – for some reason I’ll never understand – was allowed to give him that ridiculous name) it was never the same searing grief that I know the others felt.

  It hurts that Dad is away, of course, and sometimes I’m frightened that though he doesn’t fight himself, he might get caught up in the warfare that goes on around him, but in my heart I believe he will come back. I have to.

  I’d like to write about that kind of loss one day, but it’s scary to imagine and for now I’m happy sticking to Rodriguo and Rachel and their adventures. Although … the look on Uncle Jim’s face as he remembered his daughter does make me question the ending I’ve been planning…

  I’d thought before that Rodriguo and Rachel needed to escape, to run away together, but perhaps they can appeal to Rachel’s father and – because he doesn’t want to lose his daughter – he relents and lets Rodriguo be part of her life.

  “Yes, that’s better than running away,” I muse.

  “What’s that?” Lateef asks.

  I look around. The credits for the film are just starting to roll.

  “Nothing, thanks for the movie,” I say leaping up from the home cinema chair. I’m suddenly desperate to get home and write it all down.

  “Are you going already?” Lateef asks. “Don’t you want to get some lemonade first? I think there’s chocolate cake too.”

  “No, I’ve got to get back. But thanks so much for the movie, and the tickets earlier.” I hesitate. “And please say goodbye to Uncle Jim too. I’m sorry I said he was a nightmare before … he’s not, not at all.”

  I don’t bother to put my coat on as I race across the road, eager to get back home. It’s properly dark now and the curtains in our house have been drawn, slivers of light peeking out around the edges. My story about Rachel and Rodriguo is already over twenty-six thousand words long. I can’t wait to get up to my room, fetch my laptop and carry on writing.

  I fly inside, letting the front door slam behind me.

  “Jo? Is that you?” Mum calls from the living room.

  I glance in as I pass. They’re all in there: Beth is reading, curled up at Mum’s side on the sofa, while Meg sits by the window, examining the buttons on a blouse. Amy is lying stretched out on the floor, apparently engrossed in
her phone. She doesn’t glance up as I burst in. Is she still upset about me and Meg going to the preview screening earlier? I make a mental note to come down and be super-nice to her as soon as I’ve got my next chapter down.

  “Back in a sec,” I shout out, panting as I take the stairs two at a time. I hurtle into the room I share with Meg and snatch my laptop off my bed. It’s resting half on the pillow, under the picture of Notre Dame that’s pinned on the wall. I have a vague sense that isn’t exactly where I left it, but I don’t think about this as I thunder back downstairs.

  “Could you make any more noise?” Meg yells out, with a despairing laugh. “It’s like living with an elephant.”

  “Did you eat at Lateef’s?” Mum calls.

  Ignoring them both I run into the kitchen, which is the only room with a table uncluttered enough for me to work on, and plonk my laptop down. I fetch myself a glass of water while it’s firing up, then I scan the desktop for the Word file that contains my Rachel and Rodriguo story.

  It isn’t there.

  I look again, methodically moving every file with the cursor, double-checking to make sure. It must be here. It doesn’t make any sense that it’s gone. My throat tightens as I go over the desktop files a third time. The file definitely isn’t here.

  My heart thuds with anxiety as I open the cloud and scan my back-up files. Everything else is here, but not my story. I check again. Surely my eyes must be playing tricks on me. It can’t have just vanished.

  Panicking now, I click on Restore, but nothing appears. I sit back, my head spinning. It’s as if someone has logged on to my computer and permanently deleted the story file from both the hard drive and virtual storage.

  But who would do that? And why?