Becoming Jo

by Sophie MacKenzie

  “She’s very sorry to miss out, Bethy,” Mum explains. “She says that she’ll be here for lunch on Easter Sunday.”

  “Great,” I growl under my breath.

  “It was very thoughtful of her to send the flowers,” Beth says.

  We have all eaten our cake and drunk several cups of tea when there’s a knock on the front door.

  Mum goes to answer it.

  “Perhaps that’s Aunt Em after all,” suggests Meg.

  Outside in the hall, Mum says, “Of course, bring it in. I’ll call Beth.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “That’s not Aunt Em,” I say. “Come on.”

  The five of us crowd out into the hall where Mum is standing by the open front door.

  “We’ll just fetch the ramp, roll it in for you,” says a male voice from outside.

  “What on earth?” Beth scuttles forward. She sees whatever is outside and claps her hand over her mouth.

  “What is it?” I ask, hurrying over.

  “I can’t see,” complains Meg.

  “Or me,” says Amy.

  Mum pushes the door open wide. I gasp. Uncle Jim’s white piano stands outside. Unmistakable, even down to the little chip on the top.

  “Ha!” Lateef says with a chuckle. “It’s finally here! I’ve been dying to tell you. Uncle Jim made me swear to keep it a secret.”

  “Is it really for me?” Beth says in a whisper.

  “It came with this,” Mum says, handing her a card.

  I watch over Beth’s shoulder as her trembling fingers fumble with the envelope. She draws out a birthday card with a pencil sketch of a daisy on the front.

  The message inside has been handwritten.

  Beth reads, her fingers gripping the card so tightly her knuckles are white. She smiles faintly.

  “What does it say?” Meg asks.

  Beth pushes the card at me, tears bubbling into her eyes. “You read it, Jo,” she says at last.

  I clear my throat and read: “Dear Beth. I have had many fine scarves in my life, but I never had one that suited me so well as yours.”

  “The scarf you were knitting … that was for Uncle Jim?” I ask.

  “Really?” Meg sounds astonished.

  “You never said a word,” Amy adds. She gives Beth a spontaneous hug. “You’re so good.”

  “It was to say thank you for letting me use the piano,” Beth explains. Mum strokes her hair.

  “Go on, Jo, finish reading,” Mum says.

  “I like to pay my debts, so I hope you will allow me to send you something which once belonged to my daughter, Francesca. I’m sure both she and her mother would want you to have it as much as I do. With many thanks for your beautiful playing, Uncle Jim.” I give Beth back the card. “That’s amazing,” I say.

  Beth stares, open-mouthed, at the piano. Then she turns to Lateef.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asks timidly. “I mean, what are you going to practise on?”

  “Uncle Jim’s letting me give up piano at last, thank goodness.” Lateef laughs. “You are more welcome to the thing than I can tell you.”

  “Let’s get this inside,” says the man who spoke before, reappearing with a ramp. Lateef and I help the man push the piano into the house and along the hallway.

  “It can go here,” Mum says, pointing to the wall by the door in the living room. “That’s a perfect spot for it.”

  The piano is soon set up. Beth, with little urging for once, sits and plays – Chopin I think. Meg stands next to her and turns the pages.

  Mum stands back in the doorway, watching Beth play.

  “Is it OK for us to keep the piano?” I ask her quietly. “I mean, it’s a huge present. Much bigger than festival tickets.”

  “That’s true.” Mum murmurs. “But yes, I think under the circumstances it’s right to keep it. Jim asked me beforehand, made sure I didn’t mind.” She smiles at me. “I can’t deny that when he first suggested the gift I wanted to say no, just out of pride, but then I thought of the joy it would bring Beth. And Jim.” Her eyes fill with sadness. “He told me he always wanted it to be used, but couldn’t bear to be parted from something that had meant so much to his daughter. I think that’s why he put poor Lateef under so much pressure to have lessons. I guess now he’s met Beth he feels the piano will be going to a good home.”

  Beth stops playing. “What am I doing? I must go and thank Uncle Jim,” she says, with uncharacteristic forcefulness. She stands up.

  I exchange a look with Mum and Meg. Where did this new, confident Beth come from? The surprise on their faces echoes my own.

  “Shall I come with you?” I offer.

  “No thanks,” Beth says firmly. “I’m just going to tell him that he’s welcome to come and hear me play whenever he wants. No need for anyone else to bother themselves.”

  My jaw drops. Mum’s and Meg’s do too. And before anyone can say anything else, Beth is already out of the house and halfway across the road.

  “What’s got into her?” I turn to Mum.

  Mum smiles. “I think,” she says, “that our Beth is growing up.”

  Chapter 5

  It’s Saturday morning, the day after Beth’s birthday. Beth herself is at home with Mum, playing on her new piano, while Amy is at a friend’s house, working on her art project. Meg, meanwhile, is at the Gardiner’s house, babysitting the twins while the rest of the family go to a wedding.

  Lateef and I are hanging out at the shopping centre in Ringstone. We mooch along to the fountain in the central section of the mall. Lateef has a fascination with water in public places – he loves the swimming baths too. Right now he’s standing, leaning on the surrounding railing, and gazing in wonder at the water cascading over the stone.

  “Why do you like looking at it so much?” I ask.

  “Dunno,” he says with a shrug. “I never saw a fountain until I came here. I mean, there are plenty in Iraq, just not where I was from.”

  I study his eager face. It’s easy for me to forget Lateef originally came from another country, far away. Most of the time he seems just like the rest of us.

  “What d’you like about it?” I ask. The three-tier fountain seems an ugly thing to me, grey with green tinges at the edges of the stone, though the effect of the cascading water is pretty.

  “The way it works,” Lateef explains. “It’s so simple and beautiful, the water spouting out of the top, then getting sucked up at the bottom to be reused.”

  His phone rings. Answering, Lateef snaps back into social mode, greeting the caller cheerfully. I turn away, surveying the Saturday morning crowds: there’s an elderly couple walking slowly, both leaning on sticks, a young dad pushing a buggy past a knot of young teenage girls at the doughnut stand and a middle-aged woman chasing after a toddler who is shrieking with laughter as he trots away from her as fast as possible.

  Watching the little boy gives me a new idea for a Tallulah Templeton story… Perhaps in her next adventure she could investigate a missing child, last seen in a local shopping centre. I stare into the distance in the direction of, but not really focusing on, the girls at the doughnut stand. They’re a typical bunch of teenage girls – artfully tousled hair, fashionable clothes – and I can hear their bird-like chatter from here.

  And then the smallest girl, standing on the edge of the group, moves into view.

  It’s my youngest sister.

  “That’s Amy,” I say, blinking with surprise. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Where’s she supposed to be?” Lateef asks, pocketing his phone.

  “I don’t know, but she said this morning she was at a friend’s doing project work for her art class.” I pause. The idea that she would have lied to me about what she was doing today gives me an uneasy feeling. Amy is stubborn and irritating, but she isn’t a liar. She must have lied to Mum too. A far bigger crime.

  “I thought Amy seemed really quiet yesterday,” Lateef says thoughtfully. Then he says, “By the way, that was Ti
ny on the phone. He’s going bowling. Do you want to come too?”

  I’m focusing so much on Amy I barely hear him. She was quiet yesterday. In fact, now I’m thinking about it, she’s been quiet since we broke up from school two weeks ago. I peer more closely at the group of girls. I recognize a couple of them from the corridors at school – popular, confident girls with nice clothes.

  As I watch, I realize that one of the group says something to Amy. Something about my sister’s posture – head bowed, eyes downcast – doesn’t look right to me. Amy usually has her chin in the air and doesn’t fear anybody.

  “So, d’you want to come with me, Jo?” Lateef prompts. “Or shall I see you later?”

  “Later, thanks.” I nod towards Amy. “I want to keep an eye on her.”

  Lateef leaves and I edge closer to Amy. I hate the idea of spying on her – but something here doesn’t feel right. I creep over and hide behind the doughnut stand.

  “It has to be two bottles or it doesn’t count,” one of the girls is saying. I peek out and recognize her from towards the end of term when she came home after school one day with Amy. Carla. She has masses of silky hair and is always perfectly dressed.

  “Two bottles is easy.” I know that tone in Amy’s voice: defiant and trying to be tough.

  “And not soft drinks,” says another girl. “Obviously.”

  “I know,” Amy insists. “And spirits rather than wine. But wine will do. I know.”

  Is she promising them alcohol? My jaw drops.

  “Any questions?” Carla asks.

  “So if I get it, I can definitely come to the party?” Amy’s voice is slightly tremulous.

  So that’s it. I don’t have it in me to be angry. In fact my heart goes out to her. Amy was in the cool gang at our old school. Now she is clearly trying to buy her way into a new clique with the same status here.

  Carla says something in a low voice I can’t hear, then she and her friends flounce off, giggling, leaving Amy alone. I hesitate. Every instinct I have tells me she’ll hate the fact I’ve overheard the conversation she just had. But I have to do something.

  “Hey.” I walk around the stand.

  Amy jumps, her eyes flashing up at me. She glances around nervously. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was hanging with Lateef, but he’s gone to meet Tiny. What about you?”

  “Nothing,” she says, shuffling from foot to foot, clearly scrambling to come up with a story. “That is, er … I’m meeting someone, a friend from school. We need stuff for the art project.”

  “Right.” Maybe if I were Meg or Beth, Amy would volunteer information about what’s just happened, but I guess she doesn’t feel comfortable doing that with me. I can’t really blame her – I’ve always been tough on Amy. But then, I’ve always thought she was tough herself. Which, I suddenly realize, she isn’t at all.

  “Look,” I say, trying to sound more sympathetic. “I promise I wasn’t stalking you but I saw you here with those girls and you looked miserable so I came over and…” I wait, hoping she’ll confide in me. When she doesn’t, I go on. “I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying. About trying to buy booze.”

  Amy’s eyes widen in horror.

  “I’m not judging you,” I carry on quickly. “But… It’s just…” I’ve leapt into this conversation too fast, I realize. I don’t know what to say to her.

  Amy stares at me, her mouth set in a defiant line. I can see that she’d rather die than have my pity. And in that moment it occurs to me that Mum is right – Amy and I are more alike than I’ve ever realized.

  “You can’t buy friends with alcohol,” I say at last. “And, obviously, you can’t buy alcohol either. And you can’t steal it. So you’re basically screwed every which way.”

  Amy hangs her head.

  I try another tack.

  “Are those really your friends?” I ask. She shrugs. “Because I don’t think real friends would ask you to do something like this. I don’t get it, Amy. You always say you’re getting on well with everyone.”

  “I have to, don’t I?” Amy spits, looking up at last. Tears bubble up in her eyes. “Everyone else is all so super happy with their classes and lessons and new friends.” Her voice cracks. “Even Beth is doing fine and she can barely get a sentence out in front of strangers.”

  A tear trickles down her cheek. She wipes it away angrily.

  I bite my lip. I had no idea Amy was lonely. “But you always make out like you’re great, that you’ve settled in brilliantly.” I hesitate. “Isn’t there anyone you like at school? Not because they’re cool – just because they’re nice?”

  “There’s one girl, Katy Brown. She’s asked me to her house a few times,” Amy says. “I told Mum I was with her this morning. I like her. But I wanted to get in with the cool group.”

  “You mean those girls you were talking to?” I ask. “Like Carla?”

  Amy nods. “She’s having a party, Carla. Everyone important will go. I need to be there. That’s what the drink is for.”

  “Listen, Amy,” I say. “Girls like Carla aren’t worth bothering with. She may be popular and cool or whatever, but it’s not worth selling your soul to hang out with her. Or her friends.”

  Amy stares sulkily up at me.

  “Don’t you see?” I persist. “Those girls won’t really like you, not if they think they can buy you. They’ll always be getting you to run errands for them, like the alcohol thing.” That point hits home. Amy looks thoughtful. If there’s one way to get through to her, it’s by appealing to her pride. “You don’t want to be Carla’s lapdog for the rest of your school life, do you?”

  Amy shrugs. I sense I’m beginning to convince her.

  “I think you should forget Carla and her party and buying your way to an invitation,” I press on. “Send her a text right now, saying you’re not playing her games any more. And I think you should call Katy and go round her house so you’re not lying to Mum. I’ll walk you over there if she’s in. Deal?”

  There’s a long pause and then, very slowly, Amy nods. “Fine,” she says with a sigh.

  Together we compose a text for Carla – not as forthright as I originally wanted, but making it clear nonetheless that Amy won’t be providing alcohol for her party. Amy presses send.

  “Relieved?” I ask.

  Amy shrugs. “Maybe. A little bit.”

  “Now call Katy,” I order.

  I wait with Amy while she makes the call. In typical Amy style, she is relaxed and friendly with Katy, quickly getting an invite to go over to her place. We walk there in silence, but when we reach the little brick house, just a few roads from our own, Amy says:

  “Thanks for not running to Mum about the alcohol thing. And … and thanks for getting me out of Carla’s party. You’re right. I don’t want to be anyone’s lapdog.”

  I give her a little wave and watch her walk up the path.

  I don’t feel like going to meet Lateef and Tiny at the bowling alley, so I wander home. Meg is still out, so I settle down in our bedroom and open my laptop.

  There’s an alert from the email account I set up in her name. I open it quickly and read the email from someone called Samantha Burns at Design Dreams.

  Hi Meg, thanks so much for your application. We were so impressed by your ideas and commitment to a career in design and we’d love to invite you to come for interview with regards to the internship available in July.

  “Yes!” I punch the air.

  First I successfully talk Amy out of a life of crime and moral degeneracy. And now it seems I’ve launched Meg’s fashion career.

  Wait till I tell her. Meg is going to be thrilled.

  Chapter 6

  “You did what?” Meg’s face pales under the electric light of the hallway. I’ve rushed downstairs to tell her the brilliant news. But she doesn’t look pleased. In fact she looks appalled.

  Mum and Beth appear.

  “What’s going on?” Mum asks.

  “Jo
has…” Meg shakes her head. “It’s unbelievable, Mum. Jo has impersonated me and signed me up for a summer job that I didn’t even know about.” Her voice rises as she speaks.

  “Jo?” Mum asks, a warning note in her voice. “Is this true?”

  “It’s an internship at a fashion company,” I explain, desperate to make them see it’s a brilliant opportunity for Meg. “They’re called Design Dreams, they’re famous. Meg showed the ad to me, she said she’d love it but she wouldn’t get it so I—”

  “I never said that,” Meg shouts. “I told you several times that I didn’t want that stupid job. I already have a job, looking after the Gardiners’ little boys.”

  I shake my head. “But that’s just babysitting. This would be perfect for helping you become a fashion designer.”

  Meg rolls her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, Jo. I don’t want to be a fashion designer.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll have to email them back and say there was a mistake and I don’t want the job.”

  “It’s not a job, it’s a summer holiday internship,” I say stubbornly.

  “Oh, great,” Meg’s voice drips with sarcasm. “So it’s not even paid.”

  She stomps off upstairs. I turn to go after her, but Mum puts her hand on my arm.

  “Leave it, Jo,” she says gently.

  “I was only trying to help.” I look at Beth, she’s always on my side; surely she’ll back me up? But Beth is gazing down at her shoes. “Meg should have more confidence in her abilities,” I protest.

  Mum sighs. “Her abilities for doing what? Have you ever actually seen Meg try to design anything? Has she ever told you she wants to be a designer?”

  “I guess not in those words,” I’m forced to admit. “But she’d be great at it. I mean, Meg loves fashion. She’s always looking at clothes and stuff online and she puts outfits together really well. It’s … it’s her life. Like writing is mine.”