And we’re stuck with Aunt Em.
Actually, that’s not fair. She’s a lot easier to deal with than I’d expected, so long as you follow her rules. She leaves the house first thing, in her suit and elegant coat, and gets back in the evening, where she sits at our kitchen table drinking a glass of white wine and firing off emails while supervising one of us cooking dinner, which involves far too much steamed fish and raw vegetables for my liking.
Then she either has a conference call in the living room, or forces us all to sit through a documentary with subtitles. She’s out right now, for once – and I’m taking advantage of her absence to do some writing up in my room. Amy is with her friends downstairs (including Katy Brown, with whom she is now officially BFF) and they’re making their usual racket – shrieking their heads off watching some stupid movie – while Meg is playing that hideous dancey trancey music she likes in the bathroom. Beth is pottering about in the kitchen, baking for an upcoming charity bake sale.
I sigh. I’m sure Charlotte Bronte never had to cope with her sisters’ noise while she was trying to write a story.
Or maybe she did.
I grin to myself, picturing big sister Charlotte stomping around the Bronte’s vicarage telling off Anne and Emily for wrecking her focus, then turn back to my latest Tallulah story. It’s about Tallulah entering a singing competition and coming second, then the winner being wrongly accused of cheating and Talluah having to clear her name. It’s fun making Tallulah a great singer but even better to show her struggling to overcome her envy of the winner in order to help her.
Just as I’m writing the final scene Beth calls from downstairs.
“Mum and Dad are Skyping!” she cries.
I bang on the bathroom door to let Meg know, then hurry down. I pass Beth on her way into the living room, presumably going to fetch Amy. I dash into the kitchen and hurl myself into the prime chair right in front of the computer. Dad’s thin, grey face fills the screen.
“Hey, Jo-Jo,” he says with a smile. “How are you? What are you writing?”
My stomach gives a lurch. He still looks so ill. Mum has reassured us a million times that he is definitely on the mend, but it’s hard to believe it when he looks so weak.
“I’m fine,” I say, forcing myself to sound more cheerful than I feel. “We’re all fine. How about you?”
“Great guns, definitely home soon,” Dad says. “Tell me what you’re writing. Is it another Tallulah? I loved the last one.”
I launch into an outline of the Tallulah singing plot. It’s such a treat having Dad to myself for a few moments. He nods encouragingly when I’ve finished.
“Let me know when you post – email the link, yeah?”
“Sure.”
At that moment the others fly in and swarm around me, pushing for space so they can see Dad on the screen – and so he can see them. The five of us chatter away, Amy showing Dad the self-portrait she’s been drawing – which I have to admit isn’t bad – and Meg recounting how she took the little Gardiner boys swimming yesterday and one of them managed a whole width. Dad manages to answer them both with genuine interest and pride, but still make sure Beth gets a chance to shine too, asking to hear her play the piano, which she does, even though all Amy’s friends are still in the living room.
After about ten minutes, Mum comes on screen saying that Dad needs to rest. We tell them both that we love them, and the screen goes blank.
There’s a silence, and then, rather quietly, we wander away back to our separate activities. I try to get back to my story but it’s hard settle after the call. I sit at my desk with a sigh and force myself to finish the Tallulah story, then post it on my blog. I send Dad the link, as promised, and sit back in my chair. Truth is that I’m bored with the summer holidays already (not that I’d admit it to anyone) even though we’ve only been off school for a week. I wouldn’t mind if I had the house to myself but everyone’s always here, on top of each other. I gaze at the pictures above my bed. I’ve added a few more now: the Sydney Opera House and Ayers Rock, both in Australia, plus a photo of a beautiful cathedral in Rome and a landscape of rolling hills just outside Florence, in Italy.
At least I’m getting away this weekend. Not abroad, admittedly, but I’m still looking forward to it. This weekend is the Manning Plains festival, the tickets for which caused all that upset with Lateef a few months ago, though our argument is long behind us now, of course.
There’s loads from our year going, with Sallie Gardiner at the centre of things, thanks to her Dad being the one offering the cut-price tickets. Mr and Mrs Gardiner are coming too – so Meg will be looking after the twins all weekend while they’re gone. I wish it was just me and Lateef, to be honest.
Thankfully I haven’t had to buy a tent. I’ll be staying in one of the four-person shelters Sallie and her friends are providing. I can’t imagine the immaculate Mrs Gardiner camping, but Sallie says she loves going to festivals.
Maybe the weekend will be a chance for me to make friends with more of the girls in my year. I haven’t seen any of them since the end of term – I’m not exactly BFFs with Sallie and her group. But the festival will be a great opportunity for us to bond and have fun: there’ll be several of my favourite indie bands and fashion stalls and circus acts and all sorts of cool stuff. I can’t wait!
My head’s too full of the upcoming festival – and worry about Dad – for me to write, so I sit on my bed, rereading the first book in the Blacktower series. I’m soon so caught up in its world that I don’t hear either when Aunt Em comes home or Amy’s friends leave. In fact, I’m not aware of anything or anybody for the next hour or so. Not until Aunt Em’s sharp tones cut through my reading.
“Jo! Come and help Beth with dinner!”
I trudge downstairs to find Beth alone in the kitchen. I lay out knives and forks. Eating together at seven p.m. sharp on the evenings she’s in is one of the few rules Aunt Em has imposed, the other being a curfew of ten p.m. “because I don’t want to be worrying about where you are all the time”.
Soon the five of us are tucking into the one-pot chicken stew that Beth has made. As usual with Beth’s cooking, it’s delicious. Even Aunt Em says so.
“It’s excellent news that your father is on the mend,” she says, smiling. “Though I do blame him for taking such a foolish assignment. It’s not surprising he fell ill.”
Anger stirs inside me. How dare she criticize him? I shoot her a filthy look.
Aunt Em doesn’t seem to notice. “Anyway, it’s good that he’ll be home soon,” she says. “And while I’m on the subject of good things, I thought you’d like to know that I’m planning a trip to Paris and then through France to Italy for three weeks in August.”
A twinge of envy twists in my gut.
“Paris,” Meg gushes. “The fashion capital of the world.”
I raise a sardonic eyebrow in her direction. “And therefore full of designers,” I mutter. “You’d fit right in.”
“Shut up, Jo,” Meg snaps. She turns to Aunt Em. “It sounds like an amazing trip.”
“Sooo amazing,” Amy adds, leaning forward with her hands clasped.
“And the good news is,” Aunt Em says, “that I’ll be taking one of you with me.”
What? It takes a moment for this to sink in.
I stare at her. This is my dream come true. “Taking one of us?” I echo.
“To Paris and Italy?” Meg adds.
“For three whole weeks?” Amy’s voice is a gasp.
“Was I speaking some incomprehensible dialect just now? Because you all seem to be repeating everything I just said.” Aunt Em says irritably. “Yes, three weeks. And yes, one of you will come with me. I’ll need an assistant while I’m out there and it seems like a good opportunity for one of you girls.” She takes another sip from her glass. “I’ll have a think about who would be most suitable.”
I struggle to contain my excitement. She’s going to pick me. Of course she is. I’ve always been the one to
run errands for her. And I’m strong too – easily able to lug around the piles of designer suitcases Aunt Em is bound to take with her. Paris and Italy – two places I have always dreamed of visiting. Finally I will be escaping Ringstone and seeing the world.
What with Dad coming home and the promise of a trip on the horizon, this summer will be the best yet.
Chapter 2
Of course I leave packing for Manning Plains festival to the last minute, so I’m running around my bedroom like a mad thing with Beth trying to help me get ready. Sallie and her friends are supplying not only the tents, but inflatable mattresses and sleeping bags for everyone – so all I have to bring are clothes for two days and a contribution to the food. Beth takes her duties as my chief packing adviser very seriously and is still debating over sweaters as the Gardiners’ minivan – hired for the occasion – pulls up outside and honks loudly.
“Time’s up,” I say, grabbing my favourite red jumper from Beth’s discarded pile and shoving it into my bag.
“Oh, Jo!” Beth looks horrified. “That one’s full of moth holes.”
I make a face, give her a hug, then race downstairs. A whirlwind of goodbyes from Meg, Aunt Em and Amy, who – as usual – is hanging out in the living room with Katy, then I grab my bag and stride out.
Lateef – who has obviously heard the minibus from his own house – is hurrying across the road. I wave at Sallie, then find an empty seat near the front while Lateef wanders around the bus, hugging everyone and radiating a puppyish excitement that makes everyone smile, even Sallie’s closest and meanest friend, who I don’t like at all: Zoe Carpenter.
I can’t help but feel gratified when, after Mr Gardiner tells everyone to take their seats, Lateef slips in beside me. He might be friends with everyone, but I’m still his bestie. We plan to spend the journey listening to the music we’re going to hear this weekend. He watches as I fumble with my snarled old headphones that came free with someone’s phone.
“Here, take these.” He presses his expensive Beats headphones into my hands.
I stare at him, startled. “I can’t.”
“It’s just for the weekend,” he says. “I want you word perfect by the time we’re at the front of the crowd.”
“Thanks,” I say, grinning with delight. “You’re the best.”
Manning Plains festival is amazing. The sun is shining as we drive up a mud track and park alongside the first of two big fields dotted with brightly coloured canvas. Sallie’s mum organizes us into four groups and then she and Sallie’s dad help us to set up our tents alongside the rows and rows of others. It takes a while, thanks to the strong winds blustering through the nearby trees. Thankfully I’m in a different tent from Zoe, who is sharing with Sallie and two of her more giggly friends. The girls I’m with are cool, though I’m not close to any of them: three friends who have known each other since primary school.
As soon as the tents are up Sallie’s parents make us put on jumpers or jackets – “It might be sunny but there’s a cold breeze,” – and then wave us off to explore the festival with the usual warnings about avoiding strangers, drugs and alcohol ringing in our ears. Past the two fields of tents and we’re in another open space with a raised platform at one end. A band is on stage, testing their instruments. As we get nearer they break into a song. None of us know either the musicians or the music, but it doesn’t matter: the effect of the guitars – their sound growing first louder, then softer as the wind whips the tune away from us – is exhilarating. Stretching beyond the stage on either side are clusters of food and clothes stalls. Sallie turns to everyone, eyes wide with excitement.
“Let’s check out the fashion stands,” she urges.
Zoe and several of the other girls squeal with delight. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to look at boring clothes when there is all this amazing music and atmosphere to soak up.
“I think I’ll stay here,” I say, glancing across at Lateef. “Check out the music.”
“Yeah, me too,” he says.
“OK.” Sallie gives us a curious look. “See you later.”
I’m entranced by the music that’s now playing and Lateef and I spend the next couple of hours watching four more bands perform. I spot the other girls on the far side of the field at one point and wave. My tent-mates wave back cheerfully, but Sallie and Zoe don’t seem to see me.
And that’s pretty much how it goes for the rest of the day. Sallie and Zoe and their group spend most of the time hanging around the fashion stalls, while the rest of us take in as much music as we can. Lateef, Tiny and I – along with a few others – wander between the main stage and the smaller undercover areas where lesser-known musicians are performing. There’s a big range of styles on offer: from a DJ playing hits from the nineties to a live indie band made up of five girls in animal outfits whose guitar playing and vocal harmonies soar over the field.
I don’t speak much to Sallie or Zoe but later, once we’re snuggled up in our tent, I have a laugh with the three girls I’m sharing with. We stay awake for ages chatting about stupid stuff and giggling over nothing. It’s not that different from hanging out with my sisters really, and certainly nice to feel I’m making new friends.
The next day passes much the same as the previous afternoon. Everyone’s up early and Sallie’s dad makes us all tea and sausages on his little fire – though Sallie and Zoe go to one of the catering vans for hot chocolate and croissants instead. Afterwards, Lateef and I spend the day soaking up all the music on offer. We hardly see Sallie or her friends.
The next morning we sleep a bit later, enjoy another breakfast of tea and sausages, then pack up the tents. Lateef and I go for a last stroll before we leave. The music is all over and all the stuff on the stage is being removed, big burly guys with huge beards manhandling amps and drum kits into boxes. The stalls beyond are being dismantled too. I feel sad it’s over, but so happy I had the experience. My little world is going to get bigger, I can feel it – starting with this festival but then also Paris and Rome coming up soon, hopefully, with Aunt Em…
Lateef goes off to talk to one of the boys from our class. I say I’ll meet him at the minivan – we’ll be leaving in about twenty minutes. As I walk back past one of the fashion stalls, I catch Sallie’s penetrating voice.
“She’s just embarrassing,” she is saying. “I mean the stuff she wears…”
“Oh my God. Did you see that red jumper of hers?” Zoe is saying. “Full of holes.”
I freeze. Are they talking about me?
“How could you miss it?“ Sallie replies with a snort. “I know they’re broke, but Meg manages to look normal. It’s just attention-seeking. I mean, really. It was more holes than actual jumper. And don’t get me started on that stain.”
Zoe and the other girls laugh. The wind whips around the side of the stall, making me shiver. I glance down at my jumper. Beth tried to stop me bringing it, I remember. OK, so it’s fraying at the cuffs and there are a couple of grubby-edged holes and a yellowed bleach stain across the chest … but surely it’s not that bad?
“She’s only here because Lateef bought her ticket,” Sallie says.
My heart beats hard, drumming in my ears. One of the other girls says something in a low voice I can’t catch.
“You’re so right,” Sallie says. “I like Lateef too. It’s not fair what Jo’s doing.”
“Yeah,” Zoe says. “She’s totally got her claws into him. Poor Lateef doesn’t stand a chance. Everyone knows she’s a total freeloader. She’s using him.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Do you really think Jo is friends with Lateef just because he’s rich?” another voice asks.
“Totally,” Zoe says. “Did you see those Beats headphones? They’re his – I’ve seen him with them at school. I reckon he’s so nice he can’t say ‘no’ to her.”
I gasp, an involuntary suck of breath. It’s so horrible, what they’re saying – that I’m only friends with Lateef because
of his money. I clutch the side of the stall. For a second I’m determined to walk round to the front and reveal myself, to tell them they’re wrong and demand an apology, especially from mean, horrible Zoe Carpenter. And then I stop, imagining all their faces and how embarrassing a confrontation would be.
I stumble away instead, my cheeks burning with rage and humiliation. I can’t wait to get home, away from these awful people so ready to think the worst of me.
And then a fresh and even more horrific thought strikes me.
Is it possible that, in spite of everything, Lateef thinks the same thing?
Chapter 3
I hardly speak on the way home from the festival. I spend the journey huddled against the window on the back seat of the minivan, pretending I have a stomach ache. Eventually Lateef stops asking me if I’m OK, and chats to the others. We both get out on Fishtail Lane and I scuttle away after the briefest of goodbyes. I can hardly meet his eyes.
As soon as I get inside I grab Meg and drag her into our bedroom. I tell her what Zoe and Sallie said, my eyes filling with hot, bitter tears as I speak.
Meg’s jaw drops. “How dare they,” she says, her cheeks flooding with colour. “I’ve a good mind to tell Sallie what I think of her next time I go over to look after the twins.”
“But what if Lateef thinks it too? That I’m just friends with him because he’s rich?” I shiver at the thought. “I need to make sure he knows that it isn’t true.”
Meg considers this for a moment, then shakes her head. “There’s no way,” she says. “I can guarantee he doesn’t think that about you.”
“How do you know?” I demand.
“Because … because that’s just not who Lateef is,” Meg says. “And that’s not who you are, and he knows that.” She pats my arm in the same kind, brisk way Mum does. “Now, come downstairs and have some tea. Beth’s spent all morning making cupcakes.”
Becoming Jo Page 11
