Becoming Jo

by Sophie MacKenzie

  And then pride surges through me, eclipsing all other feelings and, as Ms Kettering turns away, I rush over and swoop Amy into a big hug.

  “You were brilliant,” I whisper in her ear.

  She pulls away, studying my face. “You didn’t mind me using the Rodriguo thing?” she asks.

  I hug her again. “Not at all,” I say. “Though when you get to be a famous movie star, just remember how I gave you the words to launch your career.”

  “Whatevs.” Amy pulls away again, laughing.

  A bunch of the other girls swarm around her now and I slip away. Outside the air is crisp and cool. I message Meg to tell her what a great audition Amy just did.

  Srsly amazing. WAY better than me. Guess I’ll stick to writing stories – we all have our thing, don’t we? I hesitate for a second, then add. Glad you found yours. J x

  Meg replies with a row of hearts and kisses.

  That night I write about the audition, adding it to the story I’ve already made about Amy and how she’s changed. About how we have changed.

  I look back over the writing I’ve done over the last few weeks: one piece is about me and the ups and downs of my friendship with Lateef. Another describes Meg and her secret ambitions. And then there’s my recent effort on Amy, who has always had a flair for the dramatic, one way or another. They’re different from anything else I’ve written – and there is something about them that I really like. That I’m proud of. I just need to find a way of bringing them together into a single story that I can send to the editor, Marianne. This weekend, I decide, I will definitely make time to do that.

  But when the weekend comes, something happens that makes me forget all about my writing. Something that changes everything, for ever.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday marks the start of October and our third weekend without Meg, though from the noise levels in the house you’d never know we were one sister down.

  As predicted, Amy got the part of Eliza despite being one of the youngest girls to audition. She found out yesterday and is still on a high. Right now she and Katy Brown and their friends are playing some stupid game in the living room that involves an interactive video and a lot of shrieking.

  Mum is playing music loudly – track after track of wailing folk music from way before even she was born – while she conducts one of her periodic decluttering sessions upstairs. Today she’s focused on our wardrobes – especially all the stuff Meg has left behind and the racks of pink and frothy outfits Amy no longer wears. Neither of them will be happy when they see the bin bags Mum has filled with their clothes – which will mean a row – but right now Mum is lost in her own thoughts, an unhappy, far-away expression on her face as she wanders from room to room.

  I guess she must miss Meg a lot.

  I miss her too – though it is pretty cool having our room to myself. Meg and I are still messaging a lot – and it sounds like she’s really happy at John Brooke. She’s planning on coming home next weekend and I can’t wait to see her.

  Mum drifts in again, a turquoise dress dangling from her hands. “I found this in Amy’s drawer. Is it Meg’s? She was asking about a bluey-green dress on the phone yesterday, said she was sure she’d packed it…”

  “That’s Meg’s – she’ll be furious,” I say with relish, but Mum just nods and wanders out again. I stare after her. Something is definitely up. Mum’s hasn’t really been herself for days. Neither has Dad.

  I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong, but something is telling me it’s more than missing Meg.

  Mum’s music is still blaring out, so I retreat to the bathroom where I sit propped against the bath, with my laptop balanced on my knees. It’s quieter in here, although I now face regular interruptions from Amy’s friends who keep creeping in to reapply their lip gloss and eyeliner.

  Outside the sun emerges from behind a cloud. It’s been chillier the past few days but looking through the window I can see Dad has taken off his jumper and is staring at a rose bush with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Is he crying?

  Feeling really uneasy, I watch as he strolls out of sight. A few moments later the front door opens, then shuts again.

  I’m too distracted to write any more, so I pick up the brush by the sink and run it through my hair, watching how the static lifts the individual chestnut brown strands.

  Amy appears at the bathroom door. “I need to pee,” she announces.

  “Who was at the front door?” I ask.

  “No one, it was Dad going out,” Amy says.

  “Where?”

  Amy shrugs. “He said he needed crumpets or something for the garden.”

  I frown. “Crumpets? That doesn’t—”

  “What’s Mum doing?” Amy asks.

  “Clearing out old clothes. By the way…” I fold my arms, summoning my sternest expression. “You’re totally busted on that turquoise dress of Meg’s…”

  Amy makes a face. At least Amy is her usual self. I leave her in the bathroom and, laptop under my arm, I head downstairs, musing on my story for Teen Spiral and how I can find a way of tying my three separate pieces of writing together.

  Beth is reading at the kitchen table.

  “Hey,” she says smiling up at me. “You OK?”

  “Fine,” I say, “though Mum and Dad seem … I dunno, like something’s not right.”

  Beth nods, the smile slipping from her face. There are dark rings under her eyes.

  “Are you OK, Beth?”

  “I’m fine,” she says, but there’s hesitation in her voice.

  “Beth?” I persist. “What’s going on?”

  “Tea?” Beth asks, ignoring me.

  “Sure.” I sit down at the table. I’m still determined to find out what is wrong, but there’s no point me pushing her. I know my Beth. She will tell me when she’s ready, I just have to be patient.

  Beth turns to the kettle and fills it with water.

  “By the way,” I say. “Why is Dad buying crumpets for the garden?”

  “He isn’t, he’s getting compost,” Beth explains. “Why did you—?”

  “Amy,” I say.

  “Ah.” Beth flicks the kettle on to boil and sits down opposite me. “How’s your story coming?” she asks.

  “Actually, I’m stuck,” I say, laying my laptop on the table between us.

  “Mmm,” Beth says. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve got three different pieces,” I say. “They’re all good, I think, but there’s something not quite working. It’s like they’re … bitty and I want to connect them and I can’t see how.”

  “So there’s a missing link?” Beth asks.

  “Exactly.”

  The kettle boils and Beth fetches teabags and two mugs. I reach around to take the milk out of the fridge. “I really want what I’m writing to work for Teen Spiral.”

  “What matters is that it works for you,” Beth says, filling our mugs with water.

  “I guess.” I smile at her. There’s something about Beth that calms me, soothes me. It always has. I am filled with affection for her. She still looks so tired, with those shadows under her eyes. I hate that she’s stuck in the house so much. She says she doesn’t mind missing school, but it must be lonely. Maybe if she got out and about a bit more, she would feel better.

  I add a big splash of milk to Beth’s mug – she likes her tea milky – and a smaller dash to my own.

  “We should get you out and about,” I say cheerfully. “Go and do something active together. What about that zip wire Lateef mentioned last week? The new one in Ringstone Wood – it’s supposed to be the third highest in the country. We could all go and watch Amy shrieking all the way down.”

  Beth laughs. “That sounds like fun for you, Jo; I’d just be terrified for her. And definitely for myself.”

  “If you don’t want to risk the zip wire you could just wrap up warm and watch the rest of us.” I grimace. “Though that doesn’t s
ound like much fun.”

  “Wrapping up warm and watching sounds perfect,” Beth says.

  “Oh come on, Bethy,” I urge. “You’ve got to take a few risks, you know? Now you’re getting better you need to push yourself a bit.”

  She looks at me and, to my horror, tears well in her dark eyes.

  “No. Beth, what? Did I put my foot in it?” I fill up with remorse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Oh, I knew something was wrong.”

  Beth cups her mug of tea. The silence in the kitchen somehow seems louder than all the noises around us. A tear trickles down her cheek.

  “Beth?” A weight settles on my chest. I’ve been patient, waiting for her to speak, but I can’t wait any longer. “Beth? Please.”

  Beth meets my gaze squarely. “Jo,” she says. “I made Mum and Dad promise not to say, because I wanted to tell you this myself.” She takes a deep breath. “We saw the doctor this week and they confirmed the tests I’ve been having. I’ve … I’ve got cancer.”

  The kitchen spins around us. I look deep into Beth’s eyes.

  No. Not Beth. This can’t be true.

  “Are they … sure?” I ask, my voice faltering. But even as I speak I know it’s true. It explains why she’s stayed off school. All those doctor’s appointments. It explains how haggard Dad looks, how preoccupied Mum has been, how sad and distracted they’ve both seemed.

  Beth nods. “It’s a kind of lymphoma, early stage and treatable, but…” She hesitates. “It’s not connected to me being ill earlier in the year, but Mum and Dad are still beating themselves up for spending so much time away from home.” She meets my gaze. “You have to help me look after them, Jo. They’re so upset.”

  My heart flips in my chest. This is pure Beth, worrying about everyone else, not thinking of herself.

  “What about you?” The words rasp out of me. I take her hand, lying pale on the table. She feels cold. “Beth? How are you feeling?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says in a soft voice. “I’ve got to have chemotherapy, other stuff too.”

  I squeeze her hand, no idea what to say. The world has just tipped on its axis, spinning off in a different direction. Changed, for ever.

  “You can always tell me how you feel,” I say, my voice breaking. “I’m not going to pretend I won’t get upset, but it won’t be like talking to Mum and Dad.” I straighten my back. I have to be strong, I realize, not just for Beth but for all of them. “If you’re scared, you can tell me.”

  Beth nods. “Thanks, Jo. I don’t want Meg to know until I can tell her in person, when she comes home next weekend. Mum and Dad think it’s better if we wait and tell Amy then too. OK?”

  “OK,” I say, feeling numb.

  “Thanks, Jo.” She sits back, taking her hand out of mine.

  A moment passes. “Are … are you scared?” The words feel like they squeeze out of me.

  “Only for all of you.” Beth smiles.

  We sit in silence for a few more moments. A loud burst of laughter from Amy next door rises up then subsides into chatter.

  “I’m glad you know,” Beth says.

  And then she turns her head to gaze out at the garden.

  Chapter 7

  Lateef sits beside me, his face uncharacteristically solemn.

  “Are you sure about this, Jo?” he asks.

  I nod, looking into the mirror that runs along the wall in front of us.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Lateef adds.

  “No, I’ll do it alone,” I say, meeting his eyes.

  “Right,” Lateef says, standing up. He goes to the bathroom door and curls his fingers around the handle. He hesitates for a second, then turns back, looking at my reflection. “You’re the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met, Jo March,” he says very quietly.

  Then he turns and leaves me sitting in front of the mirror.

  It’s the beginning of December, two months since Beth told me how sick she was. Meg and Amy found out soon after, on Meg’s first visit home. Neither of them reacted how I expected. Meg, who is always so practical, burst into tears and started saying that she was going to leave John Brooke College and come home and never go away again. Dad told her sternly she was to do no such thing, though of course she could come back every weekend if she wanted.

  Amy was the opposite. Little Miss Emotional Outburst was, for once, business-like and practical. Asking exactly what was wrong with Beth, and what her treatments would involve. Mum and Dad answered her questions as best they could.

  At the time I don’t think any of us really understood.

  We do now.

  Beth’s been having chemotherapy treatment for weeks. Mum takes her to the special cancer centre at the hospital every Tuesday. When Beth comes back she’s exhausted, and though she usually feels a bit better by the weekend, the following Tuesday the whole cycle begins again. She hasn’t complained about anything except once, earlier this week, when I found her crying in this very bathroom.

  “What is it?” I asked, taking her hand.

  Beth looked up at her reflection. Her sweet face all blotchy and her eyes red-rimmed.

  “It’s my hair,” she sobbed.

  She’d been nearly bald for a while, just a few soft fuzzy strands remaining, and that afternoon she’d asked Mum to shave off the rest. Since then she’s been wearing little caps and insisting she really likes how cosy they make her head feel.

  But I know the truth.

  “You don’t have to pretend Beth,” I told her. “It’s OK to tell us how hard it is.”

  “Oh, Jo,” she said back, her voice barely a whisper. “I feel so stupid about being upset. It’s just hair.”

  “I know.” I hugged her. “But you’re not stupid.”

  “It’s not that I mind losing the hair,” she said, swallowing down her sobs. “It’s … it’s…”

  “It’s that you hate being different. Standing out,” I said. “I know.”

  And now you won’t have to.

  I stare at myself in the mirror.

  It’s time.

  Half an hour later and I leave the bathroom. Upstairs is empty. They are all downstairs in the kitchen: my parents and my three sisters. Mum has called me twice for tea. I’ve got to face them. Show them what I’ve done.

  I don’t regret it but, as I make my way down the stairs, I wish I didn’t have to face them all together. Still, there’s no other choice now.

  The air feels cool on the back of my neck. I reach the kitchen door and peer round. Everyone is in their seat – Mum and Dad at either end of the table. Meg and Amy opposite the door, Beth with her back to me, next to my own empty seat.

  As I walk across the kitchen, my heart in my mouth, Mum looks up.

  Her jaw drops.

  “Oh, Jo,” Dad says, his voice a mix of shock and awe. “Oh, my Jo.”

  I glance at Meg and Amy. They’re both staring at my head.

  My bald, shaved head.

  I brace myself, expecting one or both of them to laugh. But they don’t. Amy’s eyes fill with tears. Meg gives me a slight, reassuring nod.

  Beth is the slowest to move, turning in her chair. And then she sees me and gasps.

  Her hand flies to her little pink cap. Our eyes meet.

  For a split second I’m terrified that she’s going to hate me for what I’ve done. I mean, what am I trying to say? That I’m sharing Beth’s experience? Of course I’m not. She’s coping with cancer and chemo.

  I’ve just got to face a few months without hair.

  The silence swells and fills the room. I want to say something meaningful, but I don’t, for once, have any words.

  “Jo?” Beth takes off her cap. Her scalp shines pink under the kitchen light.

  I shrug. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I?”

  “But your beautiful hair,” Beth’s voice is barely a breath.

  “Actually it suits you, Jo,” Amy says thoughtfully. “You kind of rock it, in fact.”

&n
bsp; Meg nods. “You do,” she says, her voice filling with warmth and wonder.

  Dad clears his throat.

  Mum stands up. She comes over and takes my hands. “I think you’ve never looked more beautiful in your life, Jo.”

  She looks me deep in the eyes, an expression overflowing with love and pride.

  “Now sit down before your tea gets cold.”

  “Not to mention your head,” Meg adds.

  And, with a smile, I take my place next to Beth, surrounded by my family.

  Chapter 8

  It’s the week before Christmas and the house is empty. It’s hard to believe that a year ago I sat in this same living room with my sisters, complaining about our lack of presents.

  Right now all I can think about is Beth.

  I wander from room to room, the silence weighing down on me. How many times in the past year did I wish for this kind of peace and quiet? And now I have it, how heavy it feels, like a dead weight.

  For the past month there’s only been one story I wanted to tell, and I finished it last week. It’s about Beth – a record of her illness and her courage, with elements from the three other pieces I’d written, about the rest of us, her sisters, woven in.

  I realized, you see, that Beth’s story was what was missing.

  My Beth. The missing link.

  Because Beth might be quiet and shy and easy for most people to overlook, but without her at the heart of our family, we don’t work.

  Marianne at Teen Spiral loves what I wrote. She called and told me so yesterday, said that My Beth is exactly the kind of thing she was looking for. “It feels real and honest,” she said. “Exactly what we want for the big launch.”

  I was … I am …thrilled. But I’ve got life in perspective now. Some things are more important than even a story.

  I glance at the time. Mum and Dad are at a hospital appointment with Beth. Her chemotherapy treatments are over – for now at least – and today they find out how effective this first stage has been. I can’t do anything until I know if she’s OK.