by Katy Cannon
“Well, they’re going to need costumes for that, aren’t they? So it’s just as well you have me.”
“A wardrobe mistress who knows nothing about costumes. We are truly blessed.”
I glared at him as I grabbed the door handle to the common room. Any moment now I’d be free of Connor and all his questions and assumptions about me. “Trust me. I’m going to make sure this whole play is brilliant.” Especially once Violet gives up on playing Beatrice and lets me play the lead, I added silently.
“We’ll see,” Connor said, sounding far too much like Miss Cotterill for my liking.
“Yes, we will,” I said, making sure to get the last word.
Now I just needed to remember how to sew.
That afternoon I left school at the usual time, walking the long way round to wander past the drama room. It was still warm for late September, and through the open windows I could hear laughter and chatter as the cast ran through the script together for the first time. I wrapped my blazer tighter around me to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
I almost imagined I could make out Connor’s laugh amid all the noise. Because of course he’d be there. He mattered to the play – and to Mr Hughes. Benefits of having relatives in the right places, I supposed.
But that was my place. Where I was supposed to be. And until I won it back, I had to go home – a place that felt less like mine every time I walked through the door. A house that had relatives in all the wrong places.
Home was a ten-minute walk from school, fifteen if I dawdled. I made it in twenty, pausing at the end of the double driveway when I clocked the older, cheaper car parked there. Not something either of my parents would drive.
Faith’s car. Again.
Sucking in a deep breath, I soldiered on up the drive, fishing my keys out of the front pocket of my school bag as I went. It was fine. I’d just tell them I had homework, so I couldn’t get involved in looking at old photos or wedding planning or whatever it was they were doing today. Thirty seconds of polite chit-chat and I could be alone in my room again. At least that still felt like mine.
“Grace?” My mum’s voice rang out the moment I turned the key and pushed the door open. “We’re in the kitchen, sweetie.”
I dumped my bag by the coat rack and slipped my arms out of my blazer, taking rather more time than was strictly necessary to hang it up. Then I padded through the hall towards the kitchen.
I’d expected to see the wedding-planning file spread out over the counter, or maybe more wedding-favour samples – chocolates or packets of wildflower seeds or something. Instead, I walked in to find my mum and Faith dolloping cookie dough on to lined baking trays. The KitchenAid was out on the side, dough hanging from its mixer attachment, and a few chocolate chips had escaped across the counter. As I watched, Faith picked one up and popped it into her mouth.
“You’re just in time!” Mum said. “These will be ready in a few minutes. We can all sit and have coffee and cookies together!”
“You’re … baking?” I mean, yes, the evidence spoke for itself, but still, I needed to be sure. After all, I didn’t think my mum even knew we owned a mixer. The interior designer had picked it because it matched the tiles when we had the kitchen redone a couple of years before. Lottie had been the first person to use it, when we were practising for the School’s National Bake-Off last year.
In the eight years we’d lived in that house, I’d never seen my mum bake anything. A stir-fry, or pasta with sauce from a jar, was a culinary achievement for her. My mum was the anti-housewife. She always said she worked hard so that she could pay other people to cook, clean and all that stuff.
But now Faith was here, and she was making chocolate chip cookies like it was perfectly normal.
“I hear you’re quite the baker,” Faith said, a small smile on her lips. With her neat blonde bob and her blue eyes, she looked like a younger version of Mum. An older, shorter version of me, with worse hair. “Maybe you could take a look at these, see if they’re OK?”
She tilted the tray slightly so I could see, but I glanced away. Baking was my thing, not hers. And it wasn’t like Mum had shown any interest when I was making chocolate chip cookies. Or in anything I did other than getting good grades and perfect reports. She’d made the odd drama show, I supposed, but only if she hadn’t had to work that evening.
“I’m sure they’ll be great,” I said. “Maybe I’ll grab one later. I need to go and … do my homework.”
The corners of Faith’s mouth turned down just a little and I felt bad for a moment, as the reasonable part of my brain reminded me that this wasn’t really her fault. She was as much a victim of the whole stupid situation as I was.
But the reasonable part of my brain didn’t win a lot of arguments against my heart, or the part of my head that screamed that this was my kitchen, my house, my family, not hers.
“We’ll see you later, then.” The disappointment in Mum’s eyes was obvious, but I ignored it. Even the reasonable part of my brain blamed her, at least fifty per cent, for the whole Faith thing. Apparently whatever mistakes my parents had ever made, I was supposed to be fine with them – despite the fact that they never forgot any of my screw-ups.
I wanted my parents to be proud of me, but right then, it was kind of hard to be proud of them.
I’d reached the top of the stairs, and was just a few steps away from my bedroom door, when I bumped into Dad.
“Gracie! How was school? Was it the auditions today?”
“Yesterday,” I said, wishing he’d leave it at that, but knowing he wouldn’t.
“Well? How did it go?” He leaned against the bannister, obviously settled in for a long discussion.
“Actually, I… Well, I missed them. But I persuaded Mr Hughes to let me audition today instead. For the lead understudy role. And I got it!” I hurried the words out, trying to focus on the positives.
“You missed the auditions?” Of course that was what he homed in on. “How come?”
I shrugged. “Overslept.”
He gave me his disapproving face. “Well, I guess you’ve learned your lesson by missing out on the lead role. I bet you’ll set your alarm next time, right?”
“Right.” I’d say anything if he’d just let me get to my room and be alone. I know my dad, and I know he thought he was being helpful, pointing out what he thought I’d done wrong, but all it was doing was making me cringe inside. And feel more worthless than I already did.
“So, are you really going to settle for the understudy part? It’s not like you to let somebody else steal your place like that. You know, second best—”
“Is just like all the rest,” I finished for him. I’d heard it often enough.
“Exactly.” He snapped his fingers together as he spoke, as if I’d passed some test. “And I’ve always known you were born to be more than just another follower in the herd.”
I managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Dad.” Did he believe that about Faith, too?
“So, you’re going to win your part back, then?”
I nodded, without even thinking. “Of course I am.” Because that was what he expected of me. That was the plan.
“Good girl. I knew you wouldn’t let anyone take your chance to shine without a fight.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
My heart clenched tight. He was wrong. Yes, I’d fight Violet for my part in the play, but I’d already let Faith steal my place in the family.
“I need to do my homework,” I managed to mutter, as I pushed past him towards my room.
“Look on the bright side. If you still don’t get the part, at least you’ll have more time for schoolwork, without all those lines to learn.” Dad laughed at his own bad joke, completely oblivious to how I was about to crumple up into a ball if he said one more thing. “We’ll definitely be expecting straight As in your exams now, right?”
As if they weren’t already.
I dived into my room, letting the door swing shut b
ehind me, and sank down to the floor.
He didn’t mean to pile on the pressure, not really. That was just his way. He didn’t understand when I got upset, couldn’t see that every word made me feel … inadequate.
As Mum always said, “it’s just how he is.”
But he was right. I did deserve that part and I should fight for it.
After a few moments, I calmed down. No point losing more time obsessing on my dad’s comments – I had too much work to do. I hadn’t even told him about the costumes and Sewing Club. Not that it would mean anything to him anyway – it wasn’t the lead.
Switching on my laptop, I set my music playing. Then, when I was sure no one was going to show up brandishing cookies, I went digging under my bed.
There, tucked behind a box of old scripts and a bag of clothes I’d meant to give away, I found it. My gran’s sewing basket, perched on top of the books she gave me, back when she first tried to teach me to sew.
My gran died when I was ten. She’d left me her sewing basket and I’d kept it, more as a keepsake than a hobby I ever intended to pick up again. I tugged it out and blew the dust off the top before delving inside.
In among the threads and fabric and pins and tape measures, all neatly coiled and piled and sorted, I found two things that made my chest ache. The first was a tiny, folded fabric case, filled with needles of every possible size. The second, a faded red pincushion in the shape of a heart.
I’d made those for her and she’d kept them. No, not just kept them, she’d used them. She’d made them part of her sewing basket.
Suddenly, the image of her sitting there in her floral-patterned chair, sewing basket at her side and project on her lap, was so strong I had to close my eyes to stop myself crying, I missed her so much.
I pulled out the top tray and there, underneath all the bits and bobs, were stacks of fabric squares, all neatly cut out but not yet sewn together. Gran’s last patchwork quilt. She’d made quilts for all her grandchildren – I still had mine on my bed. She was making one for a friend’s grandchild when she died.
I tucked the squares away again. Maybe one day, if I learned enough, I’d be able to finish it for her. But first, I had to learn to make costumes.
With a deep breath, I took stock. Gran was gone, Mum was baking with Faith, Dad thought I was an utter failure and Connor thought I was some sort of diva. Violet was playing Beatrice, and my plan for the year was utterly screwed up.
But despite all of that, I was determined to be the best and most brilliant wardrobe and props mistress St Mary’s school – any school – had ever seen. It was all part of the new plan.
Mr Hughes wanted cast members he could trust to show up? Fine. I’d be so indispensible, helpful and low maintenance while sorting the costumes that Mr Hughes would know I could be trusted with the lead. And once he saw me play Beatrice up on stage, he’d know I was the best person for the job, not Violet.
I pulled out Gran’s sewing book and turned to the first page. I just had to be patient in the meantime.
Then I’d have my chance to shine.
What you need:
Felt in two different colours
One red button
Something to sew your cupcake on to!
(A canvas tote bag, an apron, a T-shirt … whatever you like)
What to do:
1. Start by drawing a very simple cupcake shape on to some paper.
2. Cut out the cupcake case and the top of the cupcake so they are two separate pieces. Pin the cupcake case to one piece of felt, and the top to the other.
3. Cut out your shapes to create felt pieces.
4. Pin them into place on your bag/apron/T-shirt – you can overlap the felt to make your cupcake look more realistic.
5. Sew around the edges of each piece with three strands of embroidery thread, using blanket stitch or whip stitch to attach it.
6. Remove the pins.
7. Sew your button in place as the cherry on top of your cake.
I’d barely got into the food tech classroom for Bake Club and dumped my bag by my workstation before Yasmin and Lottie were both perched on the stools opposite, interrogating me.
“So, what’s this about you and the new guy?” Yasmin wore her favourite green apron with the yellow and pink cupcakes on the pockets. For the first time, I found myself wondering how they’d been sewn on. Sewing Club was clearly infecting my brain. “Jasper said you were asking about him, and I saw you walking to the common room together.”
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t tell you any more than I’m sure Jasper already has.” I glared over in the direction of his workstation, where he was chatting to Mac. Jasper waved back cheerfully. “Lottie, your boyfriend does realize he doesn’t actually go to this school any more, right?” I said, changing the subject.
“He knows. I think he—”
“Just couldn’t bear to be separated from you for more than a minute?” I guessed. I’d thought that with Mac working and studying full time elsewhere, not to mention living on his own now, we’d see less of him.
“I was going to say, he wanted to see everyone. That was all.” Lottie frowned, and I felt a twinge of guilt. Lottie had had an even worse GCSE year than I had, what with her mum’s crazy hoarding. Although she had ended up with two weeks in Paris with Mac over the summer, so maybe I shouldn’t feel too bad for her.
“And it’s lovely to see him, too,” Yasmin said, diplomatic as ever. “But is he allowed to just show up here?”
“The college have some sort of deal with the school,” Lottie explained. “As well as his practical experience at the bakery, he’s putting in some hours this year as a teaching assistant to Miss Anderson. They want him to learn to teach others to bake as well, apparently. Anyway, it all counts towards his final grade.”
“Is he baking with Jasper today?” The boys looked like they were firmly in bromance territory, bonding over baked goods.
Lottie glanced back across at them, too. “I guess so.”
We looked at each other, realizing that with Ella gone, one of us would have to bake alone. Or, worse still, with one of the new Year Tens. Lottie and Yasmin’s things were already set out on the workstation across the room, and they were exchanging the sort of glances that made me think they expected me to kick up a fuss about having to share with someone new.
So I didn’t. It turns out that surprising people was kind of fun.
“You guys better head over to your workstation before one of the new lot takes it,” I said, shooing them away with my hands, just like my mum used to do when I was getting in her way. “I’ll pair up with whoever’s left over.” Or, hopefully, bake alone in peace and quiet.
I was in luck. The six new Year Tens paired up happily enough on the three front workstations, and I got to hang out at the back and make banana bread with dark chocolate chips on my own, my way. No interference from the new people, no Lottie telling me I had two grams more flour than I needed, or Jasper asking me questions about Connor. Questions I had absolutely no answers to, incidentally.
It wasn’t like a few conversations – OK, a few arguments – made me an authority on Connor O’Neil. All I could tell anyone was that he read Shakespeare properly but didn’t appreciate it unless it was on a stage, was Mr Hughes’s stepson, and apparently saved his irritating smirk and disapproving stare just for me. Hardly an in-depth background check.
My banana bread recipe was a quick one to mix, although it took forever to bake. But it was familiar and warming – comfort food at its best. I scraped the mixture into the lined and greased loaf tin, levelled it off, and carried it over to the ovens. Then, with my banana bread baking and my timer set, I headed over to Jasper and Mac’s workstation, where Mac was doing something complicated with bread dough.
“What’s that?” I asked, leaning against the counter.
Mac folded the dough strands over each other, like he was plaiting hair.
“A plaited loaf,” he said, tucking the ends under. “I lear
ned how to do it in Paris.”
At the word Paris he got the same misty smile on his face that Lottie did whenever anyone asked her about the trip. I rolled my eyes and ignored it, purposefully not asking any follow-up questions. I’d heard enough about Paris already. Lottie had talked about nothing else for two full weeks after they got back, and I could imagine exactly which memories were putting those smiles on their faces.
Jasper, however, had other things on his mind besides bread, and I’d clearly interrupted some classic male bonding. “At least you got to go with your girlfriend when she left town for the summer.”
“It was two weeks,” I pointed out, but Jasper wasn’t listening.
“I barely got a couple of weekend visits with Ella over the holidays. And now she’s saying she can’t come down until half-term. That’s weeks away!”
“Go and visit her,” Mac suggested. “Girls like it when you take action. Or so Lottie tells me.”
“I can’t!” Jasper said. “Ella’s mum says I’m only allowed up to visit once a term. And if I go up before half-term I won’t be able to go at Christmas, and I’ve got this great plan to put together a Christmas stocking for her…”
I’d been hearing about the Christmas-stocking plan since July. It wasn’t all that great that it needed six months’ preparation, trust me.
“You could write to her,” Lottie suggested. I hadn’t even heard her come up behind me, but apparently her time limit for being apart from Mac was up again. “You know, proper old-fashioned letters.”
Jasper frowned. “We Skype and message all the time. What would I say in a letter?”
Lottie shrugged. “Whatever you’re thinking, I guess? Or you could send chocolate? Chocolate is always good.”
Good grief, these people were hopeless. “You tell her all the stuff you’d be embarrassed to say online,” I told him. “You know, the soppy stuff. How you really feel about her. How she makes you feel. It doesn’t matter. Just the fact you took the time to write it down with an actual pen and spend money on a stamp will make her feel special. You want her to know that she’s still important to you, even though things have changed. That’s all.” Jasper, Lottie and Mac all stared at me, open-mouthed. “Or just send chocolate,” I said, with a sigh. “That probably works, too.”
