by Lucy Knott
‘I can’t go to New York,’ I mumble, looking to the floor.
‘Sure, you can. Things are changing around here and, considering we’ve got six months to plan for it, I think we can make it happen,’ Hope counters. I look up and meet her gaze. So much has happened this past week and Hope has stood by me every step of the way. Being able to express myself and join in with talks of superheroes has felt like a piece of my childhood spandex being stitched back together but to create a brand-new costume. I don’t want to hide anything anymore.
‘I got so angry with him and pushed him away,’ I confess and for once I let Hope see the tears that fall as I explain what Devon had said about me pursuing my art and how I’d told him he didn’t know me and that I wasn’t good enough for him. Hope wraps her arms around me, and I feel closer to her than I have felt in ten years.
‘Well, that’s dumb,’ she says when she releases me, and I can’t help chuckle because actually when I say it out loud it does sound pretty dumb. ‘Scarlett, has Devon ever once made you feel not good enough?’ she asks.
I sit up straight. ‘No, no I don’t think so. He makes me feel like me but, Hope, he’s a movie star now – surely he needs someone womanly and glamorous the likes of Ruby or, as my mum would say, someone more feminine and elegant – and that’s not me.’ I tell her.
‘Wait, stop. Scarlett, what does your dad think about you?’ Hope asks, waving a finger in my face and then grabbing my hands and shaking me. I think for a moment, confused by her questioning.
‘Erm, I think he thinks I’m cool and fun.’ I stumble a little over the words.
‘And what do Jess and I think of you?’ she asks, tugging at my hands and sitting on the edge of her seat.
‘I don’t know – that I’m awesome and a creative genius,’ I say, blushing and shrugging but they are their words not mine.
‘Exactly. Look, I know Ruby gave you a hard time in school and she’s still not much better now and your mum can be a handful. There are always going to be people who put you down but you’ve got to stop letting those people in and shutting the people that love you out.’ I feel as though Thor’s hammer has just smacked me right in the face. Hope’s right. She’s right. It had been easy to shut out the negativity when Devon was right next to me because he was there, and he loved me, and in turn, I loved me. I loved my imagination, I loved who I was with him by my side.
When he left, I had no shield. I let the bullies get to me and I stopped loving me; I stopped loving who I was and became someone else entirely. For the past ten years I have kept all my childhood memories in boxes marked “do not open”, not forgetting to put the boxes marked “dreams” at the bottom of the piles, making them impossible to get to. I blamed Devon for so long and did what I thought I was supposed to be doing, becoming the person I thought I had to become, through fear of people not loving me. I lost all sight of the person I wanted to become, of the person I loved, until Devon came back into my life. It wasn’t his fault when I was sixteen that life got a bit messed up and it isn’t his fault now. He’s the only person who knew of all my hopes and dreams and who encouraged and supported them. I only have myself to blame.
I wipe at my tears and shoot out of my chair. ‘Hope, I think we have been going about this magazine all wrong. I was talking to Mrs Bride this morning and she said the magazine is boring. She said people want something fresh, something new and exciting. That’s the reason sales are dwindling, and people aren’t buying it anymore. Donations, raffles, and recipes are all well and good but there’s no longevity in that. This magazine isn’t Alfred’s anymore; it’s yours.’ I say, boldly, pacing the office.
‘It’s ours,’ Hope states, standing up to join me in pacing the floor. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying it needs a revamp. You read what the governors wrote the other day. A monthly magazine needs more content. We can still have sections dedicated to the village but let’s give them stories, colour, news they can’t see or hear on the street corner. I think you were on the right track looking into social media and bringing in new and fresh ideas. Putting it out monthly will give us more time to put it together, to research, write and source all kinds of information and give them something they can’t wait to get a hold of each month,’ I ramble.
‘That’s brilliant. You can do a monthly comic strip or an ongoing story that they want to know what happens next,’ Hope suggests.
I stop pacing, hands on my hips. ‘What?’ I object.
‘It’s perfect. Devon is on the front cover of the January issue. You should do a comic strip. I can get Clark and Becky to write a short story, oh gosh you could do a colouring page too. Maybe a superhero one for Devon. We can still do horoscopes because everyone loves them, but we can make it more inclusive for all ages,’ Hope says with a nod before running behind her desk and scribbling on her big open-faced notebook.
‘Seriously?’ I say, standing stock-still.
‘Seriously,’ Hope confirms, dazzling me with her grin. I start to feel the excitement bubbling in my gut; for the first time in ten years I feel like I’m getting the chance to really contribute to the magazine and, though a part of me is terrified, I feel a bigger part of me is thrilled at the opportunity. If Billy Batson can stand up to the seven deadly sins to become the superhero he was destined to be, I think I can pick up a pencil crayon and draw a comic strip for The Village Gazette. A laugh escapes my lips, but it is short-lived when I think of Devon.
‘Hope, I screwed up big this time,’ I say, not keeping my emotions bottled up and letting her know what I’m feeling. Her face softens as she registers what I’m talking about. She walks back around the table and pulls me in for a hug. I snuggle close and rest my head on her shoulder.
‘Did Steve Rogers ever give up on Bucky Barnes?’ Hope asks, brushing my long fringe out of my face.
‘No,’ I mumble as a tear falls and I sniffle.
‘Well then, I don’t believe you, Scarlett, are going to give up on Devon.’ She drops a kiss on my head.
‘I get to be Cap this time,’ I say softly, causing Hope’s shoulder to bob up and down as she lets out a laugh.
‘Yes, yes you do,’ she confirms.
21
Somewhere around the late afternoon, the cute flurry of snowflakes transforms into hail and sloppy rain bangs harshly on the office window. Hope and I had called a meeting around ten a.m. to discuss the change of direction with the magazine and to hear everyone’s thoughts and ideas going forward. By the end of the meeting the atmosphere in the office had drastically changed to a much more inspired vibe, yet an exhausted one. Everyone had pulled together to add a new element to our proposal for the governors. Some people had expanded on their skill and suggested how to spruce it up; for example, instead of just half a page with one crossword, taking two pages and including quizzes, dot to dots and puzzles. While others had spoken up of their passions and leapt at the opportunity to write short stories and worldly articles that didn’t focus on Springhollow.
I had sat on the edge of Hope’s desk with my fingers and toes crossed when she had hit send on the proposal. Now, we simply had to wait.
With the Christmas issue done and dusted last week and with everyone’s efforts this morning, Hope wants everyone to take it easy over the next few days, to enjoy their time off over the holidays and come back feeling fresh and rejuvenated, if we have something to come back to that is. She nipped out to the bakery at lunch and bought a delicious selection of treats for everyone and I can see them through my window all mingling and chatting over gingerbread doughnuts and peppermint coffees. I’m finishing up some emails when the clock ticks closer to three p.m. I find my fingers hovering over my keyboard as I’m in the middle of emailing Autumn to thank her and Mrs Bride for this morning and to give them an update when I get a now or never kind of idea that I need to run by Hope.
‘Do you fancy taking a trip to New York with me?’ I ask, pulling up Google and typing in flights to New York.
&
nbsp; ‘I could maybe swing it as a business trip for the both of us next year; it will just depend on if we get the go-ahead and then how everything goes with the January issue and if we’re still in business,’ Hope tells me, shuffling around some design ideas on her desk and then tapping her mouse to refresh her screen for the twentieth time to check her emails.
I scroll through some of the options that come up on my screen to see if my spontaneous plan is actually doable. ‘I wasn’t talking about next year, I was thinking of maybe taking a trip, say, tomorrow,’ I reveal to her. She drops all the papers on her desk and rushes to my side.
‘Oh my gosh, yes, you should go. That’s such a romantic idea and at Christmas time too – it will be the perfect apology.’ She swoons.
‘So, you’re coming?’ I say, feeling relieved that she doesn’t think I’m crazy.
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t but you need to go. You can do this on your own. Wait a minute,’ she says, throwing a finger in the air before rushing back over to her desk and frantically typing at her keyboard. My stomach sinks. New York is not Springhollow. New York is concrete buildings, high-rise offices, fast-paced, fast-talking, sophisticated men and women who travel around via subway. How does one work out those subway maps or cope being crammed into spaces when they are used to Springhollow’s fresh air and walking everywhere? I gulp, not quite sure this is a good idea if Hope can’t come with me.
‘You really can’t come?’ I try one more time.
‘I really can’t. I might be picking up a dog tomorrow from the shelter,’ she tells me casually, like it’s no big deal.
‘You’re what? No way.’ I gasp, swivelling my chair around. Hope clicks at her mouse and then looks up at me, biting at her bottom lip. ‘You could look more excited,’ I say, using her words from earlier this morning against her.
‘Oh, I am, I am,’ she says, flapping her hands up and down. ‘I will be fine once I get used to it. Don’t tell Jess though. It’s going to be a surprise. I’m keeping it at my mum and dad’s until Christmas Day.’
‘Eeek,’ I squeal. ‘He’s going to be so excited.’
Hope rolls her eyes. ‘The things we do for love.’ She mutters before dashing out of the office door. I don’t have time to question where she’s gone when she’s back in seconds waving a piece of paper she’s just collected from the printer.
‘What’s that?’ I ask with curiosity as she drops it on my desk.
‘Wednesday is the last day of New York Comic Con. You can surprise him there,’ she explains.
‘Oh, that’s brilliant, Hope. Thank you so much,’ I cry.
‘How were you planning on finding him? I don’t want to spoil your plans; you can surprise him your way,’ she adds.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’
Hope bursts out laughing and leans over my shoulder to help me search for flights.
I spot one that leaves tomorrow morning and will get me to New York with enough time for me to get a good night’s sleep and be up bright and early on Wednesday to face Comic Con and tell Devon exactly how I feel. My stomach triple-flips at the thought, but I’m not sixteen years old anymore and I am no longer living a life of secrets or creating obstacles for myself out of fear. I am twenty-six years old and a little bit in love with my childhood best friend and this time I’m not letting him get away without a fight. I know we already had a fight but I mean like a good fight where he knows how I feel kind of fight where I put it all on the line and don’t push him away. And if Devon doesn’t feel the same way, well, I’m just not going to think about that right now.
We book my flight and hotel and then Hope insists that I leave early to pack and get myself together. I hug her goodbye and she tells me she’ll call by tonight to make sure I’ve got everything and to see how I’m doing. As I breathe in the frosty Springhollow air, I know there’s something I have to do before I leave.
*
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say, giving him a big hug before stepping into the hallway of my parents’ house.
‘You’re out early. Everything OK at the office?’ he queries, walking into the kitchen and automatically flicking on the kettle. I take off my coat and take a seat at the table.
‘Yes, everything’s fine thank you. More than fine actually, we’re taking the magazine in a new direction next year and I’m going to be more involved,’ I inform him, helping myself to a custard cream from the biscuit tin on the table.
‘That’s fantastic, Scar,’ he says with a huge grin as he potters about pouring the milk into our mugs.
‘Yes, if we get the go-ahead then I’m going to be doing a comic strip for the January issue and if the January issue does well and we stay in business, I will be doing a comic strip for each of our issues,’ I explain, which causes him to splash milk everywhere as he turns around to look at me, beaming.
‘Oh, Scar. I knew you could do it,’ he says, dabbing at the milk he spilt with a tea towel and bringing our mugs to the table. He then drops a kiss on my forehead before taking his seat.
‘Thanks, Dad. I have some other news too,’ I say and take a sip of tea for some British courage. ‘I’m going to New York tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll be back on Christmas Eve, but I need to see Devon. He didn’t leave on very good terms and I need to apologise to him. I said some things that weren’t kind because I’ve been holding on to so much anger and resentment towards him for all these years and I need to put it right,’ I say in one long breath, not wanting to chicken out of being emotional and letting my dad in. He leans forward in his chair, his hands wrapped around his mug.
‘Just because you and Devon had a fight doesn’t mean you’re not meant for each other – you know that right? We’re not perfect people and you know that all that time apart means nothing when you’ve got something as special as you two have,’ he tells me. I can feel myself getting choked up and so I take a comforting sip of tea, to stem the flow of tears, my eyes too sore to rub any more after all the crying I’ve done today.
‘Thanks, Dad. You know, I think this might be more than just a friendship thing,’ I add, feeling my cheeks flush, not knowing quite how to broach the subject with my dad. I’ve not really had to introduce many men to him over the years, so it feels slightly awkward.
‘You don’t say,’ is his reply as he leans back and takes a knowing sip of tea, which makes me laugh and nearly splutter on mine.
‘Will you tell Mum for me?’ I ask. My voice comes out a little wobbly. My dad’s smiling lips turn down in a frown. The creases in his brow deepen when he meets my gaze.
‘Oh, sweetheart, I think she’d appreciate it if you told her yourself. She will be home shortly,’ he informs me, and then his face forms a thoughtful expression. ‘Scar, I know sometimes your mum might come across a bit much, but she cares. If she hadn’t put her foot down at times when you were kids, I think the number of hospital visits you and Devon racked up would be triple digits. I wanted so much for you to fly and be all that you were, but someone had to teach you that jumping off scaffolding wasn’t always a wise idea. She meant well and she still does.’
I’m grateful for my dad’s words as I never really thought about it like that before. Someone had to teach me that if you touch fire it would burn you; someone had to teach me boundaries and respect for the world around me.
*
‘I can’t believe you, Scarlett Davis. What on earth do you think you were playing at? You can’t tie up the neighbour’s cat – it’s not kind, nor is it respectful and we take our shoes off when we enter someone’s home,’ my mum shouts as I go to step inside the house. My shoes are caked in mud, my hands are sticky from I don’t know what and my evening of playing out on the street with Devon has been cut short by my mum, who is currently livid and dragging me inside.
*
‘You know your mother has always known it was Devon for you too. She knew how much it hurt you when he left. I think she focused on putting on a brave face
, but she hated seeing you hurt knowing that she couldn’t fix it,’ my dad adds when I don’t say anything, thinking back to all the times my mum shouted at me and realising that most of the tellings-off were warranted.
My ears prick up to rustling at the front door before it clicks, and my mum’s perfume mixed with the aroma of hairspray and all kinds of lotions and potions wafts through the hall.
‘Hi, honey, I’m in the kitchen,’ Dad calls out.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I call after him.
‘Scarlett, is that you?’ Mum shouts back and I resist the urge to say something sarcastic. ‘Is everything OK, darling?’ she asks as she walks into the kitchen. She goes straight over to my dad to give him a hug and a kiss and then repeats the same action with me.
‘I’ll get you a cuppa – you sit down,’ my dad says, standing up so my mum can take his place at the table.
Before I can back out, I take one giant breath and let it all out.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry that I haven’t been the most perfect little girl and that I spent most of my childhood giving you a heart attack with the all the hospital visits and mine and Devon’s crazy antics. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder at school. But I’m not that little girl anymore. I want us to try harder to fix our relationship and spend time together but you have to want to spend time with me, not some version of me that you see in your head, wearing pink and lace, pretending I don’t love drawing or constantly looking me up and down like I’m a disappointment.
‘I love you, for all your stubborn ways, neatness, cardigans and cooking, all the wonderful and odd things that make you you, but you have to be willing to do the same for me. Do you think you can do that?’ I can feel the tension build in my neck as I look at my mum to try and decipher the expression on her face, and if she took it well.
