My Sister Jodie

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘It’s for Dad too,’ I said quickly. He’d be softer on Jodie; he always was.

  ‘Mr and Mrs,’ said Mum, opening it.

  There was a letter inside and some sort of brochure. I peered at it as best I could. I saw the words boarding school. My heart started beating fast. Boarding school, boarding school, boarding school! Oh God, they were going to send Jodie to boarding school. I wouldn’t be able to bear it.

  ‘No, Mum!’ I said, my voice a little squeak.

  Mum was reading the letter intently, her head moving from side to side. ‘No what?’ she murmured, still reading.

  ‘Don’t send Jodie away!’ I said.

  Mum blinked at me. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, walking back into the living room. She flapped the letter in front of Dad’s face.

  ‘Look, Joe, look!’ she said. ‘Here it is in black and white!’

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  ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ said Dad.

  ‘I told you so!’ said Mum triumphantly.

  Jodie pushed her cornflakes bowl away and got up from the table, taking no notice.

  ‘Sit down, Jodie,’ said Mum.

  ‘But I’ll be late for school,’ said Jodie.

  ‘It won’t matter just this once,’ said Mum. ‘Sit down! You too, Pearl. Your dad and I have got something to tell you.’

  ‘What?’ said Jodie, sitting back on the very edge of her chair. ‘You’re getting a divorce?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘You’re going to have another baby?’

  ‘Stop it now! Just button that lip of yours for two seconds.’

  Jodie mimed buttoning her lips. I copied her, zipping mine.

  Mum glared. ‘Now, don’t start copying your sister, miss! Shame on you, Jodie, you’re a bad example.

  It’s just as well you’ll be making a move. I can’t believe how badly you behave nowadays.’

  ‘You are sending her off to this boarding school!’

  I wailed.

  ‘ What boarding school?’ said Jodie, looking startled. ‘You mean you’re getting rid of me?’

  ‘No, no, of course we’re not,’ said Dad. ‘We’re all going. I’ve got a new job. We both have, your mum and me.’

  We stared at them. New jobs? At a school? Dad worked as a carpenter for a small building firm and Mum was a waitress at Jenny’s Teashop opposite the town hall.

  ‘Are you going to be teachers?’ I said doubtfully.

  Dad burst out laughing. ‘Heaven help any pupils 16

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  if I had to teach them their reading and writing!

  No, no, sweetheart, I’m going to be the school caretaker and your mum’s going to be the school cook.

  We saw this advert for a married couple and it seemed like we might fit the bill.’

  ‘It’s time for a move,’ said Mum. ‘We need to get you girls away to a decent environment where you can grow up into little ladies.’

  Jodie made a very unladylike noise. ‘We like it here, don’t we, Pearl? We don’t want to go to some awful jolly-hockey-sticks boarding school.’

  I picked up the school brochure. I shivered when I saw the coloured photograph of the huge grey Victorian building. My fingers traced the gables and turrets and the tower. It was called Melchester College, but it was just like my dream-world Mansion Towers.

  ‘Look!’ I said, pointing. ‘Look, Jodie!’

  Jodie looked too. She bit her lip, fiddling with the little row of earrings running down her left ear.

  ‘We’d live there?’ she said.

  ‘There’s a special caretaker’s flat,’ said Dad.

  ‘It’s got all the mod cons even though it all looks so old fashioned,’ said Mum.

  ‘So you’ve both been to see it? When?’ said Jodie.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us? Did you fix it all up behind our backs?’

  ‘Hey, hey, none of it’s been fixed up,’ said Dad.

  ‘We haven’t even been to see the college ourselves.

  We went to this interview at a hotel in London while you two were at school. We didn’t say anything because we didn’t want to get your hopes up. To tell the truth I never thought in a million years they’d take me on. I mean, I’m fine with wood 17

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  but I’m a bit of a botcher when it comes to plumbing or painting.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Joe, you’re a skilled carpenter and a fine odd-job man. What else could they possibly want?’ said Mum.

  ‘No, no, I think we got the job because of your cooking and management skills,’ said Dad, reaching out and patting her hand. ‘You were dead impressive at the interview, Sharon – the way you had that list of sample meals all sorted out, that was fantastic.’

  ‘Where is this Melchester College? Why can’t I still go to Moorcroft? I don’t mind a long bus ride,’

  said Jodie.

  ‘It would have to be a very long bus ride – it’s a good hundred miles away, right out in the country,’

  said Mum. ‘No, you’ll be moving, thank heaven.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Jodie. ‘I’m staying with all my mates at Moorcroft.’

  ‘I hate that word. It’s friends,’ said Mum. ‘And that’s the whole point of us moving away. I’m sick to death of you hanging around with that deadbeat crowd, acquiring bad habits. We’re moving in the nick of time, before you start seriously studying for your GCSEs and before Pearl starts secondary school. You girls need to make something of yourselves – and now we’re giving you a golden opportunity.’ Mum stroked the shiny brochure.

  ‘Melchester College,’ she said slowly and reverently, as if it was a magic word like Abracadabra.

  ‘Melchester College!’ Jodie mocked. She glanced at the brochure. ‘It looks dead posh. It says it’s for four- to thirteen-year-olds. Who could send a little kid of four to boarding school?’

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  ‘It’s a day school too; not everyone boards. It’s very select, naturally. It prides itself on the teacher/pupil ratio and the outstanding pastoral care,’ said Mum, quoting.

  ‘So what does that mean?’ said Jodie.

  ‘It means it’s a very good school,’ Mum snapped.

  ‘It costs a great deal of money to send a child there.

  It’s a wonderful opportunity for you two.’

  ‘You mean we’re supposed to have lessons there?’

  said Jodie.

  ‘That’s the whole point!’ said Mum. ‘You’ve learned nothing this last year at Moorcroft. We’re going to have you repeating Year Eight, getting properly taught.’

  ‘I’m not repeating a year with a lot of posh kids all younger than me!’ said Jodie.

  ‘But given the right coaching, you could pass this Common Entrance exam and win a scholarship to one of the public schools,’ said Mum.

  ‘ What? Are you crazy, Mum? I’m not going. Ab-solute-ly no way!’ Jodie was shouting.

  ‘Hey, hey, Jodie, listen to me,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll be there all through the summer holidays so you’ll have lots of time to settle in. I know you’re going to love it when you get there.’

  ‘I won’t, I’ll hate it. I’m not going. You can’t make me.’

  ‘Of course we can. You’ll do as we say. You’re our daughter.’

  ‘I wish I wasn’t! Maybe I’m not. Maybe you adopted me and that’s why I’m so different and never feel like I fit in,’ Jodie yelled.

  ‘Don’t start, Jodie, you’re doing my head in,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t spoil it all. Like your mum says, it’s a 19

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  wonderful opportunity. We thought you girls would be thrilled to bits.’

  ‘Well, we’re not, are we, Pearl?’ said Jodie. She looked at me.

  I looked back at
her helplessly.

  ‘Do you really want to go there?’ she asked, astonished.

  I struggled. I nearly always copied Jodie, even if it got me into trouble. But we didn’t always have the same ideas, although we were such close sisters. Jodie had hated it at Moorcroft at first.

  She’d been horribly teased about her girly plaits and neat uniform and nice manners. She had cut off her hair and changed her clothes and learned to talk tough so now she was fine, one of the gang.

  Some of the kids were even scared of her. I’d be scared of her myself if she wasn’t my sister.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to manage Moorcroft. I had nightmares about going there in September. I got horribly teased now, in Year Six in the Juniors.

  I was still very small for my age and looked very babyish; I worked hard and came top in class; I was useless at sport; I always had my head in a book; I blushed whenever a teacher talked to me in class; I never knew what to say to all the others. It was as if I had an arrow up above me: Tease this kid!

  Melchester College looked like the sort of place where everyone wore proper uniform and worked hard and tried to come top. And even if the lessons were awful, Jodie and I would still be living in a real-life version of Mansion Towers. Maybe we’d even be able to share a tower room!

  ‘You can’t want to go there, Pearl,’ said Jodie.

  ‘I think I do,’ I mumbled.

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  ‘Well, I don’t,’ said Jodie. She folded her arms.

  ‘You go, Pearl. Fine. But no one’s going to make me go there.’

  ‘I can’t go without you!’ I said, starting to cry.

  ‘There now, you’ve reduced your sister to tears. I hope you’re proud of yourself,’ said Mum. ‘Why do you always have to spoil things for everyone? Poor little Pearl. Say sorry to her, Jodie, she’s sobbing her heart out.’

  ‘I think you should all say sorry to me, trying to force me off to this stupid snobby school. I’m not going. I’m not changing my mind, not in a million years,’ Jodie shouted, and she slammed out of the door.

  But that night when I started crying again in bed, she sighed and slid under the duvet beside me.

  ‘Stop all that blubbing, silly. Do you really really really want to go to Melchester College, Pearl?’

  ‘Yes. But not without you,’ I sobbed.

  ‘You’re going to have to stand on your own two feet some time,’ said Jodie. ‘But all right – I’ll come too. Just so as I can look after you. OK?’

  ‘You’ll really come to Melchester College?’ I said, putting my arms round her neck and hugging her tight.

  ‘Yes. I’ll hate it. But I’ll come, just for you,’ said Jodie. ‘Now quit strangling me and snuggle up and go to sleep.’

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  ‘Drunk!’ Mum exploded, and she slapped Jodie’s face.

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  I wonder how many times we said the words Melchester College over the next few weeks. Mum tried out special traditional school-dinner recipes every day: shepherd’s pie, toad-in-the-hole, meat loaf. They were all pretty horrible but she did real puddings too, jam roly-poly and treacle pudding and sherry trifle, and they were absolutely wonderful. Dad kissed his fingertips and said each dish was truly scrumptious. He even sang the

  ‘Truly Scrumptious’ song from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang to Mum, and she giggled and did a little dance, swishing her skirts and twirling around.

  They were fooling about like teenagers all of a sudden, not acting like Mum and Dad at all.

  Mum didn’t nag Jodie so much, although she got really really mad when Jodie went out with Marie, Siobhan and Shanice on Thursday night, supposedly to a church youth club. Jodie promised e.

  she’d be in around half ten. She didn’t get home 23

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  until way past midnight, wobbling in her high red heels.

  ‘Drunk!’ Mum exploded, and she slapped Jodie’s face.

  I was sitting at the top of the stairs, shivering in my nightie, anxiously gnawing at a hangnail on my thumb. The slap was such a shock I ripped the hangnail halfway down my thumb, making it bleed.

  It was so sore that tears sprang to my eyes. Jodie didn’t cry, though when she came up to our bedroom, one side of her face was still bright scarlet from the slap.

  ‘Oh, Jodie! Are you really drunk?’ I asked, wondering whether she was going to start reeling round and falling over like comic drunks on the telly.

  ‘Not really really drunk,’ said Jodie, peering at herself in the mirror. ‘I did feel a bit weird when we came out of the club, but then I puked into the gutter and I felt better.’

  ‘Did they have real drinks at Shanice’s youth club then?’ I said.

  ‘As if !’ said Jodie. ‘We weren’t at her youth club.

  We went proper clubbing – the under-eighteens night at the Rendezvous.’

  ‘You never!’

  ‘You didn’t, dear – you’ve got to remember to speak nicely now you’re going to Melchester College,’ said Jodie, imitating Mum’s voice.

  ‘Ssh, Mum will hear!’ I said, giggling. ‘So what was it like, clubbing? Was it scary? Did you dance with any boys?’

  ‘I danced with heaps of boys,’ said Jodie. ‘More than Shanice and them, and they got a bit narked 24

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  and went off without me. Marie said I was a slag because I let this boy snog my face off.’

  ‘You never! Didn’t. Whatever. Which boy?’

  ‘I don’t know. He told me his name but I couldn’t hear it properly because it was so noisy. Marty or Barty. Maybe it was Farty?’

  ‘Jodie!’

  ‘He wouldn’t leave me alone and I let him slobber all over me just to annoy Marie because she’d said she fancied him. She was welcome to him actually.

  To all of them. Just as well I couldn’t hear them talk. It was just rubbish anyway. I don’t like the way boys just want to dance and snog and touch you up. They don’t want to be mates.’

  ‘I don’t like boys either,’ I said. ‘Some of the girls in my class have got boyfriends. They say I’m a baby.’

  ‘Well, I’m a baby too, because I haven’t got a boyfriend, and I don’t want one either,’ said Jodie, rubbing her lips fiercely with the back of her hand.

  She flopped down on her bed and pulled the duvet up to her chin even though she was fully dressed, with her high heels still on.

  ‘Night-night, Pearly Girly,’ she said, closing her eyes.

  ‘Hey, you’ve still got your shoes on!’

  I knelt on her bed and wiggled her shoes off her feet. She had a hole in her tights, her big toe sticking through comically. I waggled it and Jodie giggled sleepily.

  ‘Give over. Come to bed, Pearl,’ she said, reaching out and pulling me in beside her. ‘You’re freezing, like a little snowman!’ she said, cuddling me close.

  ‘We don’t ever have to have boyfriends, do we, 25

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  Jodie? We can still have our own place together, can’t we?’

  ‘Mansion Towers,’ Jodie mumbled.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re going to live in Melchester College,’ I said.

  I closed my eyes, nestling against Jodie in her warm bed. I saw us wandering the grounds of the college together, having picnics on the lawn, paddling in the lake, picking raspberries and strawberries in the kitchen garden . . .

  We didn’t have any kind of garden at home, because Dad’s workshop took up all of our back yard. He pottered out there most evenings, but I don’t think he ever did much work. He watched his little portable telly, brewed himself a cup of tea and enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet. Mum was forever on to him to make her new kitchen units but he never se
emed to get round to it, just managing the odd cupboard or shelf.

  I’d begged him to make me a doll’s house. I’d hoped for a miniature Mansion Towers, but he made me a small square four-roomed house with a wobbly chimney stuck on top. He’d tried so hard, sticking special red-checked paper on the outside to look like bricks. I gave him a big hug and kiss, but privately I thought the house was hideous. I furnished it with a plastic bed and chair and tables and tried to play games with a family of pink plastic people, but it wouldn’t become real. I had much more fun playing house in a cardboard shoebox with a paper family.

  Jodie had never wanted a doll’s house. When she was little, she’d asked Dad to make her a rocket, which was a challenge for him. He struggled hard, 26

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  because he could never say no to Jodie. He handed over his rocket proudly. It was hollow, with a little hinged door, pointy at one end, touched up with shiny grey paint. It looked like a big wooden fish.

  Jodie held it in her hand, looking puzzled.

  ‘What is it, Dad?’

  ‘It’s your rocket, sweetheart,’ said Dad.

  Jodie wasn’t good at hiding her feelings. Her face crumpled up. ‘But it’s much too small. I can’t get in it!’ she wailed. ‘I want to go up to the moon!’

  ‘Daddy can’t make you a real rocket, you noodle!’

  said Mum.

  Jodie howled. Mum laughed at her. Even Dad found it funny, I wasn’t there – I wasn’t even born yet – but the story had become family history, passed down like a folk tale.

  We found the rocket at the bottom of Jodie’s wardrobe when we were sorting through all our things for the big move.

  ‘My rocket!’ said Jodie, dusting it with an old sock. She made it swoop in and out of her clothes, and then she stood back and chucked it into the air so that its pointy wooden nose hit the ceiling with a satisfying thuck. It made a little dent in the ceiling plaster and then hurtled back to earth.

  Jodie caught it one-handed.

  ‘We have lift-off, brief landing on ceiling and perfect re-entry,’ she said.

  ‘What was that noise?’ said Mum, bursting into the room, a pile of our old clothes in her arms.

  ‘Nothing, Mum,’ we chorused.