The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  ‘It’s way cool,’ Carrie says. ‘What are they going to do with it?’

  ‘It’s not been decided yet,’ I say. ‘But one thing’s for sure, it will look even better once it’s painted. And the ceiling needs two coats.’

  ‘Then we’d better get started,’ Stevie says, flexing the muscles of her arms.

  My friends get stuck in to the painting, chatting about the old theatre and how often we’ve walked past it without even wondering what it looked like inside. I try to relax and enjoy what we’re doing, but I can’t. Mum is on the other side of the wall – how can I get her to take a holiday so I can get on with my plan? And Thomas is next door, slaving away over a hot vat of oil while I’ve given away his secret. Will he thank me for getting my friends to help out with the painting? Or tell me to get lost?

  ‘Hey, earth to Andy,’ I turn around. Stevie is behind me. She’s painted a large amount of wall – an even strip from the skirting board to her arm’s length. ‘I said – when is your boyfriend going to get here?’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘I told you, it’s not like that.’

  ‘What, he’s not coming?’ she teases.

  ‘No. The first part.’ I turn swiftly back to the wall I’m working on, furiously slathering on paint with the roller.

  ‘Hey, knock it off. I don’t need a shower,’ Stevie says. I turn around and see that I’ve accidentally splattered her with tiny white droplets of paint.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I say drily.

  ‘And stop doing the lower down stuff – you’re in my way.’ She wheels up to me, and the next thing I know she’s painting my back with her brush like I’m a bit of uneven wall.

  ‘Hey!’

  Carrie puts down her brush and starts laughing. I grab Stevie’s brush out of her hands, dip it in the paint and flick it at her. ‘Stop laughing.’

  My aim is a little too good. It hits her square in the forehead and begins to drip down her face like she’s a statue in a park full of pigeons.

  ‘Oops!’ I giggle.

  Stevie snorts a laugh.

  ‘That’s it – you’re toast!’ Carrie yells. She runs at me and swipes my face with her brush. I’m laughing so hard that I can’t even move quickly.

  I swipe back at her with my brush. Stevie grabs the roller and starts painting both of us as we’re locked in a fit of giggles. ‘This T-shirt was new,’ Carrie says, between gasps of laughter. ‘Look what you’ve done to it!’

  ‘Think of it as a work of art.’ I redip my brush and paint a white streak in Stevie’s hair. It drips down on to the arm of her wheelchair.

  ‘My chair!’ Stevie says. ‘Mum’s going to go ballistic.’

  ‘Well, you started it!’

  We run around chasing each other, flinging paint everywhere. We’re laughing so hard that I forget all about Mum and my problems and—

  ‘What are you doing?!?’

  CAUGHT IN THE ACT!

  We all stop dead. Thomas’s face is cloudy with anger and disbelief. I hang my head. A drop of paint trickles down my nose. ‘Hi,’ I mutter, ‘we were, um . . .’

  ‘Breaking and entering? Vandalizing this place?’ Thomas’s voice is icy.

  ‘No,’ Stevie says, her voice a squeak. ‘We wanted to help.’

  Thomas shakes his head.

  I look around. Paint is sloshed, flecked and smeared everywhere – and the wheelchair has shifted the drop cloths and left paint streaks all over the wooden floor. Paint cans are turned over, with paint glooping out. Everything is white and sticky-wet – the brush handles, the radio, the packet of biscuits on top of Thomas’s toolbox – all our skin, hair and clothing. How could I let this happen – acting like a little kid messing about with my friends? How could I let Thomas down like that? Let myself down?

  He turns around and heads back out through the curtain. I hand my brush to Carrie and run to follow him, cringing as paint drips from me and my footprints are white down the corridor.

  ‘Wait, Thomas,’ I say. ‘Please.’

  He goes out the back door. I follow him, closing it behind me. As soon as we’re outside, he whirls round to face me. ‘Do you think this is funny, Andy?’

  ‘No! I’m sorry! We wanted to help but then things got silly, and—’

  ‘I’ve been working on this place for months – way before you started “helping” me. Not just the painting but fixing things – the electrics, the plumbing, the heating.’

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you by bringing in extra helpers.’ I wince under the chill of his gaze.

  ‘What a great surprise.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I bite my lip.

  ‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t really matter, as it turns out. The estate agent rang me earlier – they’ve had some interest in the theatre.’

  ‘Some interest?’ I frown, not following.

  ‘Someone who wants to buy it. They want to turn it into a gym or a yoga studio – something like that.’

  I look at him in dismay. ‘But I thought you weren’t going to call in the estate agents until the painting was finished.’

  ‘Does it matter? I had someone round a few months ago. Just to get some suggestions. It sounds like they might start revitalizing this end of the high street. So who knows – they might even buy your mum’s place too.’

  I look at the wall that separates the theatre from the shop. It’s true, they used to be joined up . . . it would make sense to knock them through again if someone wanted a larger space. I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. ‘The Emporium? You didn’t mention that, did you?’ I say, dreading the answer. Thomas lied to me. All my bluster the other day about the ideas and plans I have – well, he must secretly have been laughing.

  ‘I didn’t have to. Anyone can see that it’s going under.’

  ‘No.’ I choke out the word. It strikes me that only a few weeks ago, having someone buy the Emporium would have been an answer to my prayers. But not any more. Not when I’ve built up a new story in my mind and imagined how things could be different – how I could make them different. I feel the ground shift under my feet. It’s like everything is crumbling to pieces around me. I’ve been stupid and naive – that much I admit. But Thomas has no right – no right at all – to talk like that about Mum’s shop.

  I don’t realize that I’ve spoken aloud until I see a cloud pass over Thomas’s face.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he snaps back at me. ‘But this is a good thing. Your mum sells her shop, my uncle sells the theatre. It’s a win-win situation. OK?’

  The wet paint on my skin feels like droplets of ice. ‘No, it’s not OK.’ I square my shoulders – I’m at least two inches taller than he is – and stare at him. ‘It’s not OK because I’m not giving up just like that. I’ve got plans.’

  ‘Good for you.’ He shrugs, dismissing me like I’m a silly child. Which is how I’ve been acting. Then he stalks off. I watch him walk down the alleyway past the last shop. My heart is stretched to breaking point, but I know that I’m right – I just have to be.

  But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  THE WHITE X

  All the next day, I feel terrible. I sit in class thinking about how much I’ve messed up – again! After Thomas left, I went back inside the theatre. Carrie and Stevie were already cleaning up. Stevie was zooming around in her chair with a mop, with Carrie on her hands and knees scrubbing any missed spots.

  They both looked as glum as I felt. ‘Sorry,’ the three of us said in unison. Too little, too late.

  In the end I didn’t tell them what Thomas told me – about the theatre being sold for a gym or a yoga studio. I didn’t want to talk about it, or think about it.

  Now, as I sit at the back of the class staring at the clock, I wonder again what it might all mean for Eliza’s Emporium – that is, if the theatre is sold but Mum keeps her shop. On some level, it might be good to have more people coming past the shop window. But then I have a scary vision of Mum working on a new window display designed to draw in the
crowds of yoga-mums and gym-goers: ‘Amelie’ dressed head-to-toe in second-hand Lycra and trainers. The only thing as bad as old underwear is someone else’s sweaty leotards and tights—

  ‘Andy?’ Stevie says. I snap back to reality. Class is over and everyone else is filing out of the room. Only Stevie and Carrie have stayed behind. Stevie looks gaunt and tired, her usual energy drained from her face. Behind her, Carrie bites into a fruit and nut bar. She chews it for a few seconds, makes a face like it’s disgusting, and spits it out into the wrapper.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m not feeling very well. I might just go home, OK?’

  ‘We want to meet your friend Thomas properly,’ Stevie says firmly. ‘We want to say we’re sorry.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Carrie throws the wrapper in the bin. ‘The painting was fun – you know, before we messed everything up.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think we’ve got ourselves into enough trouble. And I’m not sure that Thomas is worth the bother. In fact, the whole thing – my plan . . . well . . .’ I trail off, feeling flooded by despair.

  Stevie shakes her head. ‘Come on, Andy. You’re the one who asked us to help.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, we want to help. For real this time.’

  I don’t know how I let them talk me into it, but next thing I know, we’re all standing around the back door of the old theatre. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed a brick. In my mind I know that the theatre will be sold, and probably the shop too. Though I’m still feeling angry and hurt, the truth is that Thomas is right. It’s a win-win situation. I sigh. Even if he’s wrong, I’d still rather have him as a friend.

  The door is propped open with an empty paint can and I can hear the faint sound of the radio. Thomas must be inside. I wish we’d never had the paint fight – I wish I hadn’t let Stevie and Carrie in on the secret. I wish I hadn’t got angry. But it’s way too late for all that now.

  ‘Look,’ – I turn to my friends – ‘can you give me a minute?’

  Stevie and Carrie look at each other, then at me. ‘Sure.’ Stevie grins suddenly. ‘We wouldn’t dream of barging in on the “kiss and make up” bit between you and your boyfriend.’

  ‘Stop saying that,’ I growl. Hoping that I look braver than I feel, I walk down the corridor to the end and peek through the curtain. I spot the ladder and the paint cans but no Thomas. I go inside.

  Thomas is lying down on the stage, his hands beneath his head. At first I think he might be asleep, but then I see that his eyes are open and he’s staring up at the ceiling. I walk closer but he doesn’t move. ‘Thomas?’ I say over the sound of the radio that’s blaring from next to him.

  He reaches out a hand and switches off the radio. ‘I didn’t think you’d come back,’ he says, still not looking at me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Thomas,’ I say. ‘What my friends and I did was awful. And I . . . I shouldn’t have got mad.’

  He turns his head towards me, his eyes stormy and hostile.

  ‘I . . . just got caught up in making plans,’ I say. ‘When we were talking the other night – I had this vision. That this whole place was filled with lovely things – like the polka-dot dress. But it was all just stupid.’

  He sits up and slowly gets to his feet. ‘It’s not stupid,’ he says. ‘And actually, I’m the one who ought to feel bad. I mean, you’ve obviously been giving this a lot of thought. Whereas me – well,’ he shrugs, ‘all I’ve been doing is painting.’

  ‘No. You’ve done way more than that. You’re trying to help your uncle. Fixing this place up to sell – it makes a lot of sense.’ I sigh. ‘I wanted to do the right thing too. I thought I could transform the shop, even though I’ve never done anything like that before. As everyone keeps pointing out, I’m only thirteen.’

  ‘What does that have to do with it?’ He almost manages a smile.

  ‘I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is that if someone wants to buy Mum’s shop for a gym and yoga studio, then maybe it’s for the best.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I don’t know what I do or don’t mean right now.’

  This time he does laugh. ‘I get it. I feel exactly the same way. I mean, I’ve liked fixing this place up. I like being here and imagining what it was like before. Full of people all dressed up, happy and full of life. It’s weird, but sometimes when I’m here, I feel this echo of the way it once was – and what it could be again. But now . . .’ A shadow crosses his face. ‘I don’t know either.’

  ‘So why are you here then?’

  For a long second he stares at me, and I wonder if he’s going to order me to leave once and for all. His eyelashes are long and black as he blinks but doesn’t look away. I think about The Kiss and The Dance and my knees suddenly feel like jelly. ‘I guess the same reason you are,’ he says.

  I force myself to breathe. ‘OK . . .’ I say, ‘then I guess we’d better stop sitting around. This place isn’t going to paint itself.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ The moment passes, and I feel relieved – but also a tiny bit disappointed. He jumps off the stage and goes over to the stack of paint cans. ‘Where are your friends today?’ he says. ‘We could use the help.’

  ‘We’re here.’ A voice comes from the direction of the corridor. ‘We came to say sorry.’

  We both turn to where Stevie and Carrie are peeking their heads through the curtain. A flush creeps over my face – how long have they been there? Thomas gives me a quick glance like he’s thinking the same thing. I shrug and wave them inside.

  ‘Meet your new painting crew,’ I say.

  It’s odd how some things – and some people – just seem to click. In this case, it’s Thomas and my friends. Luckily . . .

  Right on cue, Stevie zooms up in her chair and comes to a stop just centimetres from Thomas’s legs. ‘Hi, I’m Stevie,’ she says. ‘Sorry for yesterday.’

  ‘No worries. I’m Thomas.’ They shake hands.

  Carrie comes up sheepishly behind, gawping at Thomas. In his black T-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly curled around his tanned, olive-skinned face, he looks gorgeous. I feel a ridiculous flash of pride that he’s my friend.

  ‘I’m Carrie,’ she mutters.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Carrie.’ Thomas shakes her limp hand.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘we’re all sorry for yesterday. But we did do a fair bit of painting before things got . . . um . . . out of control.’ I point out to Thomas what we did before our paint fight.

  ‘And we really want to help,’ Stevie says. ‘Painting is kind of fun. Just leave the low bits to me.’ She grins.

  Thomas smiles back.

  ‘And it’s good exercise,’ Carrie adds. ‘So much better than boot camp!’ When Thomas looks at her questioningly, her cheeks turn bright red.

  ‘What are you going to do with the place when it’s done?’ Stevie asks.

  ‘Um, I don’t really know.’ Thomas glances at me. ‘It would make a good shop or something like that.’

  ‘Or a good gym and yoga studio,’ I counter.

  ‘No! Not that, please!’ Carrie says.

  ‘Anyway,’ I change the subject, ‘whatever it ends up being, it still needs to be painted. So let’s get started.’

  It takes a few minutes to get everything ready. Carrie helps Thomas spread the drop cloths over the floor, Stevie gets the brushes and rollers, and I pour the paint into trays. Thomas assigns us each to an area and turns the radio back on. As unsettled as things are, I find myself swaying along, brushstrokes in time to the music. It’s some kind of eighties revival hour – totally cheesy music, but fun too. Pretty soon, we’re all singing along, and chatting and laughing. It’s even more fun than a paint fight.

  I notice that Thomas keeps glancing over at Stevie as she tries to paint her bit of wall from the wheelchair. She stretches her arm up as far as she can to paint over a rough spot of the wall. When the song comes to an end, she lowers her brush, looking frustrated.

&n
bsp; ‘I wish I could stand up,’ she says. ‘I want to get at that bit.’ She gestures with the brush to a thin crack just out of her reach.

  Thomas comes over. At first I think he’s going just to paint it for her. Then he sets down his brush, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Tell me what to do,’ he says.

  She gives him a surprised smile. ‘Lift me here.’ She puts her hands on her torso just above her waist.

  Thomas lifts her up. Stevie stretches up and paints over the crack. Both Carrie and I stop and watch.

  ‘OK, you can lower me down now,’ Stevie says.

  ‘OK,’ Thomas puffs. Because Stevie’s lower half is mostly dead weight, I can tell that lifting her is a bit of an effort.

  She settles back in her chair and twists from side to side, stretching. ‘I’m learning to walk,’ she tells Thomas. ‘Some day I’ll be rollering along with the best of them.’

  ‘Cool,’ Thomas says.

  ‘But for now,’ Stevie says, ‘maybe I should get us something to drink.’

  ‘There’s a fridge at the back with some Cokes,’ Thomas says.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Carrie says to Stevie. I pretend not to see the wink she gives me. They go off towards the little kitchen in the back corridor.

  Without a word, Thomas comes up beside me. ‘Thank you, Andy,’ he says. As he traces an x on my cheek with white paint, my insides quietly melt.

  OPERATION MUM HOLIDAY

  ‘I’m really not happy, Andy.’ Aunt Linda tsks like I’m a spoiled child. ‘You shouldn’t have made your mum more worried.’

  ‘I know, and I’m really sorry. But I know it’s for the best.’

  It’s the day after I made up with Thomas and my friends helped with the painting. I can still feel the phantom outline of the x on my cheek. Every time I think about it, I start to feel all funny and flushed. But I can’t worry about whether there might or might not be something between me and Thomas. I can’t even worry about what’s going to happen to the old theatre. Right now, I need to keep focused on my plan.