'You a n d Carl! It's so unfair, it's my t u r n with him now. Can't we do a swapsie when we go to Kew? You have Paul the Ball. I'm tired of him trying to score goals with me.'
'No t h a n k s . I don't really like him.' I paused.
'What do you t h i n k Carl sees in him? He's so . ..
b a s i c '
Miranda and Alice exchanged quick glances.
'What?' I said.
'All boys are basic,' said Miranda quickly. She prodded her flat cake. 'Hey, I t h i n k I'm going to call this cake a biscuit, t h e n it won't be so much of a failure. Shall I try to squeeze chocolaty bits into it so it can be a giant chocolate-chip cookie?'
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'You could always ice it,' I said, finding a full packet of icing sugar in the cupboard. 'I'll make enough icing for all of us.'
'Cool,' said Alice. 'And have you got any decorations, Miranda, like those little silver balls?'
'Maybe. Let's have a peer,' said Miranda. 'We could use little sweets instead, couldn't we?'
Alice couldn't find silver balls, so she used little pink sugar flowers instead, stuck in a p a t t e r n around the edges of her white iced cake.
Miranda's cake/biscuit was thickly iced and t h e n piled high w i t h S m a r t i e s , Liquorice Allsorts and Jelly Babies.
I decided to resist sweet decoration. I iced my sponge as smoothly as I could, put a drop of blue colouring in the remains of the icing, poured it into t h e icing b a g a n d t h e n piped Happy Birthday Carl as carefully as I could.
'Oh wow, why can't I do that?' said Miranda.
'Are you going to give it to him next Friday?
Then we could maybe say it's from me too. It's all my ingredients, after all.'
'It might be stale by then,' I said quickly. 'No, I'll give it to him tomorrow.'
Mum was up terribly early on S u n d a y morning.
She h a d a b a t h and washed h e r h a i r a n d t h e n came and p a t t e d me awake.
'Help, Sylvie. My hair's sticking up all over. It won't go right. Please be an angel a n d wake up and style it for me.'
'Mum, you're going swimming. Your h a i r will get soaked in the baths. It won't m a t t e r w h a t it looks like now,' I said, diving down u n d e r t h e covers.
'Gerry will see it before I go in t h e pool,' said Mum. 'Come on, Syl, please do it. And look, does this skirt look OK?' M u m tugged at t h e frills on her gypsy skirt anxiously. 'I don't look too girly, do I?'
'No, no, you look fine,' I said, sitting up. 'Well, maybe a bit dressed up to go swimming.'
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'Dressed up, like way over the top?' said Mum.
'Oh God. Maybe I look like I'm about to .. . what do gypsies dance? The Fandango?' She raised h e r a r m s a n d s t a m p e d h e r foot a n d t h e n groaned when she caught sight of herself in the big mirror. 'What should I wear then, Sylvie?'
'Casual clothes.'
'I haven't got any casual clothes. I've got fancy clothes and office clothes and very scruffy cleaning-the-house clothes. I can't wear them –
Gerry will take one look and run a mile.'
'I didn't think he was up to running.'
'Stop that, Sylvie!'
'No. Sorry. I didn't mean .. . It's j u s t so weird t h a t you're, like, going on a date.'
'If it feels weird for you just think w h a t it's like for me. It is mad, isn't it? Maybe I should phone him up and call the whole thing off.'
'No, no, you're going, Mum, and you'll have a lovely time and this Gerry will be lovely too and if you come here I'll make your hair look lovely as well. Which way do you want me to style it?'
I said, kneeling up on my bed and tucking it behind her ears, trying it this way and t h a t .
'Any way' But then she saw me plaiting a lock and she twitched her head away. 'Any way except little plaits! I don't want to look like a middle-aged schoolgirl.'
'You're not middle-aged anything yet, Mum.
You're young!
'I've got middle-age spread already,' said Mum, patting h e r tummy ruefully.
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I thought of Miranda's stick-thin mother.
'You're just right,' I said. 'You don't want to look too thin. Hey, Mum, why don't you wear your jeans and t h a t black sweater?'
' I t ' s kind of our black sweater now. And my jeans are all frayed at the bottoms.'
'That's a totally cool look.'
'Maybe on thirteen-year-olds. Don't forget we're maybe having lunch at the posh club.'
'OK, OK, stick with the gypsy skirt. Tell you what, get the tongs and I'll make your hair all wavy and then we'll stick a rose behind one ear!'
We didn't go as far as the rose but I did wave Mum's hair for her so t h a t she could make a magnificent first impression – even if she doused the curls five minutes later.
She set off, smiling bravely, tossing her curls and swishing her skirt, but when she turned to wave at the gate she pulled a funny face of terror, like Munch's Scream.
'It's OK, Mum, you'll have a great time,' I said, giving her a thumbs-up sign.
I watched her head bobbing away above the hedge. I so hoped it would go well for her, though I wasn't at all sure about this Gerry.
I wondered w h a t my father would think if he knew Mum was dating again.
I used to hope he'd come back – not as my real dad, who lied and cheated and couldn't be bothered with us half the time. I wanted him transformed into a new loving, caring dad who'd make a big fuss of Mum and come home on time 157
and laugh and joke and take us out. I wanted a dad who'd t r e a t me like I was really special. I'd heard Lucy's dad call her his Fairy Princess. He looked at lumpy old Lucy as if she really had golden locks and gauzy wings and a sparkly crown. I'd wanted to cry then, almost wishing I could trade places with Lucy.
I still felt guilty when I thought about her.
No, I wasn't going to think about h e r today. I wasn't even going to think about Miranda.
I wanted to concentrate on Carl.
I wondered if he'd be awake yet. I flopped back on my bed imagining Carl only two walls away lying in his own bed. When we were little we'd h a n g out of our windows as soon as we woke up and yell to each other. When we got older we'd keep tin cans by our beds and bash t h e m in our own complicated code. We never said anything extraordinary – Hi, are you awake? I had a funny dream. Have you done your homework yet?
Yum, I think Mum's making pancakes – but it felt great to be secretly communicating, even though we wore our arms out bashing those stupid tins.
We both h a d mobile phones now but we seemed to have got out of the habit of calling each other recently. I reached over the side of my bed for my phone in my school bag. I wondered about phoning Carl now, but if I woke him he might be grumpy. I wanted today to be perfect.
I tried sending him a tiny text: R u AWAKE? I waited, hanging onto the phone, willing it to 158
ching-ching back at me. The phone stayed silent.
I sighed and lay on my front. I tried to distract myself thinking up a new Glassworld Chronicle, but for once it was hard concentrating on King Carlo and Queen Sylviana. The idiotic Piper kept playing his shrill pipes wherever they went, even in their innermost private chambers, clowning like a jester and captivating the King.
I banged my head on the pillow to try to rid myself of this irritating image. I didn't didn't didn't want to think about him.
Maybe Paul would sidle off with Miranda next Friday and Carl and I would look at the Chihuly glass together, j u s t the two of us. I daydreamed about a new Ice Age in Glassworld, a winter so cruelly cold t h a t everyone froze to death, iced into white statues – everyone but King Carlo and Queen Sylviana in their heavy sable robes.
No, Princess M i r a n d a r e t t e escaped, s k a t i n g across the iced-over sea to h e r own sunny land of Sangria, but Piper Paul blundered into a snow-drift and was never seen again, never never never.
I went to r u n a bath, hoping t h a t Mum hadn'
t used up all the hot water. I looked down at my body and sighed. I still looked so young. Mum kept reassuring me, telling me I was simply a late developer. She told me I'd s t a r t getting a figure any minute now. Any hour, week, month, year? What if I never developed? What if I stayed stuck with the skinny body of a ten-year-old girl for ever? What kind of freak would I end up?
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Imagine a fifty-year-old in kiddie clothes, travelling half price on the buses, turned away from cinemas and pubs. It was obvious why Carl couldn't take me seriously.
I peered down at my chest. 'Grow, can't you!' I hissed, lathering myself with soap.
I shampooed my hair too and then experimented with the curling tongs, but they didn't work for me. I ended up with a head of crazy Tracy Beaker curls. I looked even younger. I washed my hair all over again and let it dry naturally into its usual limp long style, just past my shoulders. I wore my jeans and appropriated Mum's black sweater yet again, needing to look cool but not like I'd made any effort. I was simply going next door to see my oldest friend, for goodness' sake.
I wondered if Carl was awake yet. I checked my mobile. I tapped out: R u AWAKE NOW, SLEEPY-HEAD? I waited. Then th e phone vibrated with a message, making me jump, even though I was holding it in my hand. The message read: EYES
WIDE OPEN!
I jumped up and whirled round my bedroom, punching the air. I stuffed my school bag with pens and crayons and paper and then paused, looking at Carl's birthday present. I'd wrapped the champagne glass round and round in bubble wrap and then covered it with midnight-blue tissue paper patterned with silver stars. I'd bought a length of silver ribbon specially to tie round it. I didn't want to give Carl the glass with 160
Miranda and Paul watching and commenting. I decided to give it to him now. I wrapped my old fleece round the parcel as extra protection and then gently wedged it into my school bag.
Miss Miles was in the kitchen, munching h e r muesli and reading her book, a dog-eared paperback of Great Expectations. She was dotty about Dickens, reading him constantly. She was for-ever quoting him, though Mum and I generally didn't get this until she put her head on one side and said, 'As the great m a n says.'
'Hello, Sylvie. Mum's already off then?' she said.
'Bright and early,' I said.
'I hope she has a lovely time,' said Miss Miles.
'She deserves a bit of fun in h e r life.'
I smiled at her, wondering if she ever had a bit of fun in her life. 'Did you ever have a boyfriend, Miss Miles?' I asked.
She paused, stirring her lumpy breakfast. Her eyes looked misty behind the thick lenses of her glasses. I felt mean for asking her. Of course poor Miss Miles h a d never managed to have a m a n in her life.
B u t she surprised me. A little pink edged along her cheekbones.
'I've h a d my moments,' she said. 'There was one m a n in particular . ..' She sighed.
'It didn't work out?'
'Perhaps it was my fault,' she said. 'Maybe I should have been a bit bolder. Seize every opportunity, Sylvie, otherwise life rushes past 161
before you've had a chance to live it properly.'
I nodded politely, eating cornflakes straight out of the packet. Then I h a d a quick peep inside the cake tin.
'Have you been baking?' said Miss Miles.
'At my friend Miranda's.'
'Can I have a peep?' She craned her neck upwards like a meerkat. 'Oh, I say! That's totally professional. Lucky Carl! Tell you what, if my old m u m makes it to a hundred I'll get you to make a cake for her.'
'Do you think she will?'
Miss Miles shrugged. 'Probably. She's a determined old bat. I think she's decided to live for ever. Worst luck.'
I blinked. I'd assumed Miss Miles was devoted to h e r mother. 'Don't you like your mum?'
'Not much. And she doesn't like me, but I'm all she's got now to keep her in new nighties and talc and boxes of chocolates. Your mum's an angel to take me – it makes all t h e difference.
It's so lovely t h a t you and your m u m are such good friends.'
I smiled and stuffed another handful of cornflakes down my throat, feeling embarrassed.
'Why don't you pour yourself a proper bowlful, dear?' said Miss Miles.
Well, I'm in a bit of a rush. I'm going next door,' I said. I felt a bit mean shooting off straight away and leaving Miss Miles on her own all day. 'Carl will be waiting for me,' I told her.
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W h a t larks, Sylvie, old chap,' said Miss Miles.
'As the great m a n says.'
Yeah. Mm. Whatever,' I said, grabbing my bag and the cake tin.
I didn't have a free h a n d to knock on Carl's door. I clattered the letter box with my elbow and almost immediately the door opened. J a k e stood there, dressed in an old skimpy black T-shirt and black jeans. His brown hair was unaccountably black too. Even his h a n d s were purply-black.
'Don't blink at me like that, Sylvie,' he said. 'I know, it looks a bit weird. I thought I'd dye my hair black to look kind of gothic for the band, but I didn't twig you need rubber gloves when you rub in the dye gunk.'
'Oh well, black h a n d s are ultra-gothic. You should file your nails to a point and paint t h e m black too,' I said, joking.
'Do you think t h a t would look cool?' J a k e said seriously.
I raised my eyebrows and edged round him. 'I hope Carl hasn't dyed his hair.'
'As if,' said Jake. 'He's still little Goldilocks.
What's t h a t you've got there – a cake? Let's see!'
'It's not for you,' I said, but he prised the lid off anyway.
'Oh yum! Did you make it yourself? Lucky Carl!'
'Carl makes better cakes t h a n me.'
'He would,' said Jake. He reached out to break off a piece of icing with his black fingers.
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'Don't!' I said, trying to hold the tin out of his reach.
'It's OK, only teasing. Will you m a k e a cake for me when it's my birthday?'
'A black one, with black icing, and little black bats as decoration?'
'Cool!'
'Is Carl in his room or in the Glass Hut?'
'He's in the kitchen. Jules is making pancakes.
Come on. There's heaps, so you can have some too.'
'I've already eaten,' I said, b u t w h e n I breathed in the sweet eggy lemon buttery smell in the hot kitchen I decided to go for breakfast number two. Jules was standing at the Aga, her hair sticking up, wearing her purple painting smock, patched jeans and scarlet espadrilles.
She blew me a kiss and poured more batter into her pan.
'Pancake, Sylvie?'
'Yes please!' I said, sliding onto the bench beside Carl.
He was wearing his jeans, a soft blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an old bead neck-lace I made him years ago.
He grinned at me. 'See, I really am awake,' he said. 'What's all the stuff?'
'I made you something round at Miranda's. It's for your birthday.' I held out the tin to him.
'Shouldn't I wait?'
'No, it probably won't keep. Especially now Jake's h a d a peer. Go on, open it.'
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He took the lid off the tin. 'Hey! It's beautiful.'
'Can I see?' said Jules, peering over from the pan. 'A birthday cake! Oh well done, Sylvie. I won't have to make him one now. Shall we have it for tea?' She tossed the pancake expertly.
'I could maybe try a weeny slice now,' said Carl.
'Pig! You've had two whacking great pancakes already' said Jules.
'OK, make it three, and I'll save my cake,' said Carl.
'I'm having the pancake after Sylvie's,' said Jake. 'Know your place in the pecking order, squirt.'
'Pipe down, both of you,' called Mick from the living room. He was sprawling on the sofa with t h e Observer newspaper. 'You're both total squirts compared with me, the Alpha Male. It's my pancake next, isn't it, wife?'
Carl rolled his eyes at me. W h a t ' s in the bag?'
&
nbsp; he said, gently patting it.
'Just stuff'
'Stuff wrapped in special paper with a silver ribbon,' said Carl, investigating.
'Open it when it's j u s t us,' I whispered.
Mick sometimes mocked Carl's glass
obsession. He knew Carl always wanted money on his birthday to spend on his collection. He'd never give it to him. He'd spend a fortune on some gadget or sports equipment t h a t Carl barely used.
Carl smiled. 'Dl-rows-salg,' he whispered.
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It was our own old private word, Glassworld spelled backwards, meaning fine, yes, OK, you bet, whatever.
It was so wonderful t h a t Carl was in such a good mood. We stayed eating pancakes, all of us laughing and chatting and bickering together. It was j u s t the way it used to be. I was Carl's dearest friend and one of the family. I didn't even have to feel guilty about leaving Mum on her own because she was off having h e r own adventure.
After I'd eaten two pancakes and Carl one more we started to slope off to the Glass Hut, but J a k e kept mucking about, going on and on about his boring band, wanting to play this new song he'd written. He sang it reasonably well – he's always h a d quite a good voice, though I think Carl's is better, so true and pure it makes me want to cry. Poor J a k e made me w a n t to laugh.
He p u t on this ridiculous soulful expression, tossing his weird black tangled h a i r out of his eyes. He enunciated in an exaggerated way so we could appreciate every word of his lyrics, waggling his mouth around and showing a lot of his teeth. I h a d to bite the insides of my cheeks to stop myself laughing.
W h a t do you think, Sylvie?' J a k e said when he'd finished at last.
'Yeah. It's great, Jake, truly,' I said, and then I r u s h e d out of t h e room into t h e garden, spluttering.
'What a dork,' said Carl. 'He looks just like a 166
wild thing with all t h a t mad matted hair and big rolling eyes and too many teeth.'
'Oh, Carl, yes, exactly, but you shouldn't be so mean.'
W h y not? He's always mean to me.'
Yes, but Jake's so sad. He keeps showing off to me now, trying to make an impression, and he's so obviously wasting his time.'
'Is he?' said Carl.
Well, of course. I can see he's dotty about Miranda, all the boys are, but I can't get him a date with her.'
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