GingerSnaps

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘I hope not,’ I say.

  Shannon spreads Emily’s grey school skirt across the bedroom carpet, takes a pair of dressmaking shears and slices four inches from the hem of it. ‘Perfect,’ she says.

  Emily holds up the butchered skirt. ‘It’s very short,’ she says doubtfully. Shannon laughs and says that knee-length skirts are for grannies, and besides, Emily has good legs and shouldn’t be scared to show them.

  ‘You could wear the black jeans, some days,’ I point out. ‘For a change.’

  ‘Jeans? At school?’ Emily asks, wide-eyed, and Shannon just laughs. I dig out a needle and thread and Emily starts hemming the skirt while we sort through the shirts and sweatshirts, pulling out a couple that look OK. Shannon chucks what’s left in the bin.

  ‘Shannon!’ Emily protests. ‘What will my mum say?’

  Shannon sighs. ‘Do you want our help, or not?’

  ‘I do, I do,’ Emily says.

  ‘You can have this too,’ Shannon decides, rifling through a drawer and throwing a plain black T-shirt over. ‘You could wear it over the top of the white shirts, with a few badges or something.’

  ‘It looks a bit tight,’ Emily ventures.

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ I sigh. ‘These sweatshirts are so big you could fit the three of us inside them and still have room to spare. We want you to look cool, Emily.’

  Emily’s eyes shine. ‘OK!’

  Once the clothes are under control, Shannon digs out her make-up bag and runs a make-up masterclass. Emily watches everything, tries everything, even taking out a notebook at one point to jot something down.

  ‘Em, no,’ Shannon sighs. ‘You’re not at school now, OK? Don’t take it all so seriously!’

  But Emily is taking it seriously, of course. How could she do anything else? Things are changing for Emily Croft, things that could turn her whole life upside down.

  ‘Have you heard from Meg?’ I ask, as Shannon smudges an arc of shimmery green across Emily’s eyelids.

  ‘I had an email, yesterday,’ she whispers, through glossy pink lips. ‘She’s settling in, I think. She’s made a new friend, joined the chess club–’

  ‘The chess club?’ Shannon snorts.

  Emily looks embarrassed. ‘Well, you know Meg,’ she says, and Shannon just rolls her eyes. She picks up the blusher brush, adds a dusting of pink-gold shimmer on Emily’s cheeks.

  ‘Do you miss her?’ I persist.

  ‘Of course, but things have been really busy here too, thanks to you guys. I’d have been all alone if it hadn’t been for you. And today… today has been the best day of my whole life, I swear.’

  Shannon puts the brush down, tilting her head to one side to survey the new-look Emily. She looks older, cooler, but also a little odd, like a child who’s been playing with her mum’s make-up.

  ‘Sweet,’ Shannon says.

  When I wake, the lights are out and there’s no sound except for Shannon’s iPod playing softly through the CD player, a Plain White T’s track.

  The remnants of a pizza are spread out across the carpet, glasses of now-flat Coke nearby. Shannon is asleep, her hair swirling across the pillow in a blonde blur, but Emily’s sleeping bag is empty.

  I sit up, peering through the dark.

  Across the room, the curtains are drawn back slightly and I can see Emily, sitting on the window seat, hugging her knees and looking out into the night. In the dim light spilling from the street lamps, I notice the glint of tears on her cheeks.

  I’d like to pull the duvet over my head and go back to sleep, but I can’t. My heart floods with a mixture of resentment and sympathy, and I tiptoe over to the window. ‘Emily?’ I whisper. ‘Are you OK?’

  Emily smiles, dragging a sleeve across her eyes.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘It’s just… it’s been a big day, you know?’

  I step behind the heavy curtain, sink down on to the window seat next to Emily. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ I tell her. ‘Shannon gets carried away, sometimes. Don’t let her turn you into someone you’re not.’

  Emily laughs. ‘Who am I, anyway?’ she asks. ‘The plain, swotty girl nobody ever really noticed. I know what people think of me… I wear the wrong clothes, like the wrong music… I’ve never used a mascara wand in my life. Quite a challenge, huh?’

  ‘We’re just trying to help,’ I argue, even though I’m not sure that’s what we’re doing, exactly.

  ‘I know,’ Emily says. ‘I’m grateful, I really am. It was OK while I had Meg. We were two geeky girls together, and Meg really didn’t care what other people thought. She was a good friend, Ginger, but she’s gone and she’s not coming back, and Scotland’s a long, long way away. Without Meg… well, you know how lonely it can be, when you’re on the outside looking in.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ I protest.

  ‘Not so long,’ Emily says, and I know that both of us are thinking of the ice-rink party, of Chelsie and Jenna and Carly and Faye. I’ve buried that memory so far in the past it’s hard to believe it’s less than two years ago. It’s like it belongs to a different lifetime.

  Even now, a sad, sick twist of hurt lodges in my chest at the memory.

  ‘I don’t really talk about all that stuff any more,’ I say, looking out from behind the curtain to where Shannon is sleeping.

  Emily follows my gaze. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t suppose you do. You shouldn’t be ashamed of the past, though, Ginger. It’s a part of you.’

  I shake my head. Pigtails and puppy fat and scabby knees used to be a part of me, but those things are gone forever too.

  ‘I moved on,’ I tell Emily.

  ‘Yeah,’ she sighs. ‘I watched you do it, and I wished I could do the same. I bet Shannon doesn’t have a clue what a loner you used to be in primary school…’

  Fear runs its cold, cruel finger down my spine.

  ‘Of course she doesn’t know,’ I whisper. ‘Why would she?’

  Emily shrugs. ‘Because it might help her be a better friend to you?’ she suggests. ‘She’s… well, kind of bossy, isn’t she? You have to do things her way.’

  ‘Shannon’s OK,’ I say. ‘Really.’

  But she’s not the kind of person who’d be a better friend to you if she knew about your troubled past… at least, I don’t think so. Shannon doesn’t like problems and she doesn’t do pity – she likes life to be bright and brisk and fun.

  I’m not sure how she’d react if she knew about the bullying. Maybe Emily’s right, and it’d help her to know me better, but I’m not sure. Maybe she’d look at me and see the kid I used to be, the loner, the loser. That’s a risk I just can’t take.

  ‘I don’t want Shannon to know any of that stuff,’ I whisper. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘OK,’ Emily shrugs. ‘It’s up to you, obviously.’

  If Emily was a different kind of girl, a mean girl, a spiteful girl, she could stir up a whole lot of trouble for me with Shannon. She’s not like that, though. She’s reliable, kind, trustworthy, the kind of girl who can keep a secret. The kind of girl I used to be.

  I hope.

  Shannon is my best friend, and nothing can change that. It’s just that she doesn’t know how it feels to be hanging around on the edges of life, hoping to get your foot in the door. She’s the kind of girl who’s always been in the sunshine, in the light. I don’t want to have anything in common with Emily Croft, but I do, like it or not.

  We both know what it’s like to be in the shadows.

  I am not looking forward to Monday morning. School means seeing Sam again, and although I want to see him, I really, really wish it didn’t have to be at school.

  Boys can be funny. They’re not as mature as we are, Shannon says, and sometimes they act like their brains took a holiday, especially where girls are concerned.

  At last year’s Christmas disco, Jas Kapoor had a sprig of mistletoe stuck to his Santa hat for a laugh, and he pestered Shannon all night until she took pity on him and danced with him. A
t the end of the dance was a kiss, and at the end of the kiss was a promise of more to come, and Shannon started wondering if maybe, just maybe, Jas Kapoor had hidden depths.

  He didn’t, sadly. The next day at school, he looked right through her as if she were invisible.

  Shannon’s pride was hurt, but she didn’t let on. Jas was laughing with his mates as we walked past that lunchtime, and Shannon turned and looked at him, icily, until he stopped smirking and started looking scared.

  ‘Give me a call when you grow up,’ she said, looking at him like he was something sad and slimy that just crawled out from under a stone. ‘Actually, on second thoughts… don’t.’

  She walked away, head high, and Jas turned a startling shade of purple while his friends laughed and slapped him on the back and said stuff like, ‘Well, you asked for that one, mate.’

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ Shannon said at the time. ‘He’ll never get another chance with me.’

  I didn’t say anything. I remember feeling almost sorry for Jas, because although he was acting badly I didn’t think it was because he was ashamed. He was just out of his depth, and I think he knew it.

  Jas Kapoor is a joker, a clown, and not the kind of boy who could date a girl like Shannon, except maybe in his dreams, so he pretended he wasn’t bothered. It was mean, it was childish, it was hurtful, but I was pretty sure it was all about self-preservation. You couldn’t really blame him.

  This is different.

  I don’t think Sam Taylor is the kind of boy to blank you, somehow. I almost wish he would, but Sam’s too honest, too open for that. He doesn’t play games or pretend to be something he isn’t. He’s true to himself – what you see is what you get.

  No, on Monday morning it’s more likely to be me playing it cool, gazing off into the distance, hoping nobody notices that he’s winking at me from under the black trilby hat.

  I like Sam Taylor. It’s just that I wish he went to a different school, or lived in a different town or possibly even a different country, so my friends don’t have to know about his weird habits with blue lemonade, Tippex pens and non-existent bands. Forget the different school and the different country – Sam Taylor comes from a different planet.

  I don’t think he’d do anything to embarrass me. He won’t stand by my locker clutching a dozen red roses, or serenade me with the sax in the middle of French. It’s just that he’ll want to smile and talk and hang out a bit, or maybe hold hands in the canteen, and I can just imagine what Shannon would make of that.

  I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m ashamed of Sam Taylor.

  That sounds awful, and it is, I know. He’s sweet and cute and kind, and he hasn’t done anything wrong, but I know I don’t want Shannon to know what happened between us. She wouldn’t understand.

  I’m going to blank Sam Taylor on Monday morning. I just hope he can forgive me for that.

  I see him as I turn into the gate at five to nine, Shannon and Emily on either side of me. He is chaining his bike to the railings, swinging his sax case over one shoulder. My heart is thumping.

  He’s still wearing one black and one red Converse trainer, laces trailing, along with a huge, fringed, skull-print scarf and a black beret pulled down over his dark curls. It’s an interesting look, but I find myself missing the trilby.

  ‘Seriously,’ Shannon says. ‘That boy is not well.’

  ‘Clever, though,’ Emily points out. ‘What he’s done with the shoes.’

  Sam looks up and catches my eye. ‘Hey, Gingersnaps,’ he says.

  I’m not invisible, anyhow. I kind of wish I was. I flash him a helpless, hopeless look, one that’s meant to say we’ll talk later, not here, not now, not with Shannon watching. I’m just not sure if I can convey all that in one split-second glance. I hide behind a curtain of hair, and Sam’s smile fades.

  ‘So,’ says Shannon, one eyebrow raised. ‘What’s with the new look, Sam? It’s… um… different!’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m in a band – a kind of folk/punk fusion, protest ballads and political satire and lots of hair gel.’

  ‘Folk/punk?’ Emily echoes, doubtfully.

  ‘It’s quite unusual,’ Sam explains.

  ‘I bet,’ Shannon smirks. ‘What are you called?’

  ‘Blue Lemonade,’ Sam says.

  I blush crimson and Shannon snorts, and then the buzzer goes for registration and the three of us link arms and walk away.

  ‘He likes you,’ Shannon says, as we go. ‘Definitely. Gingersnaps.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like him,’ I protest. Instantly, I feel like a traitor. I look over my shoulder, but Sam is loping off towards the music block, his fringy scarf trailing along behind him.

  ‘No?’ Emily asks.

  ‘No. He’s… well, he’s weird!’

  ‘Can’t argue with you there,’ Shannon says.

  In maths, Sam Taylor and Mr Kelly get into an argument about hats.

  ‘I thought you said you wore your trilby hat for religious reasons?’ Mr Kelly says, frowning at the beret. ‘What excuse have you got for this thing?’

  ‘It covers my head, doesn’t it?’ Sam argues.

  ‘So would a paper bag,’ Mr Kelly says bitterly.

  ‘Maybe next week,’ Sam says.

  Faiza Rehman, a shy, serious girl who wears the hijab, raises her hand.

  ‘Mr Kelly,’ she says quietly. ‘I don’t think you should mock Sam’s religion. It’s not respectful.’

  Mr Kelly’s face turns to stone. His breathing speeds up, and steam seems to be coming out of his ears. He turns to the whiteboard and scrawls out the longest, most complicated equation I’ve ever seen in my life.

  ‘OK,’ he says, flinging the marker pen down in front of Sam Taylor. ‘Let’s see whether you’ve been listening at all. What’s the answer?’

  Sam picks up the marker pen, then puts it down again. He looks across at me, as if for inspiration. I bite my lip, but next to me Emily gives Sam the thumbs-up. He sighs and shakes his head.

  ‘I can’t, Sir,’ he says. ‘I’d like to, truly, but there’s a three in that equation. The number three is sacred in my religion, and cannot be touched by human hand.’

  Jas Kapoor laughs out loud, and Mr Kelly lets out a long, low noise like an animal in pain. ‘Sam Taylor,’ he says. ‘You. Will. Solve. This.’

  Sam shrugs. ‘Sorry, Sir,’ he says. ‘It’s not my problem.’

  Sam Taylor misses the whole of English, because he’s sitting on a plastic chair outside Miss Bennett’s office, in disgrace. He is writing out Mr Kelly’s impossibly long equation, including the number three, three hundred times. He’s still wearing the beret, though, which is a minor miracle.

  Anyhow, that’s why Sam Taylor is not around when Mr Hunter announces his Big Idea.

  ‘You’re one of my best classes,’ Mr Hunter tells us, and everyone sits up straighter, even Jas Kapoor. ‘You’re bright, sharp, talented… every one of you is bubbling over with creativity…’

  I think of Sam Taylor, and an imaginary religion involving hats and the sacred number three. In this school, as far as I can tell, creativity often leads to detention.

  ‘I have high hopes for you all,’ Mr Hunter gushes. ‘That’s why I want you all on board with this new idea. I’ve been looking for a way to get you writing… not just in class, but in your own time. I think I’ve hit on the perfect project. We’re going to launch a school magazine!’

  The class are silent, taking this in.

  ‘There are different kinds of school magazine, of course,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘There are those run by the staff… nice and neat and worthy, full of reports on the school debating team and the latest GCSE results. Very interesting, but perhaps a little… dull?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ someone says.

  ‘The magazine I have in mind would be different,’ Mr Hunter explains. ‘It would be run by the kids, for the kids… although I’d obviously be here to guide you, you’d be in charge. It could be about feelings, films, fashion… sports, m
usic, health, humour, politics… you decide.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Shannon. ‘We could redesign the school uniform!’

  ‘Nice one,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘What else?’

  ‘Book reviews,’ Emily says.

  ‘PlayStation cheats,’ offers Jas.

  ‘We could do surveys,’ Josh Jones suggests. ‘School meals, favourite teachers, hobbies…’

  ‘Sounds good!’ Mr Hunter says.

  ‘Quizzes and competitions…’

  ‘A problem page!’

  Ideas fly back and forth, and Mr Hunter jots them all down, grinning. ‘I think you can make this magazine a success,’ he announces. ‘We’ll work on it in class, obviously, but we still have our curriculum work to get through…’

  ‘What you saying, Sir?’ Jas prompts.

  ‘I’m saying that you’ll need to put in extra work too,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘At home, at lunchtimes, after school. It’ll be tough, so don’t sign up unless you’re sure you want to do it.’

  ‘It’s… voluntary?’ Jas says, dismayed.

  ‘If you’d rather not take part, that’s fine,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘It’s up to each one of you.’

  ‘Do we get graded?’ Emily wants to know.

  ‘No,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘You’d do it for the buzz, for the experience. No marks, no exams, just the kick of seeing your name next to a feature in the magazine. Anyone interested?’

  The first hands go up slowly. Josh Jones, Robin West, Emily Croft. Shannon pokes me in the side. ‘C’mon,’ she hisses. ‘If Mr Hunter says it’ll be cool, I’m up for it!’

  We put our hands up. Faiza Rehman follows, then the rest of the class, even Jas Kapoor and his crew. Volunteer for extra work? As long as Mr Hunter is around, we’re all for it. We’d probably jump through hoops if he asked us to.

  ‘I knew you were the right class to ask,’ he beams. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down! We’ll meet on Wednesday, straight after school, to get the basics sorted. Everyone OK with that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ we chorus.

  ‘We’ll talk more in Wednesday’s lesson,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘Right now, I want you to work quietly, jotting down feature ideas. Each one of you has something special to offer, a talent, a skill, an interest…’