I think suddenly of Sam Taylor, sitting outside Miss Bennett’s office with his battered old sax case at his feet. He’s missed this whole thing, all because of a dodgy hat and an equation with the number three in it.
‘I wonder who’ll get to do which jobs?’ Emily whispers. ‘I’d love to do something to do with stories or poetry. Shannon would be great at the fashion, and you’d be a brilliant agony aunt…’
‘Me?’ I say, baffled.
‘Sure,’ Emily says. ‘You’re caring and thoughtful, and people look up to you. Besides, you know what it’s like to have problems–’
‘Emily!’ I bark.
‘OK, OK, sorry!’ she says. ‘It’s not like anyone else has to know that. I just think it’d make you more sympathetic.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ Shannon asks, tearing her eyes from Mr Hunter and tuning in, hopefully too late to hear anything incriminating. I nudge Emily under the desktop, just to make sure.
‘Oh… just the magazine,’ Emily says, a picture of innocence. ‘Matching the right people to the right jobs.’
‘I could be editor!’ Shannon says promptly. ‘I have tons of ideas and I’m enthusiastic and hardworking and really organized…’
Emily’s eyes open wide in amazement, and I stifle a smile. If confidence is one of the qualities you need to be an editor, Shannon will walk it.
‘I’m going to ask Mr Hunter what’s involved…’ She strolls up to his desk, all bright-eyed and hopeful.
‘Like I was saying,’ Emily grins. ‘Matching the right people to the right jobs.’
‘You think Shannon’d be a good editor?’
‘She thinks so,’ Emily says. ‘I wouldn’t want to argue with her!’
Well, nobody argues with Shannon, not even me. I just shrug and smile and let her make all the decisions, even when those decisions are the opposite of what I want. Even when they stop me from being friends with the cutest boy in the year.
‘Sam Taylor could do the music,’ I blurt out. ‘He knows lots of stuff about weird styles and long-gone bands. Or so I’ve heard…’ I trail off, my cheeks pink, and Emily looks me in the eye.
‘You like him, don’t you?’ she says.
I grin, shiftily, and Emily’s eyes sparkle. She approves of Sam, of course. Strange stuff like hats and saxophones and Tippex pens are not a problem for her. Suddenly, I feel really bad about blanking Sam this morning. I’m not the caring, thoughtful person Emily thinks I am. The thing I care most about is fitting in, being part of the in-crowd, even when it means freezing out the boy I really fancy.
Sometimes, I really don’t like the person I’ve become.
My hand shoots up in the air, and Mr Hunter grins. ‘Yes, Ginger?’ he says. ‘Another idea?’
‘Sorry, Sir, can I be excused?’
‘Excused?’ Mr Hunter echoes.
‘Can I go to the loo?’
His face falls. ‘Of course. Just try to make sure it’s not in my lesson time, in future.’
I take the scenic route to the girls’ toilets, past Miss Bennett’s office, where the red light above the door signals that she is not to be disturbed. Sam Taylor has abandoned his chair and is lying on the floor, propped up on his elbows, the sheets of lines fanned out before him.
‘How’s it going, Sam?’ I ask.
He looks up at me, quizzically. ‘144 down, 156 still to go,’ he says at last. ‘If you’re interested.’
I chew my lip. ‘I’m sorry about before,’ I say.
Sam scrambles round into a sitting position. ‘Which “before” are you sorry about?’ he asks. ‘Before, on the narrowboat, when you kissed me? Or before, this morning, when you wouldn’t speak to me in front of your cool mates?’
My cheeks burn. ‘This morning,’ I tell him. ‘I just… I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Hello would have done,’ Sam says.
‘Hello,’ I say.
Sam smiles, sadly. ‘You haven’t told Shannon about me, have you?’ he asks.
‘I… I didn’t know if there was anything to tell.’
‘That’s up to you,’ Sam says. ‘Would you like there to be?’
I flop down on to an orange plastic chair. ‘What happened to Ska Tissue?’ I ask.
‘Problems with the line-up,’ Sam says. ‘The new band will be way better.’
‘Why did you call it Blue Lemonade?’ I ask.
Sam grins. ‘Why do you think?’
I pick up a piece of paper and a pen, and copy out Mr Kelly’s evil equation as neatly as I can. ‘145 down, 155 to go,’ I say.
‘We’re looking for a singer,’ Sam says. ‘Want to try out?’
‘I told you, I can’t sing.’
‘Are you any good on drums? Bass? Guitar? We need someone on fiddle too.’
I shake my head. ‘This band,’ I say carefully. ‘The folk/punk fusion band with the really strong line-up. Let’s get this straight… it’s just you, right, on sax?’
Sam shrugs. ‘It’s early days – we’ll soon sort that out. I could always teach you how to play the harmonica. Interested?’
‘Er…’
‘We could practise after school, down by the canal,’ Sam says.
‘Well… OK.’
He smiles, and I know I am forgiven for this morning – for now, at least. I just have to work out what a harmonica actually is.
‘So. Are we friends?’ Sam asks.
Friends. I’m not sure if that’s what we are, exactly, but it sounds less scary than the alternatives. Being boyfriend and girlfriend, for example. Or not being friends at all. I guess I can handle being friends. I might even tell Shannon about it sometime, only not just yet. I need to think it out a little, first.
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘And if you decide you can’t keep your hands off me, you can just go ahead and ask me out,’ Sam adds. ‘I’ll consider it.’
‘Sam!’
‘OK, OK,’ he argues. ‘It was just an idea.’
‘A bad idea,’ I say.
‘Yeah? Pity. I quite liked it…’
I tell Sam about Mr Hunter’s magazine project, and how the whole entire class signed up to take part. ‘Not me,’ Sam says. ‘I’m not exactly crazy about Mr Hunter.’
I remember the first day of term, when Mr Hunter laughed at Sam, and the day of the school trip when Sam got told off for trying to retrieve his own shoe. I can see how he feels.
The bell goes to signal the end of English, and Miss Bennett appears in the office doorway, peering over her black-rimmed glasses at me.
‘Ginger Brown, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m on my way to the toilet,’ I bluff.
‘Don’t tell me, you got lost?’
‘Sorry. I’ll be off, then…’
‘You do that,’ Miss Bennett snaps.
‘Don’t forget the harmonica lesson,’ Sam says as I slope away.
It turns out that a harmonica is a fancy word for a mouth organ, which is a weird, whiny kind of musical instrument. It’s small and rectangular and made of silver with a kind of grid along one side that you blow against, but no matter how you blow the sound is a wailing, sorrowful lament.
We’re sitting in the cabin of Sam’s narrowboat, sprawled at opposite ends of a cushioned bench. The boat is cool and cosy, like a floating caravan, but with an old-fashioned, home-made kind of look. There’s lots of painted wood, a little sink and cooker in the kitchen area and a cast-iron stove with a squirrel embossed on the side. Everything is bright and functional and slightly untidy. A battered guitar is propped up on the bench across from us, and a dismembered clarinet is spread across the kitchen counter.
‘Where’s your dad?’ I ask.
‘Work,’ Sam says with a shrug. ‘The orchestra practise every afternoon.’
‘Will he mind me being here?’
‘Why would he?’
Sam roots around in a cupboard, making sandwiches from white sliced bread, peanut butter, ja
m and gherkins. ‘My favourite thing to eat,’ he says. ‘All the food groups are represented. Carbohydrate, protein, fat, sugar, vitamins…’
‘Are there vitamins in a gherkin?’ I ask.
‘There must be,’ Sam says. ‘It’s green, isn’t it? There are a million things you can do with a gherkin. Grill it, boil it, roast it, make gherkin stew…’
This is exactly the kind of thing you’d expect from a weird kid who lives alone on a narrowboat with his dad. If Sam lived with his mum, would she let him eat jam with gherkins? Not a chance. It’d be salad and pasta and home-made apple pie. Would she let him go into school with crazy stuff scrawled all over his jeans? No. She’d throw away his Tippex pen and buy him a pair of those nasty grey trousers with the everlasting crease, from Marks and Sparks. She might even confiscate his hats, check his homework, take him shopping for sensible school shoes and make sure his laces were always tied, preferably with a double knot.
Mums notice these things.
‘Do you ever miss your mum?’ I wonder out loud.
Sam puts his sandwich down. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I miss her.’
‘What’s she like?’
Sam sighs. ‘She’s great. She has dark curly hair, like me. She’s not musical… she’s an illustrator, she does picture books for little kids. She’s scatty and funny, and she can’t cook… she invented these sandwiches.’
My eyes open wide. ‘She did?’
‘She did. Try it, it’ll grow on you.’
I take a bite and chew bravely. I feel like a contestant on one of those reality shows where they dump a bunch of celebrities in the jungle and make them eat beetles and grubs.
‘So… how come you live with your dad?’ I ask.
Sam turns away. ‘She split up with my dad a few years back, then married again,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t get on with my stepdad. Mum used to stick up for me, and that caused rows. I figured I was better with my dad.’
‘Oh, Sam. She must miss you too, all the time.’
He just shrugs and frowns and hugs his knees.
I pick up the harmonica and try again to squeeze a note from it, but although my cheeks get red and my lips get sore, the only sound that emerges is a howling, jangling racket that makes my ears hurt.
‘You’re a natural,’ Sam says. ‘Great lip action.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘It’s actually meant to sound that bad?’
‘It doesn’t sound bad,’ Sam says. ‘It just sounds… soulful.’
If you ask me, it’s no surprise that the folk/punk fusion thing never took off, not if harmonicas were involved. Sam plays me an old Pogues CD of his dad’s, to show me the kind of sound he’s aiming at. It sounds like a bunch of drunken people singing very sad songs at breakneck speed, with lots of swearing and squealing thrown in.
‘What do you think?’ Sam asks eagerly.
‘Very… interesting?’
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ he says, shoulders drooping. ‘I can tell. Your eyes tell the truth, Ginger, even when your mouth says something different.’
‘So, what do my eyes say, exactly?’
Sam grins. ‘You thought it was awful. Loud and whiny and disorderly, like a Year Seven music lesson or a bad karaoke pub at chucking-out time. You’d rather listen to a Cliff Richard CD, or a dentist’s drill.’
‘My eyes said all that?’
‘I know everything you’re thinking,’ Sam Taylor says.
‘I’m thinking that you talk a lot of junk,’ I reply, but Sam’s face is serious, and my eyes slide away from his gaze. If he really does know what I’m thinking, he’ll know that I’m wondering why he makes my heart beat so fast, and what it would be like to kiss him now that neither of us have blue lips. I really hope he can’t see all that.
‘You can’t read my mind,’ I say.
Sam laughs. ‘Not really,’ he admits. ‘You’re complicated. Sometimes I think I know you, and other times I can’t work you out at all.’
I think of this morning at school, when I cut him dead in front of my friends. Complicated? That’s one way of putting it.
‘I don’t think I’m the right person for this,’ I confess, handing back the harmonica. ‘Sorry, Sam.’
He looks stricken. ‘You are the right person! I know you are! Lots of punk bands couldn’t play their instruments. It’s a detail.’
‘Sam, I’m rubbish,’ I say. ‘Admit it.’
‘No, no, you have loads of potential,’ Sam insists. ‘It’ll take a little determination and a lot of practice… but we can make this work.’
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the harmonica, or maybe something else. Either way, I wish I shared his confidence.
‘Please, Ginger, give it a go.’
I look at Sam Taylor with his big brown eyes and lopsided grin, his curly mess of hair and black beret. I’m not the right person for him and I’m not the right person for his band, but I want to be, I really do.
‘I suppose–’ I say, pocketing the harmonica – ‘I could practise.’
‘Come round whenever you like, for a lesson,’ Sam says.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘That’d be cool.’
‘Of course, you can ask me out any time, if you decide you want to,’ Sam adds.
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
Sam says he’ll walk me back along the towpath to the bus stop near Candy’s Bridge. He takes my hand as I jump down from the deck of the Cadenza and somehow doesn’t let go again.
The bell has gone to signal the end of school, and Room 17 is in chaos. ‘OK, kids,’ Mr Hunter says, and the noise fades away into silence. ‘Is everyone here?’
Everyone except Sam Taylor, but nobody is expecting him and nobody really misses him, except for me.
‘Good,’ Mr Hunter beams. ‘We have a lot to get through… let’s start.’
Shannon takes out a folder full of ideas, opens it up and pushes it towards the teacher. There are cuttings, sketches, plans, flowcharts, notes… it’s pretty impressive. She has sketched out a fashion spread where the clothes are made from recycled school uniform, jotted down interview ideas, listed a whole raft of possible features. Quite a few of the things are ideas Emily or I suggested, but that’s OK.
‘Good,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘You’ve spent a lot of time and effort on ideas.’
‘This matters to me, Sir,’ she says, twirling her hair round one finger. ‘I believe in this mag – that’s why I’d love to be editor. I’m not scared to put the work in. I know everyone in the class, and I think I’d be able to get the best from them. I wouldn’t let you down, I promise, Mr Hunter, Sir!’
Mr Hunter laughs. ‘Shannon, we’re not in lesson time now,’ he says. ‘Call me Steve, OK? All of you!’
‘Steve?’ Shannon echoes.
‘OK!’ Jas Kapoor says. ‘Cool, Steve!’
‘You’d make a great editor, Shannon,’ Mr Hunter says. ‘But… is there anyone else who’d like to try out for the job?’
His eyes scan the room, resting on Josh and Robin, and, finally, on Emily. She’s smart, organized, hard-working… and half of the ideas in Shannon’s folder are things she thought of first. She’d be the obvious choice – if Shannon weren’t so determined. Emily sighs, glances over at Shannon, then switches on her brightest smile.
‘No, Sir… not me,’ she says loyally. ‘Shannon should do it. She’d be brilliant.’
Mr Hunter grins. ‘All settled then,’ he says. ‘Shannon is our boss! Perhaps you’d be assistant editor, Emily?’
Shannon hugs Emily. ‘Thanks, Steve!’ she squeals. ‘Thanks, Emily. We’ll make a great team! Of course, you can help too, Ginger…’
Me, too. Already I’m an afterthought, an also-ran. A couple of weeks back, Emily was a plain, swotty girl who’d lost her best mate. Shannon barely knew she existed. Now the two of them are going to be working together. Maybe they do make a great team, but I can’t help feeling left out.
You’d have to be a very mean person to resent someone
like Emily, of course. I force a smile, trying to look like I mean it.
‘The cheapest way to produce our mag is the old-fashioned cut-and-paste method,’ Mr Hunter is telling the class. ‘We‘ll use the photocopier to reproduce the pages, splash out for colour for the cover. We’ll calculate our costs, decide on a cover price and print run…’
‘We could sell ads,’ Robin suggests. ‘Ask local businesses – that would bring some money in. I could organize that.’
‘Good, Robin,’ Mr Hunter nods. ‘Anyone else have a job in mind?’
Dishing out the jobs is kind of a lottery, no matter how fair Mr Hunter tries to be. Jas Kapoor produces a flash digital camera and says he’ll be a paparazzi photographer, Sarah Mills asks if she can be art editor, and Josh Jones wants to do the music page.
Pretty soon there’ll only be the dud jobs left.
Shannon elbows me, grinning. ‘You can help me and Emily,’ she tells me.
A flicker of hurt starts up inside me, but I brush it away. I don’t want to be second best, I don’t want to settle for Shannon’s crumbs when I know I could have more.
‘I’m going to be agony aunt,’ I hear myself say, remembering Emily’s suggestion from a few days back. Shannon blinks. She is not used to me making my own choices. Well, neither am I, I guess.
‘You’ll be good,’ Emily is saying. ‘You’re kind, thoughtful, sympathetic…’
‘Who, Ginger?’ Shannon smirks. I can tell that she doesn’t think I have the right skills to be a good agony aunt, and maybe she’s right. Suddenly, though, those are skills I’d like to have.
‘There’s one last thing to sort before we go,’ Mr Hunter tells us. ‘We need a name. Any ideas? What kind of a magazine are you creating?’
‘A cool one,’ Shannon says.
‘Something different,’ Emily adds. ‘Edgy and clever, with lots to read and do, and something for everyone.’
‘We could call it Kinnerton High Magazine,’ Robin offers. ‘Simple, direct, no-fuss…’
‘How about Kinnerton-Hi!?’ Emily suggests. ‘Hi as in “hello”?’
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