GingerSnaps

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘He doesn’t want to do the shoot with Abi Carroll,’ Shannon explains. ‘Her skin’s not so good these days, apparently. Too many fish fingers, I bet. Andy says I’d be a much better model…’

  ‘You?’ I say, and Shannon gives me a sharp look.

  ‘Yes, me,’ she snaps. ‘I mean, who better to model the clothes, when you think about it? I designed them, I’m styling the shoot, and of course it’s my magazine, really…’

  ‘Well, you’re the editor,’ Emily corrects her gently. ‘It’s everybody’s magazine, though.’

  ‘That’s what I meant,’ Shannon says. ‘Obviously.’

  The shoot is scheduled for Friday, after school. Shannon has just finished the shirt she wants Andy to wear in the possible cover shot, a lost property special with I must not misbehave in school written across the fabric in endless neat rows. ‘It took me till midnight,’ Shannon says, as the three of us mooch across the playground and down towards the bicycle racks. ‘Andy’s going to love it.’

  ‘It’s great,’ Emily says. ‘Did you get the idea from Sam Taylor’s jeans?’

  Shannon looks annoyed. ‘Yeah, right, like I’d get style tips from that freak.’

  ‘He’s not a freak,’ I say quietly.

  ‘You would say that,’ Shannon sniffs. ‘He’s got the hots for you, hasn’t he? Seriously, Ginger, don’t go there. You can do much better. I could fix you up with one of Andy’s friends–’

  ‘No thanks!’ I protest.

  ‘Whatever,’ Shannon huffs. ‘Stay away from the geek clique, that’s all I’m saying…’

  Sam Taylor cycles in through the gates and swerves to a halt beside us. The beret has gone, replaced by a blue-grey air-force cap and matching jacket, complete with stripes and chevrons on the shoulder. It looks slightly moth-eaten, as if it just came out of a trunk in some old granny’s attic.

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ Shannon whispers. ‘The state of him!’

  Sam pretends not to hear. ‘Hey, Gingersnaps,’ he says.

  OK, he looks like a cheap extra from a World War Two film, but I’m not going to blank him. I am seriously not.

  ‘Hey, Sam,’ I say, and he winks and grins. Me, I just blush.

  ‘Hi,’ Emily says.

  Shannon looks cross. ‘What’s with the flea-bitten old coat?’ she asks. ‘You going to a fancy dress party?’

  ‘There’s a party?’ Sam asks, chaining his bike to the rack. ‘What are you dressed as, Shannon? Barbie-Goes-To-High-School? No, sorry, girls, I’m cutting down on parties. They interfere with my band practice.’

  ‘You don’t have a band,’ Shannon says rudely.

  ‘That’s not true,’ Emily argues. ‘Sam does have a band. It’s called Blue Lemonade.’

  Sam grins. ‘Actually, Blue Lemonade didn’t work out. I’m in a new band now.’ The buzzer sounds for registration, and Sam picks up his backpack and his sax case and starts to walk up towards school.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Shannon calls after him. ‘As if. What are they called then?’

  ‘Gherkin Stew,’ Sam says over his shoulder.

  Shannon shakes her head. ‘I don’t like that boy,’ she says.

  After school, Shannon, Emily, Jas and Andy are holed up in Room 17. Emily is doing Shannon’s make-up while Jas waffles on to Andy about close-ups and contrast and possible cover shots. ‘I know you’re probably better than Emily with a make-up brush,’ Shannon explained, earlier. ‘But Em’s my assistant, she knows the whole look I’m after, and I knew you wouldn’t mind…’

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ I lied.

  That’s how come I’m at the caretaker’s office, trying to talk him into unlocking the storeroom so I can get the props Shannon wants for the shoot. He just glares at me over his mug of tea, dunking custard creams and slurping noisily.

  ‘I’ve got permission,’ I tell him. ‘I need to borrow some stuff for the English department. I have a note from Mr Hunter.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ the caretaker says.

  ‘I really, really need you to unlock the storeroom and help me move some desks and things,’ I plead.

  ‘Move some desks?’ he huffs. ‘I don’t think so! I knock off in ten minutes, you know!’

  ‘Please?’

  Eventually, he unlocks the storeroom, grumbling under his breath. It’s an Aladdin’s cave of ancient school stuff… old-fashioned desks, chairs, sports equipment and even a blackboard and easel. It’s exactly what we were hoping for. The caretaker watches, sour-faced, while I drag out a couple of desks, some cobwebby hockey sticks and tennis racquets and the blackboard and easel. Then he locks the door again and shuffles off back to his tea and biscuits, leaving me stranded. I start dragging a desk along the corridor towards the gym.

  ‘Want a hand?’ a familiar voice asks. Sam Taylor is loping towards me, air-force jacket flapping. He takes one side of the desk and we lift it easily.

  ‘To the gym,’ I tell him. ‘Thanks, Sam. How come you’re still here?’

  ‘After-school detention,’ he says. ‘Again. Mr Kelly doesn’t like my cap and jacket. He kept trying to tell me it wasn’t uniform, can you believe it?’

  ‘It’s not school uniform,’ I point out.

  ‘Uniform’s uniform, isn’t it?’ Sam asks. ‘It belonged to my great-grandad. He was a fighter pilot in World War Two. Mr Kelly should show some respect.’

  We dump one desk and go back for the other, balancing the hockey sticks and racquets on top of it. ‘Why are we moving dusty old relics into the gym?’ Sam wants to know.

  ‘It’s for Shannon’s fashion shoot. The clothes are all made from recycled school uniform, so she wanted a school kind of a theme for the background.’

  Sam pulls a face.

  ‘So,’ I venture. ‘What happened to Blue Lemonade?’

  ‘I’ve been doing some research, and I don’t think the world is quite ready for a folk/punk revival,’ Sam explains.

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Plus, our harmonica player wasn’t committed enough. Wouldn’t practise.’

  ‘I practised loads!’ I protest. ‘You said I had great lip action!’

  Sam grins. ‘You do. You just weren’t very good at the harmonica.’

  We dump the second desk and go back for the blackboard and easel.

  ‘So, I’m sacked,’ I huff. ‘No more harmonica lessons.’

  ‘It’s not the right instrument for Gherkin Stew,’ Sam says. ‘The new band is more cutting edge, chaotic, a kind of nu metal/jazz swing fusion. I want a loud, violent, relentless sound with upbeat 1940s overtones. Think Glenn Miller meets Marilyn Manson.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ Nu metal? Jazz swing? It doesn’t sound hopeful.

  ‘We need someone on tambourine,’ Sam says. ‘I think you’d be ideal. Of course, you’ll have to practise. I can show you all the best tambourine moves.’

  ‘I bet you can!’

  Sam talks one of the cleaning ladies into handing over a duster, and we wipe down the blackboard, desks and sports stuff and set it all up in different corners of the gym. I take a piece of chalk from my pocket and write S’cool on the blackboard.

  ‘Nice,’ Sam says. ‘So… shall we say tomorrow morning for your tambourine lesson?’

  ‘Sam, people don’t really have tambourine lessons, do they?’

  ‘Think of it as band practice.’

  Sam leans across, brushing a strand of spiderweb silk from my hair.

  ‘Hey,’ I warn him, my voice no more than a whisper. ‘No funny business.’

  ‘No way,’ he says. ‘You’re safe with me. Scout’s honour.’ Then he leans down and kisses me softly, grinning. He has pretty good lip action himself.

  ‘What about Scout’s honour?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah,’ Sam says. ‘I guess I should have told you. I was never a Scout…’

  The doors to the gym swing open and Sam and I spring apart just as Shannon, Andy, Emily and Jas appear.

  Shannon looks amazing in the tie-skirt and a strapless top
made from an old sweatshirt, her hair tied up in bunches. Her make-up is heavy and neon-bright, because Mr Hunter said there was a good chance one shot could end up on the cover. Andy looks cool too, in the school-badge jeans and the graffiti shirt.

  ‘You got the stuff!’ Emily exclaims, picking up a hockey stick. ‘Brilliant!’

  Shannon scowls at Sam. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Helping out,’ Sam says pleasantly. ‘I figured you might want some extras. I could stand in the background playing my sax…’

  Shannon glares.

  ‘Or not,’ Sam says easily. ‘Got to be going, now. Band practice.’ He takes one hand to his cap, in salute, then pushes his way through the swing doors, whistling.

  On Saturday morning I text Shannon to ask if we’re meeting up in town, and she texts back to say no, sorry, she’s busy with magazine stuff. In all the time I’ve known her, Shannon has never been too busy with anything to pass up a chance to hang out. In the past, if she was busy, she’d get me to come over and help out, to make it more fun, to make the time pass quicker.

  Well, that was then.

  Shannon’s text doesn’t say anything about wanting help, it just says she’ll see me later, at the sleepover, as arranged.

  It’s at Emily’s this week, for the first time, which feels kind of weird. It’s like it’s finally official that we are a trio now instead of a twosome – and three is an awkward number. Someone is always on the edge, on the outside… and that person seems to be me.

  Yesterday, Shannon was on such a high after the fashion shoot she was practically flying. She hugged me and Emily, and told us we were the best friends ever. I tried to be glad about that, and not jealous because it used to be just me. She hugged Andy Collins too, and she even flung an arm round Jas Kapoor’s shoulders and told him that maybe he wasn’t a total jerk after all, which made him go all pink and shy and awkward.

  Then the five of us walked into town and bought smoothies at The Dancing Cat, and Shannon sat between Emily and Andy, with Jas opposite. I had to find an extra chair from another table and drag it over and squeeze on to the end, which left me feeling sidelined all over again, but I just smiled harder than ever and pretended I didn’t care.

  I do care, though. I care a lot.

  It feels like I don’t know the rules for how to act with my own best friend, and surely life isn’t meant to be that complicated?

  Then again, some complications are better than others.

  I pull on red jeans, a long-sleeved emerald-green T-shirt and a little swirly skirt. I straighten my hair and slick on eyeliner and lipgloss and go downstairs.

  ‘You look nice,’ Cassia comments. ‘Going to town with Shannon?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘No… I’ve got band practice,’ I say.

  Cassia blinks. ‘Band practice?’ she repeats. ‘I didn’t know you were in a band!’

  ‘Well, I am,’ I tell her. ‘The band’s called Gherkin Stew, and I’m lead tambourine.’

  She laughs. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Don’t tell me. There’s a boy involved, right?’

  ‘There might be…’ I grab my jacket, head for the door and then pause, looking back at my big sister. ‘Cass… what would you do if you met a boy your best friend just couldn’t stand?’

  Cass leans forward, fixing me with her big green eyes. ‘Best friend trouble again,’ she sighs. ‘Is this personal, or more general research for the problem page?’

  ‘General research,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, right!’ Cass says. ‘Pull the other one. D’you like him? This boy?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course!’ I say.

  She shrugs. ‘Well, then. That’s all that matters, really.’

  ‘Cass, it’s not that easy–’ I argue, but my sister cuts in.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she tells me, smiling softly. ‘Trust me, Ginger. It really, really is…’

  When I get to the Cadenza, I find a strange man with grey-streaked wavy hair, an ancient tweed waistcoat and cord trousers, sitting on the roof playing violin. The haunting sound drifts along the canal bank towards me, fragile, elusive, so beautiful it makes my throat ache. As I draw closer, Sam’s dad lowers the violin and grins at me.

  ‘You must be Ginger,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you!’

  ‘You too, Mr Taylor,’ I tell him.

  ‘Sam’s trying to do some kind of an essay for school, but I don’t think it’s going well. He headed into the woods for some peace and quiet.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find him,’ I say.

  ‘You do that.’

  I scramble over the broken-down wall and into the shady copse of trees that slopes right down to the distant railway line, and pretty soon I can see Sam, his air-force cap askew, leaning against a silver birch, eating biscuits. Notebooks, paper and a battered copy of Romeo and Juliet are spread out around him.

  ‘Hey,’ he says as I walk through the fallen leaves towards him. ‘Want a biscuit? It’s breakfast, weekend style.’

  I take a chocolate digestive and bite into it. ‘Thanks,’ I answer. ‘How’s it going with Romeo and Juliet?’

  Sam pulls a face. ‘I’ve no sympathy for them,’ he says. ‘All that fuss about whether they should be together or not, all that hassle because of what other people think. It’s junk, right? You either like someone or you don’t.’

  ‘I guess,’ I say.

  ‘Take us, for example,’ he goes on. ‘I like you. You like me. It’s just a matter of time before you ask me out.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I think. So what if you’re worried about what people think? Forget them, they don’t matter. Who cares if your friend Shannon doesn’t like me? You shouldn’t let her push you around.’

  ‘I don’t!’ I argue.

  ‘So tell her about the tambourine lessons,’ Sam says. ‘Tell her about me. What am I, your secret boyfriend?’

  ‘You’re not my boyfriend at all,’ I remind him, but Sam just laughs.

  ‘You can’t fight it forever,’ he says. ‘One day soon, you’ll see that your life is not complete without a tall, curly-haired, sax-playing boy in it. I just hope you don’t leave it too late.’

  ‘Too late?’ I ask. ‘Why, are you planning on going somewhere?’

  Sam shrugs. ‘Stuff happens,’ he says. ‘Dad’s job is on a temporary contract, so I can’t be sure how long that’ll last. We move around a lot, and it’s hard to make plans. I hope we stick around, but who knows?’

  ‘I don’t want you to disappear,’ I admit. ‘You’re pretty weird, but I’m getting to like you…’

  ‘Go out with me then,’ Sam tells me. ‘What are you so scared of?’

  Everything is quiet, except for the distant sound of violin music and the beating of my own heart, which is suddenly so loud it feels like Sam must be able to hear it too. I like Sam, more than any other boy I’ve ever known. He’s cute and kind and funny, and lately he’s been a better friend to me than Shannon has. But he’s right, I am scared – of losing Shannon, losing my status as one of the cool kids, losing everything. Mostly, I do a pretty good job of hiding the fear, but whenever I’m with Sam the mask seems to slip.

  ‘D’you really want to know?’ I ask in a small voice. ‘I’m scared of being alone, being laughed at, being a nobody.’

  ‘You could never be that…’ he argues, but I put a finger to my lips, and he trails away into silence.

  ‘In primary school, I was overweight,’ I tell him. ‘And of course I had this stupid name and the stupid carrot-coloured hair to go with it. I got teased, and I hated it, more than you can ever imagine. I didn’t like the person I was, and I decided to change things. By the time I got to high school, I’d lost the puppy fat, dumped the loser look, learnt to act tough and cool and couldn’t-care-less. I fooled a lot of people. I’m still fooling them.’

  ‘Not me,’ Sam says, his hand squeezing mine.

  ‘No, not you.’

  He looks at me steadily, a sad smile tugging at his mouth, and this ti
me I don’t turn away. ‘You don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not,’ he says.

  ‘Sam, you don’t get it. The tough, cool, couldn’t-care-less girl is who I am, now, most of the time. It’s what I wanted, what I chose.’

  Sam doesn’t look convinced. ‘It sounds kind of lonely,’ he says. He’s looking at me, his dark eyes serious. I’m certain he’s going to kiss me, but just at the last moment he turns away, his eyes opening wide, his mouth forming a perfect circle of surprise.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispers. ‘Ginger… look!’

  Just beyond the trees, a flash of red is moving. The skinny little fox is watching us, her eyes shining in that sharp little face, ears angled towards us. And then she walks towards us, slowly, steadily, her slender white paws rustling softly through the fallen leaves.

  ‘Whoa,’ Sam breathes, as she comes closer still, close enough for him to take a biscuit and hold it out to her. The fox looks at us for a long moment, then sniffs at Sam’s hand, taking the biscuit carefully, daintily, licking the crumbs from his palm. She looks past Sam to me, amber eyes glinting, as if she’s trying to tell me something.

  Just as quickly, the fox turns away, white-tipped tail swishing, and melts back into the trees.

  ‘A fox who likes chocolate biscuits?’ I whisper. ‘How cool is that?’

  ‘Cool,’ Sam says. ‘Wow!’

  We get up, Sam gathering his books and pens, me laughing, kicking at the leaves, whirling round and round between the silver birches, my hands outstretched. It’s like the little fox has chased away all the sadness, the mixed-up mess of school and friends and fitting in, replacing it with pure, simple, glad-to-be-alive happiness.

  A red-gold leaf drifts down through the air before me. ‘It’s good luck to catch a falling leaf,’ I tell Sam, grabbing at the leaf and missing. ‘If you catch one, you can have any wish you want, and it’ll come true, for sure.’

  ‘What would you wish for?’ Sam asks.

  I’d wish for a best friend I could rely on, a boyfriend I didn’t have to hide. I’d wish for the courage and confidence to be who I want to be, instead of someone I know I’m not.