by Melody James
Savannah’s phone bleeps and she checks the screen. ‘Text from Josh,’ she says casually, as if getting a text from a boy is as dull and everyday as cleaning your teeth.
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ I ask.
Savannah unwraps a ham-and-lettuce sandwich, cut into four neat little triangles – even her lunch is poster-perfect. ‘When I’m ready,’ she says with a grin. ‘Don’t want him thinking I’m too keen.’
‘I’ve gotta eat fast,’ Treacle says. ‘It’s the Cup match tomorrow and I want to practise penalties.’ Her feet are tapping under her chair. I know she’s itching to get to the football field.
She gobbles her sandwich, stuffing crisps between each mouthful of tuna-filled bread.
I nibble the samosa Mum packed for my lunch and keep my eyes fixed firmly on Treacle or my lunch box. There’s no way I’m letting my gaze stray towards the webziners again. But as always I can’t keep my mind from wandering.
Girl Dies of Embarrassment in Lunch Hall.
A teenage girl shrivelled up and collapsed into her lunch box yesterday after she was spotted looking at a boy in the year above her. The reckless student lost control of her eyeballs and found herself staring into a crowd of older students. Before she had a chance to look away, she was caught and immediately zapped by the God of Embarrassment before she could break any more school taboos.
‘It was a blessing she died quickly,’ her friend Treacle was quoted as saying. ‘It would have been worse if she’d lived – the humiliation would have followed her through the rest of her school life.’
Treacle’s voice cuts into my think-piece. ‘Right, I’m off,’ she says as she scrunches up her crisp packet.
I drop the half-eaten samosa back into my lunch box, my appetite crushed by my drama-queen daydream.
Treacle doesn’t notice. ‘If I score ten penalties before the bell goes,’ she says, ‘we’ll win the Cup.’
She’s making deals just like Mum does with Ben and I do with alligators. Maybe everyone needs magical deals to make them feel strong. No wonder Cindy wants horoscopes in the school webzine. Half the school may have smartphones, but we’re still as superstitious as cave-dwellers. ‘You’ll win,’ I promise.
‘Thanks. See you in geography.’ Treacle clatters her chair back and makes for the exit. She’s already wearing her number ten football jersey over her school jumper.
I close my lunch box. I might as well leave too. I’m not hungry and Savannah is now deep in conversation with Sally Moore about the pros and cons of carbs. ‘See you in geography,’ I call to them.
‘Yeah.’ Savannah waves at me, distracted.
I hop to my feet and zigzag between the tables. I slide past Will. He’s tipping back in his chair, feet on table, hands behind head. Sam’s sitting next to him, blond hair crowding his eyes, leaning forward, hands waving as he talks to Will. I sneek a peek, careful not to make eye contact this time. From the intense look on Sam’s face he must be critiquing a new album or explaining a new riff. Will’s scanning the room, his gaze at knee height. Checking out this season’s shorter skirt length?
He’s really is gawping, his chair creaking as Sally leans across her table to reach the salt. I pause behind him. ‘Cindy should’ve made you fashion correspondent,’ I mutter.
I didn’t mean to be heard, but a lull in the lunch hall hubbub leaves a hole of silence, which my comment fills like a bell in a cathedral. I freeze in horror as Will turns and stares at me.
‘What?’
‘N-n-nothing,’ I stammer, face on fire.
Sam laughs, his blue eyes flashing at me. Mortified, I push through a bunch of kids and head out the door.
The corridors are empty. Anyone not in the dining room is at the shops or behind the bike shed. I take a few deep breaths, letting my blush cool as I head for the webzine storeroom.
Year Nine Shot at Dawn
Gemma Stone was executed today after being found guilty of repeatedly harassing Year Tens. After a gawking incident earlier in the day, the idiot Year Nine actually dared to speak to one of the coolest Year Tens in the country, even though she’d not been spoken to first.
Authorities announced the death sentence shortly after lunch. ‘We need to ensure that Year Tens feel safe from such barefaced cheek. Stone’s execution should serve as a warning to any other Year Nines foolish enough to cross the Unspoken Divide.’
I blank out the Lunch Hall Fiasco before the headlines flashing through my head kill me. Instead, I focus on my column. Horoscopes. I shudder. A night’s sleep hasn’t made the idea any more appealing.
I sigh as I mount the stairs. Now I’m lumbered with the horoscopes I guess my Save Our Shed campaign is dead in the water.
The door of the storeroom’s ajar. I swing it open, amazed at the transformation. The tangled heaps of chairs and tottering book stacks have disappeared. Four desks are arranged neatly, each with a computer humming on top. Cindy’s sitting at one, the glare from the screen making her perfect skin glow.
‘Hi, Gemma.’ She’s scribbling notes on a piece of paper beside her keyboard. ‘I’m glad to see someone’s made an effort to get here on time.’
‘I-I . . .’ I’m still staring at the room. It actually looks more like an office than a storeroom now. ‘What happened in here?’
‘I asked the caretaker to take some of the books and unwanted furniture down to the basement.’
‘And he did?’ The caretaker’s not famous for his love of work. Or kids.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Cindy looks up, blue eyes wide. ‘That’s his job.’
‘And who set these up?’ I wave my hand towards the PCs.
‘The twins, bless them.’
‘Phil and David?’
Cindy twirls her pen in her fingers. ‘They came in early this morning to give me a hand.’
Doesn’t anyone say no to this girl? ‘Which one’s mine?’
Cindy shrugs. ‘We’re going to have to share since there’s only four, so take whichever one you want.’
I head for the nearest desk. ‘I’m glad you got here first.’ Cindy beckons to me with her Bic. ‘I need a quiet word.’
I dump my bag and go to her desk.
She waves me closer, lowering her voice so I have to lean in. ‘This horoscope thing.’ She keeps one eye on the door. ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve decided that it would be best if you write it under a pen-name.’
‘A pen-name?’ I jerk back and stare at her. ‘Not my own name?’
Cindy lets out a tinkling laugh. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She shakes her head. ‘Who will believe the predictions of Gemma Stone?’
It’s hard to argue. I can’t even predict whether there’s an alligator under my bed.
Cindy glances at the notes she’s scribbled then starts typing on her keyboard. ‘We need our readers to believe we have a real astrologer working on the webzine.’ Her eyes are fixed on her screen.
‘I guess.’ I start to back away.
‘So don’t tell anyone. Not even the rest of the webzine team.’
‘OK.’ As I turn, I stumble against a desk and have to grab the monitor to stop it falling. Just as I find my feet, boys’ voices echo in the corridor outside.
Cindy snaps to attention, smoothing her hair, as Sam and Will shamble into the room. Will shoots me a look that tells me he’s not forgotten my lunch hall comment. He heads straight for the desk I’d chosen, picks up my bag and tosses it at me.
‘I’ll take this PC,’ Will announces, sitting down. ‘It’s the newest one.’
Fury floods me, totally extinguishing the smouldering embers of my embarrassment. First Cindy casually tells me I’m not going to get my name in print. Now Will’s bossing me about too.
‘Here, Gemma. Use this PC.’ Sam leans over the desk beside Will’s and pushes the On button. His smile is interrupted by Cindy clearing her throat.
‘Have you seen Phil and David?’ she asks. ‘They should be here by now.’ She glances at the clock over the door
. ‘And Barbara.’
‘Sorry I’m late, Cind!’ Barbara barrels through the doorway. She’s clutching a pile of files against her chest. Clumps of hair have escaped her bunches and are sticking out like head handles. Her skirt is twisted, rucked up at one side. She glances, blushing, at the boys, and drops the files on Cindy’s desk then pulls at her skirt with one hand and pats her hair down with the other.
I slide behind a desk, quietly claiming the PC Sam started for me before anyone else arrives. I’m just in time. The nerd twins, Phil and David, pad into the room, looking like their mother dressed them. Actually, they look like Barbara’s mother dressed them.
Then Jeff skids in. He’s flapping a piece of paper. ‘I’ve got this term’s sports fixtures from the school office.’
‘Well done.’ Cindy nods approvingly.
Jeff’s frowning. ‘How am I meant to get to all these games?’
Cindy doesn’t blink. ‘Gemma can help.’
I stare at her. ‘I don’t know anything about sport.’
Cindy barely looks my way. ‘Gemma’s going to be the webzine’s editorial assistant,’ she announces to the room. ‘So if any of you need help, she’s your go-to girl.’
I am? What is Cindy thinking? I guess she’s trying to disguise my undercover horoscopic activities. But why would anyone here come to me for help? It’s like they believe their extra year of hormones has developed them into super-beings; I’m practically Neanderthal by comparison. I guess they might have some stapling they need doing. Maybe Barbara will want me to carry some of her files. I try to imagine Will asking me to help on his feature article.
In my head, he holds out his article hopefully. ‘Gemma, can you proofread this?’
‘Sure, Will,’ I tell him.
‘And if you’ve got any ideas, I’d appreciate hearing them,’ he begs. ‘I think it needs a stronger finish.’
‘I’ll give it some thought.’ As I cast an imaginary eye over his imaginary article, reality butts in.
‘Can you drop this at the office on your way back to class, Gemma?’ Cindy’s holding out a hole-punch. ‘I promised Mrs Flint I’d get it back to her before the end of the day.’
Sam intercepts it. ‘I’ll be passing the office,’ he says. ‘I’ll drop it back.’
Cindy gives him a grateful smile. ‘Sam, you’re a knight in shining armour.’ Then she sweeps the room with a glance. ‘Anybody else need Gemma to help them?’ she asks, offering me up like I’m a plate of sandwiches.
Will looks me up and down as if he’d asked for a sports car and got an exercise bike.
Phil scratches his ear. ‘We won’t need help.’
What a surprise.
‘But thanks, Gemma,’ David adds.
At least they’re polite about it.
‘Yes,’ Barbara gushes. ‘Thanks, Gemma. You’re going to be a lifesaver, I’m sure.’ She smiles at me, tucking a wilful curl behind her ear.
‘I have other news.’ Cindy taps her desk with her pen. ‘I’ve managed to persuade a wonderful astrologer, Jessica Jupiter, to write horoscopes for the webzine.’
My heart plummets. My words are going to be published under the name Jessica Jupiter? I sound like a cartoon character.
‘Who’s Jessica Jupiter?’ Will asks.
‘She used to work on my dad’s paper,’ Cindy tells him.
‘And now she’s working on ours?’ Will looks unconvinced. ‘For free?’
‘As a favour to my dad.’
‘She owes him one, eh?’ Will sniggers.
‘She’s a friend of the family.’ If Cindy had real-actual laser eyes, she’d be deadly. She’s on her feet and heading my way, a plastic bag in her hand. What now? She tips the bag and sends an avalanche of nail varnish, lipsticks, eyeliners and tester pots scattering across my desk. ‘Can you help me review these, Gemma? I’m absolutely swamped setting up templates.’ She should change my job title from editorial assistant to guinea pig. I pick up a pot and read the label. Wrinkle Cream. Great. I’m still dealing with spots and she wants me to worry about wrinkles. Her lashes swoop as her gaze flutters over to Sam. ‘Can you help me get started on the design of the webzine, Sam?’ she asks sweetly.
I feel a prickle of disappointment as Sam nods. Isn’t there anyone who can resist the command of the Ice Queen?
My internal newswire’s ticking out a headline:
Ruthless Dictator Sweeps to Victory as Opposition Crumbles.
The last man standing was felled this afternoon in a charm offensive led by heartless dictator, Cindy Jensen. Using her gamma-ray stare and deadly lashes, Jensen used a classic pincer movement to surround the rebel army and convert them into mindless cronies. Brave resistance leader, Gemma Stone, was forced into hiding as the last remnants of her Free Speech movement melted away. Gemma smuggled out this secret message: ‘I’m committed to liberating my colleagues, but without support and with little ammunition, I am helpless to stop Jensen’s relentless march forward.’
As Sam and Cindy settle behind her screen and start mumbling and swapping the mouse back and forth, I sigh and open a browser window. I’d better research astrology. It may not be the best job on the webzine, but I’m determined to do it well. Jeff’s staring despondently at his long list of fixtures. Will’s hammering his keyboard, frowning intently at the screen. The twins are working quietly beside each other while Barbara’s sucking her pen, staring at her notepad.
‘I just can’t decide on this week’s feature,’ she sighs. ‘So many things to choose from.’
Cindy glances up. ‘Choose whatever’s most important to you,’ she suggests. ‘It’ll give the piece heart.’
My newswire’s still ticking. What about Cindy Jensen: My Life in Her Shadow by Barbara Dweeb?
I could write the first line.
Cindy Jensen may have a heart of stone, but I’ll always be grateful she found a place in it for me.
I stop. I’m being unfair. Barbara may not be the coolest girl in school, but she’s not an idiot. In fact, she actually seems really nice. For all I know, Cindy might be grateful Barbara wants to be her friend, not the other way around. Ice Queen Cindy must have some hidden warmth that makes Barbara want to hang out with her. Once again, I imagine Cindy sitting on a perfectly pink bed in a perfectly pink bedroom. This time she’s swapping secrets with Barbara.
‘I’ve always wished I had dark hair like yours, Barbie,’ Cindy confesses. ‘Being a blonde is such a burden. People expect me to act as perfect as I look, and yet it’s so hard to be taken seriously.’
‘I take you seriously,’ Barbara comforts.
Cindy pats Barbara’s arm, her gaze glowing with gratitude. ‘I’m so lucky to have such a good friend.’ Tears well in her eyes. ‘If it weren’t for you, Barb, I’d have no real friends at all.’
Moved by my fantasy, I resolve to be nicer. I try to forget that Cindy’s stolen my dream and replaced it with an astrological nightmare.
I pick up one of the lipsticks and stare at it, pretending to read the manufacturer and colour number on the base. Then I type Astrology in the Search box and press Return. I’ve got 38,700,000 results to choose from. Hurray. Fortunately, no one can see my screen. They’ll think I’m researching beauty products.
I click on the first result, barely reading it. All I can see is my column, headed by the world’s dumbest name: Jessica Jupiter. I sigh.
At least I’m not called Ursula Uranus.
‘Oh, Sam!’ Cindy pushes Sam’s arm, giggling. ‘We can’t possibly use that font.’
I grit my teeth and my resolution to be nicer collapses. Cindy is totally two-faced. We get the Ice Queen and Sam gets the Sugar Plum Fairy.
She shuffles her chair closer and puts her hand over his on the mouse. ‘What about this one?’ She moves the mouse and clicks. I look back at my screen before I throw up.
Astrology is a set of systems, traditions and beliefs founded on the notion that the relative positions of celestial bodies can explain or predict fate, personal
ity, human affairs and other earthly matters.
Thanks, Wikipedia. That’s a big help.
Jeff sighs and rattles his long fixture list. I freeze, brain popping as an idea clangs in my head like a virus alert.
‘Hey, Jeff.’ I clear my throat, self-conscious. ‘It’s the Year Nine girls’ football team Cup game tomorrow.’ Treacle’s match.
Jeff sucks air through his teeth as he glances at his fixture list. ‘Yeah,’ he sighs wearily.
‘That would be a great first article, wouldn’t it? After all, it is a Cup match.’
Jeff’s not looking entirely convinced so I give him the hard sell. ‘If you need help, I could watch it with you and take notes for your article – as the editorial assistant.’
Jeff shrugs. ‘OK.’
He’s not exactly punching the air with excitement, but he said OK. It’s a start. He looks at Cindy. ‘Can I go now? I’ve got footie practice.’
Will jerks up his head. ‘You don’t have to ask permission.’ He nods towards Cindy. ‘She’s not armed.’
Sam laughs. ‘Not yet.’
Cindy slides him a coy look. ‘The only weapon I need is my smile.’
Blargh!
Trying not to gag, I turn back to Jeff. He’s folding the fixture list. He shoves it into his back pocket and heads for the door. ‘I’ll see you at the match tomorrow then,’ he mutters at me as he goes.
‘Great!’ I grin. Result! Tomorrow I can point out Treacle every time she kicks the ball.
